Cello Light

Reflections from a virgin burner at Burning Man 2010

2010-09-28T19:43:00.009-04:00

The lure of Burning Man has ebbed and flowed in my heart every summer since 1994 when I worked in Montana with a bunch of hippies who'd tell me amazing stories of this annual "festival" that occurs in the Nevadan desert. Somehow something always intervened though, and year after year Burning Man would come and go, and never did I make it. I know now that the time simply had not yet arrived. This year, however, the universe was shouting "Burning Man!!!" and I could only respond with the obvious, "Of course". At night while I'd try to sleep, a cryptic phrase kept me awake: Some things must die, others go up in flames.

I first began considering Burning Man earlier this spring while traveling around India with my dear friend, Rosanna. She and her sister were planning on going and invited me to join their camp. For the first time in my life, I had this strange sensation in my heart that somehow this could be the year my dream would become realized.

However, after traveling for most of the year in Nepal and India I wasn't really seeking another epic adventure. In fact, I wasn't even really considering Burning Man because a) I was broke, and b) I was supposed to be trying to find a job. But while leaving Fiddle Camp mid-August, I was saying bye to my good friend Ed Howe and he mentioned that he was getting ready to head out to Burning Man. My heart began accelerating, my eyes opened wide. (Ed is a great fiddler who would be performing with guitarist friend John Cote, creating super-funky and danceable music for the festival's first contradance in history. ) Ed quickly noticed my intrigue and proceeded to tell me everything my heart already knew but had somehow minimized in my mind. Had I known then that what lay ahead was a promise for one of the greatest weeks of my life, it would've been a no-brainer. But unknowing these things, as Ed spoke I was nervous for I knew he was right: Burning Man will change your life! In one of the most spontaneous decisions I've ever made, just after that conversation I knew this had to be the year of Burning Man.

With less than two weeks to go before the festival start-date, I began strategizing like a madman. Time was NOT on my side--- I had way too much to get done in only a few days. Nonetheless, every cell in my body was buzzing, especially on the night when I got my plane ticket. My few remaining days were spent busily in focused determination to procure all essentials tools and garb, doing my best not to drop the ball. After all, I was all too well aware that mistakes in the desert have significant consequences.

For example, one thing I'd read about, but couldn't properly comprehend prior to experiencing it, are the grim dust storms that ravage the silty desert whenever the wind blows. You need goggles to prevent your eyes from burning in the alkaline dust, and you need a gas mask to keep your air intake dust-free. Ed surprised me one night on a phonecall when he reminded me of other essential attire: "great costumes". Now, this perplexed me. I barely eek out a Halloween costume every year, and I definitely don't have multiple costumes that I could just toss in my suitcase. But with the spirit of Burning Man upon me, I accepted the challenge and rounded up some spandex, capes, crazy hats, purple shorts, and villains vests.

I arrived in the airport in Reno late Friday night and was thinking I would be able to find a ride from the airport to the festival grounds, about 100 miles away. The airport thinned out pretty quickly though, and before long I was sitting lonesome and stranded with a large backpack and cello. Plan B: take a taxi to Walmart and look for anyone with a massive quantity of stuff in their shopping carts. Hanging in the chill Nevada night parking lot, I approached many people, most of whom just shot me befuddled glares, unaware of this "Burning Man" I was speaking of. Two hours had gone by when I noticed a smiling hippie girl getting out of her Econoline van that was picked to the gils with bikes, water, and various crap. Her name was Is (which I learned was very short for Elisabeth). She was an angel and when I asked for a lift, she enthusiastically began rearranging all of the truck's contents and carved out a 2x2 foot nook that was just barely large enough for my contorted body and luggage. After driving several hours into early morning, we arrived at the gates of the festival. The sun was just beginning to rise.

It was 6am and all around me was the breathtaking expanse of electric desert morning sky meeting boundless beige earth. The desert floor, surrounded by distant mountains, appeared like a vast open field of infinite possibility. Surreal and profound, this vision instantly set the tone for what would come to be a week of unparalleled enchantment.

My new friend dropped me off in the middle of sandy eternity with a dust-storm in effect. I told her I'd be fine and I knew I would be. But at this moment, my situation was pretty grim. I unloaded my crap out of her car and found myself standing in a vacant lot wondering if any of my friends were even here. Anyhow, I was really tired since I hadn't slept in a long time, so I set up my tent and got some rest.

I awoke to discover my tent was being ravaged by insane wind. Pressed flat against my sleeping body, the walls of my tent were threatening to suffocate me as ferocious gales were ripping my tent to shreds and puffing dust clouds into my tent through every gap the wind can find. I looked out the window and witnessed a total whiteout, with occasional ghost-riders on bicycles clad in post-apocolyptic attire riding by unfazed. Adding to this apprehensive feeling in my heart, the morning was wintery cold, and in light of the current dust storm, I remember feeling a little leery about whether spending ten days in the desert would prove to be WAY too long. The website described the "radical self-reliance" that was required for one's survival in this inhospitable environment, and now I finally got it.

It was two days before the festival would officially begin. I arrived early to assist in setting up camp and laying the groundwork for the other members of our contradance tribe. After seeing the awe-inspiring bulk of infrastructure, it was no surprise to me that the Burning Man city has been abuzz with activity for several weeks and months now as many hands have been engaged in installing art and tools of wonderment all around the playa.

Over the course of the weekend, everyones' camps were slowly taking form all throughout the festival grounds, which span a thick arc measuring 2 miles in diameter. With clouds of dust came more and more cars, and eventually the vast festival grid filled in with campers and RVs and inexplicable motorized vehicles.

On Sunday, at the stroke of midnight, Burning Man officially began. A few hours earlier a beautiful sunset had set the tone for the night and by sundown the electricity of many very happy people was abuzz in the night. Many wait patiently all year long for their week of Burning Man. I was seeing all things for the first time, but already this group think ecstatic vibe made my heart beat rapidly and instilled a perma-smile. Now that the sun had gone down, the city was illuminated by exotic light sources and fantastic fire-breathing dragons prowling the festive playa. The moon was on its way out, but the stars were amazing. Everyone was wearing outrageously excellent garb, full or color and soul and spirit. The night was tremendously charged and as I roamed around trying to understand what Burning Man was I took in all the wild ecstatic energy and quickly it began to sing my soul electric. I was ready to rock.

By day two, I got it. I realized what I must do. I realized that the simple mindset attendees of Burning Man share is just this: BE AMAZING! One of the core tenets of Burning Man as described by its' founders is that Burning Man is a place where"radicial self-expression" is encouraged. Inspired by this noble objective, all of us put on our most fantastic outfits and accessories that make us feel the way we want to feel. Many choose to wear nothing at all. For others, their self-expression inspires costumes and creations-- many of which are the true artwork of a visionary. How refreshing to be existing for a week with 50,000 people all of whom look incredibly sexy, fantastic, hilarious, and joyful. Perfect!

For seven days I ate minimal food and barely slept. Every minute was precious. NOW was happening everywhere I turned, and I didn't want to miss these sacred experiences that seemed to be finding me on an hourly basis. I never even felt tired, which surprised me, since many of those nights passed by without even a moment of shuteye.

Before going to Burning Man I thought I might get bored with all this time on my hands, hanging out in the middle of a scorching hot desert for ten days. But curiously, time always went by swiftly in a continuous sequence of engaging activity.

A common way to begin the day is like this. I'd usually wake up from my brief slumber sometime around 7am, always because I'd need to pee so badly that it would hurt. The porto-potty was a little ways away and once I'm up, I'm up. When in the desert you need to constantly be hydrating, drinking around two gallons of water per day-- which is kind of a nuisance when you lay down to sleep.

Anyhow, so I'm waking up and groggily walking a zigzagged line to the bathrooms when all of a sudden I'd hear great Eightees music cranking out from an artcar loaded with a bunch of people laughing and partying and dancing. In disbelief I'd shake my head to be witnessing this inspirational vision of smilers-- many of them naked-- celebrating in a fantastic dance party. Dancing with reckless abandon, they couldn't care less that it was only 7am and no one was there to remind them that people don't normally dance like this at this hour. It's Burning Man, I smiled, and then proceeded to boogie on down with everything I got to some fantastic songs.

Time is irrelevant at Burning Man. 24 hours a day, everywhere, Burning Man is in full-effect Happening. Everywhere you turn, literally, there are great fire processions, outlandish artistic creations happening, fire-dancers twirling mind lassos, and all sorts of random occurrences unfurling simultaneously, everywhere!

So with a wide-open day of opportunity before me, I'd often hop on a bicycle and set off with a friend or two and just ride without direction, just exploring and checking out the myriad imaginative art installations spread about. You really need a bike at Burning Man, because it was quite common to log several miles of travel per day and distances in the desert are so much further when on foot.

One day when I was feeling reflective and solitary, I rode out to the Temple by myself. The Temple is the spiritual heart of Burning Man and upon its walls are written heart-wrenching sentiments. The Temple would eventually be burned, on the final night of the festival, so it's an ideal place to lay your baggage, your loved-one's ashes, your grievous messages of forgiveness and loss, etc. The idea is that you add them to the Temple, make your peace, and then watch it all go up in flames on the final day of the festival. The Temple was a giant wooden structure, a wave of many planks gracefully reaching towards the heavens irregularly. The Temple offers many nooks and caves and lots of blank wooden space for people to write messages. The energy in the Temple is intense, and immediately upon arriving my heart was arrested. I spent a good five hours at the temple that morning, my eyes a teary mess and my heart aching to read the grief and loss and regret that so many of us have been carrying for much too long. I found a Sharpie pen in my backpack and added some of my own prayers and a few words of forgiveness. I forgave myself for everything I am not, and agreed to walk proud into a bright new world.

All around me in the Temple you can see great tears of joy and liberation, as well as a few ghosts. They appear lost, dehydrated and sad. You can tell who was who, and when I saw big tears falling from one mourner's mascara eyes I went over to her and wrapped my arms around her. She couldn't see me because I was behind her. We sat like that for several minutes, and when a new breeze came, our eyes opened and we smiled to each other before parting in perfect understanding.

While the external stimuli of Burning Man are extraordinary and sensational, the real magic at Burning Man for me was the people. Unlike anywhere else on this planet, at Burning Man you can truly approach anyone whose grace or intrigue captures your attention. At Burning Man I came across many of these people, and it thrilled me to be able to approach them with full confidence of belonging, absent of any of the reservations us strange humans often have towards approaching people we don't know. At Burning Man, that is exactly why you approach them. You know they are beautiful, you know they possess the seed, they are the life-force of a unique work of art, and if you are like me-- you really want to know who they Are. And so, with a smile and a simple greeting, most invitations for conversation were met with the warm familiarity of a friend I knew long ago. It would fascinate me to no end to observe the organic evolution of social interactions at Burning Man, from a starting place of open-ended curiosity quickly becoming illuminating, exciting, and profound. I may've only met this person a short while ago, but already I'm cheering him onwards on his path and grateful for our conversation that has left me feeling challenged and excited about my future. For many of us at Burning Man, it was a week of epiphanies and life-realizations, and each person I'd speak with seemed to be divine messengers sharing the inspired word intended for my ears right here right now.

The week was proceeding onwards along this river of powerful emotions and awe-inspiring experiences. Half-way through the week, however, I figured out the true heart of Burning Man, and that changed everything.

It's easy to get lured in by this party, which is truly the Party of the Century, far surpassing the very best, over-the-top party or rave you've ever been to. The party is incredible, and all day and night a dazzling waterfall of diverse stimuli delight your senses. Joyful mayhem is everywhere. And while there are plenty of hallucinogenic drugs and alcohol and X, not everyone chooses this path. There are so many paths one can take-- wherever one's interest lies-- and you realize quickly that you don't need to do drugs or drink if that's not your thing. For me, I discovered the true heart of Burning Man was not the party, but rather the higher-consciousness that permeates the festival and group psyche. Burning Man attracts spiritualists of every kind and all throughout the land there are seekers and healers, finding what they need in inspired conversations and countless workshops being offered by experts of diverse traditions.

The burning of the 70-foot tall wooden effigy of a Man on the final Saturday night of the festival was definitely awe-inspiring and impressive. But, for me, the peak of Burning Man came on the final day of the festival. I was hanging out with my good buddy John Cote. We were in the middle of an intense Van Halen appreciation session, cranking out killer tunes over the PA system blasted good and loud to rock the nations. He was dressed in a pink tutu and I was wearing very tight spandex pants and a leather vest, and together we were putting on the concert of our life. Playing air guitars and lip-synching the classics, we were David Lee Roth and Eddy Van Halen for a while, and it felt totally exhilerating!

As our dance party was winding down, I heard music coming from a distant tent. Suddenly, this music was calling me like the actual voice of God. The singer of the familiar song was chanting, "I'm alive, I'm aliiiiive, I'm alive!!!" I took off sprinting in the direction of the music and came upon a spirited soul-shakedown taking place over at the extraordinary Five Rhythms Dance Camp. These people organize spiritual dances that miraculously pulls your mind and spirit into the dance as the whole dance floor seems to move along as one organism, united in communal ecstasy. My heart fluttered, tears welled up in my eyes, and in my mind I was leaping out of my skin. Meanwhile, the shaman director of this dance was speaking the words of my heart, repeating slowly in cadence with the music, "Someday you will love the stranger that is your Self." When I opened my eyes, this beautiful goddess was standing before me with eyes locked directly into mine. Her smile melted everything in me as she continued to speak the words that touched the deepest part of my soul. Like a surreal dream, I listened to her message and applied it directly to my heart. I got it. I suddenly understand everything I needed to know about Burning Man.

Burning Man is a vehicle for liberating the mind. It's a place where you are encouraged to be fully yourself. Burning Man celebrates the moment as the only time when we can truly make a difference in making the world a better place. When we are called to be our best, to be our most beautiful, to act with kindness, generosity, and integrity-- this is when we are truly living a meaningful life. And all of the other times-- when we put our gifts in a closet, when we filter down our communication to boring insignificant conversations, and when we protect our heart with tall walls around us- this is slow death. This life is about being amazing. It's about celebrating the gift that we are to this world, by giving ourselves to others and sharing our talents and joys with those we encounter. When we celebrate our divinity and enjoy laughter and good times with friends, these are the only moments we are truly alive. Burning Man shocks the body and mind on so many levels, obliterating all your judgements and preconceived notions about people and sexuality. Perceived limitations in this life are left behind in the smoking embers.

Dharamsala, India

2010-04-25T09:52:00.003-04:00

The heat in India is becoming extreme. In fact, most travelers have been migrating slowly from the south on up to the north. Like seasonal birds, we began our journey in Kerala and Tamil Nadu where even in the winter the heat is intense, but feasible. Slowly the heat pushed us northward to the beaches of Gokarna and Goa. Travelers then take a few different routes northward, but eventually everyone ends up in Dharamsala, the Buddhist village in northern India's Himalayan mountains. The climate here is just about perfect-- beautiful days of summer sunshine, brisk mornings and nights of fresh mountain chill.

It's been seven months now since I left home. I'm at the point in my travels in which I'm very much excited to visualize homecoming and smile to think of all the people I will soon get to hug and reconnect with. But now that I only have 40 days left in India there is some urgency to make the most of my days and enjoy this gift as much as possible. The point being: I'm excited to be going home, but I don't want that day to arrive too quickly.

My travels have slowed down significantly past three months. In the beginning I was hopping around every few days to a different town and would get a bit anxious if I stayed anywhere for too long. Now it's all about slowing down the time and enjoying the moments. Staying in Rishikesh for a month and half was a gift, taking refuge in days of leisure, yoga, meditation, inspirational teachings and frequent dips in the icy cold Ganga River. But eventually the heat there, too, got too extreme and I had to move onwards to the mountains.

I wasn't planning on spending this long in Dharamsala but it's hard to find a reason to leave. Of all the India places I've visited, Dharamsala is by far the most traveler-friendly. The air is fresh, mountains are green, countless delicious restaurants serve nice Indian, Tibetan, and international cuisine. And after months of drinking nothing but Nescafe mixed with hot milk, the discovery of great coffee shops serving delicious coffee has made me immensely happy.

The vibe here is super kicked back and fun. There is the Tibetan part of town where Dalai Lama, many red robed monks and the Tibetan folk live. That's the cultural part of town and there's a big fascinating temple where monks sit around debating Buddhist philosophy and praying. The other two hotspots of this area are not much Indian, and have little culture per se. They are more just traveler enclaves where throngs of dreadlocked travelers from Israel and everywhere hang out all day and all of the night, socializing, partying, strumming guitars, and exchanging ideas. They are an extremely diverse, fun, beautiful population that walk around barefoot and smile a lot. After a few weeks of living here we've all become a curiously-close family of friends. In fact, you can't go anywhere without bumping into friends and then you can't help but stopping for a cup of chai and some fun conversation. Many spend all of their days doing little else but hanging out in restaurants rolling charras cigarettes, but there's also many opportunities for learning and self-improvement. Yoga, Reiki, Tai Chi, meditation, massage, philosophy, silver-smithing, music lessons, dance...you name it, whatever your interest is there's a class here for you.

My days have been quite busy as I've been doing some volunteer work as well as studying tabla, Swedish massage and Reiki, which is the spiritual practice of healing by laying of hands and channeling divine energy. The massage classes were excellent and I learned lots. Since then I've been giving many massages in hopes of solidifying the things I've learned.

Something magical happens while giving massage. For a long time now I've believed strongly in the healing power of touch, and I think that as a species we are much too shy with our affection, that we try to minimize human contact. Not surprisingly, many of us are also unable to love, and lack the ability to be compassionate, understanding, and kind to our fellow humans. Massage feels nice and can heal aches and pains. But for me, I'm most intrigued by its ability to restore peaceful, loving mind. When I give massages I close my eyes and I focus on this person in need, whose heart needs unconditional love and acceptance. With a prayer and a wish for happiness, I massage as lovingly as I can and just try to please this person. Patients come to me as strangers, but after giving them a massage I feel this profound warmth and connection. After 2 hours of projecting energy and touching them I feel able to love unconditionally, accepting them for who exactly who they are. My patients all tell me I give great massages, which makes me happy to hear. It's proof of the old saying, "the heart that gives gathers".

In two days I begin a ten-day silent retreat in the mountains. The retreat is an Introduction to Buddhism with emphasis on meditation, philosophy, and yoga. I can't wait! I feel like these are my last two days on earth, to live the earthly life of desires and wordly pleasures before retreating into austerity and silence. The retreat center is a beautiful compound situated in a peaceful Himalayan forest where many monkeys are hopping around from tree to tree. After several weeks of this busy social life I've been living, I'm really looking forward to being silent for a while.

Seeking Patanjali in Holy Rishikesh

2010-03-28T07:32:00.004-04:00

Finally, some peace has arrived. Yesterday concluded an intensive month-long program on esoteric yoga and meditation at the Trika Yoga School. To the celebrate the occasion I rallied our classmates for a bonfire down along the Ganga beach. I’ve been wanting to do this since I arrived in Rishikesh but, curiously, haven’t seen anyone else doing it. It began to make sense, however, once I began scouring the woods and the area for wood. In a town where the villagers use wood for cooking, there is simply no wood to be found. So I managed to find some villagers who’d sell me a bundle of their “fuel”. That was easy enough, but getting this huge bundle of wood on down to the beach proved quite challenging. It was well worth the effort though, and soon we had fire, stars and moon, and good people gathered around a fire with guitars and singing songs. This is and will always be one of life’s most enjoyable past times. Great way to celebrate our “graduation” from level one of this yoga program.

Friendships have formed up naturally and easily here, due largely to the fact that we spend all of our days together. Classes begin just after sunrise and continue until around 10 pm. The course was demanding and quite tiring, but everyday would reveal extraordinary teachings and breakthroughs that kept me always eager for more.

Yoga means “union”. 2500 years ago, the great self-realized yogis of India began practicing the science of yoga that promotes awareness and union with divine consciousness. This blew my mind when I began learning all this stuff. My ignorance previously led me to believe that yoga was just a form of exercise-- an alternative to the mind-numbing drudgery of jogging. I’ve attended yoga classes back home but never had I heard a single word about using this time to connect with God and to fuse your mind and body with the divine presence that is all around and within us.

Our teachers at school are amazing! There is one teacher in particular who is living proof of the power of a disciplined practice of yoga. His mind is sharp, his communication is powerful, and his whole presence is like a laser beam of conscious living. When he speaks, every one of his words finds a home in my heart and mind. Our lectures cover a wide range of spiritual topics that promote a healthy lifestyle for yogis as I attentively scribble many notes.

I rented a bike to get me back and forth between class. It is a total piece of crap, but it does the trick. It’s a typical Indian bike; it weighs about 100 pounds and has no gears and so anything but going downhill requires tremendous strength and willpower. The pedals are falling apart, the chain comes off whenever I go over big bumps, and the bell only works some of the time. This last defect is perhaps the most concerning. The streets of Rishikesh are full of obstacles and road hazards and as I ride along I always feel like I’m flirting with catastrophe. I ride very slowly—as carefully as I can, trying to dodge the cows and weave in between the babas and the throngs of oblivious pedestrians. Something supernatural guides the path of my bicycle because astonishingly I don’t crash! There are so many near fatalities, but the swift hand of divine intervention guides these handlebars just in the nick of time. Sometimes I feel like Moses, as the sea of pedestrians magically parts just when I think I’m totally about to take out a big group of people.

I am thoroughly in love with India- the people, the culture, the traditions, the mindset. I love it all! It’s tourism unlike anywhere else. In other places tourists have itineraries and they go from one town to the next checking stuff out and getting on to the next destination. While I was in southern India I felt that way too, but then I forgot what I was looking for. In Rishikesh, pretty much everyone comes because they are spiritual aspirants of one kind or another. There are so many paths one can take and here in Rishikesh there are courses and gurus for every practice. People come and then they never leave, for the path to God is a long and winding road that never ends.

Sometimes at sunset I go down to beach and smile to see all the different peoples practicing their spirituality. Some are doing yoga, others are meditating, a group of smilers are banging bongos, playing guitars, and singing devotional songs in exstacy. A sadhu is standing in the Ganga with his face painted, praying and performing a religious ritual. A funny western dude has headphones on and is doing some wild hip hop dancing while a large group of Hindu pilgrims are sitting beside him eating chapatis with bewildered expressions on their faces. Indians are very tolerant people. Given the unlimited range of self-expression here, nothing is really all that strange here. It’s just different, and no one has a problem with that. In our home country these people would stand out like sore thumbs and would be regarded as total lunatics. In India, us weirdos find solidarity in a community that encourages us to just be whoever you wanna be.

It seems clear to me now that I will not be making it to Thailand on this journey. Funny how originally my journey was supposed to be Nepal and Thailand, and yet has turned out to be mostly India. When the spirit speaks, you can’t ignore her message. India is where I needed to be and I will be forever grateful for this experience. So for the next two months I’ll be in India and then plan on returning to my beloved home sweet home where all my dear people are.

Rishikesh, "Land of the Seers"

2010-02-25T07:01:00.003-05:00

A rishi is a sage, a seer, a shaman. Rishikesh, situated along the Ganga River at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains, is a holy city where all of its inhabitants seem to be united in devotion and spiritual aspirations. Alcohol and non-vegetarian food are strictly prohibited here. Devotional music is blasting out of speakers all day and all of the night. Swamis, monks, and sadhus comprise of a large percentage of the population. The powerful Ganga River flows a severe turquoise green and clean through the city.

Rosanna and I arrived here a little over a week ago and were instantly spellbound. We loved it. I knew right away that I’d be here for longer than just a few days. The fact is that traveling can be really tiring and sometimes you go destination to destination and just keep bouncing around checking out stuff. But then it dawns on you that tourism for the sake of seeing more stuff is unnecessary. The most important life experiences lie in exploring your mind. And Rishikesh is the place to do it.

In 1968, John Lennon, George Harrison and the gang came here to study Transcendental Meditation at Maharishi Mahesh’s ashram. This area has been a powerful holy city for thousands of years, but the Beatles’ arrival put it on the map for spiritually-minded travelers and yogis. Today there are dozens of ashrams and hundreds of schools dedicated to teaching yoga and meditation. The mountains are beautiful here, as are the beaches along the Ganga, but most come here to take some time for themselves and learn about the mind.

At the ashram where I am staying there is morning meditation with Swami Dharmananda. At 6am, I rise before the sun and head on down to the meditation cave where swami sits in darkness surrounded by dim-candlelight, a shrine of important gurus and saints, and about 20 or so western students. We gather before him and practice breathing exercises (pranayana), chant mantras, and explore the mind in silent meditation. Meditation lasts an hour and half, and while at first it was difficult for me to sit this long, I am growing to absolutely love these sessions. With sustained effort and a deep yearning to progress, doors are opening.

