Teej!

I've been meaning to post this since I was in Nepal a few months ago!








       When the music first began, I was worried it would stop before I’d get a chance to document it. K and I were practising in our room. I was itching to finish and race out to the balcony to record this strange occurence. The music was like nothing I’d ever heard--it rose up from Bhanjang as though to the heavens--this blasting Nepali pop. Little did I know I had nothing to worry about, as the music marked the first day of Teej, beginning at 8AM the first day and not ending until the night of the third! Instead of worrying that the music would end, I soon began to worry about my sanity-or lack thereof-as just a handful of songs were roatated at an ear-splitting volume over the next few days--ultimately boring into my brain.
From what I’ve been able to glean, Teej is a Hindu festival for woman which lasts for three consecutive days. During this time, the men supposedly stay home and cook, and the women dress up and go to temples to pray to Shiva for a good husband and/or the health of their families. The married women dress in shimmering red saris accented with green, moving through the streets of Pharping en shimmering masse. In the evening, the women and girls gather together and dance (to said blaring music).
In Bhanjang, the little village down below Karma Chagme’s monastery, two enormous speakers had been set up in front of the shops in the dirt. They stood there, blasting their music through sun, fog and rain. It was the music from these speakers that I heard that first morning (and the next, and the next). Along with the addition of the speakers in Bhanjang, across the street below the school, a tent was set up next to a small shrine. Banners of triangular colored cloth crisscrossed the street.
In the morning, the music was the soundtrack to the villagers going about their daily routines--the women spreading cobs of bright yellow corn, husks and wet sheets on roofs; sitting in the sun combing their freshly washed, impossibly long black hair; dogs chasing small chickens; laundry hung to dry; men standing around.
Throughout the day, the tent slowly began to fill, first with jubilantly dancing little girls holding hands twirling in frilly dresses; then with more and more women, until evening when the tent became a mass of undulating red in the rain, while men and boys looked on.
Sitting on my bed, the music mixed with the sounds of the monastery: the blowing of horns, crashing of cymbals and thumping of drums by the young monks up in the temple. It mixed with the sound of K chanting along to a loudly playing recording of Penor Rinpoche and his monks chanting and playing instruments--resulting in the most horrific cacophony I had ever heard.
Even after K and I had threaded our way through the lush green fields, where dry cornstalks towered above us and rice grew to our waists, where white cranes flew and goatherds tended their goats, to the other side of the valley, we could still here the music! Even as we walked through the neighboring village of Drolod and climbed up scaffolding whose safety we questioned, to the top of the 118 foot Guru RInpoche statue being built, there was still the music’s echo.
      Last night, Teej ended with the women down in the tent singing and clapping out rhythms. What did Teej teach me? How lovely silence is! It made me miss the whirring of crickets, the cooing of pigeons, the occasional honk of a horn going down the mountain.

Backtracking...

Here is another old-ish story I'm in the process of working on. I might have posted bits and pieces of this before back in 2008:

In the summer, one of my teachers laughed, said, “Are you sure?” when I said I was going to Tibet. “But the roads are so high—you’ll get sick...” “Yes, of course I’m going!” I laughed in disbelief.

But first, we were in China, in Chengdu, trying to recover from jet lag. In Chengdu, there was never any garbage on the streets. It was orderly. There were trash cans and recycling bins and people in orange vests sweeping with twig brooms taller than themselves seemingly day and night. In Chengdu there was pomelo fever, a strange fancy Pizza Hut. At Air China's cashier window, they counted Keith's money on an abacus.

In Chengdu, our hotel included huge buffet breakfasts: egg fried rice, tiny bits of bacon dripping grease, prune sticky rice wrapped in tiny banana leaf packets, fried dough buns, huge sections of pomelo and tea mixed with sweetened condensed milk as rain streamed off eaves. After breakfast, I cupped my hands, let them fill with water, washing the stickiness away.

But soon it was time for us to head to Tibet. We had our Lonely Planet guide. We had Keith's rudimentary Tibetan. Armed with that, and packets of ramen, bread, peanut butter and acetazolamide, we boarded a bus.

On the bus along the Tibet-Sichuan Highway from Kangding to Chengdu, there were strange Tibetan music videos playing. We passed billboards of smiling Tibetans next to Chinese military men and women. Huge sacks of fresh walnuts for sale, kiwis and kiwis and kiwis.

It was eight hours from Chengdu to Kangding--an historical border town between China and Tibet. With those eight hours came a huge gain in elevation. We arrived in the city at 8,400 feet.  In Kangding, the source of the Mekong, the Dza Chu River, flowed through town and mountains rose all around, Buddhas painted upon them.

There were only a few hotels approved for foreigners. And so we stayed in a shared room at the Black Hat guesthouse with two American girls who taught English in Chengdu. The room had brightly painted old-style wooden beds and wires sticking out of the wall with a note below that said in English, "Do not lick."

In Kangding, I had no idea what day it was. I went to a Tibetan restaurant downstairs from a hotel and drank Lhasa sweet tea from a tall clear glass while Tibetan music played noisily. It was fall. It was cold. I warmed my hand on the glass. I had a headache. Outside the street bustled with honking cars while I waited for my breakfast of scrambled eggs with tomato and tibetan bread with yak butter. There was an ATM and yak momos oozing buttery meat juice.
 
In Kangding, street vendors sold round potato slices on skewers that had been fried in hot oil. Girls had unbelievably long pony tails. The Tibetan waitresses sang while working. The streetlights had mantras on them--prayers glowing in the dark. There were Chinese shops of jewelry and tea bowls. Malas and rugs. A whole shop of bizarre plastic curtains--all hanging throughout the store so you had to walk through as though in a maze. Tea shops full of smoking men in suitcoats. A whole shop of stuffed, standing Tibetan antelope wearing yellow khataks.

Somehow, we ended up meeting the Dalai Lama's step-nephew. He helped us buy bus tickets, took us for tea, bought us dramamine for the next bus ride which would take us deeper into Tibet.

No Longer Home

On the plane we watch ourselves propel down the runway on a huge TV screen, watch the earth drop until houses shrink and clouds drift over. It's already the future in Tokyo-- the morning of Nov. 24^th, 2004.

A strange meal at 11PM. We already had lunch and dinner--so this is lunch #2, or midnight breakfast? Seafood pasta with fruit and green tea and a sweet bun.

