Stars and Guns

Stars and Guns

The moon rose cloudy over metal. Dark, disinterested moon; no light of its own to show the world… I was just thrown here, so many millions of years ago, and why should I care a bit what happens below on a dark night like this. I have my own dreams to pursue... The shadowy trestle stretched out into inky blackness. Impervious giant, more shadow than steel. It served no purpose; it held no memories of racing monsters, belching black smoke. Itself no more than a wisp of smoke, a shadow structure, a figment of nightmare imagination.

Underneath it stood a girl, small, her back to the trestle. Pale face ghostly, ephemeral. She had only just materialized. Just awoken to this place within the shadowy trestle that served no purpose and the moon that was nothing but a dead lump in the invisible sky. She knew nothing; who, where she was... She was empty, filled with shadowy night. Her soul danced macabre geometry with her surroundings, gasped and retreated, made small by the steel giant. Yes, she was nothing, without purpose, empty as night and just as vague. Uneasy, she turned to her left, the hand most comfortable with darkness, and walked to find higher ground, perhaps more light, open space, less shadow. Her head cloudy, thick as gloom; she moved into darkness semi-blind, a coil, unwinding with cautious speed.

Shadows clung to everything, if it could be said that there were things to discern from shadow. To her left was a steep embankment, stretching forward in a high, straight perspective- quickly dissolving, straight to black; her only sure guide. To her right was nothingness, misty shadow, hanging, thick, wet.

Gradually the embankment became less steep and she scrambled up, slipping on the lush, wet grass. Tracks gleamed faintly metallic in darkness. Clouds blew overhead; thick wisps around the moon. If once the moon had shown no interest then she is the most fickle of creatures, for now if she noticed anything she only mocked... Why should I reveal myself to a world that can’t tell dark from light? To be sure, she was little less than a crescent, coldly beautiful, distant, remote, laughing; severe. By this halfhearted light the land lay on either side, flat and featureless. A dark line could be hills in the distance… a faint gleam from a far off river? It appeared the moon was right. Straight ahead the tracks led, one friend in a humorless world; the girl stumbled on, what else could she do? Stop, sit down; nothing? Wait with bowed head, like a sponge behind a faucet for an eternity of darkness to sink into her- as it was already beginning to do? No. She could follow the tracks, see where they led... She had a goal at least; if not a purpose. And this made her walk through the darkness.

After an hour, minute or eternity of shadow walking, a shape began to materialize from the mist ahead. It loomed large as she moved forward, half blind, arising from seven veils of shadowed mist that danced with enticing promise and threat. Wet black-green, a large round hill rose directly from fog above the tracks. From on top of the hill came a diffused yellow glow; warming her soul as hope swelled her heart. She moved with quickening breath and wide, alert eyes.

On the edge of the hill the tracks ended in soft grass. Green as emeralds, long as whispers, it sloped into shadow up the steep hillside. Upon reaching this soft place, the clouds dissolved like a bad dream and the sky filled with bright, luminous stars; the little sliver of moon glimmered benign. Silent peace reigned; being neither here nor there; she felt it sink into her like warm relief. A quietness of blessed eternity. Peace of darkness and bright stars. Peace that needed no fickle moon to illuminate its depths. She longed to lie down in the grass and gaze at the stars… to lose herself in the wide glittering expanse. Herself?
She who had been nothing,
… a shadow.
…She who had been a goal.
She, who could be nothing; peace, darkness, and bright stars…
She stood a few moments, lingering, unsure. She had only just materialized.
On top of the hill stood a large house with glowing windows…
…Sweet oblivion or reason. “This must be it”, she thought, “there must be a reason”.

Slipping, sliding, she managed to reach the top of the hill where the tall wood house stood firm, caressed by light mist, lingering low to the earth. The windows glowed warm, soft clouds of misty light. She stepped under one, went on tiptoe, craning, but the windows were too high to see inside. Enveloped by streaming light, shadows outside the stream were difficult to see. She stepped back into the gray area and looked around, but saw no door. She walked around the house, to the right hand side, and there she saw some broad, raw hewn wooden steps leading up to a large, roughly made door. The tall doorway’s deep threshold was inky black in contrast to the adjacent window’s warm glow. Her step paused, breath caught. It was a door you could fall into, and expect to keep on falling. But after so much silent darkness she longed for the sound and warmth she felt might lie behind it, if only it would open for her. She felt the raw wood reverberate as she moved up the stairs. She knocked and instantly the door was thrown wide open.

A smiling woman stood there, radiant as the evening star, welcoming her inside. Her smooth chestnut hair hung long down her gown of silver. A barely perceptible, warm shimmering mist surrounded her. “Welcome, welcome, come in dear child, we have been waiting for you!” The woman placed her arm around the girl’s shoulders and ushered her inside. “Just a moment dear”, she spoke with head tilted forward, gazing deep at the girl, with watery eyes. She turned and glided off, her smooth back and shoulders glowing above her elegant gown, a glimmering silver salmon darting through the crowd. There was something about this woman, something vaguely familiar. Something in the shape of her face, the color of her hair. Something in the warmth of her embrace, her voice, her eyes. Yet she was different, totally different. Exalted. The same. This girl, who was a mystery even to herself, recognized someone else. Someone who might have been and yet never was her mother.

And so briefly had she stayed. The girl stood there, with the room swirling around her. Yes, she had said she would come back. And so the dazzled girl peeped outside her swirling vision with myopic glances from downcast eyes. The shadows still clung to her. It was a spacious room, with sparse yet rich furnishings. Little tables were set by plush armchairs beneath tall standing lamps that gave a warm, bright light. Free of carpets, the broad planked wooden floor was rustic and unpolished, yet homely. Adjoining was another room where tables full of food and drink were set. There was evidently a party in full swing, as the house was full of well-dressed and somewhat flamboyant men and women. Left alone, not far from the door, again the girl felt small. She looked around at the guests. There was a high-heeled lady with big blond hair, wearing a mid-length white dress that dripped with diamonds and sequins. Her neck and shoulders were draped in a large white fox fur. She stood conversing quietly with a man in a long black tail-coat. They often glanced at the girl. Nearby there was a dark-skinned Queen, dressed in pale shimmery pink, and sporting a fluffy pink feather boa, a glittering tiara and white gloves. There was a large bearded man wearing a leather vest, boots, metal chains and tattoos. There were many ladies, all in glittering dresses, and equally as many gentlemen who shined. Everyone was smiling and having a good time.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by this sudden change, the girl wandered over to the tables and timidly enjoyed a small chocolate cookie and some fizzy fruit punch. In the midst of this festive crowd she felt lonely. Everyone seemed to notice her, a few smiled and nodded, so why did no one to speak to her? Where was the woman with the silver dress? She went to the window and gazed out, retreating into the familiar star-shadowed landscape.

A buzz in the room distracted her shadowy reverie. She turned from the window to see the crowd parting for the woman in the silver dress. She came out of another room carrying a large silver tray and headed straight for the little girl. The girl stepped forward to meet her as the guests gathered round. She gazed up into the woman’s soft familiar eyes and felt the shadows melt from her soul. The woman spoke with full tenderness in her voice. “Happy Birthday Xenea, my dear child. You may choose one.”

She lowered the silver tray and Xenea cast her eyes downwards upon it. Her vision became wider, encompassed the whole room with liquid clarity. Colors became vivid, beautiful. Objects were defined like clear gold and silver coins in a bright fountain, or colored pebbles in a sunlit stream. Outside was shaded night, cold mist on a vague landscape, but this room contained the colors and textures of rich celebration.