Swami Dharmananda also teaches an afternoon class. Brilliant lectures! They last about 2 hours and during this time he expounds on a subject with lucidity and authority. Subjects range from meditation to yoga to Vedic philosophy. And what I love about this guy is that his teachings are so devoid of the “new-age” speek that seems to be inherent in so many western lecturers of the subject. Swami is straight up Indian, a no-frills monk, and when he speaks- he is conveying the wisdom of his guru, an unbroken lineage of knowledge that goes back thousands of years.

Rosanna and I visited a few different yoga schools here and each one of them offered valuable experiences. But in my heart I knew it wasn’t enough just to do yoga. I needed understanding. I was seeking a teacher but was somewhat daunted by the infinite variety of teachers and schools here in Rishikesh. In a wonderful flash of serendipity, I encountered a great guy I’d met on the Annapurna circuit a few months ago. I spoke of my search, and he and his brother instantly began singing praises of the Trika school.

He said all the things I wanted to hear. A school that takes you from the beginning, that explains the philosophy of yoga and the precise mechanics of the postures, while also detailing the spiritual application of the asanas. With a great enthusiasm I listened to him talk about this month-long intensive course. The next course would begin tomorrow morning, he said.

So, with the rising sun I marched up to the Trika school and enrolled. That was four days ago. Each day since then has been incredible. These long days of meditation, yoga, and lectures, feel like spiritual boot camp, but I love every minute. Our teachers are knowledgeable and impressive. One teacher, in particular, is like a laser beam of knowledge and zaps me with complete understanding and great excitement each day. Everything that I am learning resonates on many different levels, uniting the disparate spiritual teachings I’ve studied through the years. All religions are saying the same thing, using different words and approaches. My education at Trika is clearly illuminating the missing puzzle piece- the science of why all these holy paths work, and why all devout spiritualists arrive at the same place.

So now I’m committed to a month here in Rishikesh. Not sure what comes next. A few weeks ago I attempted to buy a flight to Thailand that was supposed to depart March 1. I failed, and while I was frustrated at the time, I now realize why—I’m supposed to stay in Rishikesh. It feels right.

Saints, Sadhus, and Kumbh Mela

2010-02-25T06:58:00.000-05:00

February 14, 2010: Kumbh Mela

All over India, the vast majority of citizens place an extremely high priority on devotion. While Hindu is a monotheistic religion, there are many “Gods” or manifestations of God, and they are praised and honored in regular religious festivals throughout the year and fascinating rituals. One of these festivals is Kumbh Mela, which due to its awesome important and massive popularity has made it the largest gatherings of humans on earth. Celebrated over the course of 45 days beginning in January, Kumbh Mela draws many pilgrims to the holy Ganga River. In 2003, 70 million people made the journey.

This year happens to be an important year for the Mela because of the moon’s auspicious alignment. I really wanted to experience this event, and so I decided to fly from sunny south on up to Deli just in time for Shivarati—a festival that coincides with Kumbh Mela.

Leaving Delhi before sunrise, Rosanna and I took a northbound bus headed to Hardiwar (I’m now traveling with lovely Rosanna, who I met in Nepal a few months ago and met up with her in Delhi last night.) Rosanna is great company and that helped make this tumultuous journey in a local bus enjoyable. Two passengers in seats just in front of us spent the majority of the 8-hour bus ride leaning out the window and puking their brains out. We began counting the episodes with amazement that there could be anything left in their systems. Ten puking sessions later we arrived in crazy Haridwar.

Roads were blocked off. Pilgrims were hauling bags and suitcases on their heads, walking every which way. Confusion abounded, gridlock to be expected. We got out of the bus and began searching for another bus to Rishikesh, which is where we planned on being based out of. However, we learned that the whole city was blockaded and that unless we wished to walk 13 miles, we weren’t going anywhere.

Every single hotel and accommodation was way overbooked during this massive festival, but a helpful tourist info dude set us on the road to an ashram that could lodge us for the night. Pretending to be husband and wife (this was necessary), Rosanna and I talked the serious swami proprietor of the ashram into letting us stay there. He seemed skeptical about our marital status, but didn’t question our different last names and that our passports listed home addresses that were opposite sides of the country.

A little before sunset we embarked upon the journey to Hari Ki Pari, the centre of town where the festivities occur, where the Ganga River flows.

Along with millions of devotees and pilgrims who come the Kumbh Mela, it’s also the largest gathering of sadhus, saints, and monks. Walking barefoot around town, many of these sadhus are naked, painted white with ash and wearing sparse jewelry and accessories that make them look like ancient sages who have just emerged from a cave. Orange is the color and everywhere you look you see the saffron garb of monks and spiritual ascetics, carrying their only possessions- beggars bowls and blankets.

Much energy was swirling around. The volume of people was astounding. The road was like two rivers of people flowing in opposite directions. Their were many blockades and Rosanna and I had to hire several rickshaws who would take us another couple hundred of yards, before quitting at the next blockade. Eventually we arrived at the Ganga.

Loud Hindi devotional music was blasting out of megaphone speakers. Many lights were strung across the bridges and everywhere, reminding me of the lawn-art scenes you see around Christmas, like millions of candles illuminating the amazing spectacle. Great joy filled my heart as we walked around with open eyes taking it all in.

The monks and sadhus stay in camps located around Haridwar. The following morning, Rosanna and I were exploring the camps when one extraordinarily little man arrived to be our guide. With a waving of a hand he encouraged us to follow him. We passed through a little doorway and arrived in a sadhu camp with many tarps stretched across wooden frames, forming up several communal “living room” spaces. In each one is a group of babas, saints and naked sadhus, surrounded by devotees. We were invited to join them and so we took a seat. Speaking in elementary broken English we were able to communicate a little, and where words failed we shared in laughter.

Rosanna and I were intrigued by the Mela because we had heard that it’s an opportunity to discuss with monks and saints the finer points and philosophy of their faith, exchange ideas, and learn the sacred traditions of this varied community of holy aspirants. Having spent some time with these guys, I really don’t know how much philosophizing/ praying actually happens here. All I do know is that they smoke prodigious quantities of hash and marijuana.

They smoke out of a chillum, which is a hollow graduated cylinder that gets filled with a combination of hash and tobacco. And as soon as they finish one chillum, taking massive hits and exhaling thick clouds of smoke, they begin preparing another, which involves a curious ritual of rolling the tobacco and hash together in their hand. Neither Rosanna or I smoke, and refused when offered, which fortunately didn’t seem to bother the babas.

After hanging out with the babas for the better part of the afternoon, Rosanna and I concluded that hanging with the babas was a lot like hanging out with some of our hippie friends, and were kind of bored.

Leaving the camps, we headed on down to the river. It was there that I took my first dip in the Ganga. A sacred bath it was. When I emerged from that frigid green water I felt fully alive and completely grateful for the gift of life. The Hindus are fanatical about the Ganga and speak endlessly of its sacred power and healing properties. I was skeptical about this, but after taking a dip I am now a believer. It was amazing! The Indians were elated to see western me strip down into my underwear (this is what all the Indian men wear when they swim, so I followed suit) and bathe in the Ganga.

At sunset we attended the riverside puja. Puja is a religious ceremony of gratitude to God. During the Kumbh Mela this puja is incredibly popular. The whole area was packed to maximum density hours in advance of the ceremony- it was impossible to move. Rosanna and I had secured a great place, but then at the last minute we were booted and had to go elsewhere. In a vast ocean of people all we could see were the backs of peoples’ heads. For a moment I was disheartened, but then we spied a ladder and monkeyed up it just in time to witness the Brahmin priests wielding fire and offerings.

Amma is Love

2010-02-21T09:36:00.002-05:00

February 8, 2010: Amma’s Ashram

From the lovely jungle backwaters of Allepey, I boarded a ferry that headed south through narrow waterways lined with palm trees and lotus flowers and green. Every tourist on board had their camera out and were snapping away as every moment was a photo opportunity.

Along the boat ride, a smiley Indian man took a liking to me. We were sharing a couple of laughs, and when I told him I had a drum he became ecstatic. This guy played tabla and began to demonstrate on my Nepali drum. When I told him I play cello he began kissing my feet in admiration, and with a big genuine smile kept saying that he was not worthy. I still don’t know what that was all about, but I liked his spirit and enjoyed his crazy companionship. I only understood about a third of what he was saying. He went away for a while, but then came up behind me and whispered in my ear, inviting me to come down below into the captain’s chamber. I thought it was strange and was a bit leary, but it seemed classically Asian and random, so I followed him.

In the captains chamber I found my smiley friend, along with the captain, and the co-captain. A couple empty bottles of rum were strewn about and the smiler quickly emptied the contents of a bottle into a glass and handed it to me. At first I protested, but then with a smile I embraced the randomness of the situation and enjoyed the delicious rum. After finishing the first glass, he poured a second and I enjoyed that one too. The more I drank the easier it was to understand this guy’s crazy mind. I soon came to understand that my smiley friend, along with the captains and crew, were all drunk as a skunk!

By the time I arrived at Amma’s ashram the universe was smiling with me and everyone was glad. Walking slowly in peaceful summer bliss, I sauntered across the bridge and entered the sprawling pink compound that is Amma’s ashram. Gentle late afternoon sunlight painted everything in soft golden hues, a light breeze was blowing, and at this moment all of this stimuli felt like a giant cosmic hug. It felt right here. This is where I needed to be right now. Love felt omnipresent and I smiled to think we were all in this place together in celebration of love, in celebration of Amma- “the hugging guru”.

Long ago Amma devoted herself to the welfare of humanity and began offering love to the destitute and all by offering hugs. She calls it “giving darshan,” and over the course of her lifetime she has hugged millions and millions of people. Hugging is her “service”, that is what she does and people loooooove this woman! Her great love has inspired the adoration of many, and today she is revered as a living saint.

An ashram is a holy place where devotees live, learn, and practice their faith. At Amma’s ashram, there are over 4,000 people who’ve been living here permanently for several years. They are from every country, including a large population of Indians. There are also many dorm rooms to accommodate the several thousand visitors who come from far and wide to experience Amma’s “darshan”. The ashram is a microcosm—a veritable city with a university, a hospital, several apartment buildings, a pool, restaurants, gift shops, laundry facilities—it’s all here. The ashram is situated on a thin strip of land with the backwater canals on one side, and the Arabian Sea on the other. At sunset, devotees gather on the beach for prayer and meditation.

The devotees who have been here for a long time wear white, and all around the busy compound you see them walking about and working with great industry. Sometimes it feels like a cult because they are slow to warm up to outsiders, segregate between men and women, and in general live a curious life of singular focus and adoration of this one woman, Amma.

Day begins at 4:50, at which time the haunting chant of several hundred women rhythmically overlaps the solemn lonesome drone of the men’s chanting. Each morning at this time I would go and sit beside the fire where morning puja is performed. Some 40 or 50 devotees are gathered around a fireplace where a Brahmin priest builds a fire and begins tossing oil, flower petals, and all sorts of ritualistic items into the fire while murmuring prayers and chanting the names of Shiva. With eyes half closed in a soft gaze, I sat there immersed in prayer while the loud enthusiastic chanting of devotees would sing me towards spiritual trance.

As the hour progressed the tone of chant rises in step. Just before six it reaches a climax-- a wild surging melody as this ecstatic band of angels belts out adoration. And then at six, suddenly it’s over and in the absence of the intense chant, a mystical silence and peace pervades the ashram. White robed women and men emerge from morning birjan and suddenly flood the silent compound. Surrounded in darkness, cool morning wind is blowing through my hair as I miander around slowly in walking meditation.

At seven, there is yoga in the main hall. I join about twenty other men. Somewhere else the women do yoga. (Everything at the ashram is divided by gender.) And at nine, we all take breakfast. This is when my Seva begins. Seva is the name given to selfless service offered by devotees. Amma encourages devotees to sign up to perform tasks and do work around the ashram, and says that selfless service is the most direct path to God. I must agree--of all the activities that I did during my few days at the ashram, none were more rewarding than the three hours per day when I got to feed and serve all the hungry devotees.

Soon afterward, loud devotional music began blasting out of speakers all around the compound. Hindu rituals would commence as a prelude to another session of Amma giving darshan.

The main hall is a large open-aired canopy with concrete floors and a stage up front where Amma sits surrounded by devotees and assistants. There are two large movie screens at the front of the hall that display the live video cameras fixed upon Amma. An ocean of folding chairs are lined up in rows and at the center there is a band of Hindu musicians who sing devotional songs all day long. A never-ending river of people file in from both sides of the stage, slowly approaching Amma for a hug. Along with thousands of devotees, I sat there in meditation watching the movie screens, observing the love Amma offers uniquely to each person that would come into her arms. Sometimes it would seem like she was crying, other times smiling, and on one particular day she seemed very tired, almost pained by the strain of this emotionally taxing activity.

It’s a great love that she practices and I found myself quite moved by her selfless commitment. It’s interesting that she never proclaimed herself a saint, but by virtue of her practice and the endless love that pours forth from her, she is celebrated as a saint. You can see it in the eyes of people that approach her. To touch her is to experience a miracle. To be healed. To be made right with God. And to feel her arms wrapped around you is to know it’s gonna be alright. There is a light, and there is a path to peace.

Now, I must confess, I didn’t exactly feel that light of love or compassion in my darshan experience. For me, the process was quite tumultuous. With the typical hierarchy of pushy Indian men running the show, we were like cattle being herded frantically up onto the stage. Like drill sergeants, these uncompromising ringleaders command you this way and that way and you will obey. Just before approaching Amma you are instructed to get down on your knees where you inch forward amidst incredible commotion. When it was my turn, many hands grappled by head and placed it near Amma’s shoulder. Amma took hold of me for about 3 seconds, mumbled a Hindu prayer in my ear, and instantly I was being pushed and pulled away from the guru. It all happened so quickly, I barely had time to consider the arms of a saint wrapped around me.

Since visiting Amma I keep imagining what it would be like to go on world tour giving people hugs wherever I go. That’s a beautiful thing. I would like to do it. To be a light and give hope and love and hugs to all who need it—what could be more noble or rewarding?

The Past Few Week in South India

2010-02-21T09:20:00.002-05:00

February 4, 2010: The Past Few Weeks

I haven’t been very good about blogging lately. Days go by so quickly in the ever surging torrent of daily activity and traveling here and there and hanging out with people that there just isn’t enough time.

Anyhow, that disclaimer aside…here’s the last two weeks.

Leaving the beautiful beach of Gokarna I headed down to Kochi. Kochi is a cute historic village on the coast. It was a Portuguese colony for a while, and much of its European flavor still remains. While I didn’t find it particularly exciting to visit, I did enjoy the peaceful air around the place and spent two days happily wandering aimlessly through the quiet streets and sitting on the banks of the Arabian Sea watching the sun go down.

While in Kochi, experienced an ayurvedic massage, an experience I will briefly describe for you so that you won’t have to experience it yourself. Later on I learned that ayurvedic massages aren’t supposed to be enjoyable and now I know why. The masseuse gave me a petite paper G-string “garment” (what’s the point, nothing was covered and obviously I wasn’t shy) and laid me out on the table, which was just a massive block of wood—no pillows. He then proceeded to dump oil all over my head and began ripping out the hair follicles in my head. Once he was done with that he poured another gallon of oil over my slippery oily body and began mashing my bones and limbs into the table. I was yelping silently for relief but I trusted the masseuse and endured it. Finally when the massage was complete he had me sit in a box that was like a phonebooth that only goes up to the neck. This is the “steam room”, and slowly the heat begins to increase. I’m feeling extremely vulnerable locked in this box with just my head sticking out of it, like a chicken being cooked slowly. Soon the heat becomes unbearable, I’m sweating buckets, and I’m totally ready to cut my losses and call this massage a wrap. Meanwhile the masseuse is just staring at me with a funny smile that just makes it all seem hilarious and strange. Eventually he released me, I took a shower, and then he had the audacity to sit me down with a pen and his comments book where he asked me to write about how great my experience was.

Anyhow, the mosquitoes were killers in Kochi and it was screaming hot there too. So after two days of that I jumped on a bus to Munnar, a breathtaking mountain village about 5 hours inland from Kochi. The bus ride was windy, turbulent, and difficult as usual, but the views were amazing. The higher we went the cooler the air got and the better the views became.

The mountains around Munnar are the highest in South India and in all directions you see an endless vista of hills covered in tea plantations. They look like paint-by-number scenes—a thick beautifully-manicured carpet of vivid greens in every shade with trees spaced strategically for proper shade all across the landscape. The air is fresh here and in the mornings the fog and the rays of light that shatter through the trees inspire many photographs.

This region is the perfect climate for growing tea and for the past 100 years these hills have been expertly groomed to produce some of the highest quality tea in the world. Tata, the richest family in India, owns the Tata Team Company and pretty much all of Munnar, along with every hillside in a 50 mile radius. The Tata Tea Museum shows countless scenes of incredibly hardworked Indians who, despite earning less than a dollar a day in the field, are beaming great big ecstatic smiles.

One day I took a ride with Stepha, a German yogi, up to Top Station, the veritable top of the world overlooking South India. It was quite beautiful up there and along the way we passed through several picturesque landscapes, saw elephants, visited a little spice garden, a flower garden, and visited Echo Lake where everything you shout comes back at you.

At nighttime we had a great group of travelers kicking it on the patio of the hotel. Two guys had guitars, I had a drum (and chocolate), a group of Canadians had beers, and a couple of Israeli girls had white bread and jelly. All together we had the fixins for a great little party and probably would’ve continued late into the night if it hadn’t been for the night watchman who turned the lights out on us and told us to wrap it up because school kids were trying to study in the neighborhood.

After Munnar I headed on down Alleppey, where I met a lovely British girl waiting for the ferry. We began talking and laughing and before long two days had passed and we were still together. We stayed at Gowri, a supercool guesthouse, in a primitive tree house with a veritable zoo of animals chirping, howling, and cockle-doodle-doing all night long. It felt like we were in the jungle. Rowan is an expert mosquito killer and before lights out she was a madwoman securing mosquito nets and swatting violently at everything that buzzed.

The area around Alleppey, known as the “backwaters”, is a network of waterways and canals that extend inland from Kerala’s coast. Narrow rivers and lazy lily pad waterways wind through tropical jungle terrain, yielding to wide open expansive oceans. Some people rent houseboats. It sounds completely romantic and I’d love to do it someday with a special someone, but for the time being Rowan and I enjoyed the local ferries, which travel along the same path at a price of 25 cents for a 5 hour ride. Along the way you see women doing laundry, men lounging around shirtless doing nothing but sitting in sunlight, little kids playing and shouting out to passer-byes for pens. It was all quite beautiful.

Musings on traveling, South India

2010-02-21T09:18:00.001-05:00

January 31, 2010: Musings on traveling, South India

My backpack is too big, and too heavy, and now is beginning to tear at the seems. I don’t know how much longer it will last. On particularly rough days, I wonder how much longer I can last. It’s been nearly four months now since I left home, traveling around India and Nepal, and living out of my backpack. It’s real tiring some days, and in the heat of extreme summer sun I find myself longing for a peaceful place where I’m not constantly on the move and sweating like a sumo wrestler.

Usually I wear the same clothes day after day- my repertoire is so unexciting. My threshold for what constitutes unwearable has risen drastically and though all of my clothes are dirty and wrinkled, day after day I continue to wear it. When I feel it’s time for a change I reach down into the bottom of my pack and blindly grab whatever feels like a t-shirt. I begin to pull upwards, and when it surfaces I’ll consider the degree of dirtiness, and if it’s not to bad, that’s what I’ll wear.

I want to shed my possessions—all of them. Everything that I have I carry upon my back. I wish to be free of the burden of stuff. It’s the classic conundrum of my life. But when I sift through my belongings, I always return to the conclusion that I need all of the things I’m carrying—perhaps minus a pair of socks or a shirt, but that doesn’t do much for reducing the weight and bulk of my bag. In fact, I still feel that I am lacking stuff—like a mosquito net, which already would’ve saved me from countless sleepless nights of extreme discomfort. But where will I put it once I buy one?

Lately I find myself facing the exciting, but sometimes disconcerting, realization that the world is simply too big! There’s way too much I wish to do and I don’t have nearly enough time. Consequently, this travelers’ heart becomes torn as I evaluate every decision, constantly strategizing on the best way to spend the remaining days of my life. This realization becomes disconcerting when I consider the reality that I need several lifetimes to visit all the places that excite my imagination.

Back to the Beach

2010-01-23T02:04:00.000-05:00

January 19, 2010: Gokarna Beach

After Goa I thought I’d gotten my beach fix. My goal was satisfied—I’d savored warmth, got a nice tan, I got to go swimming and do beach things. I wasn’t planning on returning to the beach, but my friend Irati sent me a persuasive email from Gokarana. She spoke passionately about a beautiful tropical beach just south of Goa and described this bohemian enclave—“what Goa used to be like before it got so touristy.” She spoke to my heart and convinced me that I needed to return to the coast.

I took an overnight bus from Hampi to Gokarna. My neighbors aboard the bus were a couple of Russians who were loud and rowdy while everyone else was trying to sleep. I liked these guys though, and was enjoying hanging out with them in darkness, laughing and drinking tequila from a flask. I stayed up late into the night talking with a kind-hearted Australian girl that I’d met in a restaurant a few days earlier, whom serendipity had assigned to the seat next to mine on this journey.

The beds in this sleeper bus were quite small, and there are two of them very close, side by side. My neighbor was one of the Russian dudes, and so as I lay me down to (try to) sleep this night I found myself basically in bed with this guy. He was a good guy, though, and we had a good laugh when laying down ground rules about spooning and unintended advances.

All through the night the motley bunch of bus drivers and assistants caused me to awake in fear many times. They’d throw on the bright lights. I’d awake and find the bus stopped in the middle the street as these goons were racing around the bus shouting at the top of their lungs, chanting something like “Oyyyyy, Oyyyyy.” In my panic, it seemed reasonable to conclude either terrorists had just attacked the bus, or that some major calamity was before us. But then, with no explanation to the madness, the lights would be dimmed and the bus would proceed on down the road.

That was over a week ago. Since then I’ve been enjoying a most peaceful existence on the beautiful shores of Kudly Beach, Gokarna. My life is simple here. Sun comes up, I go for a walk on the beach, return to my guesthouse for coffee and morning musings while the sun is rising. Up and down the beach you see hippies and eccentrics doing yoga, tai chi, morning stretches, and meditating. It’s nice in the mornings, before the sun has risen to full-strength. When the ocean calls, I go for a dip. When I get hungry I eat killer Indian food. All day long I read and take walks and swim. And once the sun goes down the bohemian celebration begins around a bonfire.

I saw the fire from a distance and could tell there were many people around it. The last colors of the beautiful sunset were fading and stars were becoming brighter. I was feeling good because I’d just gotten off the phone with Ryan and learned about the birth of my new lil’ nephew, Nolan. As I got closer to the fire I saw spirited hippie women dancing around the fire with great big smiles on their faces. I heard many drums and guitars jangling, and everyone was singing Hindu devotional songs and chanting the name of Shiva lovingly. I was surprised that everyone (except me) seemed to know the lyrics to these songs. Little kids and their parents were sitting around the fire. Everyone seemed quite happy here. It was a remarkable bohemian celebration.

A few days later I learned from a mysterious Baba with crazy eyes that the Rainbow Family had relocated from the US to this area. He explained to me that the Rainbow spirit is based in love and freedom and aspires to retain the spirit of the 60’s. Apparently, many of these freedom-loving hippies split straight America and headed to India, where eccentricity is accepted more than anyplace else. This explained why everyone knew the lyrics to these songs—apparently all are part of the family and have been singing these songs for years.

Here at Gokarna, hippie is the populace. Many laid-back people come here and never leave. Every guesthouse is full, no one leaves, and everyday you see the same people lounging around the beaches, enjoying the moments. It’s real easy to get swept up into this life. It costs less than $10 a day to live very well here. At $300/month, why leave? Most everyone I’ve spoke to has been for over a month.

Magical Hampi

2010-01-23T02:03:00.000-05:00

January 11, 2010: Hampi

Just a few hundred miles inland from Goa is Hampi. This town is one of those rare universally-loved places along the traveler circuit. Before arriving you can’t possibly imagine what you are about to experience.

After a long, jarring train ride disjointed by frequent layovers and delays, I arrived at the squalid Hospet train station in the middle of the night. The station was dimly-lit by grim fluorescent lights. People were sleeping on the floor and since it was 3am, I considered joining them rather than looking for a room at this hour. An excitable rickshaw driver however talked me into hiring him and before long we were buzzing through the empty midnight streets off to Hampi.

It was 4am by the time I arrived. I really didn’t know what I’d do. Maybe I’d sleep in a temple. Maybe I’d find a place to sleep beside the river. Maybe I’d just hang out and watch the sun rise, which wouldn’t be long from now. The rickshaw driver said he knew the owners of a guesthouse named “Kiran Guest House”, and this all seemed serendipitous, so I let him lead me there. Once outside their gates he hollered to the owners, who explained they had no vacancy but led me up to their restaurant patio, where I slept on cushions beside their dog.