Two cups of orange juice, one cup of apple, two cups of seaweed-ey green tea, one small bottle of water later, and we're almost there. Japanese stewardesses demonstrate "relaxing stretching exercises" while Keith watches sumo wrestling and I listen to the Cure.

These are the things I remember--a fiftyish Japanese lady wearing a lime mink coat, fuschia lipstick, mule high heels covered in pearls. She was on the plane with us from NYC and helped us take the right train from Keisei to Ikebukuro.

On the train from Narita to Tokyo--green everywhere, clothes hanging to dry. Schoolgirls in blazers, plaid scarves, unbelievably short plaid skirts. Kids on a seesaw, huge Coca Cola billboard and still a haddock sky listening to Spiritualized. A parking garage full of bikes. Playgrounds and the sky a circle of flame orangepink.

The walk from Ikebukuro to our hotel down tiny alley-like streets with little vans and kids on bikes and boys on scooters. Every couple feet, at least three vending machines full of coffees and teas and juices and cigarettes and beers. The floor of our $100/night hotel room entirely covered in tatami mats. A tiny TV, an even tinier bathroom. Pokemon telling the weather on the news.

In the bathroom at Damaru restaurant there was a tiny tree growing out of the lid of the toilet where a spigot came out, continuously watering...Uniformed men sweeping leaves off sidewalks with homemade looking brooms. Women in kimonos with white socks and wooden sandals.White surgical masks over faces, even on fashionable teens. Little girls in sailor uniforms. Pachinko parlors. Babies in bike baskets. Revolving sushi in Shibuya—it was Thanksgiving and this was the only deal in Tokyo. And everything crazy Christmas. Trees covered in popping blue lights. Eating my parent's homemade oatmeal cookies all over Tokyo. No one eats on the streets and no cell phones ring on clean subways. The "Casual, Sporty, Lazy" shop in Ikebukuro. So many schoolgirls in uniforms. The girls' plaid skirts just below their bums. And all in penny loafers and knee socks--one girls' are navy with tiny pink playboy bunnies. Tokyo a mix of the neonest of neon, crazily rich dressed kids, and cleanliness. Uniformed men vacuumed subway floors and scrubbed under windows on their hands and knees with toothbrushes. Ultimately, I freaked out in Shinjuku--Tokyo's Times Square. After being dizzy from jet-lag and nauseated on weak knees by countless bowls of plastic food outside restaurants, McDonalds became my savior for the first and last time in my life. The cheeseburger and fries tasted American all the way as I looked down on thousands of people exiting a stadium, my head swimming. Soon, I was able to descend back into the heart of consumerism where high-pitched girl voices blasted on street corners from invisible speakers.

After my transaction at the currency exchange in Narita airport, a staid older man who worked there said, "For you--we were open yesterday," and handed me a bottle of Evian water....?

Our last morning, on the train to Narita--7:30 AM and everyone asleep, heads falling forward--the girl next to me leaning into my shoulder. And there was a boy about eleven in his school suit standing up, eyes closing,  his cheek smeared on the window of the door, his face so pure and innocent and he slouched, jerked awake.

An Old Story/Just One Kiss?

We had been in South India a little over a week and had recently moved into Tsepal Tobkyed Hospital—across the street from the gates of Namdroling monastery. You might be wondering why rooms were available, or why one might even want to live in a hospital if not sick. The reason is that although it had been open for two years, the hospital still only had one doctor, not much equipment and few patients. And so besides a few little TB monks on the bottom floor, the rest of the hospital was gloriously empty, new and clean. And so this is where we lived.

The hospital backed onto a large field where monks joyously played cricket or squatted in the field peeing. To one side was a spot full of garbage. But on the street side of the hospital was a yellow gate, opposite of which was a small booth where a “guard,” (as the monk manager of the hospital liked to call him) sat. There were two guards who worked twelve hour shifts 7-7 and who switched off every other week.  They were both older men. One of them often spent most of his shift in an army-looking olive green uniform, complete with beret. The other wore a similar outfit, minus the beret. At night, and about two hours before their shifts ended, they switched back into their street clothes--Mr Rogers style. The guard who didn’t wear a beret, had a silver handlebar mustache and rode a Pee Wee Herman-like bicycle to and from work. It had pink plastic streamers at the handlebars and was covered in small neon plastic flowers. It was sweet.

So one morning about eight, I’d gone across the street to the monastery to try to find my friend Yulia. Being unsuccessful in my hunt, I returned to the hospital. As I was about to walk inside, I saw the guard (the one with the bike) standing outside, by a room towards the back of the hospital. I decided to ask if he knew if the electrician was coming (at that time, despite all the hopsitals pluses, we had no electricity in our room). I wasn’t really sure what the guard said, as his English was spotty, but I did catch that he asked me if I’d like some tea. I’d just been wishing for some, so I couldn’t help but say yes. The guard invited me into the room. It guess it was where he and his fellow guard changed their clothes. His bicycle was in there, draped with a cloth. There was a small kerosene cooker, a small desk, and on it a large plastic jar filled with sugar and a few plain cookies. “This could become interesting—maybe the guard and I could be friends,” I thought to myself, looking around contentedly, watching the guard make tea. Meanwhile, he was saying, “Coming from? America?” telling me he was going to come visit me, and asking where my “husband” was.

At this point, the tea was ready. I was happy because it had come to a roiling boil and I had seen the guard take a metal cup and rinse it out with bottled water, so I felt safe in the fact that things were fairly clean and I had no reason to think I might get sick from this little tea party. But then the guard went into an adjoining room and came out with another small metal cup. He had a horribly dirty looking pink rag in his hand, which he held up to his mouth and coughed into, and then proceeded to use to wipe the cup with. I felt a little sick. The guard then set the two cups side by side, poured in the piping hot tea, and handed me the nasty cough-rag wiped cup! I was certainly grossed out, and more than a little worried about possibly contracting TB, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and I had already agreed to drink tea with him, so I took a tentative sip as he heartily urged me to drink.

The guard then opened the plastic jar and took out a few sketchy looking cookies, saying I must have a biscuit. He then asked if I liked rum tea. “Is this rum tea?” I gasped.“No,” he assured me. “But if you want, come tomorrow.” I told him that no, I didn’t want—but thanks, took another small sip, and said I had to go. He said I must finish my tea, but I said I couldn’t. “You know, too much tea makes me feel  weird, “ I said lamely, laughing uncomfortably.