Time pivoted like a breath held from a gasp. A hush fell over the room, a hush in which stars could live and die, while time forgot to count. The moon could rise and set on a million black nights, and seasons could pass from scorching dust to moonless shadow and mist. Xenea gazed at the tray. On one side of the tray were arrayed shining silver stars; on the other were shiny black guns. She was allowed to choose one. The crowd was hushed and still. She lifted her hand and took a shining silver star.

The room burst into cheer. Jubilant guests came forward, smiling, laughing; each took a star from the tray as well and proceeded to leap out the back door, disappearing with their stars, their silver peals of laughter echoing lightly. The pink Queen caught Xenea’s hand and smilingly led her to the back door. Together they leapt into the night air, far out into the sky where their stars stuck to the inky blackness, growing large and shining with silver brilliance. One after another the elegant party guests flew out the door; shooting stars, a meteor shower over the valley! They perched elegantly on their stars or swung from the rays, all the while smiling and singing in a grand yet joyous harmony with high silvery tones.

The sky that had been so dark was filled with bright, twinkling stars. The house on the hill was quiet, except for the harmonious sound of the celestial choir, whose song floated in through the open windows, fluttering the curtains. The windows still glowed with warm light, but there was no one left inside. On a table lay the silver tray. It was half empty.

Rainbow Body Dream

...I was walking along the beach on a dark night without any moon or stars. The only light came from the white line of the breakers as they rolled out like parchment on the shore. The Ocean was on my left and a man was on my right. We walked in step, keeping time with one another. I never saw his face, but felt his height and his long dark hair. On the right there was also a row of houses bordering the beach, and each one was a restaurant. “No it’s not that one, no not yet”, I kept saying. Finally, I reached the last house where the beach ended and the piles of break-water rocks stretched out into the sea. It had golden orange cloths hanging in the two large windows on either side of the door, letting out a warm glow. They were covered with some sort of strange archaic writing, which I recognized, but could not name. “This is the one”, I said, and we stepped up to the house, went up the stairs, opened the door and went in. We were in a little dark room and someone was there to meet us. With a welcoming air he instructed us to remove our shoes, which we did, and then he led us through another, larger, dark room into a very special place indeed. It was a semi-long, softly lit room filled with candles, incense and a light that seemed to flow through the air.
There was a small crowd of people sitting on the floor, facing a rectangular platform that was covered in carpets and only about a foot off the ground. They were people of different nationalities, dressed in different types of ceremonial garb, some in white, some in darker colors. They held bells, small rattle like drums and other objects of musical and ceremonial devotion. They were chanting, a low resonant hum that vibrated throughout the room. Sitting like a mountain in the center of the platform was an old man, of Asian extraction, dressed in maroon and gold robes. “Lama”, I thought; I knew enough to say the word, recalled from some movie I had once seen about the king of lamas in a faraway Buddhist land- what was his title? Did they not have some problems there, some sort of struggle. Many people venerated this king, people I had known, they wanted to free his country- what was it called? But these were all dim memories, and at the moment they didn’t register at all. Right now I was awash with the sensation of what was happening. The lama exuded an aura of colored light, it filled the room and seemed to ripple out from him in long waves. A few people came forward and ushered me and my companion to the platform. We were seated on the platform, on either side of the lama, I to the right and he on the left. The lamas’ chant rose above and ran under the chanting crowd, it was as deep as could be, sonorous, resonant. It rose and fell with the waves of his aura. It penetrated everything, rearranging substance. The chanting grew louder, the intensity of the lama grew, exponentially raising the intensity of the crowd... the bells rang, the drums rattled, the room vibrated like an engine at full throttle. ...Wave upon wave of colored light flowed out from the lama, over them, through the crowd, mingling with the waves of the chanters own colors, mingling like ripples on a watercolor ocean.
Now the lamas’ energy focussed on my companion, although he appeared to be facing all directions at once. With the room vibrating at full power, it seemed as though the lama was transmitting some kind of energy to my companion. I swayed with the wave of it all... I knew my turn was next, and filled with anticipation. The lamas’ focus shifted to me, I looked into his eyes, saw the radiant smile upon his face, wrinkled and wisened.... And I felt, oh, I felt. I felt as a beam of color came forth from the lama and penetrated my root chakra, my sacrum. Later, I could not remember the colors, only the sensations. It felt like an utter penetrating warmth, a re-creation of every cell, an awakening that spread upwards as another color beamed forth from the lama, penetrating my lower abdomen. More warmth, more intense vibration, another beam, (golden?), filling my solar plexus, the seat of my two years of ill health. It swelled and swirled within me...changed me, vibrated me, became me, resonating me into its’ self, I turned into light, color, rainbow. Never had I felt such an exquisite sensation, I swayed with it, and as it reached my heart in some cool color, blue or green, I began to lose consciousness. I felt soft hands reach out to support me, and as the beams of light reached my throat and third eye I lost physical sight. I was dimly aware as they gently lowered me into a reclining position and then the white light subsumed me entirely. Bliss, pure bliss. Non-being, non-entity ...floating in white ...white ambrosia. I could not say how long it lasted, how long this deepness flowed in the light region. It was a place beyond time, beyond self. It could have been a few hours, five seconds, or an eternity. It does not matter. There was no awareness, only light that glowed with a translucent opalescence, and the light was everything. Slowly, slowly, I became aware of the light, and that awareness was consciousness, self. I floated up, out and awoke as if from sleep. I was in the room again, still lying on the platform. The lama and the crowd were gone, so was my companion- I had never seen his face! There were a few people left there, sweeping up rice and flowers from the floor. I raised myself and they came over to me. “What happened?”, I asked. “Oh don’t worry, it was only the ( )”, and they said some word I could not recognize, but I knew it referred to the energy transmission that had taken place.
The scene shifted. It was morning and I was walking up the steps to the front door of the house. I went inside, into the very same room. The platform was gone, light shone through windows along the right and far walls. The wood floor gleamed in the light, empty of furniture. But against the far left corner was a chest with an altar upon it. A woman was tending the altar, dusting a photograph, arranging flowers. She had light, mellow brown hair with a golden glow about her hair and her skin. I approached the woman. “Hello, I was here last night.... could you please tell me what happened to the lama, where is he?” “Oh, don’t you know?” The woman said with a twinkle in her eye, “He has left us.” I knew this meant he no longer was in the physical world.
Stunned, wondrous, I awoke to that which we call reality, the waking world. The wonderful sensation of the light still filled me completely, just as fully as the mystery. I had never experienced such a thing. Never felt so calm, so peacefull, so blessed. Yes, I was truly blessed. I felt as though I was made of light... and the amazing thing was, this feeling did not go away. For two weeks I danced on air, my feet scarcely touched the ground. Food could not pass between my lips, even a bite made me nautious. So, although this had never happened before, for two weeks I did not eat. I lost the twenty pounds I had gained during my illness and before. Finally, I felt the need to ground. I meditated, brought my mind to earthly things, drew up earth energy through my spine. At last I developed an appetite. But with it came a descent ...what goes up must come down, and even gods take human form.
Of course time passed in the physical world and I came to discover a few key words: Tibet, Buddhism, the Dalai Lama, Samsara. Having never felt myself to be a joiner, I did not rush out and “become a Buddhist”, but I did develop a personal interest- who could blame me? I dreamt once more that the lama came to me and had a few of his student monks teach me to fly, as he stood looking on approvingly. This was done in a shadowy maroon void, by raising ones arms and oneself in a feeling of lightness, then taking great leaps into the air...eventually you could fly- or levitate. I began to practice my own style of meditation, singing improvisationaly and chanting the one mantra I had learned: OHM AH HUNG BENZA GURU PEMA SIDDHI HUNG. Oh guru please grant me the blessings of your wisdom mind. While I chanted I visualized the lama giving me the empowerment. I began to realize that travel was a necessity to me, I needed to live for a long time in a faraway place and began to plan for it.