Mosquitos feasted on me and I didn’t sleep much—if any -- tonight. Once the sun came up though, I left my baggage at the hotel and began exploring.

The landscape conjures a dream of ancient places and faraway times. There are massive boulders strewn about banana plantations and vast quasi-desert plains. It reminded me of Arches National Park, or maybe Zion—and had the extraordinary geological qualities of Bryce Canyon. And just like the original inhabitants of those places, I can imagine how the original people of this land some 10,000 years ago must’ve come upon this landscape mesmerized by these extraordinary features and concluded reflexively, this is God’s country.

Consequently, Hampi has been a spiritual center for Hindus for many centuries. A thousand years ago, the ruling dynasty set up shop here and built thousands of temples and holy structures. A few centuries later, the empire was conquered and Hampi and it’s ruins began returning to dust. A decades ago, however, the area was revived and established the magnificent ruins as a National Heritage Site. Today, the area is still a powerful spiritual place where many Hindus come on pilgrimage to visit the great temple, to bathe in the holy river, and spend time in the presence of the Gods.

The spiritual vibe here is very tangible. Everything is serene here, the surroundings are magical and beautiful, no one is in a rush. Travelers arrive and stay much longer than expected. Why leave? For this reason, Hampi has become a popular hippie hangout (as is all of India). On the western side of the river is generally the older tourists, the ones who have money and do guided tours and stuff. On the eastern side of the river is where everything is chill and all the hippies are gathered on cushions, playing guitars and banging drums. I chose to stay on the chill side.

My guesthouse was pretty lowgrade. It was really dirty, dark, and had many mosquitos, but the food was excellent and they had a good vibe going in the cushioned hang-out area. The other good thing about this place is that there were a lot of good people staying there. At night we’d sit in candlelight enjoying dinner and conversation. Guitars and drums were lying around. I picked one up and played a bunch of melodies for the folks there. No one really knows my music though, and I think many would prefer if I could play some techno. However, to my astonishment, there was this supercool Indian couple nearby—Vivek and Parbody-- and they loved the Dead and Bob Dylan. It was fantastic—we played every Dead and Dylan song in the catalog. Parbody was so beautiful-- she’d close her eyes and start swaying to the tune, singing lyrics from the bottom of her heart. It was such a treat finding these Indian Deadheads. We stayed up all night long singing songs, convinced there were still more to be sung.

A big Hindu festival was beginning on my last day in Hampi. (Side note: no one loves festivals more than Indians, and they seem to occur every few days) At 3am I awoke to the sounds of hordes of kids and adults banging drums and playing flutes, laughing, shouting and talking loudly, directly outside my window. When I awoke a few hours later I discovered the river was a mad frenzy of jovial men and women splashing around in sudsy water, bathing in the holy waters as tradition dictates on this holy day.

Crossing the river later on proved to be a harrowing adventure. Usually, the ferry is adequate -- you simply hop into a little motorized skiffer that gets you to other side in a minute or two. However, on festival day there were hundreds of people trying to cross. And the Indian mentality concludes—too many people need to cross, therefore we will stop running ferry service for a while. I stood on the shore incredulous, and concerned that I’d miss my bus. When they finally resumed service and the boat arrived, a dangerous frenzy stampeded onto the boat knocking down kids and old ladies. Nobody could even get off the boat—gridlock ensued, nobody could move. A police officer came over and started wielding his baton, and throwing people off the boat. But, the insanity persisted, and for a while it seemed resolution was nowhere near. Making matters still more urgent, the boat was sinking—there were over fifty people on this little rickety tin skiffer that usually holds fifteen max. I shook my head in disgust of the Indian mentality that breeds such situations and crossed my fingers that we’d reach the other side.

Musings on Traveling and the Death of a Friend

2010-01-23T02:01:00.001-05:00

January 8, 2010: Goa

While traveling you see your best and worst sides very clearly. You spend so much time by yourself—so many long stretches of time sitting idle on busses and trains, considering the many aspects of any given situation. Your senses are alive as you observe everything, and you find yourself reflecting on all the new experiences that you are having. Everything is new—some things are pleasant, while others seem terrible.

Eventually you realize that all this reflection on the physical world is just another form of introspection. Like looking in a mirror. You can talk to ten travelers—and equal parts will tell you they love a particular place, while the others hate it. It seems to me that this is because you bring yourself wherever you go, and different places make you more aware of certain characteristics of yourself—the ones you love, which make you happy, and the ones you hate, which make you want to get gone.

All week I’ve been feeling particularly lonely here in Goa. I haven’t been happy. Suddenly I feel very isolated and much out of the loop here. I am in this by myself, traveling, and there is no one to lean on in my time of need. In the silence of my self-directed world I find myself casting fears and musing about things real and unreal.

Last night I learned in an email that a dear friend, Dave Poole, had died a few days ago while traveling in China . I must’ve looked like a crazy man because I burst into tears and slipped into a deep dark hole of helplessness there in the internet café.

Dave was one of my first friends when I got to Portland five years ago. One of the most beautiful, creative, hilarious, and inspirational human beings I’ve ever known, Dave had a magnetic personality and everyone loved him. When I first got to Portland he had just unofficially commenced a weekly-outing social group known as FNAC, or Friday Night Activity Club. The club had rotating members, but Dave was the heartbeat and week after week we all kept Friday open so that we could spend time in the light of his fun, witty, exciting friendship. He was also amazing at saxophone and his bands always rocked. He was way ahead of his time in the field of digital animation and produced many brilliant cartoons laced with hilarious Dave Poole wit. His death saddens me deeply, as he was very much a light in this world.

I can’t attend his funeral, I can’t hug anyone, nor receive any hugs. I still don’t even know he died, my emails haven’t been returned. It’s a strange feeling in my heart tonight, as I contemplate all these things.

Chillin' in Goa

2010-01-23T00:17:00.005-05:00

January 6, 2010: Goa, India

I’ve arrived in Goa, the legendary summer place on the southwestern shores of India. I made the bold decision while in Varanasi, and with unstoppable determination I began laying the groundwork for my flight from coldness to Goa.
For three months now I’ve been cold. Shortly after arriving in Nepal I realized I’d need some warmer clothes. Since then I’ve been wearing my second skin of thermals and down—I sleep with all my clothes on and I spend all my days freezing my ass off, despite my ridiculous puffy blue down Michelin Goodyear jacket. My jacket is the butt of many jokes and has become quite filthy, but I can’t imagine life without it. I’ve been seeking comfort and was aware that decisive action was necessary if I were to escape the winter of northern India and Nepal.

Of course, I knew I had to go south. But I haven’t found my groove in India yet. The country is so huge, I feel disoriented and overwhelmed by possibilities. I hear many intriguing stories of interesting places, but every destination requires a serious commitment in India. The only thing I felt sure about was that Goa had nice beaches and was summery. That’s all I needed to know.

After the standard dizzying adventure of various transports, including rickshaws, taxis, a 15-hour long train ride to Delhi, and more taxis, I hopped on a flight to Goa. The flight was two hours long, during which time I intently studied Lonely Planet trying to figure out what I would do once the plane landed. Nothing was clear to me, though. I felt like I was gonna puke, hadn’t slept in a very long time, my head was cloudy, and I was concerned about the amount of effort that was required of me before I would reach solace. Two Russian girls were sitting beside me on the plane, and after chatting for a little while they told me they were headed to Vagator and invited me to share a taxi with them. Problem solved.

I arrived feeling half dead, paid too much for a beach hut, crawled into bed, and slept for the next fourteen hours.

When I awoke the sun was shining brightly, casting speckles of sunlight on the walls of my bamboo hut. It was warm, it was nice. I grabbed my book and headed on down to the beach to explore and see where I’d arrived.

My hut was set upon a cliff that looked down upon the beach lined with banana plantations, coconut trees, and temporary bamboo restaurants. It was a beautiful summer day and the ocean wind blowing through my hair felt heavenly. I hobbled on down the rocky hill to the beach and found a nice beach chair with a sun umbrella overhead.

It was still early, but as the day progressed I quickly began to figure out what was happening. First thing that struck me was how many Russians vacation here. Indeed, it felt like I was in little Russia. Second observation: techno is the beloved music here and is blasting out of speakers at all hours of the day. Third: everyone is drinking and rolling hash cigarettes morning noon and night. I had arrived in India’s famed party destination.

The beach is an endless strip of restaurants and bars—all of them are crowded with Russians and dreadlocked hippies lounging on beach chairs. Smoking and drinking all day long, these types don’t seem to really be the backpacker-types, but rather the fun-loving types seeking endless summer. As I look around I sense that many of these people have been here for a very long time.

It is nice here, but is not really my style. I realized that soon after arriving, but was ok with that because it fit my needs perfectly. For me, this is a retreat, as I seek refuge in summer’s grace. I lay peaceful in sunlight, melting in this blessed warmth, eating occasionally.

I have spoken so few words lately that I don’t even bother to wear my hearing aids. This is my silent meditation. I see around me large groups of English and Australians, Germans, and Russians drinking, laughing and rolling cigarette after cigarette. I think they are probably having more fun than me, but I don’t wish to join them. Occasionally I step out of this silent place and reach out to someone, but they are usually Russians that don’t speak any English, and so with a friendly shrug and a smile, we agree to remain strangers.

The few people I have met here all seem quite eccentric, and definitely fit in the alternative category. There was a 51-year-old French guy I met who was sitting near me in a little G-string bikini bottom. He was ardently sanding a piece of sandalwood for hours, which intrigued me and inspired me to approach him. He explained it was a box to store his hash, and then in his very-French accent launched into conspiracy theories about the Indian police, and how they are undercover and arresting hash smokers here and killing the Goa scene, where he’s been living for the past 35 years.

Naturally drawn to hippies, I have reached out to a few, but have been surprised by my experiences. The hippies here—they are hardcore hippies that make most Deadheads look like wealthy fraternity boys. Their dreads are enormous—and they are very proud of them. Most of them that I have met, however, seem very lost and angry. I feel no kinship and rarely see them smile. The new modern hippie seems to be a sad sort, finding their identity in dreads, piercing, tattoos and hash-cigarettes. I don’t see much spiritual inclination, nor do I feel that wonderful liberating come-as-you-are mentality that always made the Dead family so warm and encouraging. Instead, it’s a dark energy that repels me.

I rented a scooter for the week like every other tourist in the area. At first I was timid and had to keep reminding myself that in India you drive on the left side of the side of the road. Soon, however, I was buzzing around here there and everywhere, enjoying the wind through my hair and seeing how fast these things can go. My favorite place to go to is a hill overlooking Anjuna. I go there at sunset with a nice cold 20oz of Kingfisher and enjoy these moments immensely. The ride down the mountains through darkness is tricky, but it’s not too far and I take it slowly.

The Russians here are quite a spectacle. I am fully aware of the folly of making generalizations, but here in Goa I feel secure in saying every Russian guy is a bodybuilder. These guys are huge—enormous, powerful types, and they wear these funny banana hammock swimsuits. Their girlfriends—most of them seem to be petite vipers with skimpy-to-none bathing suits and seem fit for swimsuit edition magazines. I was sitting on the beach minding my own business when all of a sudden I’d look up and see a photo shoot underway. Needless to say, I was significantly distracted but enjoyed watching their lusty poses.

Side note: I’ve been told that it’s common for these Russian “couples” to go on vacation, and that what’s really happening is the guy pimps his “girlfriend” out. Unconfirmed rumour, possibly…

Nighttime here is all techno. Raves are the craze, as are Extasy and other pharmaceutical drugs. I went to Nine Bar, the most popular bar in Vagator, after sunset to check out the situation. The place was a great venue—a large outdoor space that overlooks the ocean and is lined with candles and coconut trees. Talking with a couple dudes swaying to the groove, I learned that “Goa Trance” is a popular genre of techno music that was born here. I wasn’t much impressed with it, though. It’s a constant in-your-face drumbeat, oscillating whirring of wind, and occasional abrasive sound effects. Nobody seemed to be all that into it though, so maybe I just caught a lame night. There was talk of an all night rave happening down the road later on in the week, which intrigued me but not enough to make me go there.

I feel I should go. This isn’t my summer home. This isn’t the beach I know and love. It is a European perversion of something that used to be unique and Indian. Today, there are no Indians here, except the ones bringing us beers or the ones that disturb my peace, trying to sell me DVDs, bongos and beach towels. These wandering vendors walk back and forth in mobs up and down the sandy stretch—they arrive every 30 seconds and get right in your face until you either lose your temper and say some things you wish you hadn’t, or you succumb and buy something. I regret that these vendors taught me that the only way to deal with them is to ignore them—which inspires much tension in my heart to treat anyone like that, but it was either that, or spend the next twenty minutes trying to convince them I wasn’t interested in buying their crap.

Varanasi, Sacred City of Light and Death

2010-01-23T00:16:00.000-05:00

December 30, 2010: Varanasi, India

The journey to Varanasi was a long one and involved many modes of transport, including buses, Jeeps, rickshaws, walking, and trains. It had taken nearly 20 hours to get this far. It was nine o’clock in the morning and as I exited the train station, my mind was tired, but the craziest part of the journey was just about to begin. My mission was to find a place to lay my head.

Outside the train station I was instantly surrounded by a mob of taxi and rickshaw drivers in my face offering their services. I quickly hopped into a rickshaw, and though I was still on high alert, I kicked back relieved to feel the morning chill and observe the chaotic introduction to Varanasi all around me. I was hoping to find a guesthouse I’d read about in Lonely Planet, but twenty minutes later, the driver stopped in the middle of a tumultuous intersection and explained he couldn’t enter the narrow walkways where my guesthouse was located.

Some sketchy dude nearby, who was wearing a suit and looked like a used-car salesman, offered to take me to my destination. Remembering the advice of many—“don’t trust anyone in India”—I was skeptical of this guy, but for the moment I felt slightly helpless in this chaotic ocean of activity buzzing around me. And so, reluctantly I began to follow him.

He began leading me through a maze of incredibly busy walkways which seemed to be getting narrower and darker the further we walked.My huge backpack posed a challenged and many people were pushing to get past me.

The cobblestone corridors are lined with a lively array of vendors of religious trinkets, glittery bracelets, sweets, snacks, and chai. Endless rows of fast-talking Indian guys are trying to direct you into their shops and they all want to know which country you are from. “Hello my friend, come look at my store. Very nice-- nice price for you.” I smile to keep myself from getting discouraged.

My shady “guide” is a few paces ahead of me and I’m trying to keep up as best as I can. We round a corner and come across a pack of huge beastly cows who are just standing there dumbly, clogging up the walkway, looking strangely out of place, as if someone’s cruel joke had placed them here. I’d heard about these cows and quickly saw for myself how, once alarmed, they gallop dangerously through the crowds, conjuring the running of the bulls and posing equal risk.

The walkways in this maze and everywhere are slippery with mounds of excrement and sludge, trash and filth. There is no garbage-collection here, no clean-up crew, and due to the many cows, dogs, and humans depositing their various waste directly into the streets—the streets are seriously nasty and I cringe to see the many people walking around barefoot.

After countless lefts and rights through dark alleys, I’m thoroughly disoriented and find I am totally at the mercy of my guide. Astonishingly, however, we come around a corner and there it is— Brown Bread Bakery, which has an affiliated guesthouse where I hope to stay.

Soon after getting settled in my guesthouse, I begin chatting with a funny Russian girl staying in the room next door. Her name is Oxanna and we quickly become friends. She suggests we go for a walk around the old town, and though I’m extremely tired, she keeps me laughing as we walk.

Sleeper Car to India

2010-01-23T00:15:00.000-05:00

December 30, 2010: Varanassi India

The Nepal/India border is practically invisible. There is a bustling road from here to there, and it’s busy with countless samosa vendors, produce wagons, and merchants of all kinds of stuff. To my surprise, the crossing of the border is transparent and, in fact, consists simply of checking in with a couple of semi-official looking guys sitting in patio furniture on the side of the road.

From Lumbini, I had taken a bus to the border, and then once in India I hopped into a Jeep that would take me off to train station four hours away. This small Jeep was transporting 13 passengers, and while it was uncomfortable for me, I was grateful that I wasn’t the guy whose seat was literally under the driver—yes, the driver of the Jeep was actually sitting on this guy’s lap for the 4-hour journey.

From Gahorakpur to Varanasi, I was to take an overnight train in a sleeper car—my first experience of this sort. Having lived through it, I can say it was a jarring experience, but I know that when traveling in India, it’s one that you need to get used to, as sleeper trains are the preferred mode of travel here.

The train station was very chaotic, extremely dirty, bodies laying everywhere—it’s hard to know how many of them are homeless and how many were, like me, seeking comfort while waiting for their train to arrive. I had about 6 hours to kill in this station. Not a single tourist to be seen—just me drifting around in a sea of commotion. I was trying to find a place to sit that wasn’t filthy with pee or crap or sludge or who knows what, but I wasn’t succeeding.

Their was significant anxiety in me, that I would err, or that I might not find the right train, and miss it. There were no police, no railway personnel, no information booths, nor authority who could assuage my concerns. I asked a couple of people which track my train would arrive on—but not understanding English, they all just wagged their heads side to side and looked at me with a hopeless empty expression, pointing elsewhere. I was directed to one guy who seemed official somehow, like maybe he actually worked for the railway—but when I repeated my question, he looked at my ticket and summarized in just three words: “Ticket no good.” Initially I got worried, fearing I’d bought a phony ticket, but then I just smiled and assumed, correctly, this guy didn’t know what he was talking about.

My heart began to race watching the scene that would unfold each time a train approached. Due to stiff competition for a limited number of seats in these severely over-crowded cars, the commotion begins as the train pulls into the station. While the train is still moving, many are sprinting alongside and leaping heroically through the doorways. When the train finally haults, at each door there are hundreds of people, throwing elbows and pushing each other, vying to get in before the rest of the horde. I smile and wonder if that’s what I will need to do as well.

By the time my train comes I’m ready to rock—ready to wield my strength and do whatever it takes. There’s no announcement as to which train it is and with an educated guess and blind faith, I hope my calculation is correct. I jump onto the train, which is pitch dark and has an extremely narrow aisle full of people pushing to get past me.

A strange Indian guy with shifty eyes sees me standing there looking like a deer in headlights—he looks at my ticket and points to my cot. My cot is about 7 feet off the ground, in a small chamber that contains 5 other cots. Everyone is sitting around looking like zombies at this midnight hour—no one is talking. The situation is grim in these crowded, dark quarters—perhaps the best we can all do is just endure this moment and recognize transport is the goal here. Try to get comfortable somehow someway and soon morning will come and we’ll arrive at the destination.

I watch several other passengers, trying to figure how you do this sleeper car thing. I just don’t see how it’s possible to fit my large backpack and all my stuff in the cot beside me, securing all things, including shoes, in such a way that thieves can’t m ake off with anything. I watch an experienced Japanese backpacker putting his shoes under his pillow while wrapping his backpack in a large pillowcase and chaining it to the metal bed frame. Imitating him, I crawl up onto my cot and try to do the same but find it extremely difficult to maneuver in this narrow space—it’s tricky like a Rubik’s cube and I keep bumping my head into the roof.

I set my alarm clock for 6:15am, but wake up in advance. If this train is on time, I’m due to arrive at 6:30. I pack up my stuff and along with the other midnight bandits huddled in dark silence, I wait for the train to stop. At 6:30 it comes to a hault—but again, there’s no announcement. My heart is racing again with uncertainty. I look out the window and see only signs in Hindi. I say to my neighbor in questioning tone “Varanasi?” He nods his head yes and with urgency he directs me to get out while I can. Once outside, however, I feel it in my heart that this isn’t Varanasi, and the train begins to move along.

And so it turns out, I got off at the wrong station just a few miles north of Varanasi. I laugh at myself because this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. Lesson re-learned: trust no one, be self-sufficient always.

It’s 6:30am, I’m standing on the platform a few miles from my destination, tired, but amused by the circumstances. I learn that I am in Sarnath, a town I was actually hoping to visit. The Buddha gave one of his four most important teachings here, and today the peaceful town contains a few temples and monasteries. The sun was rising behind thick grey clouds, and in the still of morning I exited the train station and began exploring the peaceful little town.

After wandering the quiet streets and gardens of Sarnath for a few hours, I hopped back on the next train to Varanasi. While approaching the next station down the line, there was no doubt that I’d arrived. The volume of noise even at this early hour announced it. I looked out the window and saw hectic streets bustling with busses and motorcycles and many rickshaws. The train came to a stop, and with a hopeful heart, I stepped out and greeted the fabled Varanasi.

Where the Buddha Once Walked

2010-01-23T00:14:00.000-05:00

December 28, 2009: Lumbini, Nepal

Lumbini is special because it’s where the Buddha was born. For 2600 years this village was little more than countryside with a sparse population and a few small reminders of its greatest inhabitant. Ten years ago a large stretch of trees and fields was set aside for monasteries. Since then, each of the Buddhist nations has built a large temple, shrine, or monastery in honor of the Buddha.

It’s 6am at the monastery and my alarm has just sounded. I would’ve enjoyed the extra sleeping time, but I’m hungry and enjoy the curry that is served every meal. At 7 begins morning worship, which consists of chanting and prostrations. Their chant is a flute-song of melodies made beautiful by harmony and devotion, and all the spirited anis (female monks) sing them with playful duty. With eyes closed at this early hour, their sweet song transports me to faraway places, to Nepal, in a monastery.

The fog here is wild—the thickest fog I’ve ever seen in my life. You can’t even see 10 feet in front of you, blurring trees in smoky ambguity. While there’s not much sight seeing to be done at this hour, I was completely enthralled by the fog and needed to explore. And so I rented a bike that was so rickety I felt like it was my first time on a bike.

Slowly as the day progress the fog began thinning and the outlines of monasteries begin to appear. The sun was rising lazy in vast empty fields, not a sound to be heard except the breeze. Up and down du sty roads, large joyful groups of Indian pilgrims, barefoot and dressed in colorful saris, walk off to the next temple. I too, end up visiting most of the 26 monasteries scattered abou the refuge.

At the end of the day I find myself a bit confused. With all due respect, what we have here in Lumbnini is a living museum. We have a bunch of monasteries and shrines to honor the Awakened One. But as far as I can tell, there’s not much happening here. I just see more instances of grand opulence and iconic reverence. And this seems to violate what I thought I understood about Buddhism.

The Buddha stated emphatically that he himself should not be regarded as God, nor revered as special—that his teachings were of utmost importance, not the person. He says “nothing is hidden in the hand of the master” and that each person possesses the ability to become a Buddha.

And yet, here in Lumbini you see once again many temples and objects of reverence that hold the Buddha on a Godly pedestal akin t o Jesus, Shiva, Mohammed, and the rest. No doubt he was an extraordinary person, for which the world is to be immensely grateful. But as I watch the rituals of pilgrims I can’t help but think it all contradict the Buddha’s ambitions.

For me, the Buddha’s presence comes near while sitting beside a peaceful lake this morning, watching the sunrise. The fog was just lifting and a big red sun was rising out over the lake. The tranquility and peace here evokes the Buddha, and with eyes closed I feel certain that his spirit is becoming stronger in my heart and mind every day.

Onwards to Where the Buddha Was Born

2010-01-23T00:13:00.002-05:00

December 26, 2009: Lumbini, Nepal

It's nighttime at a monastery in Lumbini, the place where Gautama Siddartha the Buddha was born. Lumbini is in southernmost Nepal, just north of the Indian border. The monastery where I am staying is one of twenty-six in the area that are strewn about a vast peaceful refuge of trees and fields.

Tonight I took a nice walk through misty moonlit fields. All around me I could I hear the mad howling of jackals whose crazy hoots and hollering sounds like they're having a hell of a great party. There insane celebrations of freedom delight me immensely. And along my peaceful walk the sillouettes of monasteries appear in the midnight fog.

Todays journey to Lumbini was another wild expedition via an extremely uncomfortable little minivan with only one buttcheek on the seat for close to 10 hours, while the busdriver's assistant basically sat on my lap. And then after what seemed like we'd transcended hell and crossed many mountains, the bus driver explains in grunts and motions that this bus had reached the end of the line and they were going to put me on another bus, the local bus to Lumbini.

The bus was seriously ragged-- just dusty metal and seats and glass that has never been clean. As always when traveling in Nepal, I just cross my fingers and trust that I will arrive one way or another, or else someplace else.

But then an angel arrived. A young guy named Govinda sat down beside me and began speaking to me in broken english. He seemed like a good guy and I liked him right away. As this rickety bus slowly proceeded down the dusty broken road, though, nighttime was fast approaching and I was concerned about the journey that lay ahead of me and trying to find lodging for the night. I didn't know where I was going, but Govinda told me about the Korean Monastery which offers lodging to weary travelers. It lay somewhere among the vast forest of Lumbini and I had no clue how I was going to find it. Fortunately, my angel, Govinda, told the bus driver where to stop and then offered to lead me there.