As I was about to walk out the door, the guard said, “One kiss?” inclining his cheek towards me. “Uh, sorry, no!” I laughed, even more uncomfortably. “Just one kiss?”

From the Vaults

A Bangalore Family Dinner

Keith and I had just disembarked from the plane, upon arrival in Bangalore—finally in India after much anticipation/trepidation. Our first experience was typical of India in so many ways, although we didn’t know it at the time.

Upon exiting customs, we found ourselves stuck in a very long line—mosquitoes buzzing our ears. Little did we know, the line was simply to go down an elevator. For some reason, only a few people were allowed down at a time.

During this extensive wait, the man standing ahead of us struck up a conversation, asking where we were from, where were we going? What were we doing? Saleem told us he was from Bangalore, but had lived in Seattle the last several years. He’d gotten married a year ago in India, had stayed with his bride a few weeks for a honeymoon and then returned to Seattle—but now he’d finally come home for a vacation. After telling us his story, he proceeded to give us all his and his wife’s contact information in both India and Seattle, told us we should call him if we ever visited Washington. We then asked how we could get to a hotel near the city bus stand. He said he’d tell us what to do after we got our bags.

When we finally made it down the escalator, we began a new wait at the tiniest and slowest of baggage claims (this was at the old Bangalore airport—now there’s a new modern, gleaming fancy one). Saleem seemed to have disappeared. So much for him helping us, I thought to myself as I squatted on the floor waiting for my backpack while Keith exchanged our remaining Thai bhat into rupees. Happily, by the time we’d retrieved our backpacks, Saleem had appeared out of nowhere with several large suitcases. We helped him carry his vast amount of luggage, until he was stopped by a security guard. Saleem told us to continue on into the lobby whilst still carrying his bags and to wait for him there. Keith and I exchanged looks, hoping there was nothing illegal in the bags which were now in our possession.

But after some time, Saleem came, welcomed by a large crowd of men who relieved us of his bags. He then introduced us to his friend Umashankar, saying he’d take care of us. Saleem was then immediately swallowed up by a huge group of women and children outside. The friend, Umashankar, looked none to happy at the job which had just been thrust upon him. Nevertheless, he fended off all the taxi drivers swarming us, brought us to an autorickshaw and told the driver to take us to a certain hotel, haggling over the price of the ride. He also got the rickshaw driver’s cell number and gave us his card. We were in an extremely foreign country, for the first time, and we had absolutely no idea where we were going, but we were off.

We’d only been driving a few minutes when the driver’s phone rang. It was Saleem, wanting to talk to Keith. How odd, I thought. He wanted us to come to his family’s home for dinner. As we were still on Thai time, it was already 11:30 PM for us, and we were exhausted. But we figured we’d just roll with it, we were in India afterall, right? So Saleem talked to the driver again and told him of a gas station where we would meet Umashankar.

After about twenty minutes, Umashankar rode up on a motor scooter with a kid on the back who got off and hopped into the rickshaw with us, telling the driver where to go and making sure he didn’t lose sight of Saleem’s friend as we sped down the road, twisting and turning into alleys full of cows feasting upon trash.

Down one last muddy lane, and we had arrived at the family home (Umashankar kindly paying the driver despite our protests), only to be greeted by Saleem, newborn daughter in his arms, as thought we were the long awaited prodigal family. We were ushered into a small marble-tiled house and introduced to extended family. We met Saleem’s young brother-in-law who could recite 250 pages of the Koran from memory without a single mistake and Noor, his sister-in-law who was nineteen, beautiful, and attending university. She spoke perfect English.

Perhaps I looked dirty, or at least bedraggled, as I was told to go wash up in the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Saleem’s wife took her plastic sandals off for me to wear. I wondered why, and soon discovered it was because when you flushed the toilet, the entire floor flooded. At dinner (now 1 AM for us), we were fed copious amounts of spicy curried potatoes, fish and who-knows-what-else. I thought I might choke to death on the thousands of tiny bones in the fish and Keith drank glass after glass of who-knows-where-it-came-from water. After dessert, we were ushered to the couch, offered cigarettes by the grandpa, who was shocked we didn’t smoke, and brought outside to meet Saleem’s mother, who invited us to her house next time we were in Bangalore.

Finally, Umashankar said he’d take us to a hotel. Everyone said goodbye and Noor said, “Don’t forget me!” handing  us her email address. Luckily, one of the family members owned a rickshaw. We piled in with our bags, and Umashankar rode next to us on his bike through the dark back streets. We ended up at an extremely sketchy looking hotel across from the Magistrate bus stand. Umashankar arranged the cost of the hotel with the sleepy desk clerk, warned us to be careful, and told us to call him in the morning (as he insisted he wanted to help us get a bus ticket to our next destination) before vanishing into the night.

"Karate Kid Puts Himself in Danger," says Keith

The other day Keith was supposed to go riding with Andy, one of his fellow interns. Andy was going to take him on a trail he'd never been on. Well, it turned out Andy couldn't go and so Keith took it upon himself to try and find the way himself, ending up on the wrong path and ultimately falling off his bike (almost down the side of a mountain). He ended up seriously gouging his knee and limping in the back gate all bloodied up. I almost had to take him to the hospital for stitches.

Then today Keith told me he really needed to get himself in shape and so was going on a more than thirty mile long mountain bike ride up "Puke Mountain" or some other such nonsense (because it's such a hard climb you want to puke) with some guys from work. He said he'd be home by six.

Well, 9:30 rolls around and still no Keith. "Maybe he got hurt?" I fleetingly thought to myself, then, "Nah."

No sooner had I thought that, then Keith staggered into the kitchen looking like Homer Simpson with a five o'clock shadow. "Geeze, how did you grow that beard in just one afternoon!" I exclaimed (it turned out to be dirt)!

Keith then proceeded to laughingly tell me how he was flying down the mountain at 35 mph and flew over his handlebars doing two flips and twists and flying fifteen feet down a cliff where he landed on a pile of twigs supposedly unscathed. "But I was totally fine," he protested when I fixed him with my evil eye. "No, but wait," he said. "I can't move my arm. Right after I got back on my bike I was going really slow and ran into a tree and hit my arm. Help me take my shirt off," he begged.