WHAT TO DO IN KATHMANDU

WHAT TO DO IN KATHMANDU

“What to do in Kathmandu”, sang the Israeli hippie with dreadlocks. We sat on the terrace roof of the temporary house of Baba Muni. Baba Muni was a Sadhu Baba, a certain breed of wandering Hindu holyman. Like most Sadhus his hair hung in dredlocks down to touch the lungi wrapped around his waist. Most Sadhus wear orange lungis, but Munis was white above his perpetually bare feet. The lungi is a rectangular cloth wrapped around the waist that comes down to the knees or calves, and is worn by Sadhus. It is worn by regular Indian men instead of pants on casual days. But Baba Muni was not your average Saddhu Baba, nor could he ever be. Baba Muni was German and his dredlocks were blond. For 15 years he had lived above a tiny village in the mountains of India’s northern state of Himalchal Pradesh, near to where the Ganges emerges from the foothills of the Himalaya. Although he was unusual, he was also the real thing. He lived in a small traditional house, with a red mudfloor and ministered to the local shrine. He bathed in a nearby stream, even during the cold days of winter, chopped wood, carried water, grew rice and vegetables and lived without electricity. He intoned the Sanskrit scriptures for villagers’ prayers- he even performed a local wedding. Sometimes he would go to the city to see his guru, or spiritual teacher, and stayed chanting in the temple with the other sadhus.
He said that since they had no phones, the Sadhus had to use other forms of communication when they wanted to meet. Once, while bathing in a stream he had a strong feeling to go to a certain shrine. He went there and when he arrived he found five or six of his Sadhu friends. They said they had been wishing he was there, to play his mandolin and sing holy songs with them. So they had consciously decided to call him with their minds. Another time he had a strong feeling to go and see his teacher in the city, but he delayed. The feeling became stronger and finally, by the next day he set off down the mountain. On the way down, he met his teacher coming up.
Then disaster struck. The local village official was replaced with someone new. This new official did not know Baba Muni or the good things he did for the community. He asked to see Baba’s visa, which of course he could not produce. At a moments’ notice he was deported back to Germany, leaving behind his most valued possessions- his guitar and his diary, which contained the story of all his remarkable adventures and from which he hoped to write a book. In Germany he finally found a donor to help him return to India. But arriving at the airport in New Delhi, he was refused permission to enter. So Muni wound up in Kathmandu, Nepal, the crossroads of Asia. What to do in Kathmandu?
I met Muni at the very end of my time in Nepal. I was in the post office trying to ship my boxes of books home via seamail, my fourth visit in four days. The bureaucracy there is really difficult to get through. One learns to have an infinite amount of patience at the times when one is not blowing one’s lid! At least they let me store the boxes in the post office over night. To relieve myself of the boredom of waiting I was listening to the music I had recorded the night before. I saw Muni standing there with his white clothing, blond dredlocks and bare feet, carrying a mandolin, and I put the speaker up to his ear so he could listen too. Kathmandu is just that kind of place. We left the post office at the same time and he invited me to join him with some others to play music on his terrace. He said he would cook. So I took his number, but I thought I would not go, I was far too busy. Later that night I saw him anyway. He was sitting in one of the cafes in the Thamel, the tourist district. Suffice it to say that Muni became a part of my circle of friends during my last month in Kathmandu. He was one of the many special people who I met in that city that seems to be a magnate for special people. Eventually I did try his cooking and it was phenomenal! Muni taught me about Indian cooking, (how to fry the spices first), and we compared recipes for kir- the spiced rice pudding.
But what was I doing for the previous fourteen months in Nepal? Why did I go? I went to Nepal to discover what it was like to live in a culture far, far away. I wanted to immerse myself in a place that looked, felt and smelled different. I wanted to adapt myself to a strange and different culture, learning their language, eating their food, learning their ways. That is just what I did and by the end of the journey, Nepal felt like the only home I had ever known. Indeed, arriving in Nepal for the first time, I really felt at home. But to be sure, I had not felt that way at the start of my trip when I arrived in New Delhi, India, to take a position as a kindergarten teacher for Swedish ex-patriots.
From my Diary: I go on a long journey, half way around the world. I will be gone two years; I leave my lover behind… After two days the hot, torpid sun is burning day and night. To leave was not a light, tripping , merry parade, whistling fare-ye-well into the sunrise; but weeks of wellspring eyes, clutching, fluttering, bird-heart choking- I have to go, I know I must go, my destiny awaits me there…
Getting off the plane for the first time in India, after a twenty-four hour flight, I was at first struck by the warm musty smell of the place. It smelled like hot, humid, gunpowder. Later I realized that the smell had to do with the sheer amount of car pollution one finds in these hot Indian cities. I was met at the airport by one of my Indian co-teachers and the schools’ founding parent. They put fragrant wreaths of flowers around my neck and led me past a few wandering cows to their private, chauffeured car. In New Delhi, people of means do not drive themselves, they have drivers. Our driver, a handsome young man named Santosh, (a common male Indian name), drove us into the hot, dark night at breakneck speed, blasting the horn at top volume every few seconds to warn other drivers, and dodging cows who slept in the roadways. We wildly careened our way to the south end of the city, where my employer lived in a large marble bungalow, in a guarded and walled off, giant garden enclosure. Behind the house was an old, overgrown rose farm- infested with cobras. After a few days he left me alone in the house with the servants, and flew off to Spain to meet his family. There I was. I had never been alone in a third world country before. I had wanted to experience a totally different culture, but I had thought I could ease myself into it. But, alone as I was, there was nothing easy about it. Let me tell you about culture shock.
From the lonely marble bungalow, among the cobra-infested fields of wild roses; South New Delhi, India, July 31st, 1997.

The strangest thing that disturbs me in this state of extreme culture shock is not the garbage heaps from which drooling cows and dogs eat, nor the shanty towns and endless untouchables with outstretched hands. Nor is it our palacial driver, who tries to cheat me out of rupees in scam after scam, drunk all the while as he careens through the mad streets. Nor is it the smog, the dust, the heat or the pollution: It is the stars. The stars are sleeping sideways...I cannot find the Big Dipper, or the North Star. The moon is horizontal instead of tilted. My equilibrium is lost. I know not where I am. The little green lizards on my wall are the nervous system of this place...they take care of you by eating the mosquitoes that forever try to infect you from outside the tented netting; but if you so much as touch these sweet little green geckos, they die.

There is no peace without inner peace.