We jumped off the bus at an unmarked location and began walking through a dusty dirt road into the heart of the dark forest. Instantly I took notice of the peace in the air-- a tranquility that I haven't known for a while. The air was gentle. There was no buzzing of busses and horns and madness. Just the tranquil meditative air surrounding the Buddha's birthplace.

The walk to the monastery was a long one and now it was pure darkness. I was so ready to lay down my bags and be free from it all, and finally by 7 we arrived.

Before departing, Govinda invited me to his house for dinner the following night. He arrived at the monastery to pick me up around 5:30. I jumped onto the back of his bicycle and we rode down the dusty street Nepali style. Arriving at his clay thatched roof abode, I learned that his Dad was working in a faraway town and his Mom was out at work. That left Govinda, his sister, and me. Govinda sat me down on a bench while they scurried around cooking seriously greasy scrambled eggs and some rice. They brought the food to me and explained that they'd eat later. And so I sat in the grim flourescent light of their home and ate food by myself. After I was done, he asks..."we go?" And so with that, he drove me back to the monastery and that was our outing. Very strange.

Christmas in Nepal

2010-01-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

December 25, 2009: Boudha, Nepal

All week I've been listening to holiday music. It fascinates me how music can transport the mind to a different time, and as I listen to these old familiar songs, I smile to recall the years and all of the moments when these songs were my festive soundtrack. There is one album in particular-- a beautiful collection of holiday songs played brilliantly on classical guitar by Steven Pasero. Every time I hear Ave Maria or O Holy Night, I find myself sifting through the photographs in my mind of all the people that I miss, and the hot chocolate moments that we've shared. I see them all gathered in candlelight around a beautiful Christmas tree and sometimes little tears form up when I get thinking about spending Christmas without them.

Here in Hindu/Buddhist Nepal, I only get little doses of Christmas. Up at the Hyatt hotel here in town, they have a great big Christmas tree all lit up in the lobby. The lobby is beautiful, well-lit, and warm, and best of all- a couple of excellent Nepali musicians play there every night. I learned this a few days ago and have since been going up there every night. I sit at their side and close my eyes and take in their beautiful music. The tablas, the flutes, the singing bowls, the fiddle-like sarangi melodies-- their sweet sounds flow through me as I'm transported into a blissful musical meditation. And when I open my eyes, the sight of the Christmas tree makes me happy.

I'm kind of like their student, and in between songs the musicians in this band teach me how to play their instruments. Two nights ago, Bharat Nepali, the superb sarangi player, taught me the basics of his 4-stringed instrument, which is positioned in front of you, like the cello, and is bowed similarly. When the band took a break for dinner, he encouraged me to try his instrument.

Sitting in the light of the Christmas tree, I began fiddling with his sarangi trying to find the melody to Away in a Manger. Astonishingly, the melody rang out and I realized that the instrument was surprisingly easy to play. I was amused to imagine guests who were hearing me and thinking that I was the hired entertainment. "Jeez, this guy really sucks," I was imagining them saying and was expecting hotel staff to silence my scratchy, poorly-played sarangi music but no one seemed to mind. And so with great happiness in my heart, I sat there in the lobby of this multi-million dollar hotel, beside the giant Christmas tree, playing every Christmas song I could think of. I smiled to myself and acknowledged with gratitude that this is my humble Christmas. A different kind of Christmas.

The stupa coincidentally is all dressed in Christmas lights right now. Ribbons of colored lights stream down from the stupa on through the various levels. At night time when the stupa becomes quiet again I go down there and sit in silence, admiring the beautiful Christmas stupa. Last night I took my new little Nepali hand drum on down there and must've walked around that stupa for several hours banging my drum-- I was completely at peace and had nowhere to go, nothing to do. It was Christmas eve, and this was my celebration. It was just me, a couple of street dogs, and the Christmas stupa. Beautiful.

Before going to bed on Christmas eve I made a few phone calls. It felt real nice to hear the voice of those I miss so much. Especially at this time, hearing their voice was a gift. And to hear my dear little niece Paige sing "Silent Night", that just about made my Christmas complete. I cried and smiled at the same time, not knowing what I was feeling.

On Christmas day, I had a party to go to. Two and half months ago when I arrived in Nepal, I met Susan the 65 year old Buddha like angel. When she learned I was back in town she invited me to a party at her house that she was hosting for all the Australian volunteers that work under her guidance. So Christmas morning-- a day that seemed no different than any other day-- I jumped on a bus headed into Kathmandu. Arriving in crazy Kathmandu, I found a bicycle to rent and rode off to Susan's house in Patan, a village just south of Kathmandu.

The party was festive and fun-- many happy smiling people laughing and sharing. Susan had prepared a delicious Christmas feast. She even had several bottles of excellent Australian red wine, and so I got to enjoy some of my first few glasses of wine since I've been in Nepal. Side note: wine was a great treat for me because the beer and wine here is relatively expensive and is usually not that good, so I've drank very little since I've been here. Today, however, I was indulging and enjoying every sip. Near Susan's house there is a Christian school named St. Xavier's, and they were having some kind of Christmas concert. Loud upbeat Christian rock was blasting out for all the town to hear, and thought it wasn't Joy to the World, it made me happy. This was my Christmas celebration-- it was way different than usual.

Tomorrow I head off to Lumbini, the town where Buddha was born.

Living with Monks in Boudha

2010-01-23T00:11:00.000-05:00

December 21, 2009: Boudha, Nepal

For the past two weeks now I've been in Boudha. In traveler time, two weeks feels like two months, or maybe even two years. Indeed, it feels like I've lived here for a very long time.

The fact is that I've become part of this community and it feels real good. I love how everywhere I go I am surrounded by Buddhist monks and hear the perpetual clanging of bells and gongs, while monks line the road in prayer and rituals are taking place everywhere I look. Also, over the past two weeks I've come to know many interesting people around here. I now have a fun group of friends with whom I meet for tea or dinner. I know many great musicians and their performance schedules. I have my daily rituals, I walk circles around the stupa many times per day, and in general, feel really comfortable here. It's easy to slip into this life and watch days and weeks go by.

Sometimes I get anxious and think that I should get gone to someplace else. I flip the pages of the guidebook and read about experiences that I'd like to have. But this sense of friendship and community is a beautiful thing and I guess I'm not ready to leave it quite yet. At least not until after Christmas.

The other thing that has kept me in Boudha so long is my cello. I brought it with me on my journeys so I could make music with musicians I meet. My goal is to write and record an album of music during this time that I'm gone, and if this mission goes as planned, I think it will be amazing. The problem, however, is that it's simply not possible to travel with a cello. (Yes, I know many of you, along with my gut-instinct, warned me against taking it with me. But driven by crazy dreams, these are the situations Kieran finds himself in.) Anyhow, my cello doesn't even fit in Nepali taxis, and the thought of taking it to India is just out of the question. So I have decided to leave it behind in Nepal while I travel around India. Therefore, I have a limited time to record with my cello before I must leave it behind.

And that is what has kept me busy for much of the past week. I have the mobile recording studio set up in my hotel room and have been working feverishly around the clock, laying down tracks and creating the foundations for a bunch of new songs. So far there's close to fifteen of them, and the progress is encouraging. My goal is to record the foundations and formulate the structure of the songs before leaving Boudha, so that I'm prepared to begin adding textures and sounds as I come across musicians on the road. I will take my recording gear with me and am hopeful that I will meet tablists, flutists, and many other great musicians who will hopefully contribute to these recordings.

Last Saturday night I had my first "gig" here in Kathmandu. I sat in with a jazz group that jams at a happening little joint in northside of Kathmandu. These guys were only around twenty, but were serious musicians that sounded as good as anything you'll hear in New Orleans. The audience consisted of Nepali hipsters and my friends Nika and Jasper. We were all gathered sitting on cushions on the floor with candles burning, drinking Nepali beer.

I was planning on leaving for India a few days ago but nationwide strikes have paralyzed the country. Strikes occur on a regular basis here. Sometimes one day a week, maybe a few days per month-- or back in 2001, the country was shutdown for a whole month. The Maoists, a competing political party, strive to make their voice be heard and they go about it by declaring "bandh" and shutting down the country. On days of "bandh", they go around telling all business owners to shut down or get beaten down. To get their attention, usually they whack a few people with sticks and kill a handful of dissidents. People take it seriously, but the Nepalese don't seem to mind that much-- they just take it as an unplanned vacation. It's the foreigners who get all frustrated, because on days of strike there are no busses, no taxis, no nothing on the road, and no way of getting anywhere. I don't really mind that much though, because I'm enjoying this limited time with my cello.

Monkeys, Cremations, and Sufi Music

2010-01-23T00:09:00.000-05:00

December 6, 2009: Pashupatinath, Nepal

After class today, a couple classmates invited me to come along to a concert with them down the road in Pashupatinath. The show sounded really interesting-- some musicians from Rajastan, India who play the sacred music of the Sufi mystics and sing the divine poetry of Kabir. Using sitars, drums, violins, harmonium, and the flute-like melody of their voices, these musicians were singing love songs written to God and the energy was powerful.

The town of Pashupatinath is quite old and is a very important Hindu village that is rich with culture and shrines and curious religious stuff everywhere. This is also where the dead come to die and all day and night bodies are prepared along the river, before being set aflame and cremated-- their ashes then released into the holy Bagmati River. All day long, wafts of smoke are drifting everywhere around town like some kind of perpetual fog. Kind of a strange vibe to think that all this smoke, which I've been breathing all afternoon, is coming from bodies burning.

The monkeys in Pashupatinath are quite entertaining too. There is a huge population of them crazy creatures living here and they walk around the place as if they own it. It's totally surreal to find yourself surrounded by hundreds of monkeys that are leaping from tree to tree and strolling on down the walkways beside you. At first, you don't know whether to be affraid or to laugh, but when you see their profane bright pink buttcheeks, it seems unthinkable that these silly creatures could pose any risk.

When I got back to my hotel room this evening I found a letter under my door from Irati, a new friend of mine, suggesting we have dinner together. I met her at a coffee shop, and after doing a couple loops around the stupa, catching up on the wild saga that is life since we last saw each other, we headed off to a nice little restaurant.

At first when we got there the power was out and so the place was lit up with candles. It was beautiful. I gotta say, I love it when the electricity goes out in Nepal. It happens every day for varying durations and at different times. Sometimes it can be a nuisance. But one of the good things about this is that it's the only time when them dingy fluorescent lights that light up all of Nepal get put to rest. This grim lighting has a way of making every space look like depressing police interrogation centers. When there's no electricity, though, everyone uses candles. And for a while all is quite beautiful and romantic around town. It makes me laugh, though, because once the power comes back-- all ambience and the intimacy of the situation get snuffed out right away. They immediately blow out the candles and flip back on their ghostly fluorescent lights.

Dharma Bums in Boudha

2010-01-23T00:08:00.002-05:00

December 5, 2009: Bodinath, Nepal

Just a few miles east of Kathmandu there is a town called Boudha. A place like no other, Boudha is home to a large population of exiled Tibetans and monks and devout Buddhists who live by the Buddha's teachings.

The greatest thing about this town is the spiritual vibe in the air. There are over two dozen monasteries here and everywhere you turn you see many monks in wine-red robes, walking here and there or sitting on the sidewalk chanting holy texts. Old men and women are crawling slowly upon the ground, engaged in purification excercises. You see crazy-eyed sadhus with painted faces, and mystics. Candles are being lit, drums are banging, practitioners are kneeling in prayer. At morning time, you awake to the sound of the mad clashing of cymbals ringing out from the many monasteries in town. It's amazing-- it's everywhere!

At the center of town there is a stupa, which is a huge white building with several tiers, and a dome with the enormous eyes of the Buddha that look out unto all directions. It's a holy building and Tibetans culturally regard it as the center of their social lives. And so, all day long there's a busy flow of people circling around the stupa, spinning the prayerwheels that line the perimiter of the building as they walk. Like many in this town, walking around the stupa has become one of my favorite things to do, which I do several times per day throughout the course of the day.

There are a handful of white people here, and most of them are, like me, here to study Buddhism-- Dharma bums, as Jack Kerouac would say. Everyone that I have met so far has been remarkably friendly, peaceful, and present. They all seem to share a similar starry-eyed hopeful gaze, too, especially when they get talking about the state of mind and the things the Buddha taught.

The seminar that I'm attending is called "Awakening the Mind", taught by Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche. Classes are held at a monastery, in a room ornate with Tibetan imagery and golden flowers and three gigantic golden Buddha's. Our teacher is an extremely cute little monk with soft compassionate eyes that glow as he speaks. His native tongue is Tibetan, and so everything he says is translated into English by an interpreter. These teachings are being attended by people from all over the world-- close to 200 people and probably over 100 countries are represented.

I love the people that I meet here. Everywhere you go the conversations people are having are really alive. All the students are very social here, and in coffee shops and restaurants everywhere you see people huddled together discussing philosophy and Buddhism intently. Humor is always nearby, though, and everyone that I have met also seems to have a great sense of humor and ability not to let conversations get too heavy. It's real easy meeting people here...in fact, it seems like you are always welcomed to join a conversation, even if you don't yet know anyone. You just pull up a seat, and in no time, you have the privilege of knowing a few more really interesting, present people.

The other night I attended a party for all the students. I was curious to see how a bunch of students of Buddhism party, and what I found was that whenever people are fully present and happy to be alive-- you get a great dance party!

I think Boudha will be my home base while in Asia. It is here that I will keep my cello when I leave Nepal.

Deep Breath post-Annapurna Circuit

2010-01-23T00:08:00.001-05:00

December 3, 2009: Pohkara

For the past month my life has been very simple. All I do everyday is eat, walk, and sleep. I've been on an adventure through the Himalayan mountains, hiking the amazing "Annapurna Circuit" and on up to Annapurna Base Camp.

This famed adventure leads trekkers through some of Nepal's most diverse and beautiful landscapes. And though it consists of many days of arduous hiking, the journey takes you around and into some of the world's highest, most beautiful, mountains.

Mt. Everest, standing at 29,035 feet, is the tallest peak in the world. Just a hundred miles to the west there is the Annapurna Himal, a stretch of the Himalayan mountains containing the equally impressive Annapurna (26,545 feet), as well as the magnificent Machapuchare, Gangapurna, and Kangsar Kang peaks. (Annapurna is the one of the deadliest mountains to climb, and in fact only 60% live to tell about it.)

Along this awe-inspiring aggregation of mountains, there are rivers and trails that lead you through remote villages. The trails are the only way to get to these villages, and so, in addition to tourists wearing expensive mountaineering gear, these trails are walked by the villagers and the many porters carrying large loads upon their back. You also see many goats and yaks being herded and chickens and roosters scampering around. All along the trail, life in these mountains is being lived as it's been lived for many centuries.

Along the Circuit, there are many locally-owned ramshackle "guesthouses", or hotels. The rooms at these guesthouses are rarely more than a cold concrete room. But at little more than a dollar per night, and in context of the perilous mission at hand, the lack of comfort quickly becomes irrelevant.

Not to mention, trekkers don't tend to hang out in their rooms. We all congregate in the dining room where there is life, there are candles burning, there are conversations and laughter. Travelers from all countries of the world gather around among porters, and guides, all sharing stories and experiences, tired but satisfied about the day's achievement. And in the morning, we will pack up our belongings and begin the day's journey off to the next village.

When the exhaustion of the journey becomes too much, you set down your bag and enjoy a cup of tea at a trailside hut, which can be found all along the trail. These tea-drinking moments has earned trekking in Nepal the nickname, "Teahouse Trekking".

The food along the circuit is often quite greasy and pretty disgusting really. The one exception is a dish that happens to be Nepal's national meal, and for many is the dish that they eat every single lunch and dinner, every day of the year for their entire life. It is called "dal baht". Dal is a spicy soup made with various lentils or beans. And "baht" is rice. Of all the food you can eat on the trek, dal baht is the one consistently satisfying, nourishing, healthy, and sometimes even delicious food. For this reason, I ate it pretty much everyday. Dal baht, oatmeal, Nescafe, and Snickers were my sole-sustenance for a month.

Every day was a curious journey that always seemed as much mental as it was physical. Typically your destination for a day is maybe 6 to 10 miles away. Each day's journey varies in elevation gains and losses, but without exception, every day is hard work. The temptation to quit is strong. These mountains lead you straight up a stone staircase that seems to never end, only to lead you right on down the backside. This goes on for several hours. Your feet are in pain, your hips are aching from the weight of your heavy backpack. Your legs are weak and you find yourself dizzy when you look down the cliff's edge and think of the misfortune a mistep would be.

Your will is challenged constantly. Sometimes your suffering becomes unbearable. Huffing and puffing, with sweat pouring down, your mind becomes c loudy with something that resembles a bad mood. You are hungry and tired, you're wishing you were at your destination. But then you take a cup of tea, enjoy a chocolate bar, or maybe some lunch. And then a new hopeful air comes over you, a surge of strength and vitality, and you realize you've got more left in you. You look around and you see the green valley and a massive mountain standing boldly before you with a clear blue sky backdrop. The sun is shining, and you realize you are ecstatic to be experiencing one of the this world's greatest journeys. And so you triumph over fatigue once again and continue walking onwards.

The route of the journey is this: you start off on the south-western part of this upside down horseshoe shaped trail, in a town called Besi Shahar, where you begin walking north along the Marsyandi River. Once you pass the Annapurna Himal a week later, you then turn west into the mountains and over the Thorong La pass. Once you've crossed the pass, the second half of the trek takes you back down south around to the west of the mountains along the Kali Gandaki River. After completing the Circuit, I opted to head back up north into the heart of these mountains, into what they call the "Sanctuary". The Annapurna Sanctuary. Pure heaven on earth, a man is but a grain of sand surveying 360 degrees of sacred mountains.

I will be posting each of the days from the journey just as soon as I can transcribe my journals. Every day was a different day of different landscapes, different challenges, different people, different religions-- everything changed everyday. It was quite surprising really, that such diversity exists amongst such a relatively-small physical locale.

Bob Dylan sings, "Behind every beautiful thing there's been some kinda pain". Since I've been in Nepal, those lyrics keep coming back to me. Anyhow, at the journey's very conclusion I left my camera in the taxi that returned me to my home sweet hotel. I realized it immediately, but it was not to be recovered, and so I have no pictures to share. I was quite sad and it kind of put a damper on what should have been a great celebration. But that's how life goes for me, and unfortunately, I seem to leave things behind often.

So there's the trek recap in summary. Soon I will be posting each day.

Lesson on Non-Attachment

2010-01-23T00:06:00.003-05:00

December 1, 2009: Pohkara

On the final morning of my month-long journey through the Himalayas, I was laying in bed flipping through the hundreds of photos I'd taken. Each image would make me smile as I recalled the extraordinary views from the top of the world, the eye-opening cultural experiences, the fun spontaneous moments, and all the beautiful people I've met along the way.

I took many photos on this trip. My camera was the eye that captured moments chosen to become immortalized, cherished forever as souvenirs of a life-changing adventure. Every picture snapped felt like an achievement-- a moment to be grateful for-- and in my heart I was so excited to share them with all the little kids in my life, my friends and family and all...the blog, Facebook, etc. They were truly some of the most awe-inspiring moments of my life thus far, and many pictures surprisingly captured the magic.

But then life happened.

At the end of the day's journey, my new Finnish friends--Kimoo and Heidi-- and I took a taxi back to Pokhara. Just before getting into the cab we asked the driver to take a group photo of us. The picture was great-- we all had big happy smiles and appeared proud of our achievements and relieved to be back in civilization. That was the last picture snapped on my camera.

So drained of strength and sick from the windy roller coaster roads, I sat in the back seat of the taxi feeling half dead. An hour later when we arrived, I was so ecstatic to begin celebrating the trek's conclusion. The taxi come to a stop and we all begun piling out of the cab. And as I marched off happily towards my hotel, I was already thinking about the cold beers I would enjoy and the long hot shower I would take.

Once back in my hotel room I went to reach for my camera. But I knew it wasn't in my pocket. I knew instantly that I'd left it in the taxi -- right on the seat beside where I was sitting. My heart fluttered, an instant cloud of anxious sadness consumed me.

After a series of jumbled attempts to contact the cabdriver and recover the camera I have finally come to accept the unfortunate truth: it is gone.

That was yesterday. For the past day my mind has been troubled.

Part of me feels like it's silly to mourn its loss. It's a camera. The memories live in my mind and heart. My journal captured the details. Digital images are fun at first but then they disappear onto a hard drive never to be seen again. So who cares? Right?

The other part of me experiences fires of anger and sadness burning in me. Incredulous that they could be gone-- all those wonderful memories.

All the while, in my head I hear the persistent words of Dali Lama's teachings, which speak of attachment as the source of all suffering. I tell myself that the loss of a material object should not disrupt my peace. We part with nothing. And so we should live with this liberating awareness. Those teachings are being put to the test and I'm hoping that perhaps a breakthrough will emerge. For now though, I guess I'm still quite attached to my camera and the images I'll never see again.

It's just unfortunate because I should still be in the honeymoon period, celebrating this momentous Annapurna achievement.

I know i'll get over it, but it's a sad way to end this wonderful adventure. And I'm sorry to my friends and family that I won't be able to share as much of this trip as I'd hoped with you.

On Meditation and Karma

2010-01-23T00:06:00.002-05:00

November 28, 2009: Day 22 of Circuit

Last night, the backdrop for my afternoon coffee and sunshine lounge was some of the most specular scenery I have ever witnessed. The mountains at the Annapurna Base Camp left a magical imprint on my mind.

In stark contrast, tonight I am at one of the most strangely grim and homely little guesthouses of the whole trek, in the village of Bamboo. The air is cold and my automatic mind is probably just labeling all things unpleasant right now. I was told they had hot showers, but when I tried all I got was a luke warm trickle. So now I'm shivering madly, desperately trying to get warm inside my sleeping bag.

I've got candles, books and a Snickers bar, though, so I guess I have everything I need.

Speaking of books, Irati gave me the The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying the other day. I've begun reading it and am finding that it is packed with a much wisdom. It's basically a comprehensive framework of the Buddhist faith. I've also been reading Dalai Lama's Open Heart, and together they are opening my eyes to some fascinating truths.

We are all wearing the blindfold. Our sensory apparatus deceives us and our habititually misguided thinking mechanisms tell us things that just aren't true. But we're not inclined to believe our tools might be defective.

Mediation is a way to recalibrate the mind. Its fundamental intent is to be aware of everything going on in your mind. There is no stopping a freight train and there is no stopping your crazy mind. But in the silent inquiry of meditation you actually see all these firecrackers thoughts, memories, todos, the should've dones,reflexive self-criticism, and garbage, etc. These crazy thoughts go shooting through the mind with extraordinary interlinking complexity and pull your heart this way and that way without you even being aware of it happening. The meditator is then called to become aware that their peace has been shattered, and that their mind is now running wildly again. Upon realizing this, the meditator is called to turn their thoughts once again back into the silent repose of observing their mind. You bring your awareness back to pure perception, back to the present moment. And this is the way we come to learn about our monkey mind and dispel the false perceptions of reality we invent in our mind.

There is another powerful concept that is sinking in. This notion of karma- and the basic fact that doing good things for others is beneficial to our self. Conversely, when we act selfishighly or negatively towards others, we suffer. This truth of karma is obvious and is confirmed deep in our hearts everytime we hold the door for another and see a grateful smile. So easy to do, so easy to make another's day better, so small is the offering, so large is the effect. Simple acts of kindness. We are all reaching for God-- every good act takes us closer, every negative act leads us further.

So, if you are persuing wisdom and the path to higher mind-- it begins with being the best person you can be.

Thanksgiving up at Annapurna Base Camp

2010-01-23T00:05:00.001-05:00

November 26, 2009: Day 20? of Circuit

I awoke nervous this morning, realizing I didn't know what day it was and fearing that Thanksgiving had passed me by unobserved. After asking several people, however, i finally found someone who knew what day it was. It was Thursday, Thanksgiving Day.

I smiled when I learned this and all day long I'd keep in mind the people back home and the things that were happening there. High up in the Himalayas at Annapurna Base Camp, I will be making my own Thanksgiving celebration here for sure. I'm the only American turkey here, and a few people have asked me what the holiday is all about, but my explanation is terrible. I babble something about native americans and a bountiful harvest long ago, but I realize that I really don't know what I'm talking about.

Nonetheless, I am incredibly thankful-- this year perhaps more than most. As I look outside the window where I am this evening, there is pure blue sky and 360 degrees of God's awesome snow-capped peaks. After three weeks of hiking I have finally arrived at the Annapurna Sanctuary, the sacred church of the Himalayas and the pinnacle of my journey. There is so much to be grateful for. Grateful for this opportunity to experience more life. To witness the Himalayas, to learn from everyone I meet, to learn different ways of thinking and seeing the world, to slow down time, to experience a sane mind, to be open to inspiration daily, to be led by God on this round-the-world itinerary, and to learn and make music with people from other traditions. I am also thankful for the many dear friends and family who have been sending love and celebrating this journey with me.