I then told Keith that I really don't want him going on any more crazy mountain bike rides and he said, "But the Karate Kid puts himself in danger!" You're no Karate Kid, Keith.

Despite the Protest---Songkran--"a time for cleaning and renewal"

Despite all the sad that has happened in Bangkok the last few days, it's the New Year here in Thailand.

Gangs of kids and adults roam the streets, water guns and water-filled buckets in hand.

Groups stand on the side of roads with hoses. Pickup trucks drive by full of water and people throwing it.

And don't forget the bowls of chalk ready to be smeared all over the nearest person.

Keith and I have inevitably been getting cooled down!

Somehow Keith and I Have a Knack For Trouble

The first time Keith and I came to Asia, we narrowly missed a hurricane in the Phillipines, the tsunami in Thailand, and then were stuck in Nepal with no internet, phone, newspapers, etc--when the king was trying to capture his ministers and shut the country down. Now...here we are in Thailand with the Red Shirts...

The first night we got to Bangkok about a week ago, Keith and I were on the bus from the airport into the city. We drove by tons of people seemingly camping in the streets--red tents everywhere. "What's going on? It must be some kind of festival..." I said.

The next day, Keith and I walked over to the main street close to where we're staying, in the hopes of catching a bus to Siam Square. No such luck--the entire street was full of these camped out Red Shirts. The Red Shirts want the Thai Parliament to disband immediately--they want the previous Prime Minister back and have been protesting in the streets of Bangkok for a month...

Keith said it looked like the Red Shirts were more interested in cooking than protesting--each little group had their own makeshift kitchen and freshly cooked food was everywhere. These people are sleeping on the street--living in the streets--whole families--it's insane.

Needless to say, Keith and I were unable to catch a bus to Siam Center that day. We ended up circling around to the Chao Praya River and catching a water taxi to the subway. Little did we know that the second Red Shirt stronghold was right in Siam--the giant malls there have been shut down for ten days.

At the time, everything seemed fairly peaceful. The next day, we walked through the protestors on the way to Wat Saket to do a tsog (a temple of Buddha relics)--protestors smiled and tried to hand me red roses.

Then we left Bangkok Friday night for an island. The previous day, the Red Shirts had stormed a TV station and police had used tear gas and water canons. So anyway, we left and headed to Koh Phagnan. We ended up getting scammed and had an arduous overnight bus/ferry journey. It was lovely to swim in clear warm water--but for some reason we felt a bit sad and empty the whole time there. To make matters worse--we got charged an arm and a leg for some scratches on the motorbike we rented! Thailand has been the epitome of samsara this time around. Anyway, we made it back to Bangkok last night...

Last night we got a room with a fan and through our open window, heard protestors angrily yelling through megaphones literally ALL NIGHT long! Then when I went to get my breakfast this morning, there was a motorcycle that had been set on fire at the end of Khao San Rd. There was a really sad vibe in the air.

I just read online that the day after we left, violence broke out between the protestors and the police. 21 people were killed and 800 injured.

You can be sure I'm not going to be walking through the protest anymore...In two nights we are off to Nepal.

IndiaIndiaIndia

On Monday we were in Calcutta. Our hotel room was clean. It was our refuge from the garbage outside, the exhaust in the air, the beggars grabbing keith's arm. But still, I was distraught. I cried, saying I hated India. But what I had forgotten was how much worse it would get.

That afternoon, K and I took a taxi 20 min. away to Howrah train station. I had a horrible throbbing headache which got worse and worse as we sat there, hours early for the Rajdhani Express. It was medlam in there--so horribly noisy and echoey--there were even cars inside. K and I sat on our backpacks and I felt dead inside--numb--so overwhelmed. On the train we got lucky as two seats by themselves on one side of a compartment were empty, and the family opposite said we could have them. The train men wore odd red flannel shirts and came 'round with tons of food and drink--although I had nothing except yogurt, tea and a few bite-fulls of dubious ice cream--as we'd brought our own food from a restaurant and I was nauseous. Finally my great hunger this whole trip had abated. As K said, India will get rid of all your desires. And so we unfolded the seats into a bed and layed down with pillows and blankets, my head throbbing as strange Italian sounding music was piped through the cars--harmonium sounding like accordian. The couple nearby reminded us not to travel to Bodhgaya (from Gaya) until the morning, as it was very dangerous--the Bihar bandits...

Off the train, they pointed us towards some hotels, telling us to go straight there and not to "entertain" anyone. Only the hotels directly across the street wanted $20 and were nasty. The owners mean when we asked where Hotel Vishnu was, refusing to tell us. After seeing a room at the second place--sonmoisy above a restaurant and right on the road--when we asked again where Hotel Vishnu was--the man said, "What happened up there!"--offended we didn't like his room. It was midnight-1:30 AM for us--still on Thai time...K floundered and I piped in, "It's just too noisy for us..." The man said he'd have one of his employees, "He works for me, he's not some other person," take us to a nice place one minute away--the Roxy Deluxe. The name sounded promising.

And so we followed the skinny man wearing a peach scarf around the corner, down a dark street lined with garbage to the place with "comfort"--as we'd been assured. The Roxy Deluxe had a room wit white sheets covered in streaks of black, the grates over the windows were painted yellow and black with mold, the walls had streaks of grime and the bathroom--oh the bathroom--had a toilet full of brown sludge and a nasty sink which let out just a trickle of water. All along the tops of the room's walls were long rectangular windows with no screens or glass, which spilled in huge shafts of light. The room echoed with the sounds of the street--trains and honking autorickshaws and worse, the sounds of the employees and other occupants yelling to each other, a movie playing unbelievably loud.

We took the room--as we were too tired, and it was too dangerous to walk the km to the Hotel Vishnu, or take a rickshaw. We took it, and were brought a mosquito coil for the floor. We donned mosquito nets for our heads, climbed into our silk sleepsheets, and gingerly pulled the filthy woolen blankets up to our chests.

How Quickly....

Heaven can turn into hell!

We had left Koh Phi-Phi and it's crystalline waters full of coral and rainbow colored fish--it's expensive everything and surly people behind...arriving on the unbelievably relaxed Koh Lanta. All the locals we met were full of smiles and sweet words and we had found a brand new thatched bungalow for less than ten dollars with a bathroom and a porch, complete with hammock and an incredibly long white beach across the street. It was so sleepy and laidback here, we couldn't believe it-- and the beach was virtually deserted.