First of all, I was stuck in the house. New Delhi is a large city, and I did not have the first idea where to go or how to get there. Now that the boss was gone, the driver was nowhere to be found. And on the few times that I tracked him down and got him to drive me around, he was drunk and cheated me out of money. He did this by asking me to buy the gas, although my employer had left him with money for it, and when he bought it he made an arrangement with the gas station attendant to charge too much so he could show me a high receipt. This was brought to my attention by one of my Indian co-teachers, who went out with me one day. So, I walked around the neighborhood. There were long, red dirt roads bordered by gated walls, behind which were private houses and gardens of the affluent. Each compound seemed so mysterious to me, peeping through the gates, glimpsing the houses, looking at the names posted outside the gates. Some names were foreign and others were Indian. There were no shops anywhere, only these houses. Around the corner of one road there was a small chai stand. Chai is the Indian word for tea. Its sloping roof was thatched and placed on two bamboo poles in the front, and on the boundary wall in the back. Next to the stand was a small table with a sewing machine where a teenage boy tailored clothing. In the stand, benches had been built of red mud, where people sat in the sweltering, pre-monsoon, August heat and drank cups of hot chai, served from the large, ever boiling pot. I had been told that the last teacher used to drink chai there in the mornings on her walk to the school, which was just around the corner. Unfortunately, my stomach could not handle tea. So I gazed longingly at the socializing, aware that I was already falling short in comparison with the old teacher, smiled to the people and walked on.
These roads were so interesting, and the land surrounding them so beautiful. There was a field where people trotted horses in the mornings. The rest of the time it was a public toilet. The air was hot and musty. The dusty road was lined by many various green trees and flowering bushes. Alka, one of my co-teachers pointed out the Neem tree to me on one of her visits. Neem bark is used by people in India to clean the teeth. I guess they chew on it and rub it along their gums. Young boys and girls would be out walking, driving their cows or goats somewhere. They walked barefoot or in flip-flops. Women were always to be seen carrying bundles of branches and hay, five times their size, in great bundles across their backs and strapped to their heads. There were always people about and they gazed at me curiously as we passed. Once I took a ride from a young man going by on his bicycle. I hopped on the back grill and he pedaled me home. I knew it might be deemed improper, but he seemed like a nice young man, and I thought it would be fun.
The roads were pleasant but lonely and there were other things wrong. At home the servants, Ram and Asa, a married couple who lived there with their children, were very volatile. If they weren’t shouting with the gardener, the driver or the landlady, they were shouting with each other. And they expected me to be in the middle of it all. They would come to me shouting intensely. It seemed as though Ram was now responsible for the house, but his management methods seemed over lordly and wildly controlling. When ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam’ were home he was nothing but obsequious and ingratiating- sickeningly so. It was sad. It seemed as though a taste of power turned him into a tyrant. When the cat is away, the mouse will play. Now that their employers were gone the TV was always on full blast, screaming out loud, high-pitched Hindi-pop. That took me months to get over, let alone learn to appreciate. Hindi-pop can be quite a shock to western musical sensibilities. It is songs from Hindi films, made in Bombay, (Mumbai is the Indian name). Mumbai has the largest film producing industry in the world and is deemed, “Bollywood”. Of course the fact that I wanted to wash my own clothes and cook my own food highly offended them as well, and my difficulties with them helped to lead to my eventual estrangement from my employers and resignation from my post.
Asa began suffering from a debilitating illness that was obviously causing her much pain. It seemed to be similar to an ulcer. They were often taking off on long roadtrips with Santosh, the driver, in order to find her help or to do pilgrimages. Asa’s son, who could speak English, told me they went to see a witch in order to find a cure. The chanting witch made her swallow some grains of pepper so that she would vomit and then examined the contents of her stomach. She found a string that had been tied in seven knots. Five of the knots had already come unraveled. Each time a knot came unraveled Asa had become ill and each time it was worse. When the final knot came undone, Asa would have died. Someone, an enemy had put the string into her food. He swore it was his Uncle that did it. His Uncle had long hated his brother Ram and done everything he could to make life difficult for them. Ram had married Asa, and she was of a lower cast. The Uncle was not inclined to share any of his good fortune with them. Lucky for them, they had gone and seen that witch.
At school it wasn’t any better. The guards who guarded the compound were ex-army officers with big guns. So, once school began, the children had to pass them each day. The guards were harassing the pregnant wife of the compound’s caretaker, which escalated into an all-out feud. This type of atmosphere was completely against the method of teaching I had been instructed in. As a first time teacher, just out of training, it truly ruffled my well-trained, inflexible feathers. And once, after going to a large garden party with one of the Indian families attending the school, their live-in male babysitter kept on placing his hand on my leg in the car. The garden party itself was a lavish event held in the same area I was living in. There was a gigantic buffet with every kind of curry imaginable, and ladies in beautiful saris gracefully gliding about the lawn. But all of this was compounded by the misery I saw when we drove into the city, the large tent-cities, lepers, beggars and masses of street children. Once I was cheated out of thirty dollars by a fortuneteller, when I didn’t know the currency exchange rate. Most of all, I couldn’t find anything to eat. The food was too rich, overcooked and spicy for me. Yogurt, (called curd in India), one of my favorite foods at home, was clumpy and fizzy tasting. Once, I drank bottled water from the refrigerator, thinking it was safe, only to discover it was from the tap. I became disgustingly ill- just in time for the arrival of my host family. When the family came back they didn’t seem to understand the state of shock I was in due to all of this, and the woman became very critical towards me. She couldn’t understand why I asked the doctor if there were alternatives to anti-biotics, which I had never used in my life since I come from a holistically oriented family. This woman had been living in countries like India, Africa and Saudi Arabia for twenty years, and always with her husband. She couldn’t understand what it was like for me to be left alone in my first experience. So, after a number of misunderstandings, I felt I couldn’t go on defending myself in such a crazy place, with no support whatsoever, and I resigned.
Sometime in the first two weeks of sweating, waiting for the late monsoon, I dreamt that I lived in an arctic land of ice and snow. Beautiful, wild, alone.
Before they came back, I had escaped my solitude for a few days by jumping on a plane for Kathmandu. I had some time before school began and there were some friends of my family living in Kathmandu. I wanted to go somewhere that people could understand me. It’s only a one hour flight from New Delhi to Kathmandu, Nepal. It was monsoon time and the plane had to turn around and return to New Delhi because of the cloud cover in Kathmandu. That night I made a special prayer to Ganesh, the Hindu elephant god who removes obstacles. The first time I landed in Nepal was a dreamlike experience. The plane came in through the narrow opening in the mist ringed mountains, (Kathmandu airport is the most difficult place to land and take off in the world, along with Papua New Guinea). I had left the hot plains of India and arrived in the cool green foothills of the Himalaya. The green, jungle covered mountains surrounded the city with an exhilarating breath of fresh air. Behind them, jewel-like peaks of the snow covered Himalayas glistened in the sun. Everything about the place felt friendly, like home. Giant clouds puffed and billowed about the mountains like dragons at play. Rainbows often filled the August monsoon sky. The Nepalese people were smiling and friendly. I knew this was where I wanted to be. So after trying my utmost to succeed at my job, and realizing how impossible it was, I headed straight for Kathmandu, the land over the rainbow.
Of course I still had a lot of cultural adjusting to do. The first time I got off the plane a whole crowd of shouting men surged forward and grabbed my bags. They were taxi drivers of course. But I had been warned only to take a pre-paid taxi. I chased them down and got my stuff back. Over time I learned many things about living in South Asia. It teaches you patience, I would say that again and again. That was hard to learn for an imperious New Yorker, such as myself. New Yorkers want what they want and they want it NOW! No discussion needed, hand it over, and don’t ask too many questions. You stay in your world and I’ll stay in mine. But you can’t have that in Nepal. The people are curious and friendly by nature. If you don’t tell every waiter your life story they will be personally insulted and may put an evil thread in your soup! Every public transaction and interaction is different in nature. This is partly because people there have a different style of communication and sense of space and time then westerners. Things do not go how a western person would expect. You won’t get anything NOW. You always must wait a long time for various reasons- because the soup is made fresh from scratch, or because you must have small talk before you change money. They also have a different sense of space. This is more the case in India. For example, when trying to buy a railway ticket in India, do not expect people to form a queue. To be sure, it happens sometimes, but often you will find yourself in the middle of a disorganized and pressing crowd.