Tonight as we all sat in the dining room talking and laughing by candlelight, we kept returning to the realization that this was Thanksgiving Dinner. For the occasion, I have ordered a decadent apple pie that lies beneath a mess of hideous looking bright yellow "custard".

Mirrors and the Dissolution of Self in Hot Spring Paradise

2010-01-23T00:04:00.003-05:00

November 21sh 2009: Day 14? of Circuit

It's been several days since I've seen myself in a mirror. There are very few of them along the Circuit. I don't know why this is, and sometimes I imagine there are deep philosophical implications to this reality in Nepal-- but it's probably just because they are breakable and not necessary up in the mountains.

At any rate, I only began thinking about this today because I'm noticing that the part of me that is self-conscious is quickly dissolving. Maybe it's the lack of mirrors, or maybe it's that when you are in survival mode, what people think of you matters little.

The truth is all of us travelers are a strange bunch of monkeys. We are Americans, Asians, Europeans, Nepalis. We all have our strange customs, our strange physical characteristics-- we talk strange, have funny accents, and we do weird things. Since I've been in Nepal one of my favorite past times is staring at people. It's accepted here and is so much fun just staring at the bizarre sights and sounds of these people from different countries.

Given the tremendous diversity among the world's peoples, you quickly realize that there's no standard for what a person should be. We are all just different. Sometimes I wonder if anyone is judging me for the strange person that I am, but then I smile to realize I couldn't care less. That self-c ritical voice is just a busy-body spewing useless words. It has no basis in truth. Eventually, the mind just tunes out the busy-body and eventually he goes away.

That being said, I would like to find a mirror because I'm curious to see what I look like now that I've grown a beard. I've never had one before and I'm real curious to see who this person is.

Tadopani is heaven on earth. After the day's brutal 10-mile descent, it felt like paradise entering tropical Tadopani with all of its sunshine and tangerine trees and green. And the hot springs-- amazing! Hotter than I've ever experienced before. Every cell in my body is taking delight here. Immediately after arriving, I threw on my bathingsuit and wasted no time getting on down to the hot springs. For the next six hours I basked in the peace of sacred warmth. Every ache and pain dissolved as I slipped into samadhi. Several hours later, I really didn't want to leave, but I was very hungry and nighttime was falling.

The hot springs has worked up quite an appetite in me and now that I'm feeling all good and clean, I decide to eat with my hands, Nepali-style-- this is a first for me. What I've discovered is that you tend to eat a lot more when you're shoveling food into your mouth with your hands. After multiple rounds of rice and beans and vegetables, I think I have overdosed on dal baht. Oh, my belly...

Anyhow, after dinner, a large group of us headed back on down the hill to the hot springs. Stars were above, the river was rushing nearby, the hot spring was heavenly, but something wasn't quite right. Some lousy Ricky Martin dance music was blaring out of distorted speakers and it was making it challenging to slip into that peaceful place. I asked the guy working there if I could plug in my iPod and he gladly welcomed the change of music.

I cued up a mix I'd made for an old girlfriend. It was a peaceful, kicked back collection of songs that are cheerful and fun, but also chill and beautiful. The mood was transformed instantly-- the vibe was now perfect. Completely blissed out, we were all silent in our own space enjoying this blessed moment. I lay floating in the hot water staring up into the night sky as every lyric flow through me. My heart was swaying to the rhythm of each song and more than once little tears formed up.

Most trekkers are planning on heading onwards tomorrow. As for me, I can see no reason to leave. This is paradise. I will definitely be here for a few more days, and if every day is a repeat of today I will be a happy man.

Blessed Sunshine in Kalopani

2010-01-23T00:03:00.001-05:00

November 20th 2009: Day 15

There has been such extraodinary contrast between the 1st and 2nd halves of the circuit. After crossing the Thorong La pass, many see the 2nd half as a largely featureless dusty walk back to Pokhara. Many either take a bus back or, better yet, take a plane. For many of us, there's a curious tug of war in our hearts. Our bodies are tired and broken, the landscape is cold and depressing, and every day as we hike along we are well aware that comfort is just a bus ride away. And so the question becomes: do I succumb to the lure of comfort, or do I press on for the full experience of the Annapurna Circuit?

But then I find myself asking is comfort what I really want? Would I really want to be in Kathmandu any sooner? For what? Just to eat food and bounce around like a tourist in gift shop pinball machine?

Hell no! These mountains are most definitely the jewels of Nepal. To be in their presence is to feel small and shudder at such tremendous works of evolutionary art. My view as I write this is the jagged beauty of Annapurna jutting out from behind a lush green evergreen forest.

To remain on the Circuit unfolds the remainder of the story. Every day we enter into radically different landscapes. From Muktinath's barren tundra, you come upon Kageben's massive river valley, into Marphas windy plains. Then you come upon the pleasant alpine environment of Kalopani, just a day before you reach the tropical paradise of Tadopani. Eventually I arrive at a firm decision: I will continue walking.

I'm so grateful for sun and warmth today. This is first time in over a week that I can actually say I'm comfortable. I'm taking refuge on the roof of this guesthouse basking in sunshine with journal, a book, and a bottle of water.

In Marpha, I picked up 1000 Splendid Suns. I'm loving the book but am appalled by the things that I read. One sentence causes me to put the book down for a while and daze off into the sunshine.

"I will use a flower petal for paper
and write you the sweetest letter"

Crazy Wind and Cereal Party in Marpha

2010-01-23T00:02:00.001-05:00

November 19th 2009: Day 13 of Circuit

More than halfway along the Annapurna Circuit now, this disparate crowd of trekkers has formed up into a cohesive amoeba that moves en masse from town to town. We are a bunch of English, a few Aussies, a scattered mix of Spanish, Canadians and me- the lone American ambassador. We now see each other in every town. We take our dinners together and we pause to chat when we see each other along the trail. It's kinda nice, and there's always friendly conversation and laughter.

I'm always first to wake up but am ironically often the last to leave. I set off walking on my own this morning, but was no further than half mile along my journey when I came upon Irati. She was taking a break on the side of the trail with a guy who Irati introduced as an "angel". Later on I'd learn that his angel status was earned because he had shared some peanut butter with her. She's crazy about American peanut butter.

Irati and I ended up spending the day walking and talking together. Her story was interesting- from cancer and depression to celebrating the days of her life, she's been traveling much of the past few years. I enjoyed her dramatic take on life and and how she discusses every subject with outrageous enthusiasm.

A few hours into the journey, a fierce wind turned on. Like the flip of a switch. It was inane. This awesome wind was ripping through the valley gathering all lose dirt into a brutal hurricane of dust and debris. Irati and I shielded ourselves as best as we could, but it was impossible to avoid getting dust in eyes and mouth. The winds were so strong that poor Irati got blown down to the grounded-- not once, but twice. It was mad. I guess it's an everyday phenomena in this stretch of the circuit. Beginning at 11, the wind begins to wail. This shall be our destiny for the next two days as well.

In Johmson Irati and I came across a fortuitous "grocery store" where we stocked up on chocolate, peanut butter, cereal and milk-- life's finest ingredients. I was ecstatic to find Cocoa Krispies,or "Chocos" as they are branded in Nepal, and Irati was crazy with joy upon finding peanut butter. We decided this was cause for celebration-- there'd be a party tonight.

After arriving in Marhpa, but before our cereal party, Irati and I walked around the village's narrow walkways on up to the Buddhist monastery. We arrived just in time for a blessings ceremony that was taking place. We followed the pacifying sound of the deep gutteral Tibetan chant and took a seat on the cushions along the perimeter of a candlelit room. One by one devotees were approaching the monk, who offered a blessing and wrapped around each neck a golden scarf.

After dinner, we were a large group of trekkers sitting around the dining room. Some were drinking beer. Irati and I were indulging in delicious cereal and peanut butter. It was a great cereal party.

Spinning the Prayer Wheels in Kagbeni

2010-01-23T00:01:00.000-05:00

November 18th 2009: Day 12 of Circuit

It's no wonder I got a great night of rest last night. Following the previous day's grueling journey over the pass, my body was spent. Every joint in my body was aching and stiff, and as I lay in my bed this morning, I could tell that it was cloudy and cold outside, and so I opted to remain warm in bed for a while longer.

When I finally pushed myself to get up, my happiness was shattered instantly by the oppressive cold. Open the door, a harsh mountain wind blows in my face. Before me lay desolate brown landscape meets grey clouds. Very depressing.

Today's hike to the Tibetan village of Kagbeni took us through barren desert hills where nothing grows. It's astounding people live here.

Tonight as I roamed around town I came across Buddhist prayer wheels. They are found in all Buddhist villages, and usually they just strike me as just a noteworthy cultural thing. Tonight though, as I ambled slowly around the town I found myself spinning every one of the wheels with a heart-felt prayer in mind. There was a deep yearning in my heart, and to God I kept whispering, "Show me everything. Bless me with wisdom. Lead me where I need to be."

Show me the way to help me understand this peculiar existence. Teach me about love, about loneliness and suffering, about God's infinite love and intentions. Grant me this opportunity to grow everyday. To learn from everyone I meet. To be come a student of life. To observe myself and come to know a better way of being. And with one last twist of the prayer wheel, I smile and thank God for the blessing of being in the Himalayas.

On my iPod, I have "Every Grain of Sand" playing on infinite repeat.

" I h ear the ancient footsteps, like the motion of the sea
Somtimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand."

On the Eve of Crossing the Thorong La Pass

2010-01-23T00:00:00.000-05:00

December 7, 2009
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November 16th 2009: Day 11 of Circuit

The past few days have been real grim. It's been so miserably cold for so long, I can't even remember what it feels like to be comfortable. And with the thin air has come a persistent sharp headache. My head is dizzy, my eyes burn, and I feel like I have a bad hangover pretty much all day long. Due to the non-existence of hot water it's been over a week since I've last showered. I wear all of my warmest clothes all the time--none of which has been washed in over two weeks, but that hardly seems to matter these days. Given the austerity of our situation, it feels like we're in survival mode.

Our concrete rooms are so despicably cold, we all congregate in the dining room. If we're lucky, the guesthouse manager will set aflame a small chunk of wood and we'll all gather around with outstretched hands. Tonight, however, the dining room in all its fluorescent glory is just too depressing for me right now. I can't hang out there.

So I take a walk around the village to check out the scene at the other guesthouses. Sure enough, I knew I'd found my place when I came upon a Nepali dude playing slide-guitar. I hung out to listen for a while. We got talking and before long he busted out a second guitar and we began jamming together. Quite a crowd gathered quickly-- people of every country sat around with smiles observing the peculiar sight of this Nepali mountain man and an American eskimo playing Muddy Waters tunes.

Today marks the 13th day of the journey. The first half of the Circuit has your mind fixed on achieving Thorung La Pass. Few of us know what really lies ahead. At 5416m, Thorong La is the world's highest pass. We know that it's a challenging ascent and is fraught with risk, but few of us really know what tomorrow will be like. There is danger in the air and there's anxiety too.

We are all here with singular purpose and the big question on everyone's mind and lips is, "what time are you heading up tomorrow?" Some are planning on departing camp as early as 3 am. This seems insanely early to me. That will be three hours of hiking in pitch black up seriously steep, icy trails in subzero conditions. People speak of the mad winds that brew up around mid-morning, so some believe if you start early you have a better chance of avoiding the nasty weather. The guidebooks say frostbite is a serious risk if you go before 5 or 6-- but again, no one really knows and we're all just going on anxious energy.

I finished Shantaram yesterday. For the past two weeks this book has been another world that I go to. A truly amazing book, Shantaram has occupied many of my thoughts and has been a great way to pass these cold nights that seem like they'll never end. It's the only book I brought with me and now I'm really wishing I had another, fearing the vaccuum.

Snowstorm and Speculation in Manang

2010-01-22T23:59:00.002-05:00

November 13th, 2009: Day 8 of Circuit

That peaceful summertime weather is officially over. It's wintertime now. Amazing how it's happened in just 2 days.

This morning I awoke to gentle falling snow outside my window. Last night was the first time since I've begun the trek that I've gotten a good night's rest, and when I woke up and parted the curtains-- it all felt like heavenly gift. It was quite raw and frigid inside my room, but the snow made me happy.

With the storm system there has come much tension around the guesthouses. Everyone's speculating on the best plan of attack, how to outwit the weather, or how to pass on through as safely as possible. There is concerned talk around the breakfast table that this early snowstorm might cause the pass to be closed and force us to abort our mission. None of us are willing to accept that quite yet-- but as the day progresses the snow begins falling harder and is accumulating rapidly. Skies are awfully dark and forboding. It doesn't look like a good time to be traversing the world's highest mountain pass.

Today is a rest day for me. Typically trekkers are encouraged to spend an extra day in the town of Manang, which sits at 3500 meters, so that there systems can be acclimatised to the thin air up at this high elevation. Manang is at the halfway point on the first half of the Circuit and the next few days will take us up another 2000 meters, so it's best to sit tight, and enjoy the refreshing abundance of decent cuisine and wood burning stoves that Manag has to offer.

On my day off I find myself drifting around this Tibetan village walking really slowly. The falling snow brings a lightness to my heart and I have nowhere to go. As I walk around, I find myself recalling memories from my beloved Portland home-- sledding with friends on the Eastern Prom, the hot chocolate hangouts afterwards, the quiet midnight strolls through snowy streets, snowboarding with Ryan, helping the neighbors liberate their snowbound cars. All day long, all I listen to is Sigur Ros, lost in peaceful reverie.

Snowflakes, as summer turns to winter

2010-01-22T23:59:00.001-05:00

November 12th, 2009: Day 7 of Circuit

Today was a long cold day through a lonely desolate landscape. We are now well into a different ecosystem- our green summer paradise has morphed into a brown arctic tundra.

My day began real early, I was sitting on the steps of a monastery high upon the mountain of Pisang, waiting for the sun to rise. By the time it finally rose though I was so frozen I had no interest in sticking around longer than a few moments to admire the colors. Back at the guest house I enjoyed some nice Nepali tea and conversation with fellow travelers and began the days' lengthy journey towards Manang.

At first I was accompanied by a friendly bunch of Dutch, Spanish and Americans. I met them yesterday, and I like them alot. Our energy reciprocates nicely and I feel like it'd be good to spend more time with them. But it's strange, because I often feel that on this highway of life, the traveler can't attach too tightly to others. You hang on loosely, you walk together for a while-- and for the time that conversation/itineraries are mutually desirable/aligned you get to enjoy each other's presence. I don't know if this is the way things really are, but as a solo traveler I'm always hesitant to stick around longer than I feel welcomed.

Anyhow, w e all started off together, but for the above reason, I soon found myself walking by myself. Everyone else was distant scattered dots on the zigazzing path along this brown lifeless valley. It was a vast empty landscape that brought Rocky Mountain desert to mind. Just barren hills with patches of sage and short pine trees. As the day progressed, a mean wind began blowing through these hills and as I walked along tired I felt myself leaning towards melancholy. I kept checking the map to ensure I was still on the right track, since it'd been several hours since I'd last seen signs of life.

I wanted to take a break, but more than that I wanted to arrive at my destination. I knew the peace and warmth would only be achieved once I make it to Manang. And so I walked hour after hour with spirit dragging. The only consolation is that we are now quite close to the Annapurnas and I found myself smiling every time I'd look up and take notice of the massive blocks of stone jutting upwards to the heavens.

Near the end of the day snowflakes begin falling. I hold out my hand and catch a few of them and then watch them dissolve. I find myself thinking about how the travelers you meet on the road are a lot like snowflakes. These beautiful unique people-- they arrive into my life just for a short while and then they pass on just as spontaneously. Another lesson in impermanence, perhaps. Enjoy the good people you meet while you can.

Tibetan Villages along the way to Pisang

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November 9th, 2009: Day 4 of Circuit

At 6 am, the sound of bad Asian pop music begins blaring from somewhere, all distorted and scratchy. I don't know where it's coming from but it strikes me really funny. At first I thought it was someone sleeping through their alarm clock and I was cracking up imagining any alarm clock being this loud. When it continued to play for several minutes, however, my curiosity pulled me from bed and led me outside towards the source. Soon I realized that the music was coming from a monastery sitting high up on a hill, blasting this terrible music out of little speakers for all the valley to hear. I stood there looking up at the monastery with a big smile thinking to myself: don't try to understand-- all you can do is smile-- welcome to Nepal.

Yesterday, we crossed a line into the part of the Annapurna Circuit where the villages and culture are now characteristically Tibetan Buddhist. There are prayer-wheels that line the thoroughfare, and as you walk along you spin each of the wheels, honoring Buddha and sending your prayer. There are colorful prayer-flags strewn about the trees and building, dancing in the wind. There are shrines along the trail and piles of rocks with chiseled inscriptions of Buddhist mantras. It's very different than the Brahmin villages from the first few days of the trek.

Refreshed and happy from last night's merry encounter with the Czechs, I began my day's hike with extra zing in my step. I cued up Coldplay in my iPod and began cranking on down the trail. The day is a gift: the skies are blue, the sun is shining, and the trail is surprisingly flat all the way to Pisang as we pass through an evergreen forest and walk along the river. Every day the views continue to get increasingly dramatic. The massive snow-capped Annapurna is beside us and I can't stop observing it in the many angles under the sun. It's completely awe-inspiring.

Laugh and Laugh and Fall Apart

2010-01-22T23:57:00.000-05:00

November 8th, 2009: Day 3 of Circuit

As circumstance, or fate, would have it, the curious couple who I met last night in passing are staying in the same guest house as me tonight. On this great journey we are all moving in the same direction, and for many of us, the itinerary is basically the same. So you find yourself running into the same people each day. I'd been thinking about this couple during the day, and so I was happy to come across them again tonight.

I saw the young guy as he was browsing the menu in the dining room. We offered each other a smile and he came over to my table. He took a seat and we chatted a bit and instantly began laughing over simple silly things. He was just in the middle of explaining that they are from Czech Republic, taking a year off from college to travel, when his girlfriend arrived.

An icy-blue field of dark energy had come near. She stood there beside our table in a laser-beam trance staring into her boyfriend's eyes, creating tunnel-vision telepathy, speaking without words. Her eyes were dark and mysterious. I perceived her movements attentively as if I were observing fine art or an actor. She's ungodly beautiful - crazy blue eyes and blond hair in a wisp pulled back. I wonder if she's as inaccessible as she looks and when I greet her, a gorgeous warm smile is sunlight bursting through dark clouds. Her name is Alysia.

She takes a seat and remains mostly quiet, with big almond eyes peering out from behind her scarf. Her jacket is magical blue and the colors seem to reflect in her pale skin, illuminating her in an angel's blue light. I can't tell if she's wearing mascara of if her eyes are just naturally this deep and dark. They are the eyes of a gypsy. They could kill a man. And when discussing love, she fires back reflexively, "I don't believe in true love".

I could've observed her shimmering beauty all night but I had more fun enjoying her hilarious boyfriend, Lucas.

Lucas is clearly a bright guy-- he seems interested in everything- he loves to laugh, he's very silly- and yet he also strikes me as a wise student of life. Our energy rhythms were similar right out of the gate, and as we laughed and talked and shared, I was struck by the realization that rarely do I feel so happy and free with such a brief acquaintance.

The three of us spent many hours together that night cracking each other up with silly things. Lucas says Americans always say "awesome" and "cool". After we recuperated from laughing long and hard about that-- any sentence that contained either of those words was instantly hilarious and we'd all start keeling over laughing madly. The waiter at the restaurant taught us the words to a Nepali folk song, and the three of us practiced tenaciously in between bouts of laughter. And when Lucas began immiating Czech folk musicians and the folk dance they do I was completely falling apart. My jaws were tired, tears were in my eyes. I haven't laughed this hard for a long while. Vital rivers of joy flowing through every cell.

Slowing Down Time

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November 7th, 2009: 2nd Day of the Journey

Some like to sleep in and begin their hike later in the morning. Since I never seem to sleep much these days, I am usually wide awake at the crack of dawn and so I usually get gone good and early.

This morning as I set out on my day's journey I found myself walking alongside an old man. He looked really old and once we began talking, I was surprised to learn he was only 42. He had a wife, four sons, and three daughters. I asked him where he was going and he motioned he was going to chop grass for the goats' breakfast. He was a funny old man, and I don't remember why I thought to ask the question, but I asked him if he is happy. The old man seemed almost surprised by my ridiculous question. "No! Not happy!" he says with a scowl. Thinking he'd misunderstood my question, I rephrased it using Nepali English and asked, "Wife, 7 kids, you no happy?" To which he repeated emphatically, "No! Not happy!" and made a chopping motion with his hand. His seriousness surprised me and it was then that I began understanding the truth of this mountain life, that life is very hard here.

My book, Shantaram, addresses many curious aspects on suffering. I found myself thinking about these things today as I walked along experiencing sharp pain all through my legs and hips and back, carrying this heavy cross up and down rocky hillsides. For many, this journey would seem like a cruel punishment. And yet to me it is the most liberating of vacations and I joyfully accept these grueling days of physical duress.

Today was a long hot slow journey up winding p aths of exposed hillside. Alongside herds of goats and yaks, I walked the dry dusty trail aware that at any moment a boulder could come tumbling down the hill in my direction. By early afternoon, my strength was wilting in the intense light of the sun. I push on though, up a long staircase of boulders up to the top of a mountain. Once I summit, I smile triumphantly thinking that from here it must be level ground to my destination. But I'm wrong. I quickly begin descending, losing all that precious elevation. Today is just like that, again and again, for 5 hours.

The villagers I meet along the way always seem surprised when they learn that I am solo. I see their faces get screwed up as they struggle to understand. They follow up with questions that suggest an inability to grasp this wildly western concept of traveling alone. To them it seems to represent a sad cultural depravity, a lonely mindset that inspires young men and women to walk off into the woods for a month by themselves. Their faces then become transformed with pity, and for a moment in their compassionate eyes I, too, question my motivation and ability to endure this long without friends and love . But it's funny, because finally, once they've fully processed this reality, the next question that inevitably follows: "Do you need guide? A porter? I can find porter for you-- good price."

There have been many opportunities to tag along with other kind-hearted travelers who invite me to join their party. And I think I'd enjoy spending time with many of them, too. But I chose to do this trip solo, and I'm finding that, sometimes, I really enjoy the solitude. Hiking here is so challenging that it's really essential that you find your rhythm and sink into a groove that works for you. Some days it feels like I'm fighting for survival, and I certainly don't have any spare energy, nor inclination, for small-talk. Each step of my journey, for me, mirrors the cadence of a prayer, and as I walk along in this silent meditation, the thoughts in my mind morph peacefully and ultimately dissolve into pure awareness of the beauty all around me. That being said, it always makes me happy when I come along a group of travelers and make friends with them over a c up of tea before carrying on on my way.

There is peace in my mind. The rate of my thoughts is slowing down every day. I love it. Each day of rising and setting with the sun is calibrating my mind to the simple schedule of a healthy mind. And now, after just two days of walking, I feel a curious light-heartedness come over me. As if it took that long to purge the city chaos and the exhaust from my lungs and mind. Now there is just radiant light inside and out. I love that God lives in me and I realize that I have everything I need.

For the past 10 years my bookshelf has become overflowing with many books that I'd love to read. And yet I never do, mostly due to lack of time and short attention span. Now that I'm on the trail and have all the time in the world, however, I'm reading like a madman. In fact, it's my favorite thing to do. I've never felt this way towards books before. I think about the characters all day long and find myself actually walking faster just so I can get to my guesthouse and begin reading. Maybe it's just testimony to the extraordinary nature of this book, Shantaram. At any rate, I once thought I could never finish a 1000 page book-- now it seems certain that I will finish this book within just a few days.

I got my first Nepali lesson today. I have a hunger to learn the language. How long I remain in Nepal remains to be seen, but even if it's just for a short while I must learn to speak their language. The walls close in on me so quickly when confined to the rudimentary questions I am asked. But if I can learn even some basic phrases I can begin to peer into their lives and their minds. My lessons and new vocabulary will be added day by day. Everyday I will learn a little bit more till eventually I can communicate. They love to teach and seem so happy to instruct me. I will be a good student- I will learn quickly.

I am the only guest at this guest house. It feels like a ghost town. Then again, it's not much of a town really. It's just a basic concrete structure sitting along the trail. A harsh blue flourescent light illuminates the porch where I'm sitting. I've been sitting here reading for many hours, the sun has long since passed on, and now it's awfully quiet in these dark hills.