As night fell, the full moon rose huge in the sky and we dined on the beach under the stars, lounging on cushions while soft music played and children scampered about. It was idyllic...we thought we'd landed in paradise.

After dinner that first night, we layed on the hammock together, listening to K's MP3 player. But soon enough I was tired and told K to meet me inside.

As I opened the door to our room, I immediately heard a very loud scratching noise coming from the oh-so-thin roof. It went on and on, as though some animal were trying to claw it's way into the room. I thought it sounded like it could be a squirrel, only there were no squirrels on Koh Lanta...K said it must be a big lizard or something. And so we went to bed. But the noise got louder and louder, witht he sound of breaking wood and whatever it was pitter-pattering back and forth, back and forth.

After an hour, we decided to go tell the front desk, hoping they could move our room as it seemed unlikely we'd be able to sleep. But reception was closed, and the only people around were the waiters and bartenders, all a little drunk. We told them something was on our roof and one of the guys came back to our room with us to check it out. On the way there, he said it was probably a cat or a rat. A rat!!?! What!?! Up until then, I hadn't been too perturbed, but as he sat on our bed listening, he said, "Yes, it's a rat. I can't do anything now, tell reception in the morning." As the roof led straight into our bathroom and there was a giant gap under the door, we got a little concerned that the rat might get into the room. "Oh, they never do, "he assured us.

How quickly things change. I thought, as I layed there that night in my own private hell. The rat had begun his work at 10, only taking a short break from 1:30-2:30. Other than that, he scratched and ran around up there like a madman until 6:30 in the morning, when the sun began to rise. Often, he sounded like he was bowling, rolling rocks this way and that. At other times, it seemed he was dragging a huge stick back and forth.

For most of the night, the rat hung out right above my head, gnawing away on the roof--giving me horrible visions of him crashing through and landing on my face with a thump!

P.S. He didn't--and since we switched rooms the next morning, we were rat-free and very happy!

Adventures in Transportation

We'd been warned to always take the bus by 7:30 in the morning--right after breakfast, and to catch it back up to Pharping by 3:00--advice from Khenpo Namdrol. "Otherwise too crowded," he had said, and I had joked about having to sit on the roof. Needless to say, K and I had not taken his advice seriously--sometimes leaving at 9 in the morning--smooshed into a nook of the bus--people flocking the aisles. And then sometimes catching the bus home around 5:30 (the last bus is at 7:00). Then too, K and I would be crammed into a two-seater with three--the aisles full--people on the roof. I thought I'd seen crowded.

So, K and I had spent the last two days in Kathmandu/Bhoudha--ending with a trip to Fire and Ice in Thamel where we ate buff veal lasagne and salad with lemon dressing like my mom makes at home--the best Nepal meal yet.

When we arrived at the bus park, it was still only 5:50--not too late, we thought. But the Pharping bus about to leave was already full with a few people standing in the aisles, so we decided to wait for the next one--our usual tactic which always guaranteed a seat.

It was after the bus pulled away that we realized that waiting for the next bus with us were at least 60 uniformed highscholers. We all stood there on the median that smelled like piss, by a woman squatting next to a candle, doling out peanuts and cigarettes. We knew it wan't going to be pretty when the bus arrived.

And it wasn't! Before it had rolled to a stop, the crowd rushed to the door, pushing--the school kids laughing. K got on before me, while one man climbed over me and one squeezed beneath my arm. Thankfully, Keith had secured us two seats by the back door. The bus was already entirely full with not an inch of standing room, but somehow more people kept squeezing in until my knees were shoved into people's bums and everyone was squeezed so tightly not a finger could be moved. People were even hanging out the door.

As we sat in the parking lot--I felt a bit claustrophobic--getting hotter and hotter. I could see a square of light out the door and as we finally began to move, for the first time ever, I yearned to gulp the polluted Kathmandu air.

We got to the 1st bus stop where the little beggar girls usually climb on and the conductor said something, and suddenly tons of students clambored off the bus and climbed onto the roof. K and I breathed a sigh of relief--yes, some space...but a moment later, just as many people who had gotten off the bus got on--more in fact! And with each stop more and more people managed to squeeze in. It seemed impossible that anyone would ever be able to get off...including Keith and I--who as you may recall, were right near the door.

At this point, I swear there must have been at least a hundred people on the bus. And I couldn't stop thinking what would happen if there was an accident and the bus tipped over. No one would be able to get off as no one could even wriggle a toe, never mind move. I felt truly anxious! Did people do this commute night after night? I tried to have compassion and stay calm. But it didn't work--I had to get off that bus! Up till then, K had been reassuring me, "Don't worry, at any time we can just jump off!" But it really didn't see possible.

We got to a stop and I told K that was it, I was getting off, but before I could push my way out, more people piled in and before we knew it K had 2 posters in his hand that weren't even his and he wasn't sure where they came from! And now we were really stuck, "Go, Go!" I urged K, but he said he couldn't move.

I guess I looked a little ruffled as a few people near me began to talk, looking in my direction. I imagine they were saying, "Look at that white girl--she can't handle our bus!" And the girl next to me rested her head on my shoulder. I don't know if to comfort me or because she was tired...
But I'd seriously had it. And at the next stop, the last one before heading up the mountain, K somehow found the owner of the posters, and then we wriggled our way out the door. K was none too pleased, but I didn't think it was too unreasonable to take a taxi from there, for $5.50... And it was the most wonderful taxi ride I have ever had in my life.

K says I need to learn perserverance and bravery, but i can't say I have any regrets about getting off that bus...!

Happy? Thanksgiving

After much debate, we decided not to go to Hatiban for Thanksgiving. Instead, we'd take the bus to Kathmandu, eat a nice lunch at Roadhouse in Thamel, and then go to Patan to pick up the missing flower for K's statue.

We got on the bus early this morning, slowly making our way down the mountain. As usual, more and more passengers got on until I was pressed against the window there in the last row, and the entire aisle was packed. We kept hearing teenage boys mention, "bhanda, bhanda," but didn't take it seriously over the Avril Lavigne songs emanting from their cell phones...Until we reached the bottom of the mountain and the bus creaked to a stop at the very outskirts of the city. Finally, when everyone began to jump out the back door, then we realized, "Oh, there really is a strike today!" much to our chagrin. Not a single person seemed perturbed that the bus could go no further. They simply started walking.