When buying something in a shop or sitting in a restaurant, expect to make small talk. People are very curious about foreigners and want to know everything about you. Expect to wait for bureaucrats to finish their numerous tea breaks before they help you. Don’t expect the visa-man at the immigration office to respond well to anything except obsequious flattery. He has the power of refusing your application and doesn’t give a whit about using it. But he might take a bribe. I had a few friends who were travelling in a first class private cubicle on a train in India. The train guard came in and closed the door. He began toying with his gun and said that perhaps they should give him something to protect them ‘from all those thieves.’ Well, they felt the only thief they needed protection from was him, but they said all they could afford to give him was fifty rupees, (About $1.50), and for some reason he accepted it.
There are also problems in dealing with men who are disrespectful to women. Men love to brush past, knock into or elbow women as they walk by. Not only western women, but especially western women. Alka, my Indian friend in New Delhi, told me how she dealt with it once. She grabbed the man by his collar and loudly berated him for his lack of respect. As is always the case, a crowd gathered and the man was so ashamed that he begged for mercy. The guide books say it is best to handle it just so, even punching and slapping the man is totally acceptable. The idea is he must be shamed enough to see that his behavior was disrespecting. Once, in Nepal, it happened to a friend and me. First, the young man elbowed me then as I turned around I saw him laugh and sharply elbow my friend who was walking behind me. So I ran after him grabbed him by the collar and berated him for having no respect for women. “ How would your mother feel?! Is this what she taught you??” I asked him. “Please don’t talk about my mother” he said, apologizing and denying profusely. Well, as it was a bus park, there were a lot of people around and a crowd gathered. Crowds gather whenever anything happens. They always join in with their help, derision or opinions. When the young man had been sufficiently shamed we walked on. In their society they are essentially raised with a high amount of respect for women. But through exposure to Hollywood cinema, cable television and the different styles of dress and behavior among western women, they often see western women as cheap sex-objects. There are of course, many men who do not fit this image.
When I arrived in Nepal, I found an apartment in Bhatbhateni through the help of Ram Chandra, a local real estate agent. He led me behind the temple at Bhatbhateni and down a winding path between some houses. My apartment was on the third and top floor of a typical but modest, modern Nepalese house. It was a square building, made of red brick and concrete. There was a different family on each floor. On the first floor lived a single middle-aged woman with three small boys, a sixteen-year old daughter, and an eighteen year old son. In the entire year I lived there, I did not learn their names. Only the two older children spoke English and they were usually gone for long periods of time. I imagined the son was working or in school somewhere. I found out later that the daughter had been married at the age of fourteen and lived part of the time with her husband in the city of Pokhara, a nine hour bus trip away. The youngest child was hers. Late in my trip she used to come upstairs to read in the sun on my terrace, as there was little light downstairs.
On the second floor lived my landlord’s family. My landlord, Mr. Tibbi Pandey, was a remarkable man. He was around 85 years old, and he looked it. He was old, thin and fragile but extremely graceful. He always wore one of the white suits Nepalese or Indian men wear when they are relaxing about the house or on some special occasions. It was a long white over-shirt with baggy pants underneath. On his head was the characteristic Nepali hat, a soft, diamond shaped cap of a woven pattern worn traditionally by men in Nepal. His eyes sparkled and his mind was oh-so clear, peaceful and gentle. They told me he had been a vegetarian and a devout Brahmin for most of his life. The Panday family are of the Brahmin cast, which is considered a high cast. They migrated to Nepal from India maybe a couple thousand years ago and are still considered new arrivals. Brahmins were originally a priest class but nowadays often hold government jobs. Mr. Panday had worked a government job in his life and spoke good English, although his voice was feeble. His son Manog, also worked a government job, the nature of which was never clear to me. Manog was a decent man, although he enjoyed his drinking and card playing often enough. He wore western clothing and spoke pretty good English. He was always asking me for things; money, shoes, sweaters...I think he knew it annoyed me and so he got a little humorous satisfaction from it- but there was always a little hope glistening there too. He wasn’t the only gold-digger I encountered by any means. People in Nepal see a tourist go into Thamel, (the tourist shopping district), and spend more money in one hour than they make all year, so you can hardly blame them for thinking we are all possessed of an unlimited flow of money.
I never knew the old woman’s name but referred to her only as ‘Ama’, the Nepalese word for mother. She was a small and very capable woman, always busy, knitting, stringing necklaces, or twisting cotton wicks. Around the house she wore her old sari casually and comfortably. She had a great temperament, always humorously conversing in her dry, crackly voice, and giving resounding love slaps to the children in the Nepalese fashion. She did not speak English, only a few words. Ama exuded a warmth that came from her absolute self assurance and self love for who she was and her place in the world. Her sparkling eyes and her very grounded, humorous excitement made her a joy to be around. I was told that Ama had come from a lower cast than her husband. This was highly unusual in Nepalese culture, and may have made her married life difficult at first. I don’t know the circumstances behind it, but her marriage might have been an arranged marriage or a love marriage, (the distinction between which is much discussed among Nepalese youths). Thus, Ama had certainly been tested in her life. Both she and her husband had a purity of soul that shone from their eyes. They were very religious. They seemed to call a priest to the house at least once a month to perform some kind of ceremony or another. Birthdays, house blessings, and holidays would bring the priest, for instance. Once it was a very big one that lasted for three days. They always included me in some way, by giving me tika and prasad usually. Tika is a dot of colorful powder on the forehead used to give a blessing and prasad is blessed food. Sometimes I awoke at five in the morning to hear someone chanting Ohm in the house below. Once I awoke from my sleep to find myself chanting Ohm in unison with that voice.
Durga, Manog’s wife, was named after the Goddess Durga, a warrior Goddess famed in Hindu mythology. Durga was also a sensible woman, though not quite as grounded as Ama. Perhaps this was because her husband was not as sensible as his father, or maybe because she was still new to the family and not yet its matriarch. At any rate, Durga was a very sweet and hard working woman. She washed all of the clothing by hand, cooked all the food, cleaned the house, tended to the children, did the mending and countless other tasks I can’t even begin to comprehend. She was only 28, but I always thought of her as being far more than one year older than me. She had a definite air of maturity about her. She had the help of a young boy, who had come from one of the mountain villages to live and work for the Pandays. His name was Gan Bahadur, he was ten years old. Often village children in Nepal will take on a position such as this, instead of going to school. It may sound like a very harsh system, but the reality was not so bad for Gan Bahadur. Although he had to work, and didn’t receive much love or affection, he was not overworked by any means, spent lots of time playing with the other children and always had a full belly. Sometimes they come down out of the mountains so underfed that their bellies are swollen from malnutrition, so a job with a city family can be very good for a child. Also the child learns the service trade, cooking, etc. and can find work later in life.
Durga and Manog had two young children. Prabina was a five year old girl. I nicknamed her ‘Prabina the little monkey’ because she was always jumping around on the furniture. Prabina was such a playful girl. Sometimes she would sing for me the little songs she learned in English at school. She used to come upstairs to my apartment and play quietly with the handmade dolls and puppets I had made for my kindergarten during my teacher training. Their other child was a boy around eighteen months old, called simply, ‘Babu’. Babu just means male baby, (Nanu is female baby), and like Ama, I never knew his real name, although I ate dinner with the family nearly every night for a year. He was just Babu. He was such a sweety. He loved sitting in my lap and his eyes would light up when I came around. He joined in the games I played with Prabina and her cousins. He had one little game however, which got him in trouble. Whenever I sat down to eat, he would come over and ask me again and again, “Poog?” That is short for the Nepalese word for ‘enough’, poogioh. Well he was just imitating his polite Amas, but it didn’t stop there, he would try to stick his fingers in my food and take some, which always got him hauled off. To touch another persons plate in Nepal is considered ‘juto’, or unclean.
There are many things that are considered juto, such as the left hand, touching food in a serving dish or cooking pot, a woman on her menses and lower casts than oneself. For instance, Manog had a brother named Rabin who often came around with his family. He had two daughters, Palomina and Natasha, ages five and three who would play with Prabina and Babu. His wife, Shun Lee, was a remarkable woman, albiet unhappy. Shun Lee was in an unusual situation. Since her father was Chinese and her mother Bhutanese, she was thought of as low cast for some reason. This was true even though she came from a wealthier family than the Pandays, (all her immediate relatives now live in the states). She outclassed them in other ways as well. Her education was better, she spoke flawless English and she owned and operated her own beauty parlor. But she still wasn’t allowed in the kitchen when they visited. It would have polluted the food. But for some reason I was allowed in the kitchen, perhaps westerners are considered high cast, because of their imperialist history, or maybe they just thought the cast system did not apply to me.