November 6th, 2009: First day of the Journey

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A few hours before sunrise I wake up into my typical paranoia dream. This dream is pretty much every night now and it goes like this: I wake up and in my dream I clearly see myself waking up into a place that is unfamiliar to me. My eyes search around the darkness for any kind of clues that might help me understand where the hell I am. Strange how powerful this delusion is night after night, until gradually my senses return and I realize that it's just my standard Nepal dream. This morning, however, it took me much longer than usual to reorient myself.

I don't sleep very much this night. So when 6am comes and I see daybreak out my window, I eagerly jump out of bed, brush my teeth, pack up and get gone.

Outside my door, it's a crisp blue morning. I feel great, the sun is peaking out from behind the trees and is beginning to warm up the frozen morning. Women are sweeping the walkways with straw brooms. It's only 6:30, and yet town is busy with commerce and preparations as storeowners lay their products out. Men are gathered in storefronts here and there, enjoying tea and conversation with each other. Little kids in navy-blue uniforms are marching off to school arm-in-arm.

Just a short ways out of town, mountains, rivers and green hills rise up all around me. I'm in paradise. The sun is warm upon my back and my soul releases a deep sigh as I smile to myself, so glad to be here. Nearby the roaring Marsyangdi River is thrashing through the canyon. There are butterflies and wildflowers and everywhere is green. Though it's technically the beginning of the winter season in Nepal, down in the valley it's a beautiful summer day.

Six miles later, in Buhlbele, the road comes to an end. From here onwards, it's all foot traffic. A well-worn footpath begins on the other side of a suspension bridge that swings frighteningly high above the Marsyangdi River. When I'm halfway across, some rascal school children begin rocking the bridge and I struggle to shake the sudden vertigo that is making me dizzy.

The trail runs north through the canyon formed by the icy-green river. All around me there are lush mountains. trees and green, and rice paddies in terraces that extend in all directions. Waterfalls and springs are pouring forth from moist nooks in the forest.

Each step feels like a victory. Each one is another step further from the chaos that is Kathmandu and into the realm of divine providence. The transcendent allure of these mountains is already breathtaking, and yet I know this is nothing compared to what lay before me. None the less, the fresh mountain air and the sunshine make for ideal hiking conditions and cause me to pause frequently as I consider the gift that is this Annapurna experience.

Along the trails the lives of the Nepali villagers is on display. Women are crouching down beside water spigots washing dishes or doing laundry, little dirty-faced kids with great luminous eyes are sitting around giggling and making games out of nothing, some teenage guys wearing WWF t-shirts are sitting on stoops arm-in-arm. A group of older men are standing around with smiles, talking nice and slow with each other. A stray goat comes wandering by and nobody even pays it any mind, except when he starts to eat the yellow marigolds in a neighbor's garden.

There was one moment, in particular, today that caused me to pause in wonderment. An older woman was sitting in front of her dwelling just beside the trail with legs outstretched and barefoot. She was motionless, staring out in a far-away gaze into the void of eternity. At her side was an old man-- perhaps her husband-- curled up in the sunshine taking a nap, using a sack of millet for a pillow. A little boy and maybe his sister are sitting on the porch with arms lovingly draped around one another and smiling. A young man is sitting nearby and he, too, is staring into nothingness while chewing on a blade of grass.

This scene is a perfect scene of tranquility. No one is doing anything. Their minds appear so clear-- so free of debris, of worry, anxiety, and stress. They have nothing to do- no where to go, no words to be spoken. And so they just sit. They make the art of doing nothing seem really easy. I snap a photograph and continue to walk on down the trail. For the next twenty minutes I try to recall the last time I was that still, but I don't succeed and I'm not sure if I've ever been there.

Sometimes as I pass through these village, I find myself wishing I were invisible. I feel out of place and feel strangely ashamed about my expensive gear and my decision to spend all this money on such a frivolous past time-- walking through mountains. When I offer a smile, I wonder if the the joy in my eyes seems naive and ignorant of the harsh realities of this mountain life. As I'm walking along happy and peaceful, these villagers are working their butts off trying to eek out a meager existence.

Little children are constantly approaching me as I walk along. They see trekkers as Santa Claus characters bearing "sweets", pens, and money for all. They tug at my clothes and look up at me with big black pleading eyes. The kids here are all so cute, I instinctively want to scoop them up and give them all big bear hugs as I would my own nieces, nephews, and cousins. I don't though, and instead I just smile and laugh with them. One thing I still can't figure out, though. Candy and money seem like reasonable things to ask for-- but for the life of me I can't figure out why in the world these little kids-- just barely older than infants-- are so eager to acquire pens.

Alas, after six hours of what felt like the most heroic mountain ascent in history I arrived at my destination. I was dog-tired and significantly concerned that if every day is as hard as today, I'm screwed. I'd walked nearly 11 miles, arriving in Bahundanda, one of the first villages along the trail.

My room is simple, but it overlooks the valley and in the late afternoon sunshine I find myself in a trance while staring out the window, surveying the green kingdoms down below. After a heavenly hot shower, I was feeling nice and fresh and enjoyed a delicious cup of tea and some dal baht.

For the next several hours on into the night I am cuddled up in bed surrounded by candlelight, immersed in my new book, Shantaram. So many travelers have recommended this book and now I can see why. It's incredible! Set in Bombay India, Shantaram is an extremely exciting story that is quasi-autobiographical but reads like an exciting tale of love, suffering, and hope. Its author in real life has busted out of an Australian prison, lived as a fugitive in a Bombay slum where he opens a health care clinic, he fights against the Russians in the Afghanistan war, and he falls in love with a woman with green eyes. I'm less than a hundred pages into the book, but every page is loaded with intrigue and existential musings. It's definitely a page-turner-- which is a good thing because it is just short of a thousand pages and I can't recall if I've ever completed a book longer than 400 pages.

November 5th, 2009: On the Eve of Annapurna Circuit

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Whenever riding public buses in Nepal it always seems like a miracle when I actually arrive at my destination. These buses are crowded and ramshackle, extremely uncomfortable and terribly hectic. No one speaks English, and when you ask the driver if they're headed to your destination they always say something that sounds like yes, but you never really know if they understand your question.

My arrival in Besi Shahar certainly felt like a miracle. This town is only 30 miles away from Pohkara, but it takes 5 long bumpy hours to get here. And so daytime turned to dark as we slogged along the broken road eastward. I was the last person left on the bus and nighttime was becoming increasingly lonesome and strange in the shadows of the back of the bus. The road was windy and terrible, it felt like the wheels were about to fly off the side of the road. But then miraculously, around 8 o'clock we arrived at Besi Shahar, the gateway to the Annapurna Circuit.

It was late. Too late to begin walking. I figured I'd spend the night in a hotel here and then begin in the morning. My stomach was pretty shaken up from the journey, but now that I'd arrived my belly and mind were becoming clearer by the minute. And I was hungry. So I stopped at a roadside hut and was devouring spicy samosa and masala tea. As I sat there, my thoughts were all swarming around the anxious realization that tomorrow I'll be heading off on a month-long, 160-mile journey through the Himalayas. I don't really know what to expect and I hope I'm prepared. There are nervous jitters, but given the circuit's popularity I know it's possible, accessible, and immensely rewarding.

Originally I was thinking that I'd find people to accompany me on the journey. However, since the day has drawn near and the spirit hasn't presented companions, I am happily doing the journey on my own. No porter, no guide, no girlfriend, no friends. Just my compass and a map, a great book, journal, fully-loaded iPod, and an openness to the messages to be revealed.

November 4, 2009: Rafting on the Kali Gandaki...So Right, But So Wrong

2010-01-22T23:54:00.002-05:00

Since I've been in Nepal, I often find myself pondering the thought that my actions here could prove fatal-- that a little mishap or a lame-brained error in judgement could have tragic results. After all, this country is wild; rescue is not always possible; and you really have to be self-sufficient here or else pretty serious things can happen. I think about this probably too much and often find my heartbeat racing when faced with travel challenges. Like when I'm taking a sunset stroll through dense forests far removed from civilization, and I wonder what it'd be like to get lost. Or when I'm a lone westerner among a throng of non-English-speaking Nepalis, and I'm riding on a bus that's doing ninety around blind corners. Or when I accidentally eat something that maybe I shouldn't have.

I like to always have a plan-- to know what I'd do if the worst case scenario were to occur. But while traveling I find that sometimes you just have to surrender, take a leap of faith, and trust in your ability to make it work out, or deal with it. Along this road of unpredictable outcomes and random situations unfolding constantly, you just have to believe in yourself. Once I convince myself of this, a peace comes over me. It says reassuring things like: " You are smart enough and you are strong enough-- you will not die."

Perhaps this a common stepping stone along the path of all travelers, and I smile to think that someday I, too, may exude that Rambo-like confidence that I witness among experienced-travelers. You see these types with their huge backpacks and you know their passports have stamps from all the scariest of countries-- you know they've ridden 80-hour long bus rides through India, have slept in many hotels that don't even get a single star, and have fallen deathly ill to every kind of intestinal parasite. And yet, they are still smiling and carry on with bright eyes undaunted by the challenges that come before them.

The flip-side is that sometimes tragedy is right around the corner and you don't even know it. You set out for some leisure-- to have a little fun-- and you don't even realize how wrong things can go.

When signing up for a white-water rafting trip I never even considered the risks. It's rafting. I've done several rafting trips and on each of them it always seems like the guides freak out and holler excited commands just to make the customers feel like they are having an "extreme" experience. The river is an awesome force-- this I know-- but a good guide makes good decisions and everyone gets splashed, enjoys the scenery, and has a good time.

In the Hindu faith, Kali Ma is the great goddess of time and change and is sometimes known as the goddess of death. Symbolizing the ego, her death is supposed to celebrate the triumph of the soul over the body. One of Nepal's largest rivers, the fierce Kali Gandaki is named after the goddess and is considered a particularly holy river. Consequently, it's an auspicious place for cremations and today stone burial mounds can be seen alongside the river. Most rafters, however, only see icy-cold green waters flowing through tall canyons and steep hillsides. Its several quality class 4 rapids make it an exciting river to run.

Many of the rafting outfits here offer the Kali as a three day trip-- two nights spent camping on riverside beaches. I was extremely intrigued by this trip, especially when considering what it'd be like to be on the river during the full moon, which was Monday night. What could be more romantic than camping beneath the moon and bright shining stars as the river sings me to sleep?

There were many rafting companies to choose from in Pokhara-- in fact, the main drag here in Pokhara is littered with signs and storefronts of business offering white-water adventures. One company named Paddle Nepal, in particular, was recommended by a few folks I encountered and seemed like the cosmic choice for me. They cost more than the other outfits, but I got a good feeling about their experience and safety record. So I decided to go with them.

Eight of us signed up for the trip. A funny vodka-swilling macho Russian guy, his Israeli girlfriend, a few English folks, a lighthearted French-Canadian kayaker, a young teacher from California, and a 32 year old gal from Holland. Our guides, four Nepali guys-- all in their twenties and completely hip-- had shaggy surfer hair and Hawaiian shorts. These guys are quintessential cool.

Monday afternoon, after a five-hour bus ride to the start of the journey, we began paddling. Memories of previous rafting trips quickly returned as I recalled how shocking icy-cold water can be. But everyone was having fun, the scenery was beautiful, and given that we had several more hours to go this afternoon I was trying to exercise Buddhist mastery over my mind. (I wasn't succeeding though and was freezing my ass off.)

A few hours later, just before reaching the beach where we'd be spending the first night, things got a little crazy in the rapids. I still don't really know what happened, but our cargo boat capsized, a kayak got destroyed, and in the tumult we passed by our beach. Our guides were all freaking out while us customers were all just helplessly sitting there ignorant of what was transpiring. Eventually our guide informed us that we missed our camp and that we'd have to spend the night on a rocky stretch a little further down stream.

We were all shivering madly, and the makeshift campsite was in the cold dark shade of the canyon. A fleeting thought came over me as I stood there on the river's edge that maybe the feeling in my heart was similar to Rob Hall's when he first had the inclination that his Everest expedition was doomed. But spirits among our crew lifted once we ate dinner and got warm beside the campfire. And at the end of the night when I laid me down beneath the stars with the full moon in my eyes I couldn't have been happier. I barely slept a wink this night on my cold hard sandy bed, but at least I had a beautiful view.

The next morning over breakfast I got a chance to chat with Sabine, the quiet Dutch girl. I never learned all that much about her, but she had a nice smile and a peaceful air about her. We chatted about the sweet things the Dutch put on top of buttered bread and I was transported back to my childhood when my grandmother would bring these delicious sweets back from Holland.

Once we took to the river the sun was shining and we began paddling cheerfully. Sabine was seated across from me and whenever we'd make eye-contact we'd offer each other a friendly smile.

Along our leisurely morning rowing, we encountered a rapid that wasn't particularly treacherous. Our guide seemed unprepared by the huge rock that was causing the white water, however, and our raft dipped down into the deep hole on the rock's back side where strong currents form up circulating around and around. The boat flipped over instantly and we all went tumbling into the turbulent water. The currents were really strong and once I'd barely surface, I'd get pulled back down again. It was scary but I knew that this tumult would end eventually and I just had to remain calm.

A few moments later I surfaced and the guide pulled me back onto the boat. We began retrieving other members of our team and one by one, the terrified lot began to return to their seats. Once our senses returned, however, we realized one seat was still vacant. Sabine was missing. We shouted out to the guide and he quickly steered us to the shore, where he took off running back upstream towards the scene of the rapids.

For twenty terrible minutes we all sat on the beach angry, confused, and scared as hell. Our guides had all taken off in the direction of the rapids and no one was returning. The lack of information was killing me, so eventually I took off running upstream too.

Hobbling over rocks and around the bend, I finally came to the scene where the guides and a couple of villagers were huddled around Sabine. She was stretched out on the beach and wasn't moving. My heart began crying immediately. As I got closer I saw Sabine laying there motionless, one of the guides was pushing on her chest.

I sat down at her side and took hold of her hand. I may not know CPR, but I do believe in the power of touch and prayer. I clutched her hand and with eyes closed I began praying as hard as possible. I offered every invocation of God I could think of, I begged for a miracle, I made promises, I cried a desperate plea for Sabine. Her hand was warm in mine, I caressed her soft skin. I couldn't accept she was dead. I kept waiting for life to return, but she remained motionless. It all felt surreal.

For two hours I sat there holding onto that hand. With hopeless tears in my eyes, I knew it was futile.

Once Sabine was declared dead and covered with a sleeping bag, I stood up and walked down by the riverside. All I could hear were the sad lyrics from an old song, "I will walk alone by the black muddy river..."

So many thoughts were streaming through my mind. Was this really Sabine's time to go? Was I ready to go? Have I made my peace? Is that all there is? So gently we walk upon this earth. And to think that we were all just looking for a little fun on the river. Of course, it could've been any of us-- shit happens.

After offering one more prayer into the wind, I walked back downstream and found our crew gathered around, dealing with it in their own way. I knew I couldn't just sit there and start rehashing the details which we'd already been over a hundred times. I began building a stone shrine for Sabine while great tears poured down. The shrine was a cairn- like the cairns you see on a hiking trail- a tall rock tower. But unlike the hiking cairns, this shrine was encircled with sacred rocks hand-selected for Sabine. Everyone assisted in the effort and soon we'd completed a beautiful shrine for someone who none of us even really knew. Deep down though, we were all aware that this shrine could've just as well been our own.

"Black muddy river, roll on forever..."

Sabine Corpeley, may you rest in peace along the banks of the Kali Gandaki, 11-3-09

Dreams

2010-01-22T23:54:00.001-05:00

I haven't been feeling great lately. I'm often tired, I feel like I have a cold, but am still feeling well enough to carry on.

I never have troubles falling asleep, but then after a little while, I begin tossing and turning all night long. Pretty much every night, I awake several times in a state of paranoia. In a pool of sweat, I look around my austere room that is dimly-lit by moonlight and my mind begins racing. It goes like this: where the hell am I? What town am I in? Where did I fall asleep? Where is my cello and all my stuff? Am I locked in a prison somewhere? It's shocking and often this fear is so real to me that I find myself quite agitated for a while afterwards. But then I go back to sleep-- at least for a little while. And that's when really intense dreams begin streaming through my brain.

I don't often dream, but since I've been in Nepal my dreams have been really poweful. Maybe it's the result of missing my beloved people back home that inspires these dreams. In each of them I experience dear friends or family members really intimately. So intimate it's like an actual physical encounter. As I emerge from dreaming I find myself in a curious state of euphoria-- like a trance, in which I am just a spirit without a physical body enjoying the presence of this person in this moment. I lay in my bed savoring the last traces of dream state, aware that soon I will awake and it'll all be gone.

This must just be one more step along the personal journey that solo travelers experience.

October 29, 2009: Pokhara

2010-01-22T23:53:00.001-05:00

The drive to Pokhara was an experience in itself. I'd heard that riding the public busses around Nepal is among the most dangerous things you can do-- and is, in fact, responsible for the vast majority of deaths that occur here. That reality hit home shortly after departing Kathmandu and we passed by a smoking bus laying on its side. Several passengers and villagers were gathered around the fallen bus appearing shaken up and assisting in putting the bus back on its' right side, but I didn't see any blood nor injured people.

They call the road to Pokhara a "highway", and in Nepal I suppose if it's paved it earns that distinction. With one lane of traffic in each direction, this crazy windy road leads up and down extremely steep mountainsides for seven hours. It strikes me most ironic that in this country where few ever seem to be moving faster than a snail's pace, it's quite normal for bus drivers to be cranking down these roads at top speed, making high-speed passes around blind corners, and defying gravity and speed limits for no good reason.

Sitting beside me on the bus were Dave and Kate, a really fun cute couple from Canada. They were both Phishheads, loved music, and had a gentle warmth that made them great companionship along this crazy journey. Somewhere along the tumultuous ride, however, my head got so dizzy, my stomach didn't feel right and I felt like I just needed to close my eyes and retreat.

I awoke just as we were pulling into Pohkara. Leaving Kathmandu felt like I was escaping prison on a furious flight to survive. I was looking forward to Pokhara, but I had my concerns about what lay ahead since Pohkara is the third largest city in Nepal. To my pleasant surprise, however, as my eyes opened I saw a surprisingly peaceful town.

Set beside a large lake surrounded by steep hills and snow-capped Himalayans, Pokhara's natural beauty and close proximity to the major trekking routes and white-water rafting adventures makes it Nepal's tourism capital. The way of life here is much more chill than in Kathmandu. It's a different world and is definitely more my style.

I am both intimidated by and anxious to begin my journey through the Himalayas. Hiking here in Nepal is called "trekking", and the route that I'm doing is called the Annapurna Circuit. It's a 160 mile-long journey and most people do it generally over the span 17-21 days. Many days will be 10 miles up and down extreme elevation gains. I'm remembering the pain and duress of hiking Mt. Katahdin in Maine-- the most demanding hike I've ever done-- and now I'm wondering what it'll be like to do that for 20 days straight!

Whitewater rafting is also very intriguing to me, especially considering the full moon is on Monday night. So, the plan is to first do a three day rafting journey on the wild Kali Gandaki river before heading out to the mountains. The trip sounds amazing. We will be spending our days along class 4 rapids, camping on beautiful white sandy beaches, and then howling 'neath the full moon beside a bonfire. Can't wait!

Spontaneous Dance Party!

2010-01-22T23:52:00.000-05:00

Nepal is a country that truly loves music and they love to dance.

I came across a vision the other day that I will never forget. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was walking along a trail through a quiet mountain village when I began hearing music that was becoming louder with each step. Extremely intrigued, I followed my ears and soon came upon the source of this music.

Perched upon a hillside in the middle of a wide-open field there was a psychedelic bus painted in many bright swirling colors. I stood beside the trail looking up at this bus but was still confused about why music was blasting out of it. I came a little closer and then it all made sense.

Gathered around the bus were 15 or so Nepali youth dancing with reckless abandon. Totally busting a move, these guys and girls were dancing so happy, so liberated, so completely enjoying themselves. Anyone familiar with the dance styles you see in the Indian Ballywood movies knows what I'm talking about. They can really boogie!

I stood there watching this scene with a big smile on my face, so happy to be witnessing this joyous spectacle. I loved that it was the middle of the afternoon in blasting hot sunlight, and all I could imagine is that this was a spontaneous dance party brought on by these kids' simple need to get down.

October 23: Three Days of Nirvana at Nagarkot

2010-01-22T23:51:00.000-05:00

Since I've been in Nepal, whenever I'd speak of my plans to visit Nagarkot the Nepalese would always follow up with the exact same response: "Ooooh, Nagarkot-- sunrise, very nice."

Lonely Planet mentions the sunrise experience as the main reason for visiting Nagarkot and says that few visitors stay for longer than a night. Situated on a tall mountain overlooking the Himalayas and the Kathmandu Valley, Nagarkot is a quiet village with not a whole lot going on. When I read this, it sounded like my dream home. My curiousity about this epic sunrise was just one of my soul-attractions to this place.

As I was packing up to go there, I was introduced to a mousy French girl named Cerise. Dubis, the owner of the guest house in Bhatkapur, made the introduction because Cerise was also interested in going to Nagarkot. She had a pained look on her face and was trying hard to communicate in English but it wasn't coming easily. She seemed much relieved when I addressed her in French and we quickly arrived at a plan to travel together.

Leaving the cello and my bag of bricks behind in Bhaktapur, I set off to Nagarkot with just a light daypack containing the essentials-- a toothbrush/paste, my book, a journal, and some water. I didn't even bring a change of clothes, since I only planned on being gone for a night.

Conversation with Cerise was lively right out of the gate. Reaching far back into the dormant quadrants of my mind, I was pulling out French expressions and grammar that haven't been spoken for nearly fifteen years. Her company was refreshing and the opportunity to practice French was exciting.

Cerise was concerned about riding the bus and seemed a bit fearful. Having crossed that river a few times now, I can say that I am now pretty comfortable with the whole process. Though it surprised even myself when we arrived at the bus stop and, seeing how crowded the bus was, I opted to climb up on the roof for my first experience of this sort.

Sixty exhilarating minutes later we arrived at Nagarkot. The views from on top of the bus were amazing. And now we were on top of the world. The crisp air was significantly cooler and I was wishing I'd brought some warmer clothes.

As we walked along looking for a room for the night, we came across a barefoot hippie on the side of the road. He was sitting there banging a drum, appearing totally whacked-out drunk or drugged. Who knows what was going on in his mind and his British rasta accent offered no indication of where he was from. We told him we were looking for a place and he said, "The best place around here, mon, it's called Nirvana. You gotta go there, mon."

His deranged state of mind asside, his advice was an affirmation since that is the guest house we were looking for to begin with. At the end of a long dirt road, approaching what seemed like the edge of the world, we arrived at Nirvana. Prayer flags were swaying in the late-afternoon breeze and colorful decorative lights were dancing around the doorway. Inside, there are funky designs painted on the walls, guitars and drums strewn about, and cushions encircling a small table. We loved it. Only problem, they didn't have any vacancy.

We found another place nearby, and that was fine. Cerise and I were famished, so after dropping off our stuff in our room we walked back to Nirvana to eat.

It wasn't all that surprising that when we entered we found our hippie drummer passed-out, down-for-the-count, sprawled across the cushions beside the table. The beautiful Nepali hostess, she just offered an unapologetic smile that spoke to me, "It is what it is." I was ok with that, and Cerise was too. We sat down beside the deadman, his arms practically wrapped around my seat, and we both just smiled at each other.

Shortly after placing our order, the other guests arrived. With dreadlocks, beautiful smiles, and vibrant refreshing energy, I knew I was going to like them. They took seats beside us and instantly the room was abuzz with traveler tales, interesting conversations, and laughter sweet laughter. They said they had arrived a few days earlier, hadn't planned on staying so long, but sensing the unique magic and warmth of this place (and this guest house in particular), they decided to enjoy Nagarkot for a few more days.

A bell chimed in my head, and I paused to consider that my prayer was being answered. A page was turning, and that sense of isolation I had been feeling was quickly vanishing.

We sat at the candle-lit table for many hours. Andrea is a spunky Dutch girl whose contagious love for India convinced me that I needed to go there. Mark and Elesa, a beautiful couple from Canada, are like the ying and yang of love, and their counterpoint in conversations is completely engaging. Sanjay, the owner of this guest house, is quiet like the Buddha and he just sits there listening intently to every word spoken with a sly understanding smile on his face.

The guitars, drums, chessboard, and backgammon props around the room added to the spice of this funky little bohemian enclave. They were also the impetus for the musical-cushion flow in the room, and as situations rearranged, conversations and connections would mutate in a curious way like a river. A mysterious French girl named Alex arrived later on; she awoke the deadman, and propped him up beside her as they smoked cigarettes in silence. Cerise was having trouble following the flow of this fast-paced conversation in English, and it delighted me to have side-conversations with her in French, filling her in on what was being said.