K and I stood there on the side of the road, kids in their school uniforms swarming by, laughing and talking. Unsure whether or not to try to venture into the city, knowing we could be stuck there if the strike lasted for days...Finally we decided to head back up the mountain and luckily, a bus came along that we caught, standing while we rode back up...

And so we decided maybe we were meant to go to Hatiban afterall...The Hatiban of my dreams I'd heard so much about. The Hatiban owned by the Bhutanese Dudjom Yangsi's father. The Hatiban that the old monk Sonam Drakpa had said there was no point going to because it's not like there was a stupa or anything there. From Hatiban you were supposed to have an amzing view of the Kathmandu valley. It was also supposed to be a fancy restaurant. In my mind, it would be the perfect place for a Thanksgiving in Nepal.

So we hopped off the bus at the place where K had assured me that Hatiban must have shuttles to get you up to it's spot on the top of the mountain. Wrong! And so we walked and walked up through the pine forest. It was lovely, but it sure was a long walk. Finally, we got there and I felt like I was in Thailand. There were flowers everywhere and small villas. The restaurant was beautiful and sort of like a ski lodge. K and I went to sit out on the pation in the sun. We were alone except for a few European men staring at the smoggy Himalayas through their binoculars.

Of curse there was no turkey--we knew that! And so after studying the menu, for some reason we decided upon pizza and garlic potatoes. Big mistake! Not only was it expensive--it was the worst meal we have ever had in Nepal and there's a good chance that the cheese on the pizza might possibly have been rancid!

Next, we continued through the woods, over a ridge, to the Yangsi's place. It was beautiful and silent and a Nepali man let us into the temple. But alas, the Yangsi was in Bhutan. And so we continued our walk, this time now picking our way down the mountain to Drolod. This was my only truly great moment of the day. It was amazingly beautiful walking down the side of this mountain--and so quiet. We stopped to sit for a few moments.

But eventually we reached Drolod and sat down on a bench to wait for the bus to come by. While sitting htere I suddenly heard a loud, "Thwap!" and quickly turning my head, saw a shopkeeper holding a rat by it's tail and killing it by beating it against the ground. He prceeded to throw it in the gutter and then just rinse his hands under the outdoor spigot. That was the best part of my Thanksgiving...

Damn-these pictures never appear in the right order!!!

A moment of peace in an idyllic valley towards the end of our journey....

K happy at Hatiban--before the food arrived...

Hatiban "Resort"

Thanksgiving dinner in all its glory...

At the Arya Tara School

The girls are aged 12-20. They are sweet and smiley (except one who seems sad). Under their zens, they wear identical red fleece jackets printed with the name of their school. Their heads are shaved. They are nuns.

As I enter the classroom, the girls jump to their feet and chant enthusiastically in unison, "Good morning Miss!" And today, one girl in class 7 sweetly said, "You look so pretty today Miss!" with other girls echoing the compliment and one girl saying I looked Japanese. Hmm...

After greeting the class, everyone continues to stand until I realize they won't return to their cross-legged positions on the floor behind their tiny wooden desks until i tell them they can sit.

After checking their simile homework assignments, i copy Langston Hughes' poem, A Dream Deferred, onto the board. What ensues is a discussion of the meaning of the words raisin, fester, sore, syrupy, sag and load.

Then I ask the girls to make a list of 5 of their dreams or wishes. In class 5, 3 girls finish before time is up and their lists just about break my heart. Both 12 year olds wish they could be with their families or return to their villages. The sixteen year old says she wishes she could watch television or read stories before bed....

Mmm Mmm Good

Tonight we ate buff momos at dinner. Afterwards, i said that I smelled butter, K said it smelled like cheese and it turned out Maya was eating cheese soup at the other end of the kitchen. Then Tsering said to Loppon that he had heard in Tibet, people eat rotten cheese with worms in it. Loppon seemed appalled and said that what Tsering had heard was false! asking him, "Would you eat that?" "No, rotten cheese is not good!" Loppon exclaimed, "But rotten intestines are very good!" he concluded. "What?" I yelped, aghast. And he proceeded to tell how Khampas make the most delicious of foods...

They grind up kidney, liver and lungs and then shove it into the baglike stomach of a dead animal. Then, they put the stomach back in the dead animal (usually a sheep) whose head is cut off, sewing the carcass up. Next, they put the animal in a very warm place and let it stay there 2 or 3 months. Finally, they hang it above the stove for a while so it smokes. Then, voila! delicious rotten intestines to eat with thenthuk!

Anything Really is Possible in Samsara or No I'm Not Good For Eating

Yesterday I was sitting in a circle of grass at the top of the rice paddies, writing the following:


the woman cutting the grass with a sickle. the wind. the bleating black goat. the long crazy bus horn. the chirping of crickets. the huge praying mantis. my wet hair drying in the sun. a slow headache brewing. the cook carrying squash from the garden, black soil clinging to it's fur. the women with shawls wrapped around their waists. the clothes I want made. children's voices echoing across the valley. and that goat. walking behind that running rooster on the shortcut to town this morning, a thin string trailing from it's leg. the furry chickens in the garbage, in the gutter. the lowing of cows. the hawks circling overhead. the wind. the sun. feeling a little sick. the dirty children. a girl washing at the outdoor spigot this morning. a leaking nose. the drums in the night. and the rustling of leaves. I need a plate. I need a cup. I need some dishsoap that's not a cake. I need some cake. I need some books. I need a movie. I need poetry. Two girls jumping rope with a chain. Am I catching a chill? My hair almost dry. All the pictures. Lakpa said his uncle's house was robbed one night when he slept at a relative's. The robber took everything--even the new underwear--leaving his old dirty ones in their place! Loppon said thieves dig up the sandalwood trees at Namdroling. I told how a robber crept through our house in the night. The clicking of the thresher? Avoiding milk tea making me sad. They're beating the ?stalks of ri...