Shun Lee, like many others in Nepal, desperately wanted to move to the United States. But she had a better reason than most since her family was there and she was burdened by the Nepalese social structure. They asked me to help but there was nothing I could do. The embassy has strict rules. One must have ten thousand dollars in the bank. In order to prove to them that she would not settle in America she would have to leave one child behind. If she ever does makes it she will have a far better chance at success than her husband, who might wind up driving a cab. What to do in Kathmandu.
And so I landed in Kathmandu, found myself a pad, and watched the seasons turn. I arrived in August, during the monsoon. All night long the rain would pound down. In the morning, heavy dragons billowed their way around the fresh blue sky, saying, “Paint me, Paint me!” My friend Laura did just that. She painted sky, clouds, and mountains on gold paper with watercolors. Professional Thanka painters added Buddhist deities to her backgrounds. They sold for thousands of dollars a piece in Hong Kong and Singapore. Laura wanted me to start a Buddhist childcare center where young monks and western children could play, listen to stories and celebrate Buddhist holidays together. After what I had just been through I was hesitant about starting anything. I felt I needed to learn more and gain confidence first. So, I enrolled full time in an international correspondence course and continued working towards a BA. In the day, during monsoon the many dirt roads in the city are covered in mud. I always wore boots but most of the locals went around in their usual flip-flops. How, I do not know. Once, I tried wearing flip-flops in the mud and got home to discover that a large amount of mud had flipped and flopped its way right up to my back and all down my pants. When I tried hiking on a mountain, one monsoon day, I slipped and slid around in my boots, while the young Nepalese women I was with simply pranced about in their flip-flops. Monsoon was also the prime season for LEECHES! I was lucky enough never to get one on me, but I heard stories enough. They fall off grass and trees onto people and suck your blood, till they get big, fat and ugly!!! They can be removed by pouring salt on them, or doing something with a match. About three times I found them crawling around in my bedroom- you can imagine my reaction!
By September, the monsoon dies down and the most glorious season of the year ensues. Everyday is a sunny day. The weather is warm, but not scorching, not too humid and not too dry. There is usually a gentle breeze blowing, but it never gets chilly. On an especially clear day, one can see the snowcapped Himalayas. Trekkers head for the mountains and tourists flock to Kathmandu form all over the world. Thamel gets extremely crowded at this time. Thamel is a shopper’s paradise. One can buy thanka paintings, gemstones, jewelry, and all manner of hand made clothing and custom embroidered T-shirts. There are loads of wonderful restaurants, most of them with good hygienic standards. You can eat Italian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Indian, Japanese, Thai, Tibetan, Chinese, Western, Western style vegetarian, fine baked goods, and even traditional Newari or Nepalese food (believe it or not)!!!
Nepali food is generally called ‘dal bhat’. Dal is any type of lentil or bean and bhat means rice. These are the staple Nepali foods. It is usually served with a vegetable curry (tar cahry), greens (saag), or a meat dish (masu, usually chicken but sometimes goat), and a condiment or pickle (achaar). It is also usually quite ‘piroh’- spicy hot!!! Sometimes it is ‘nuniloh’ (salty), amiloh (sour), or gulio (sweet). I thought the food in Nepal was meetoh-tsa, (delicious)!!! It was one of the great pleasures of living there. I ate every day with my landlord’s family, so I was exposed to home cooking. I found that the ingredients they used were always very fresh and locally grown, unlike in America where food is often shipped three thousand miles before it is consumed. I could really taste the difference and I think it improved my health. Durga was an exquisite cook. I am still trying to figure out how she did it! Everything she made must have been placed in the pot at exactly the right time and seasoned with just the right spices. It was tangy, aromatic and satisfying. It was never overcooked, unlike the Indian food one gets in a restaurant. I took a few lessons from Gauri, the lady from next door who came once a week to wash my clothes by hand and clean the floors. She taught me how to make dal bhat and tar cahry with maseoura, little balls made of the small black dal lentils. They used to make their own and I would see them drying out in the sun on wide, round, flat baskets. Mostly I just enjoyed however, and observed to see if I could learn at all how it was done.
Gauri was a very sweet lady. She would often come by just to visit. She couldn’t speak a word of English however, well maybe two. We had to learn how to communicate together through a combination of pointing, gestures and the few words of Nepalese I knew, and the even fewer words of English she knew. Somehow though, we got on famously. It was fun to talk about emotions such as happiness or sadness- miming laughter or tears. This is what communication was like for me with many people in Nepal. For those who had a bit more English, we would talk in ‘Nepalish’, that is, through simple words in Nepali and English. Good, bad, happy, sad, go, come, like, don’t like...words like these, in either language. It is amazing how people can communicate quite efficiently in simple terms. The Nepalese language is itself this way. They do not have complicated past and future tenses, so it is easy to pick up the basics that one needs quickly. For instance, to say ‘my mother came to Nepal 16 years ago’ one would say, ‘mehro ama ownay Nepal ma saura barsuh buyoh.’ This literally means ‘my mother come Nepal to sixteen year happened.’ The word ‘buyoh’, ‘happened’ is the key in that sentence. It lets you know that it is the past we are talking about. One would do the same for all verbs, because they are always in the present tense.
During September the nazpatis are ripe. Nazpatis are what is known as a Chinese pear in this country. Only here, they are of perfect form sweeter, softer and thin skinned. Unlike their refined city cousins, the nazpatis of Nepal are crisp, robust, thick skinned, and of a light sweetness. I enjoyed going to a village in the hills around the city called Par Ping that was famous for its nazpatis. That was not all Par Ping was famous for, however. There was a handful of Buddhist Gompas (temples) there and a famous Buddhist teacher lived in one of them. Many Buddhist students, Tibetans and Westerners would go there to receive his blessings and teachings. His Gompa was attached to a spot that was considered very holy by followers of Tibetan Buddhism and Hindus alike. It was a place where the great Buddhist saint Padmasambhava had tamed the nagas, or snake spirits of the Kathmandu valley and turned them into stone. They can be seen there, peculiar, twisted, lumpy formations attached to the bulging rock that juts out from the hillside overhead. Underneath is a small, gated Hindu shrine, which houses some statues of local deities. Its walls and beams are carved with winged asparas, (cherubim), birds and phalluses. To the right is the cave in which Padmasambhava did his meditations. Padmasambhava is an actual historical figure who is credited with bringing Buddhism to Tibet. He built Tibet’s first monastery, Samye, about 1,000 years ago and it still stands to this day.
There are two other holy sites near to Par Ping. One of them is called DashinKali. It is very famous among the Hindus of the Kathmandu valley. It is a temple built in the center of a stream and dedicated to the goddess Kali. Kali is a mother goddess of life and death. She exacts blood sacrifice, and so, to propitiate her, Hindus go to DashinKali and sacrifice goats. Apparently during certain holidays the stream runs red with blood. One good thing about it though is that the goats are afterwards consumed. I think it is better karma to kill and eat an animal yourself, in honor of the gods, than to buy it from a supermarket after its wholesale slaughter. That way there is actually more of a reverence and awareness for the life that you are taking.
The other sacred place near Par Ping is the cave of Tara/Swaraswati. Tara is a Buddhist goddess of compassion who is the Buddhist counterpart of the Hindu goddess Swaraswati, the goddess of learning, the arts and music. The cave is run jointly by local Hindus and Tibetans and is adjoining a small Tibetan monastery. The cave is actually part of a rocky cliff wall that has been surrounded by a small built-in enclosure. On the cliff is a carving of Ganesh, about two feet high and one across. Next to the Ganesh is where the miracle is occurring. Self-manifesting out of the stone, without the aid of any carving hand, is a three dimensional image of Tara in the cross legged position that she has in common with Swaraswati. Apparently she has been slowly manifesting this way for about 40 years. Next to her other little Taras are also emerging. This is of course a pilgrimage spot for Tibetan Buddhists. The Nepalese don’t seem to know about it, however, except for the local ones.
Because Nepal is a Himalayan kingdom that is sandwiched between Tibet and India, it contains a marvelous mixture between Buddhism and Hinduism. This is everywhere apparent. Most Hindu temples in Nepal contain statues of the Buddha and Buddhist symbols. Especially in the mountain villages one finds Buddhists who are Nepalese and may follow a well-mixed blend of religious customs, including local ones. Among the Tibetan refugee community one sees a hearty respect for and appreciation of Hinduism however, they tend to follow their own highly developed religion. That is what it is like, there is a great mutual respect felt in Nepal by all its inhabitants for all its many religions. The Hindus will tell you themselves, Buddha was an incarnation of Vishnu.
At some point around this time came a holiday in honor of Swaraswati, the goddess of music and learning. I lived nearby to a temple of Swaraswati and so I went over to see the festivities. All day long, school children came to the temple and wrote their prayers on its outer wall in chalk. I also wrote a prayer and, taking off my shoes, went inside the enclosure where the statue of the goddess was housed to receive a special blessing from those within. A woman handed me a basket full of flowers, tika (red powder), and prasad (blessed food). A man pressed tika on my forehead, mixed with hard rice and muttered a prayer. I bowed to the goddess and went out.