The subjects of our conversation are so diverse i feel like my brain is play-dough, being stretched in many directions all at once. I am fascinated by the many stories I hear-- stories about the extraordinary life of the ancient ruler Barabas and Zorba the Greek, about the Kumari Devi (a modern-day Nepali girl who is regarded as a "Living Goddess" until her first period, after which she lives a long lonely life because it's bad luck to be with an ex-Goddess). Conversation always returns to travel experiences, and this crowd speaks fondly of the mystical Indian towns of Veranasi and Rishakesh. Books, music, and films are being discussed too. And where one person's sentence ends, another person's story begins in a thrilling segue of brain-food. In a notebook that sits beside me I scribble notes of things I wish to research.

Part of me wanted to stay there all night, because it was precisely the situation I love. But it was late, and if Cerise and I were to awake at 4:30 and complete our 4 mile journey to the lookout tower in time for sunrise, we really had to get going. Half-way home we realized we forgot to pay our bill for dinner, which seemed like a really long time ago. We laughed about this and when we returned, Sanjay said, "No problem. You pay later."

The alarm sounded at what felt like the middle of the night. I looked out the window and saw a pitch-black universe speckled by extremely bright stars. I had heard that early-morning cloud coverage was common in Nagarkot and that would surely kill the whole sunrise experience, but this morning was about as perfect as it gets.

We arrived at the lookout tower just as the sun was peaking out from behind the Himalayas. The view was stunning and I could suddenly understand why the Nepalese are always so succinct when describing the Nagarkot sunrise experience-- it simply falls short of words. Standing on top of the world high upon this lookout tower, the sun was warm upon my skin and in a sacred moment of peace, I surveyed 360 degrees of this beautiful mountain country.

Other sunrise seekers included a group of young Israelis who were sitting beside the tower, preparing Arabian coffee on a camping stove. Shortly after meeting them they offered us a cup and said that it was the world's best coffee . Indeed, the subtle addition of cardamom pods to coffee seemed like an ingenious innovation-- I wondered why Starbucks hadn't thought of it. What followed was another two hour exciting exchange of traveler's tales and stories that intrigue me to no end. I didn't get their names, but that didn't really matter. Their stories left an imprint on my imagination.

I could tell Cerise was enjoying these moments as much as I was, and I could tell that she didn't want to leave, but she had an obligation in Kathmandu. So after a delicious breakfast back at Nirvana, we parted ways with a hug and a smile and a "bon voyage." I only fully realized after she left how much I enjoyed her quirky French presence.

Andrea was leaving today too, and once she vacated her room I moved in. The rest of the day was spent on those cushions hanging out with Sanjay and the exciting mix of Nepalese and internationals that would drop in from time to time.

The first day was all about decompression. I just chilled all day, breathing easy, enjoying Sunitas' delicious Nepali cuisine, and enjoying my book from the patio that overlooked valleys and kingdoms below.

I would've been happy to have each day be a repeat of the first, but I was also excited to explore Nagarkot's fascinating mountain culture. So with the rising sun the next day I set out on a journey through time-worn paths that lead every which direction through these hills. I had been told that marijuana grows wild through the Nepalese mountains, but it still was shocking when I'd come across plants beside the trail. The hiking was epic, the trails were beautiful-- perhaps thousands of years of walking these paths and the cumulative improvements along the way has resulted in extremely well-maintained trails.

I wanted to listen to my iPod, but quickly realized that it was futile to try. Every couple of minutes I'd come across a thatched-roof dwelling with befuddled peasants who'd look at me with wide-eyes like I was from a different dimension. Those that could speak any English would ask me where I come from and what is my name. Every once in a while I'd come across someone who could speak decent English, and then I'd have to remove the headphones and dig through my bag for my hearing aids.

One family in particular captured my imagination. A young boy tending to some yaks was standing beside the trail and endeared himself to me when he spoke, "Excuse me, would you like something to drink?" It was hot under the sun, I was out of water, and this sounded like a great idea. He leads me down a dirt path to the other side of his house and I find an elderly woman sitting in the shade beside a massive pile of marijuana. Her fingers are black with resin and she's removing the leaves from each stem.

The young boy who addressed me is Anil. He is 14 and has a surprising command of the English language. He returns from his hut with a large bowl of some milky yellow drink. I'm not really all that interested in trying it, but what can I do? It's called "chang". I still don't really know what it is-- it tastes a little like the roxi that I had the other night, but Anil says it's not alcoholic. He and his five sisters are very intrigued by everything i have in my bag: my iPod, my camera, my compass, my cowboy hat. I hand him my camera and he and his siblings began snapping away many photos of each other, reviewing each one and laughing hysterically.

He invites me to eat some curry, and though I'm totally hungry and would love to spend more time with these people, I check the time and see that if I don't get a move on it, I'm not going to make the last bus back up the mountain to Nagarkot. Though locals climb the 3000 feet of elevation everyday, I fear that I am physically incapable of completing the seven mile arduous ascent before dark. Just before leaving, Anil asks with great sincerity for my phone number and my address. He keeps asking me how to contact me. I don't really know what to tell him because I haven't called the US yet, and I don't think he has access to email. At any rate, I give him my business card and as I turn around to depart, the last image I have of this encounter is Anil surrounded by his solemn family, holding onto my business card like a treasured gift.

The peaceful late-day sunshine gives these terraced hills a timeless quality. I see peasants working the fields and I know that the view would be the same even a thousand years ago. As usual in this foreign land, I don't know where I'm going, so I keep asking locals for directions to the Sangku bus stop. I'm not sure if they understand what I'm asking, but they keep pointing down the road, and eventually I find a bus beside a roadside hut.

Much relieved to have made it on time, i jump on the bus and suddenly feel very tired. A young woman with a baby sits down beside me. The baby is so cute and seems fascinated by my strange appearance. He seems eager to touch me, and when I ask his mother if I can hold him, she smiles and happily puts him in my arms. The whole way back to Nagarkot, the warmth of his precious body puts a happy feeling in my heart. And when we arrive, I pass him back to his mother and we exchange smiles and namastes.

The scene back at Nirvana is as timeless as the hills. Sure enough, I return to find good music playing on the stereo and some folks gathered enjoying some tea and dinner by candlelight. I take a seat, order some food, and kick back too.

Over the course of the night several of Sanjay's friends stop in. They all play guitar and many of them have amazing voices. The music they make captures my heart and seems so irresistably romantic, but is also joyous and all the gay Nepali guys commence a rowdy group sing-along when they hear an old Nepali pop song. I ask them to teach me the lyrics and now the melody is imprinted in my head. I think it will become the foundation for a new song that I'm working on, which I hope to record possibly with some of these Nagarkot musicians.

I didn't want to leave Nagarkot, but as special as it's been-- I haven't showered in many days, my clothes are tired, and I'm really anxious to return to my cello and beautiful Bhaktapur. I'm also excited to return to Kathmandu because I now have a lead for three masterful musicians living there and I wish to find them. Instead of taking a bus on back (the easy way), I opted to descend the mountain on foot-- a decision that led to another afternoon of fascinating experiences.

All day long I kept musing on the conviction that Nepal shall be for me a place that beholds infinite opportunities. So far my experiences have taught me that every moment is laced with spontaneous offerings from God-- a perpetual whispering voice that says, "Come here!" This voice says to me to go forward boldly, do not fear and do not think you have erred in your calculations. This moment is a gift. Enjoy Nepal and all the random episodes that present themselves. Every minute is an hour, and in every conversation there is wisdom to behold. The lotus comes to mind, and I think of Nepal as a flower unfolding in perfect time.

October 19: Living Like a Local During Diwali in Bhaktapur

2010-01-22T23:45:00.002-05:00

Traveling alone can be lonely sometimes. I find myself craving interactions with fellow travelers. I see them at coffee shops, on the streets, or around my hotel, and I'll say hi. Given the difficulty of existing in a foreign land, I imagine other travelers would be just as eager to reach out. But the irony, I find, is that many of these travelers are Europeans and either they don't speak English, or they just aren't that sociable. So I end up spending a lot of time in my head.

I found myself thinking a lot about this yesterday. A year of traveling by myself-- that's a long time. These thoughts became amplified when I came across a couple from France that were enjoying a beer and conversation filled with laughter. They seemed like best of friends-- so comfortable with each other and themselves. Backpackers often travel in two, and I got thinking how nice it'd be to be traveling with a loved one, to be able to share in this culture-shock and always have a comfortable place to lay my head at the end of the day.

Traveling alone, however, also opens doors that otherwise would not have been opened. This year is all about experiences and putting myself in those awkward places so that a spontaneous beam of light might burst through the clouds and introduce me to the real Nepal .

A door was opened last night.

It was the final night of Diwali, a multi-day festival that celebrates the Hindu goddess, Lakshmi, by lighting the town with candles. No street lights-- just the warm glow of candles flickering outside of every doorway, in every window, and all around the town.

I was walking around this ancient cobblestone-village with a big smile on my face, enamored by the gaiety amongst the children. They were all singing songs, jumping up and down, igniting serious bombs (fireworks), and then laughing hysterically. The girls were all dressed in their finest, most beautiful, clothes looking like princesses and ambling down the street slowly with linked arms. Elders were banging drums and chanting holy verse in the many temples. Women were carrying offerings of bananas and fennel to a shrine. Others were inviting the goddess Lakshmi to their homes by painting little footsteps and a pathway to their door. There was so much to take in and I was enjoying my peaceful state of mind.

At one particular intersection it was pure sensory-overload. I decided to take a seat under one of the town's many peasant resting stoops.

No sooner had I sat down, a kind-looking guy who bared an uncanny resemblance to my Pakistani friend back home approaches me, introduces himself, and says, "You are alone? I am alone, too...come on, let's go play table tennis." I smile to think this guy is like an angel who has come to ease my loneliness. Ping-pong sounds like a great idea, so I follow him through a hobit-sized opening of a door nearby and we arrive in a courtyard that abutts a temple.The guy with the ball and paddles is not home, however, and so our ping-pong game doesn't happen. But my new friend, Subash, suggests we go for a walk and that also sounds like a good idea.

As we set off walking it doesn't surprise me when he puts his arm around me. It's the Nepali way. All around town I see guys like this-- sometimes they are holding hands, sometimes they are huddled together on a stoop looking like lovers. Some of these guys probably are gay, but in this traditional village and all around Nepal, gay is not really a word in their dictionary. This is just how friends enjoy each other-- it's really quite a beautiful manifestation of love and friendship.

The village of Bhaktapur isn't very big, and in no time we reach the western boundary, then the southern boundary, and then back on through the Old Town. I ask where we are going and Subash says, "We are just walking, you are keeping me company. I am not keeping you company-- you are keeping me company." It's telling that he says this because it's clear to me that it's an honor for him to be spending time with me and showing me this town and culture he is so proud of. The truth is, however, that I am really enjoying his c ompany and don't care where we go or what we do.

He suggests we go get a drink, and so we step inside a poorly-lit little roadside hut that is literally a hole in the wall. It doesn't get many foreign customers-- this I know. Ten or so Nepali twenty-something men are sitting around with serious, grim-looking expressions on their face. But as soon as I smile and say "namaste" (which means 'I honor the God in you"), everyone begins to smile and laugh, and they make place on the bench for Subash and I.

Subash orders some "spirits" for us. I'm a little bit concerned because I remember my friend Mike's warning about the Nepali moonshine. But when in Nepal, you do like the Nepalese-- that's the philosophy that directs my course.

The drink is a rice-based drink called "roxi", and it's not that bad. It tastes a bit like weak whiskey. They make it themselves, and serve it out of a repurposed plastic water bottle. Subash introduces me to the cute little 7th grade gal who fills my glass and explains she is the daughter of his friends who are cooking up "snacks" in front of a wok. Subash points to the men around this "bar" and says they are all his friends and neighbors, and this is where he goes. I look around the room and see that everyone is staring at us with wide-eyed curiousity-- no one is talking except Subash and I.

Without ordering anything, we are served a small dish of "buff" (fried yak-meat), some papadam (thin wafer cracker), and some other tasteless rice-cracker. They refill our glasses. Subash explains he doesn't usually drink because he is a teacher and needs to "keep good reputation." But tonight, he is just enjoying his time with me and so he lifts his glass and says cheers. We finish our drink and he says, "ok, let's go."

We walk back to the table-tennis courtyard where this evening began. Surrounded by darkness, a small group of young men are huddled around a small square of red-hot embers. They make room for us and we sit down, extending our hands towards the fire for warmth. Subash says these guys, too, are his close friends. I look around the circle and notice they are sharing beers and smoking hashish cigarettes. They offer me a beer and when I say yes, one guy sprints off around the corner and returns with a delightfully-cold Tuborg. I'm impressed with their generosity, dropping a significant 200 ruppees for me. But it doesn't end there. A moment later, another guy returns with a bag of cashews and hands it to me. And then they ask me if I want noodles, to which I respond no because I am full. Another guy brings me a juice-box filled with mango juice. All these gestures warm my heart, and I realize this is the Nepali way of honoring a guest.

By now I'm feeling fully at ease. I can dig this situation. Hanging out beside a fire, talking and laughing with some fun people-- this is my style and I'm enjoying myself.

Subash pulls out his cellphone and starts showing me pictures of his family that he took earlier this evening. After we look at several photos of his dead-serious family in festive regalia, he says unabashedly with a hearty laugh that he loves porn and has over 150 videos on his phone. All of his friends are now looking over his shoulders and are laughing too.

He asks me if I've ever had sex and says he has just once. He explains that it just isn't possible in this small town because everyone knows everything here. And if you did have sex, "you would be looked at not good". I find it fascinating how open the Nepalese are. They talk about everything and anything. They don't have walls -- no filters, no pride to protect. It's all just opportunities for sharing and laughing, which they do constantly.

Looking around the circle of friends here I am struck by the diversity of their physical characteristics. Subash is Newari, a smart-looking brown man that could pass for a westerner. Another guy's robust cheekbones and intense eyes suggest Mongol heritage, and if I didn't know better I'd think he was dangerous. Sargum and his handsome brother Santay are practically black-- they look like Muslims from Nigeria. The other guys reflect equally diverse shades of Asian and Indian ancestry. They all share the Newari-language and a deep friendship that unites them all despite their differences.

It's quiet in this gathering. As usual, everyone is stone silent, watching Subash and I carry on. I'd like to hear some music and when I ask about it, a guy with a "fancy" cellphone queues up some Nepali folk music and everyone starts singing along, sounding like adolescent girls. I am totally tickled by this and release a hearty belly-laugh.

I pull out my camera to capture this moment and everyone quickly gathers around me to look at the picture I just took. They want to see more photos and I begin cycling through the pictures I have taken over the past few days. It's kind of surreal because previously all my subjects were just random sights that caught my eye, but now these guys are saying things like..."ahh...that's my student. Oh, and that's my uncle." They ask me why I have taken these pictures and I shrug saying, "I don't know, i just take pictures of the things that I like to see." They chide me when I advance to a picture of a pretty girl.

By now our group has expanded significantly and there are about 15 of us gathered in the courtyard. The guy with the paddles arrives and we begin playing ping-pong. A group of guys sit down on the ground and with a dim-light overhead and begin playing a gambling card game. Subash tells me playing cards here is illegal, but everyone does it. This being Asia, it doesn't surprise me that they are incredible at table-tennis. I try my hand and am actually impressed with how well I'm playing tonight, but it's still no match for these guys and I get my butt kicked. We all laugh-- there is no competitiveness here.

It's real late now by Nepali standards-- close to midnight. Subash suggests we go for a nightcap of a cup of Nepali tea and then depart for sleep. He reads my mind as we are leaving-- he can tell I'd like to hang out with them again. He says I can always find him in this courtyard any night of the week. "Tomorrow night, the night after that-- in ten years time, we'll be here. In Bhaktapur nothing ever changes. We may look a little different in ten years, but we'll be doing the same thing. This is how we live."

As we walk along the darkened street towards the tea-house, he says that he has no car, no motorcycle. He is a teacher and he doesn't make much money. But that's ok. He says, "I am satisifed with my life. I have just a short walk to the school where I work. I don't need a car, I don't need much money. I have many friends and I am happy with the simple life. In Kathmandu it's different, but here in Bhaktapur-- we enjoy simple life that always stays the same."

All that alcohol was beginning to go to my head and so the tea is nice. Sitting on a curb beside a temple, we carry on talking about many subjects. Not far from us a group of crazy kids are tossing firecrackers at each other recklessly and laughing hysterically. Once our tea is finished, Subash once again insists on paying the bill. It costs just a few nickels and a dime, but the gesture is priceless and I feel honored to have spent this evening with my new friends.

I'm headed to Nagarkot tomorrow morning. I tell him this and he says ok, "When you come back to Bhaktapur, you know where to find me. I will always like to see you, so just ask anyone and they will bring me to you." We shake hands and bid farewell.

Back in my guest-house I process all this while playing cello for a while. Tonight was a gift. This is the Nepal I was hoping to experience.

October 17: Time-Traveling through Ancient Bhaktapur

2010-01-22T23:45:00.001-05:00

Last sight out my window before going to bed was a bonfire in the street, around which several kids were playing some kind of gambling game. They were shouting and exchanging money, and my instinct told me that what they were doing was probably shady.

At 5 am I awoke to the stench of burning plastic, and when I looked out my window I saw a huge pile of trash in flames. Already at this hour there was quite a stir of activity in the street. I saw the produce vendors unpacking their goods and I wondered why they even bothered putting it away. It seems like everyone does business here 24/7. I guess that's the way to maximize sales.

I thought it'd be fun to experience this beautiful old village before it awoke and so I set off on foot in the pre-dawn darkness. Instantly I was quite moved by what I saw. In front of many homes and all around these streets there were little tea-candles aglow, many of them surrounded by freshly-painted iconography that suggested it was a Hindu thing.

A few steps further and I came across a young man wearing flip-flops and an Abercrombie Fitch t-shirt. He was up to his knees in excrement and was using his hands to clean the intestines of a giant beast that lay slain on the street, a river of blood flowing downhill. Steam is rising from the animal's corpse and another man with a huge butcher's knife is cutting off chunks of meat and placing them on a roadside table for purchase. Nearby, a little boy is peeing in a gutter.

The sun was just beginning to rise but the goings-on around these streets seemed to be the same whether it was morning, noon, or night. Where four roads meet, I come across a Hindu shrine and several elders, women, men, and children are removing their shoes, touching a statue in dutiful reverence, lighting candles, scattering flowerpetals, and reciting prayers. I watched this situation for a while and was trying to figure out this ritual, but no patterns emerged. I mean, on one level it seemed like a very devout holy ritual, but then within earshot distance from the shrine, a pack of school-girls are giggling and talking loudly. I concluded that this is just their way of life, and unlike the Christian church, all aspects of life are holy. You don't need to be silent to honor God here, you just do the rituals and live your life.

A little ways further down the road I come across a courtyard that appears today exactly as it did several hundred years ago. I hesitate to enter because it's a holy place and I can see from the doorway that many practitioners are performing their rituals. But I hear the sound of drums and I'm totally intrigued. So I enter the courtyard and pause to digest the richness of this cultural experience. A group of elders are gathered inside a shrine-- some are banging drums, others are crashing cymbals, and one man who appears to be a thousand years old is singing verses of holy text. A few women are filling buckets of water from a well, others are sweeping the area with handmade brooms. Surrounding the courtyard there are candles and statues of Gods, around which a procession of people silently move about making holy gestures.

Everywhere I walk this morning, chickens are hobbling around and I wonder how their owners keep track of them. Above me there are millions of colorful flags zigzagging across these narrow cobblestone roads . I come around a corner, and for the first time since I've been in Nepal, my eyes behold a beautiful view of the mountains. I pause for a moment and enjoy the rising sun warm upon my face. I think I'm going to stay in Bhaktapur for a while.

A Taxi Ride

2010-01-22T23:43:00.001-05:00

It's just before sunset, which is right around the time when everyday all of Kathmandu loses power for an hour or two. It's also when all across the city there is major congestion-- so bad that the whole city becomes completely gridlocked and everyone just sits on their horn.

I really should've left more than a half-hour to make it to my destination, but I'm still learning. And besides, I only needed to go a short distance, so I figured that should leave enough time. I found a taxi-driver drinking chai beside his cab, I negotiated a rate of $1.50, and off we went towards Patan.

Perhaps sitting in the backseat would've spared me some grey hairs, but I chose the passenger seat. I was in for a journey of a lifetime!

Departing Freak Street, the congestion began immediately. There were thousands of people everywhere! Cars and rickshaws, busses, motorcycles, pedestrians...it was totally mad. And like millions of ants crawling over each other, we were all just trying to get a little further-- if only just a few inches further.

There seems to be just one model of car here. It's a miniature little vehicle-- a Suzuki, and it's just a bit bigger than a go-cart.

The cabdrivers are madmen. They speed down insanely crowded roads that are so narrow you would think they are only for pedestrians. These drivers possess an extraordinary sense of their dimensions, however, and they seldom err in knowing what's physically possible.

Like water that always finds a way to flow past obstacles, the drivers and pedestrians of Kathmandu are all part of the unstoppable fluid throng that always finds a way to pass on through. Currently, we are all at a standstill, but the Darwinian principle of survival-of-the-fittest is in effect, and every now and then someone finds a hole and drives off.

Usually it's the motorcyclists. They seem to maneuver the best in this traffic. The pedestrians, they can also usually find a gap somewhere, even if it means they have to change their course, backtrack, and go around obstacles. The rickshaws (slow-moving bicyclists with a carriage), they are the least agile and usually have to hang out until everything clears up. The cars and the busses, they just edge forward little by little, knowing they are bigger than everyone else and they always get their way eventually.

Interestingly though, there is no roadrage here. Though everyone is sitting on their horns incessantly, no one seems particularly frustrated by this standard every-day scenario. It's just the way of life here in over-populated Kathmandu.

Though it seems I'm going to be late for tonight's show, I feel like I'm in good hands with my driver. This guy is like Rambo and he's employing every guerilla tactic in the cabdriver's handbook. He's hopping up onto curbs, ducking down narrow corridors, he's pulling uturns in narrow spaces, and he keeps modifying his strategy based on where the heavy congestion lies. I might be late, but if anyone is gonna get me there as quickly as possible, it's this guy. Once he finds an opening, he picks up the pace and is now freakin' flying down these bumpy dirt-roads. Neither the many people scattered everywhere, nor the little kids playing in the street cause him to ease up.

Another interesting thing about driving in the city: there is an extraordinary element of respect, or civility, in all this chaos. These drivers will not hit another. They might go from 60 to 0 and come to an abrupt stop with their bumper touching the clothes of an oblivious pedestrian ahead of them, but they will not hit the person. I don't know how they do it, because there really is no margin for error here, and yet I have yet to see a single accident, never does a foot get run over, and no one seems to ever make a bad calculation.

When things get really jammed up, there is a shared commitment to do doing whatever it takes to free up even one person. You back up a little, you move over, you try to get out of the way-- whatever it takes. Also noteworthy, the Nepalese don't say "thank you" in general, but they also don't give the old cordial wave of the hand once someone helps them out in a jam. You just go on your way. Of course, this happens thousands of times every time you go somewhere.

The bottom line: you have to be aggressive. Otherwise, you will get nowhere. If you waited for an opening you would just sit there all day long. My cabdriver knows this better than anyone, and an hour and half later, we arrive at my destination. My nerves are totally jangled, but my driver doesn't seem at all stirred. It seems outrageous that he just endured this madness for a paltry $1.50, so I give him a nice tip. As I begin to walk off I see him turn his car around and begin to wait for the next customer. And so it goes...just another day in the life of a Kathmandu cabdriver.

October 12, 2009: Freak Street

2010-01-22T23:42:00.000-05:00

At first I was a little bit disheartened when the guy at the front desk of my Thamel guest house told me that last night would be my final night with them. I felt like I was getting kicked out even though he explained they had reservations to honor. It was a good thing, I concluded. I needed a push, because I really didn't want to be there.

A few days earlier I had wandered south of Durbar Square to the street unofficially known as Freak Street. In the 70's when hippies were all about turning on, tuning in, and dropping out this is where some of them went. Living practically for free in this outrageously cheap area and enjoying the abundance of marijuana and hash, the hippies found a home in this little bohemian enclave.

(side note: a rat just came scampering across the floor beside me as I'm sitting here typing this...ok...distracted, but I shall proceed)

Anyhow, without knowing much of its history when I came across this area the other day I was struck by the chill vibe. I could feel it in the air and I liked it. I saw dreadlocked hippies drinking beer in the afternoon, smoking cigarettes and playing chess, reading books, and hanging out at sidewalk cafes looking all zoned out, people-watching. Very different from Thamel.

I needed a place to relocate to and this seemed like a refreshing alternative. I found a humble little room that offered little comfort, but at least it was cheap and the lock on the door seemed adequate. The sweet little Nepali girl who checked me in was so irresistibly cute it made me happy just to spend a few moments with her. And at less than $2 a night, what the hell. How could I go wrong, if only for a night.