So I wrote the above. Was in the middle of finishing that last sentence when BAM! something incredibly hard hit my head--so hard that the impact pushed the top half of my body forward. "What the fuck?" I yelled--pissed, thinking someone had thrown a rock at the back of my head--a big one. I quickly turned my head--no one there. I turned back around and saw a gigantic hawk flying a bit in front of me and immediately realized what had happened...


A giant hawk flew straight into my head. And it realy really hurt.


I don't think American hawks do this.


My head really fucking hurt. I decided I needed to go see Keith right away and as I walked to him--my head aching and burning--I imagined blood dripping down my hair. I mean, when a hawk divebombs your head, it really hurts. I can't emphasize this enough.


I burst into the Vajrakilaya shrineroom. "A hawk just flkew into my head!" I said.


"What?" Keith laughed.


"It just flew into my head!"


"That's great!" he said.


"Great? What are you talking about?!" I exclaimed.


"I think it's a good sign."


"A good sign!? How is it a good sign? It really hurt me! I just can't believe it!"


"Yeah, it's weird," he said and kept on with his writing. I, on the other hand, might have been in shock.


"Can you look at my head?" I asked. He gave it a cursory glance.


"Nothing," he replied. But it seemed to be hurting more and more with each passing minute and I really didn't think he understood the enormity of what had just happened! Keith kept writing and suddenly I was crying.


"What's wrong?" he asked.


"I'm really upset! A hawk just flew into my head and my head hurts! And also I just took a shower and washed my hair and now I have hawk germs!" I sobbed--perhaps a bit dramatically. But really, I do spend an inordiante amount of time here trying to keep myself, my clothes and my few possessions clean. And the last thing I needed was a hawk flying into my head. I really was distraught. I'd been having such a beautiful time sitting there writing in the sun. And then BAM! Like a ton of bricks slamming into my head. I felt like it was a metaphor for this whole trip...


But what really drove me to distraction was people's reactions to this incident. Soon after the tears, as K was taking me back to the room to my complaints of, "I'm lucky I didn't get whiplash!" and "I could've gotten a concussion from that thing!" we came upon Tsering and Lakpa. I told them what happned. But they didn't seem surprised--or impressed. "It thought you were something," Tsering sniffed, nonplussed. "Very brave bird," Lakpa commented.

"Brave bird!" I laughed. "I just can't believe it--have you ever heard of a hawk flying into someone's head before?"


"Birds of prey, you know?" Lakpa said. "Sometimes vultures, they take people's eyes."


"What!?" I squealed.


"When they're dead!" Keith laughed.


"No, alive. birds of prey, you know?" Lakpa said in his Indian accent, bobbling his head at me...

The Whistle

As Maya showed us our room at Khenpo Namdrol's guesthouse for the first time, she handed us two large skeleton keys, cautioning us to always keep the door to our room locked, as well as the outside hallway door, AND the sliding red metal gate. "Hmm...that's a lot of locks!" we thought.

That night, Khenpo sent Lakpa over, the Nepali worker monk who speaks English and went to Catholic school, to our room to explain about which lights worked on the battery when the power was oof. Lakpa requested that we, "On," the porch light each evening so the night guard could see around our building. As the light is directly outide our window, we weren't too pleased, but "On," it we did. Lakpa reiterated that we must keep the doors and gate locked at all times, as our building was, "On the main road," he said, pointing to the small apth running next to our guesthouse and down through the rice paddys. "Many thieves," he said. "But don't worry, the night guard has a whistle."

Then, two days ago, Lakpa announced at dinner that he was moving onto our floor that night--to sleep in the kitchen and make sure robbers didn't take any supplies from the nunnery being built behind the guesthouse. "So you're going to stay up all night looking out the window?" I asked. He said that no, he could sleep.

After the first night, Lakpa reported there'd been no robbers. Then, this morning at breakfast when I asked how he'd slept last night, he said, "Very well thank you."

About fifteen minutes later he told me, "Oh, there were thieves last night."

"Thieves!?" what happned, I asked in surprise.

"There were three, but they ran away."

"Three? Trying to steal the rebar?" I asked.

"No, they broke into the temple!" he replied.

I'd heard the guard blowing his whistle in the night, but thought nothing of it as the guard blew his whistle a great deal each night. "To make sure the thieves know he's there. If they hear his whistle, they won't come," Lakpa had told me.

But come they did--jumping the gate, breaking the lock on the temple door, and scattering the mandala and it's pearls all over the floor. But then, the night guard whistled...and they ran away empty handed.

A Trip to the Derge Hospital

Keith was definitely sick.

We were at 13,200ft--even higher than Lhasa--what felt like the highest city in the world--in Derge, Tibet.

In Derge, rich looking women wore black velvet aprons over leather chupas. Gobs of coral and turquoise in their hair and ears, silver sheathed daggers hung from waists.

In Derge, sweetness. Smiles and tashi deleks. All the children laughing, calling hello after us.

The people of Derge had cell phones and TV's, electricity and washing machines.

But what maybe they didn't have the need for, and certainly did not have, was adequate western health care.

Keith had been coughing and coughing and I was starting to get sick too--so we decided we should get checked by a doctor. Easier said than done.

Down in the hotel lobby we asked the Tibetan girl manning the desk for a menkang (hospital) or menpa (doctor). "Meo, meo" she kept saying in Chinese, although ironically, there was an ambulance parked directly outside.

Next to the front desk, there was posted a sign with numbers to call for tourist information, medical emergencies, first aid, etc. We'd tried these numbers from the phone in our room--but to no avail--after two weeks in China we still couldn't figure out how to use the phones. We gestured for the girl to call one of the numbers on the hotel phone. She kept chanting, "No, no," shaking her head.

At this point I was overwhelmed by a sense of fear--we were so far from anything and we just couldn't communicate--what if something seriously bad happened! I must admit, I succumbed to tears (not the first or last time on this trip). At that moment, two Chinese men came into the lobby, curiously eyeing me. Keith tried to tell them we needed a doctor and miracualously, one of the men knew that word in English. A look of recognition passed over his face and he wrote something on a piece of paper for us, gesturing for us to show it to a taxi driver.

So we hailed a taxi and were driven just about 2 minutes up the road to what looked like an abandoned building, with a gate drawn across the entrance. "That place?!" we gestured in disbelief. The driver shook his head yes.

So we got out of the taxi, not a person in sight. Keith pushed the gate open and we stepped through the threshold. It sort of looked like it could be a hospital--or maybe once was. There was what looked to be a pharmacy in front of us-but not a soul around. "Hello!" Keith yelled, and after a few minutes a Chinese man came down the stairs. He gestured for us to follow him across the street and down the stairs into another abandoned building and up some stairs.

He led us into a cold, dingy-walled room. There was a large aluminum ketttle on some sort of tiny burner on the floor next to a TV broken in half. In front of a window were two desks pushed together piled with stacks of papers. And seated facing each other at the desks were two people in white coats--a Chinese man and a Tibetan woman. They appeared to be doing paperwork and didn't look up when we entered the room, continuing with their paperwork.

Our escort finally got their attention, speaking rapidly in Chinese. The woman stared blankly at him, then us, then laughed. The man kept on with his work, ignoring us altogeher--a frown darkening his forehead. Keith looked through his guidebook for the words for sick and we showed them our card from the Global Doctor clinic in Chengdu that asked in Chinese if they would please call their number (the clinic had told us their nurses could translate for us 24 hrs a day). Finally the male doctor looked up, appraising us with a disgusted look on his face. Then all three shook their heads saying, "Meo, Meo." "We're sick," I futiley said, and yes began to cry.

Although my tears caused the two doctors to look even more disgusted by us, they luckily seemed to move our escort as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number. But alas, his phone didn't work. So he made the woman get out her phone and this time the call went through! She spoke in Chinese and then passed the phone to Keith who tried to explain our situation to the nurse.

After about 45 min. of back and forth on the phone and Keith prodding the doctors to check our vitals--a very cursory listen of our lungs with a stethoscope and a checking of blood pressure, the female doctor kept furrowing her brow, jotting words on a sheet of thin prescription paper, then scratching them out and shaking her head. She'd intermittently say something to the male doctor who would ignore her and keep writing. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he gave a deep sigh, stood up and examined my lungs.

After another forever of suppsed consultation on prescriptions (without any word about why or what), the escort and female doctor ushered Keith outside and told me to stay where I was in the room with the surly male doctor, sitting on some sort of desk against the wall.

The kind doctor and I spent a silent 30 minutes together. Him doing his paperwork, me rubbing my mittened hands together to stay warm--wondering where had they taken Keith and why wasn't he coming back...

A Few More Words About the Tro-La Pass/Jenn's Version

In Kangding, the Dalai Lama's step-nephew told us that when we saw the view from the top of the Tro-La, we'd want to get out a cloth.

It seemed he meant get out a cloth to lay down on and bask in the view...But in my experience there'd be many other uses for such a cloth.

1) To dry the tears cause by complete and utter fear.
2) To cover my eyes.
3) To wipe, after wetting myself.

On retreat, Karma Kuchen asked more than once if I was really going to Tibet--with a sort of chuckle. He warned we might get sick, and that the mountians are very high.

But no one mentioned that the Tro-La Pass is a dirt road which does not realize guard rails exist (oh, except for at the bottom). Add snow, a busful of smokers, a more than 16,000ft vertical drop, the driver trying to squeak by trucks on a very narrow road, and you have a recipe for Jenn's greatest nightmare come true.

Not to mention K and I were in the last row of seats over the rear axle where it was so bumpy we were repeatedly flung off our seats into the air. Oh, and don't forget the slightly creepy Tibetan boy whose knees were pressed into mine, head on my shoulder when asleep. Singing songs, smoking, and mumbling words in English such as, "Best friends. Forever friends. Faraway friends" when awake.

Keith said there was at least one good thing about the Tro-La. I told him I couldn't possibly imagine what it could be....He said that for the first time he really practiced as though about to die.

Introducing...The Damp

No, it's not a superhreo. Yes, it is a creature of the night...Slithering around when least expected. The sun's shining, and then before you know it, The Damp creeps up and in.

Before the damp arrives I do things that seem to make sense like wash dirty clothes by hand, then hang them on my clothesline. And then comes a small downpur. And now they're really wet. And then comes this: actually, i'm referring to the picture at the top with the crazy clouds. And then my clothes are REALLY wet. And so I put them in th drier for 45 min. But then somehow, they're still wet. And then they're hanging in my tent--still wet. And then it rains and rains and rains for days. And I'm afraid The Damp will never leave!

Something About My Face?

So last night Keith and I drove to McLean, Virginia. We were going to a tsog with Ralo Rinpoche's Taiwanese sangha. I was pretty grumpy as I hate racing home from work, gobbling dinner and then driving in traffic (while Keith studies in the passenger seat) to get there by 7:30.

So we'd arrived and made our usual stop at some grocery store I don't know the name of. As usual, I'd gone in to get something to bring for the feast we have at the end of the night. As usual, I was wearing my white shantab and was receiving lots of stares from kids and adults which I pretended to ignore.

I chose some tiny sticky looking donuts and stood in line. While waiting for my turn, I vaguely noticed that the cashier was an older asian man and exuded a really nice calm feeling. And then it was my turn and we said hi and I told him I didn't need a bag. I was noticing that his name tag said DOI and thinking that sounded like a Vitenamese name when he said, "There's something about your face....I can't explain," in heavily accented English. "Oh!" I sort of chuckled.

"Are you still in school? Are you working?" he hurriedly asked. "I just graduated..." I gleefully replied. "I see you are going to have a very good future..." he said oh-so-mysteriously. And goosebumps rose over me. "I hope so!" I laughed. "Yes, I see this," he said. "God bless you, have a wonderful night..." "You too," I said...

And he wasn't strange or creepy. I'm really not one to believe in fortune tellers. Like when my friend Sal who's going through a divorce insisted he had to stop and talk to the gypsy looking lady on the sidewalk in DC (and pay her money). But this felt different. He seemed so sweet and peaceful and true. Maybe I just want it to be true. I want it to be some sort of auspicious sign.

But I can't stop thinking about it. What did he see in my face? And what would "a very good future" mean anyway? Right now, I'm not sure what that would even look like to me. What would make me happy? Would it mean I get a book deal and somehow make enough money to pay off all my student loans? Would it be that I have a baby who makes me unbelievably happy? Is it that in the future I'll be able to live half in America/half in Asia? Does it mean that someday I'll become accomplished in Buddhism?

Keith said it must mean I'll be happy. And I'll take that. I'll more than take that.