Immediately after setting my bags down, I walked across the street to a little coffee stoop where a couple of seasoned-travelers were hanging out.

When you come across these common backpacker scenarios, you never know who knows who, nor can you really know the dynamic of the situation. At this moment I saw individuals sitting together silently. Sometimes they would talk, or laugh a little, and then curiously someone would get up and walk away without any regard or word of farewell. I'm drinking a delicious french press of coffee (the best cup I've had so far). The others, they are smoking cigarettes, sipping herbal teas, and nursing pints of beer while staring out into the void of their thoughts.

After spending a little too much time inside my head, I was really happy to come across this crowd. I broke the silence and made a little small talk with the folks around me. Quickly this silent ensemble came to life and I got to know my neighbors. There was a kiwi named Clint, a curious Malaysian dude named Azli, a beautiful German Israeli woman working at the American Embassy, a Nepali hipster, and an American gal wearing Nepali garb reading Eat Pray Love.

Before long we are exchanging ideas and laughing. The community feels so good to me right now. Beside us, there's a barefoot hippy with dreadlocks twirling balls attached to rope. The sound of sitars and tablas are blasting out from a music store nearby and I'm in love with this moment.

Azli, a 44-year old Malaysian smiler (who looks no more than 30), he sees my book "Joy of Living" and says to me ironically, "there's no happiness in living." I like him instantly. With two spools of colorful yarn, he's crocheting a "pouch" for a friend and he says to me that he is the most productive person in the world. He's been on the road for the past 15 months and says he was born with the gift of a photographer's eye. After viewing a few of the photos on his camera, I have to agree. He invites me to his room to view his collection of photos and this sounds like a great idea.

Once we get to his room he pulls out his MacBook and begins a slideshow of photos he's taken of his travels through India. His photos are beautiful, so striking I immediately feel like crying. Beauty and sadness conveyed poignantly in the eyes of his subjects-- these primoridal expressions of life he has captured are bleak, often lonesome, and yet in all these photos of poorer-than-dirt India, there is a persistent hint of joy and salvation . The soundtrack he choses for this moment is Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah", which strikes me as the perfect fit! The lyrics of this song push me over the edge and now I'm totally overwhelmed with emotions. (To see his photos, check him out on Flickr.)

As much as I'm enjoying this moment, I am now late. There is a concert tonight in Patan and I'm really excited to be there. It's the 2nd to final night of Jazzmandu and tonight's show is a fusion of Nepali classical music with European jazz musicians. I must go!

October 11, 2009: An Encounter with the Ghandharba Musicians

2010-01-22T23:41:00.001-05:00

I awoke this morning thinking I'd reached the end of my rope. This would be my last day in Thamel, I can't take it any longer. It's too intense, I hate cities, and this just isn't the life for me. But then along my morning journey around these streets I come upon the curious Ghandharba musicians.

Up a dark stairwell in the back of an unmarked building, I walked tentatively in search of the "Ghandharba Music Association" that Lonely Planet spoke of. On the 2nd floor, I come upon a small unfurnished room occupied by a young man. I don't know what exactly I was expecting to find, but there's a sign on the door and a young man welcomes me in enthusiastically.

I sit down on a straw stool and the young man begins explaining the Ghandharba Association. He mentions that they are a caste of musicians-- the lowest caste in Hindu society, part of the "untouchables" caste. They aspire to make a living playing music, but remain largely poor and uneducated, earning pocket change selling an occasional handmade instrument to tourists.

Their instruments are sarangis, drums, and flutes. The sarangi is similar to a fiddle in that has four strings, a bow, and you play melodies all day long while making use of a drone (in the key of G). The music they make is a jovial pleasant kind of music, it just makes you happy. You hear this music blasting out from dozens of music stores all around touristy Thamel, it is the quintessential Nepali music.

I'm probably filled with misinformation, but I'm learning lots as I sit in this room listening to my new musician friend, Suresh, explain all these things. As we are seated talking many other young men begin to file in through the doors and gather around. They are all part of this music association and have been playing a variety of instruments since a very young age when they learned from their parents, who also play music all day long everyday. I'm intrigued. These sound like my kind of people! And when Suresh mentions that these musicians were part of the Mountain Music Project, an amazing fusion of bluegrass and Nepali folk music, I feel that this is a fateful encounter and that I'm supposed to stick around Thamel, at least for another night.

I return to my room, grab my cello, and come back to "the office" ready to rock. There are many new faces and as I pull out my cello they all stare with curiosity. They want to hear and I want to play, but as I begin sawing away on this unamplified electric cello, it quickly becomes apparent that it's just not loud enough. In fact, you really couldn't hear it all. It's ok by itself, in a quiet environment. But accompanied by drums, a sarangi, and a jews harp, it just kind of looks cool, and that's about it. Everyone is curious though and I pass it around the circle for everyone to try.

It's clear that I need an amplifier if I wish to play with others. But jeez, I really can't stand the thought of adding an amplifier to my already-excessive baggage. This possible purchase spurs bigger thoughts and I find myself wondering what I want with music. Suresh keeps talking about his "Sarangi for Peace" project, which he says would benefit from my cello and invites me to practice with his band. I'm intrigued, but it also makes me question my priorities and my commitment to learning the Nepali music. These kinds of things take time, and am I ready to dive in head first? Can I really stay in Kathmandu for an extended period? Is it realistic to think of recording music with these people? Do I have the time? I mean, if I do a 3-week long trek, some rafting, a few weeks in meditation retreats...where does that leave me? I wanna be free, but I also really wanna make music. The classic conundrum of my life.

It's nighttime, I'm reflecting on all these things. I'm a bit stressed out tonight and a bit sad. Maybe it's just that Kathmandu has me kind of strung out. I feel I can't take it any longer. As much as I'm in awe of this explosion of culture happening everywhere all the time, I also find it totally overwhelming. My heart is tied in knots and I feel like I need to get out of here to a more peaceful place.

October 10, 2009: The Road to Durbar Square

2010-01-22T23:40:00.001-05:00

The charm of Nepal has begun to reveal itself. After a great night of rest, I awoke with a smile in my heart. I meditate for a while and then emerge into the ever-bustling mayhem of Thamel looking for a breakfast joint. A handsome Nepali greaser quickly approaches me, "Namaste, how are you, I am fine, where do you come from?" I hesitate to respond, but he's so damn cute and seems sincere, and beside -- what could he possibly want? I think to myself, how do all these people make money and why do they waste so much time with me? Most of the time I am fearing for my life and dodging obstacles, hardly listening to a word they are saying. But they remain persistent and follow me around like a puppy dog thinking perhaps they'll change my mind and I'll say, "Ok , actually I am ready to book a trek to Everest, take me to your office and let's do some business."

These questionable characters, however, are usually very kind and helpful. He asks me what I am looking for, and when I say breakfast, he leads me down the road to a great little cafe named Pumpernickel Bakery. This place is nice. Catering to foreigners, it's civilized, clean, they offer bakery products, eggs, and coffee-- very nice.

Seated beside the garden, I am enjoying my delicious cappucino, watching the rotating clientele of internationals that come and go. So many pretty women...Israelis, Dutch, Swedish, Poles, Canadians...I admire their beauty and for a moment feel a bit lonely. Especially when I see a pretty woman lean over and giver her boyfriend the most beautiful 'I love you' kiss.

I'm busy planning my strategy for the day. The sunlight is painting the walls of this peaceful bakery and along comes a kind-looking older woman. Her name is Susan. I invite her to join me and she pulls up a chair. I explain that I'm a bit overwhelmed and wondering how to spend my time. With a big smile and heart full of compassion she responds to each statement in a thick Australian accent "yeaasss". I like her instantly. She pulls out a business card, hands it to me, and tells me to contact her. She's lived and worked here for 13 years and knows a great pianist who can connect me to musicians. When I express my concerns about my safety she offers a nugget of wisdom and says, "You shouldn't think like that, because then it will happen to you." I'd love to talk longer with her, but she is meeting two "volunteers", and they have just arrived.

I set out on a walking tour south of Thamel to Durbar Square, the Old Town. Every step along the way is a photo opportunity. Sights and sounds I could never imagine. I'm snapping away. Everywhere I look there are Buddhist temples and Hindu shrines that are hundreds of years old, architecture so ancient I feel like I'm in a time warp. Along the way I see a man shaving the scales off a a pile of fish with blood and guts scattered around him. Another man is hauling a massive block of stuff upon his back aided by a strap around his forehead . A yellow-robed sadhu (wondering holy man) sitting on the side of the road appears to be about a thousand years old. Meanwhile, there is the persistent introduction of smiling gentlemen who want to be my guide and ask me the same questions. Several sad-looking women carrying their forlorn babies approach me with an empty bottle asking for milk money.

Where I go really doesn't matter. Any which road I travel is lined with historic architecture and incredibly crowded streets packed with vendors, all selling the exact same products. Astonishingly though, they all have clientele sifting over their goods and exchanging money.

Eventually guided by a compass and the Lonely Planet guide I arrive at Durbar Square. It is totally amazing! 15th century stupas, temples, shrines, and holy structures surround me. It's a living museum here at Durbar Square and it's also a lively social scene. Thousands of people are gathered all around and up on the platforms elevated high above the square. You see guys huddled together like lovers enjoying each other's company, like best of friends. (Mind you, they are not gay, this is just a common Nepali expression of love and friendship). Many are paying respects to Hindu gods. A pack of giggly young school girls in uniform are walking down the road with linked arms. All these people seem so genuinely happy and their smiles reveal a disregard for the chaotic reality of over-population. It strikes me that this scene has probably been occurring at this square for the past several centuries. The only difference is the automobiles which are honking incessantly and edging persistently through the mad throngs of pedestrians all around the square.

Tonight, I am sitting in a bar called "New Orleans", writing in my journal by candlelight. I've been loitering for a while, taking advantage of the free wifi. But now my computer battery has died, my beer is empty, and I will go. Goodnight.

October 9, 2009: First Thoughts Upon Arrival in Kathmandu

2010-01-22T23:37:00.000-05:00

Holy shit! What have I gotten myself into? These are the first thoughts that come to mind upon exiting the Tribuvan Airport in Kathmandu. My heart is racing and I'm immediately deathly-scared, probably looking like a deer in headlights, fearing I've blundered in epic proportions.

My backpack and cello are heavy upon my back and I'm already struggling a bit. (Why didn't I play harmonica, and why did I feel compelled to bring a cello...those are the 2nd and 3rd thoughts). Meanwhile, the crescendo of street tumult is getting louder with each step I take. A wild throng of Nepalis are watching each of us exit the terminal. Their eyes are soft and warm, but there are a million voices shouting out trying to sell their services. I'm overwhelmed and realize instantly that I'm in for a challenging adventure.

A handsome fellow establishes eye-contact with me from among the crowd and asks me if I need a taxi. He doesn't look like a cab river, but I do need a ride and he seems friendly enough. I say ok, but I'm very skeptical. After negotiating the fare, he reaches to help me with my bag. Part of me is all too eager to have his assistance, but I also have this feeling like I'm about to get jumped and robbed, left for dead at any moment. Please note: this is just part of the acclimation process in a third-world country...infact, it didn't take long to realize the Nepalis are a very trust-worthy folk. But in this moment of shell-shock, anything seemed possible and as this spritely dude walks quickly towards his taxi I am doing my best to keep a hand on the bag...just in case. We get to the taxi cab and i find a rather scary dude behind the wheel. He doesn't speak english, and so my Nepali "guide" does all the talking. I can only imagine what they are saying. Two of them, one of me...I'm definitely gonnna be robbed and left for dead.

The taxi is really small. Infact, my cello just barely even fits in the car. The driver could have gone in reverse to exit the parking spot, but instead he proceeds to hobble over a tall curb. Heartbeat increases.

Immediately, I am fearing for my life. The streets are total chaos and this driver is going really fast. Everywhere I look there is a mad procession of pedestrians, motorcycles, cars, dogs, rickshaws, and bicyclists. Everyone is carrying on in this dangerous parade within millimeters of each other, and yet it's clear to me that this is quite normal here. My cab driver is moving so furiously fast and I brace myself as best as I can, but there are no seat belts and my knees are pressed tightly against the dashboard. All the while my Nepali guide is hammering me with questions and lighthearted conversation. I'm having a really hard time focusing on his words and just kind of drool empty responses that probably don't even make any sense.

Meanwhile, both sides of the street are lined with an equally chaotic bazaar of vendors hawking random goods. There are dirty-faced bearfoot children approaching the taxi when it comes to a stop asking for money. A ragged older man is laying among the debris on the side of the road. Another is sifting through the piles of roadside trash and sludge. All around me, these are the kind of things happening everywhere!

The destination is the "Lotus Guest House" in Thamel, which was highly recommended by a friend. However, there was some confusion among the driver and my guide because there are a few guest houses with similar names. They seemed surprised when I mentioned this place, and once we arrived I could see why. Carefully angling my bags and cello through narrow doorways, I enter the dark "hotel" lobby and find a group of grim-looking dudes staring at me with this look on their face that was saying to me, "hmm...we've never seen a foreigner come through these doors before...this oughtta be some good loot." One of them offers me the chance to see the room before I commit and that sounds like a good idea to me. Once I see the room, however, I am appalled by the dirty hovel and am immediately convinced that I will not be staying there. Surely this wasn't the "Lotus Guest House" my friend had recommended.

My guide agrees that this place is not safe, not a good fit for me, and offers to take me to another place down the road. The next place is equally as sketchy. But the third place we come to, while dark and kinda grimy, at least it has a room that gets sunlight and a good lock on the door. So I say ok. Anything will do, I just really wanted to rid myself of this beast of a cello.
After setting my bags down I go back downstairs into the lobby to take a breather and hang out with the kind gentlemen who checked me in. He says he plays guitar and goes down to his room to get it. He begins to strum a Bob Marley song and I immediately like the guy. I start to feel a little more secure and better about my decision. I see a few backpackers come in and that's comforting.
I contemplate going for a walk and surveying my surroundings, but instead I return to my room, sprawl out on the bed naked, and quickly slip into a deep slumber. Upon returning to the surface of consciousness, I experience a hazy euphoria, like a meditative bliss, that is a cross between dreaming and awakeness. After two days in transit with minimal shut-eye, this rest feels delightful and as I lay there thinking I realize a smile is on my face. I wonder how long I've been sleeping, but I really don't care if I've slept the whole day away. There was still sunlight but I was cold. I knew night was approaching. I wanted to lay there forever, wishing this peace would never end. But then I remembered I was in Kathmandu-- the relentless sound of car horns, barking dogs, and the city rumble tugging at my peace.

I go to brush my teeth and, out of habit, I rinse my brush in tap water. Shit! I realize my folly immediately and rationalize that maybe if I rinse my toothbrush really well I should undo the problem. (Then again, as I was brushing my teeth in the Newark Airport the other day, I dropped my brush into the public sink . Beside me several men were rounding up huge juicy honkers and spitting them into the sinks. I reclaimed my toothbrush in a flash, considered the 2 second rule, and then proceeded to brush my teeth.) The point being, either way I'm probably screwed, so a little tap water on my brush isn't gonna be the deal breaker. Regardless, I rinse the brush with bottled water as thoroughly as I can and hope for the best.
Emerging from my dingy hotel, I follow the light out into the crazy Thamel street. Fumes, horns, bikers, rickshaws-- madness everywhere. Yes, my peace has ended, and now I'm back to being frightened.

It's not like you can just walk on the sidewalk and feel safe. No! Here it's a a constant dance, dodging motorcyclists and cars speeding down both sides of the road. Crossing the road I feel like I'm playing the old video game Frogger, darting this way and that way just trying not to get squashed. Meanwhile, it seems like there's always some shady dude offering me hash or tiger balm, and he's intent in pursuing a sale, even though I'm nervously fending for my life and not even paying any attention to the guy.
I don't really know what I'm doing here. I don't wish to buy anything. I'm too nervous to eat anything. I don't know anyone. And as far as I can tell, the only reason to be in Thamel is to buy cheap gifts, trinkets and imitation North Face clothes. None of which do I want.

It's about 6pm. Maybe it's rush hour. All I know is every one of these narrow roads are just jam-packed to maximum density with cars, motorcycles, bikes, and pedestrians. Nobody can budge. A big buss sits smack dab in the middle of it all and in this tricky Rubik's cube of traffic, no one can maneuver themselves out of this situation. How in the world will it ever thin out? The air is atrocious. It's all just carbon monoxide, dirt, and pestilence. I recall the peace of my hotel room and decide to head back and play cello.

It might be heavy and a major pain in the ass to be carrying, but it sure does feel good to play some music. Music is still the biggest thrill of all.

Before going to bed this night I meditate. I need it. Calm mind in the face of relentless distractions and fears-- that's what I desire. This trip is part music, part search for light. So it is fitting that I should resume my meditation practice among the madness of my Kathmandu reality. The value of meditation becomes amplified when surrounded by chaos.

Last thoughts before drifting off to sleep: the flower shall unfold in due time, for now I will try to postpone judgment and enjoy the miniature joys that have presented themselves so far.

October 16: A Day of Little Miracles and Unexpected Events

2010-01-22T23:36:00.001-05:00

My sleep cycles are all screwed up these days. I get tired early in the day, I go to bed early, but then from midnight till daybreak I just toss and turn. Usually I kid myself thinking I might actually sleep till 7, but today I cut my losses and decided to just get up and begin my day at 5. Given the early start, I thought it'd be nice to make it up to Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche's morning meditation session in Bodhnath.

Bodhnath, also known as Boudha, is home to several Buddhist monasteries and a significant population of Tibetan exiles. The town is just a few miles outside of Kathmandu. I could've taken a taxi-- and that most certainly would've been a hell of a lot easier-- but I was feeling brave and ready to experience my first journey on a public bus.

On maps of the city you will see "City Bus Station", but I found that a little misleading. I knew I'd arrived where I needed to be because I followed the map to the general location and found a mess of busses scattered about. But there was no ticket window, no schedules, no signs, no announcements-- nothing like that. How does one know which bus will take them to their destination, I wondered.

I asked a few people which bus was headed to Bodhnath and it seemed like everyone was just taking wild guesses, because they all pointed in different directions. I kept asking, though, and eventually I was led to the correct bus. At the door was a young boy who looked like a bandit with a stack of bills in hand, hollering the names of the places this bus serviced. He said all the names so fast though, it was more like a guttural bird-call, and even after listening to his schpeel several times I still couldn't make out Bodhnath, Boudha, or anything even close. But I got on anyway.

It was comforting when a European girl with a large backpack got on after me. I said hello, and soon we were discussing her impending trek through the Himalayas.

The bus filled up pretty quickly, and as anticipated we exceeded maximum occupancy by about double, maybe triple. It occurred to me after a while that I didn't know what I was looking for, nor would I know when to get off. I asked the bandit for a heads-up and hoped that he understood what I said.

So far the whole bus ride process was taking much longer than expected. In fact, I was already too late to make it to the meditation. But when the bandit shouted out to me this was my stop, I jumped off and began walking towards the monastery.

The Lonely Planet maps are decent, but just vague enough that I never seem to be able to follow them to my destination. Even though I use a compass, and measure my distances carefully (every 2 minutes of walking is a tenth of mile), I still have serious troubles. This morning I thought I was on the right path, but after walking for way too long it occurred to me I was off-course. I asked several people for directions, but no one could speak english nor did they know the monastery I was asking about.

I had assumed Rinpoche was a celebrity in this Buddhist community, and that his famed "White Gompa" (monastery) was a landmark. But I was wrong. An air of desperation came over me. What do you do when you don't know where you are, no one understands what the hell you are saying, and no one can tell you where to go? When in doubt, eat!

Fortunately, along my way I passed by the Saturday Cafe, a bakery that I remembered from my friend Jim's blog as being a great little place with a nice roof-deck and delicious food. So I decided to postpone the hunt for the monastery and instead go enjoy some breakfast. It was just as good as Jim said and the view from the roof-deck was surreal. Thousands of Tibetan prayer flags were strewn across the sky, connecting to the the golden dome of the large stupa (enormous white block structure) that was just a stone throws distance away.

After a nice breakfast I was recharged and committed to finding the monastery. Missing the meditation was inconsequential, but my only real goal for the day was that I wanted to find out details about a retreat taking place in December. Armed with compass, map, and directions from the waiter, I would not fail this time.

Heading north from the stupa, I came across several red-robed Buddhist monks, giggly school-children in uniforms, and the standard array of produce and curio vendors. Sitting on the side of this dirt road, a young monk was reading Buddhist verses out loud. He appeared impenetrable, like those English guards who look like statues, and I don't think he even noticed me watching him.

Turning up an unmarked back road, I come across a peaceful place that has a gate around a beautiful white building. Surely this must be the "White Gompa". I had arrived! A young Nepali man was arriving at the same time and we exchange smiles and namastes. He asks me what I am looking for and in typical-Nepali style, he kindly assumes the role of being my guide and interpreter, asking the gatekeeper directions to the main-office.

At the office I get all the details I needed for the retreat. December 5th, just show up. Everything else is tbd.

As we are leaving the office my new friend, Birjin, explains he comes here twice a week to see his "grandmother", a monk. She's not really related to him, but he comes to see her because she's lonely and has no family. She's 73 and has been at this monastery for the past 35 years. He asks me if I'd like to go meet her, and, of course, I'm game.

We walk down a corridor and find her sitting outside her bedroom. My first observation is that she's in pain. Birjin points to his grandma's room-- a bleak concrete space that is very dirty from top to bottom and has nothing in it but a bed, a meditation cushion, and a few metal cups in the corner. Birjin tells me that his grandma has problems with her legs and that she can't walk. Consequently, she has spent pretty much all of the past twenty years just sitting in this room. He welcomes me in and we sit down beside her bed.

It's clear that she's delighted to see him. But once they begin conversing, I find myself totally perplexed. I'm trying to imagine what they are saying, projecting an American conversation over their foreign dialect. But it doesn't work. His grandma would speak passionately for twenty straight minutes without pause, while Birjin bobbed his head listening. And then all of a sudden, he'd start flailing his warms and respond in strong-speach, conveying what seemed like anger or frustration. Occasionally one of them would laugh, and then the fiery-exchange would resume. This carried on for well over an hour. All the while I was expecting at any minute for either of two things to happen. Either she'd whisk him out of here and say angrily "Get lost!". Or he will suddenly rise and say "I'm out of here!". Neither of which actually happens. I've been following this exchange patiently for a while, and now my bones are aching from sitting so long and I'm a little bored. But I'm fascinated by their conversation and am committed to hanging out till they are through.

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a miniature monk who asks if we'd like to eat lunch. Though I just had breakfast a short while ago, how can I refuse? She brings three large plates of food and Birjin reads my mind. He asks, "Can you finish all that? Because it's not good to leave food on your plate." I tell him that a smaller plate would be good and he gives his grandma the enormous plate and passes me a smaller one.

Watching that woman devour her food was nothing short of extraordinary. Birjin says she has a hearty appetite and it makes my belly ache just watching her. The food was tasty though- rice, dal, spinach, and red-pickle sauce. I surprised myself in finishing all of my food because i really wasn't hungry at all.

Once we're through with lunch, Birjin says goodbye to his grandma and invites me to come with him to Baktapur, his hometown. I'm intrigued because I've been wanting to visit this mystical mountain town and I like the thought of accompanying a local. I ask how we'll get there and if he has a car, but he just says, "Don't worry," and we begin walking.

At the center of town we hop on a bus-- a very hot and crowded bus. Off we go. As we head towards the mountains, I keep waiting for the city sprawl of Kathmandu to recede and arrive in a place that is actually green and healthy. I thought I'd experience this on our way to Baktipur, but I was wrong. In fact, the noxious fumes of carbon dioxide and the clouds of dust blowing in through the window inspire me to put on my respiratory filter mask, which I pretty much always wear when out and about.

An hour east of Kathmandu, the majestic foothills of the Himalayas come into focus and we arrive at Baktapur. Birjin surprises me when he says, "My brother just called me and needs me to do some work for him. I gotta go, so enjoy your time in Baktapur, and if you stay the night give me a call."

Stay overnight? That wasn't in the cards. I thought this was just a day trip journey. As is often the case with these Nepalese, they are so kind and sincere that I yield to them, but then I'm left with this strange feeling of "What the hell just happened?" As it stands, I paid for both legs of our bus fares, he walks off, and now I'm standing on a dusty road far away from my hotel room and all my stuff.

But as I begin walking towards the ancient Old Town I realize immediately that this place has serious magical charm. And besides, I really have no desire to head back into crazy Kathmandu.

So I buy a toothbrush and toothpaste, and begin walking through this ancient village looking for a place to stay. Up a cobblestone path, and through narrow-winding roads lined with incredible Newari temples, shrines, and architecture, I'm taking it all in and loving every step. The roads are too narrow for most cars, so it's peaceful, and the town feels like it might as well be 1200 AD.

I find a nice room and spend the rest of the day and night wandering these streets travelling through time.