In October of my first autumn, I took a trip to Himalchel Pradesh in northern India. I went with some friends who were invited to go with a group of Tibetans living in Nepal. The 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, had invited Tibetans living in Nepal to come and visit the seat of his government in exile, Dharamsala, and to receive a ‘long life puja’ or ceremony from him. My friends and I took planes, trains and taxis to get there. About 450 Tibetans set out on a five-day journey by bus to get there. Many of them had never seen the Dalai Lama in person before. He is not allowed to go to Nepal due to the wishes of the Chinese government, with whom Nepal must strive to keep good relations. Once in Dharamsala many speeches were made, teas were held, and the Tibetans from Nepal performed folk dances in front of His Holiness. I videotaped it all on my little handycam. I even received a wide, glowing, personal smile from His Holiness who was only twenty feet away as I was taping.
While in Dharamsala, I had the opportunity to visit the Tibetan children’s village. It was started in the early years of exile by one of the Dalai Lamas sisters, Jetsun Pema. In those days the Indian government provided jobs building roads to the exiled Tibetans. The Tibetans brought their children along on the road crews and as a result many were dying of accidents, exposure, disease and malnutrition. Jetsun Pema took quick action and created the Tibetan children’s village, which rounded up all these children and placed them in homes of up to thirty children of varying ages, under the protection of a foster mother. These children were given good food and an education in Tibetan language, culture and arts as well as modern subjects, Hindi and English. They received a lot of support from foreign countries and donors over the years and continue to do so. They do a remarkable job. I wandered around the grounds of the village, up its winding paths and through the boys’ nursery. The little pre-school age boys danced around for my video camera, doing cartwheels and making faces. Out on the playground, children were flying kites while the sunset glowed pink and red upon the snow-capped mountains and teenage boys played basketball.
That night the children gave us a performance of Tibetan singing and dancing that I shall never forget. Six beautiful young women danced in a row, wearing traditional Tibetan costume. Flowers decked their long, single black braids as they gracefully flourished their long sleeves. Six young men danced across from them, wearing colorful felt boots, fur hats and wide flowing shirts with decorative belts. Rhythmically, gracefully, they wove in, out and around one another, stamping, turning, swooping and swirling as each group came forward and sang by turns.
After Dharamsala we went to a little village in the mountains where there is a holy lake called Tso Pema, (Lake Lotus). There is a beautiful story associated with that place. Once, Padmasambhava was doing a retreat in a cave, high on the peak of the mountain, above the lake. There was a city, far, far down in the valley called Mundi. It is still there to this day. This city had a king, and the king had a daughter. Her name was Manderava. Manderava went up into the mountains with her female attendants and spent time swimming and playing in the lake below Padmasambhavas cave. Eventually she discovered Padmasambhava and recognized that he was a great master. Manderava became his student and received teachings from him. It did not take long, however, for word of this to get to the king. Thinking the worst, he sent his guards to kill Padmasambhava and bring Manderava home. When the guards arrived, they to saw that Padmasambhava was a great teacher, a holy man and that Manderava was only receiving teachings from him. They went back and told this to the king. The king did not believe it and he sent hired thugs to kill Padmasambhava and bring home Manderava. They captured the saint and put him on a burning pyre on an island in the middle of the lake. A great smoke arose from the pyre and was a cloud so thick that they could not see through to the island. This lasted seven days. Then the thugs returned to the king and told him what they had done and how they could not see the island. The king decided to go himself and see. When he arrived he saw that the smoke had cleared. There sat Padmasambhava in the center of the lake, reborn on a giant lotus. Thereafter, the king became his devoted student and Manderava became his consort. They say that if a person with a pure heart is to pray on the edge of the lake, one of the islands will float to the shore. This seems to be true because many of the little islands of reeds had silk khatas (offering scarves) hanging from them. I walked up the stone steps on the mountain, through the terraced village, with plots of corn, to the top. There, I found all the many little hut-like caves of hermits, the windswept web of prayer flags, windhorses, galloping among colorful wildflowers. I meditated in Padmasambhavas cave.
When I returned to Kathmandu I began taking classical Indian singing lessons. My teacher was a young man whose father had taught singing to two generations of Nepalese kings. As we sat together once or twice a week, staring openly into each other’s eyes, in the fashion of Indian singers, and singing the resonant melodies, romance began to take place. He took me to full moon concerts at the temple within the palace, and on motorbike rides into the surrounding hills- favorite make-out spots for the young and romantically inclined. We had deep conversations about cultural differences and what is important in a relationship. He said he wanted a wife who was educated, so that he could talk to her about educated things. Many girls in Kathmandu did not finish their education, he said. I thought that education was secondary and quality of mind came first. I pointed out that a woman might not have to be educated to have deep thoughts or intelligent conversations. Within two weeks I saw the error of my ways. He started dreaming about me marrying him and moving in with his mother and father! I should have expected it, but not so fast! In a land where arranged marriages are the rule, however, fast is normal. It was the marriage season and everywhere you went people were talking about it. A young woman in a public tempo wept in English to her lover that her parents were forcing her to marry, he seemed silent, at a loss for words. Marriage bands blasted their out of tune trumpets and banged their drums in little parades all over the city. I tried letting my friend down slowly and gently, but it didn’t seem to work, months later he showed up at my house with no warning and drunk. Eventually we managed to work it out so that we could still be friends and do music together.
That fall, my friend Laura had a party and invited my teacher and some other musicians to provide musical entertainment. She wanted me to sing my Celtic ballads with them. It was a mysterious experience singing for the first time with a band of Indian classical musicians. The harmonium seemed to twist and twine around the eerie Celtic melodies I sang, the tabla beat ornaments against it and beneath, above and behind it all the timpura made a resonant, harmony filled drone. This would not be the last time!
In November people in Nepal celebrate a holiday called Dasain. This traditional practice has been around for years and years. It is a festival of lights. It is all about the worship of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. The main theme is to attract her into the home by painting footprints leading to one’s door, and lighting small butter lamps in tiny clay saucers all along the outer walls of the terraces all Kathmandu houses have. From Swayambhunath, a hill over the city, the valley is filled with billions of twinkling little lights during the night. Dasain is also a ‘give and take’ business. One can’t only ask from the goddess but must give as well. That is why they give food and dakshina (money, in sanskrit) to the girls who go from door to door, singing and playing drums. The following day, boys come out, banging drums and singing away much more loudly. One should be careful and make sure give them money because otherwise they may find themselves the victim of robbers. At least that is what happened to me on Dasain. They were caught however, by the neighbors, and didn’t get away with anything. Instead, they had to spend a night in jail and endure the blows of the police. My Nepalese friend had this to say about the boys on Dasain, “I don't know the significance of the following day when boys come out and beg but I guess they think its not fair for only girls to beg, they have to have chance too, right?”
Winter in Kathmandu chills to the bone. The concrete houses do little to create warmth, and none of them are heated. Winter comes and goes so quickly that central heating has never been an issue. Still, when the icy rains are coming down, and the wind is blowing, people gather around their kerosene heaters, should they be lucky enough to own one. My neighbors would make a little coal fire in a wok, and all gather around it. I joined them a few times. I had to make due with a tiny electric heater. I could warm one foot and then the other. No wonder I always saw the Nepalese women knitting. Wool was a necessity. From time to time, large balls of icy hail came pounding down. Once, it snowed in the hills around the city and I looked out in the morning on a skyline that was all white. My Nepalese friend Binam said that on snowy days young people would go out into the hills to play.
In January I escaped to the warmer climate of India, to meet and travel with my love from home.
We traveled the continent, filming ancient caves and temples, full of gods and goddesses. We saw the sun rise and set from a hundred different sacred locations. We snuck into the Elura caves at night to film goddesses by handfuls of candles, dripping hot wax. We saw the moon rise on the land above the caves of Ajanta, as we listened to the seven tiered cataract and found rainbow quartz crystals scattered on the ground. I didn’t write anything. I was the leaver, asking, begging, demanding a commitment- or set me free! When he said “OK then, I guess I have to set you free”, I wept and moaned, I cried and sulked: petulent, jealous, angry and suspicious. It was a shambles, and he never set me free. I was incapable of it myself; I did not want to be free, nor did he. When he left me in the hotel in Bombay I was stubbornly and coldly crying. ...He apologized for being so distant, “It’s not easy for me either”, he said. He left to catch an early morning flight to London. I sat in the sticky dawn of that gray room smoking cigarettes, writing:

Time stood still
my head against the door
in high frequency
wordless moan
me, myself and I
alone in a room
Time stood still
tears flowed as the
elevator clicked
Spiraled into silk saree
I ran through the hall
it was empty
Time paused
as from the swirling
unknown place arose
a heaving of sobs
How much time passed?
Enough to move
the slow Bombay world
the rotating wheels
to pull my better self
into the pre-dawn city
while temple bells rang
and mantra rose through side streets
Yesterdays flowers
wilting on dusty pavement
Cows with painted horns
sleeping in roadways
Careening your crazy way
From Bombay to London
and I can’t find a
fucking cigarette!

Ohm Shiva Parvati
bless this love
bring back the union

and then:

Alone again
the ticking clock
beats out the measure
of a cigarette

The gigantic desires
of a lifetime
slow into the
confusion
of the endless present

The incense and candles
exhaust themselves
mind wanders
to a lonely monastery
seeking fulfillment
in emptiness

The blue sky
the white clouds
the cold air

The heart must
be content
to find home
alone

Freedom is the
ultimate lesson
we are only given
what we can’t take
another being
you are free
take what you are given
and leave the rest



February came and the weather became milder, by late February the jasmine was in bloom. Spring had arrived!!! The world seemed cleaner, everywhere the air was filled with the sweet heady scent of jasmine. I plucked a bunch of the little white flowers that were growing over my neighbors’ wall and put them in my room, they smelled beautiful for days. In February came the Tibetan New Year, Losar. Every year it is on a different date, depending on the moon. Throngs of people gathered at the two main stupas, Bodhanath and Swayambhunath. A stupa is a dome shaped structure that is built on a holy spot and filled with manifold precious objects, such as money, gems and priceless works of art. It is blessed and consecrated further by the countless numbers of people who have walked the korwa (circumambulations) around it in a clockwise direction for centuries upon centuries. One can feel the built up, cumulative effect of so much prayer in such a place.
Swayambhu is perched on a high hill on one edge of the city. About two thousand steps lead up to the summit where the white dome of the stupa sits. It is crowned by a beehive shaped golden tower, over which the eyes of judgement and illumination stare from each direction. It is surrounded by many tiny little stupas and statues of Buddhas, among which monkeys prowl and jump about, hoping to get some tossed corn or to steal someone’s bananas. For that reason it is called the ‘monkey temple’. While climbing up, one can see many little baby monkeys playing about or clinging to their mother’s bellies. It is a beautiful place to watch the sunset over the city. The gold stupa gleams in the golden light.
Bodha is a larger stupa than Swayambhu and it does not have the gold. But it has three levels that can be mounted and walked upon. I used to sit for hours on the stupa and gaze at the mountain ringed sky. The area around Bodha is filled with large monasteries and gompas. Many Tibetans live there and it is a magnet for Western students of Buddhism. There are also many Tibetan restaurants. There is a common joke that Tibetan food is just the same thing in different forms. For instance, there is thukpa, a noodle and vegetable soup, there is chow mein, fried noodles with vegetables and there are momos, vegetables wrapped in noodles to form dumplings.
For Losar I went to Bodhanath, it was very crowded. Large processions of monks in maroon robes and tall yellow hats processed around the stupa. Their yellow hats signified that they belonged to the Gelugpa sect, the same sect the Dalai Lama belongs to. Just at the climax of the event, when everyone throws ‘tsampa’, (barley flour, the Tibetan staple food), into the air, my camera stopped working. It was as if to say, “some things must be experienced first hand.” That was food for thought as I noticed a local photographer avidly trying to get the best shot of the yellow hats.
Losar is a spring festival in nature. To celebrate, Tibetans grow barley grass in bowls, among other things. Laura and I did this and we used the grass to make a forest in a puppet play for the Buddha Kids Club Losar festival. Using tumeric and alum that I hunted down from a special apothecary in the market district, I dyed the beautiful combed wool that Laura had found in the place where spinning was done on the outskirts of the city. It came out a beautiful, dark golden yellow. From this I sculpted a felted a deer. I also made a white horse. I made a little man doll with a long black braid and Laura took him to a Tibetan tailor to have a traditional suit of clothing made. He was not too happy about it, since Losar was coming up and so many real, live Tibetan men wanted suits, but what he made was beautiful.
The puppet show was called “A precious life”, from a Buddhist Jataka tale for children. The Jataka tales are stories that teach about compassion.
A prince went hunting in a beautiful, thick green forest. All the animals scattered from him in terror...and then, in the distance, he saw the golden deer. Never had he seen such a beautiful animal. What he didn’t know was that it was a great being in the form of a deer. He resolved to kill it at once. He gave chase through the forest... The deer ran swiftly and when it came to a deep ravine, it leapt over it in a great bound, but the princes’ horse was afraid and drew up short- propelling the prince head over heels into the ravine where he lay, sorely wounded and in great pain. When the deer no longer heard the horse’s hooves it stopped, turned and looked back at the ravine where it saw the rider-less horse. The great being guessed at once what had happened. His heart was moved and he felt compassion for the prince who had wanted to kill him. “He must be in great pain, unable to help himself” thought the deer, as he turned back to look over the ravines’ edge. There lay the prince, broken and bruised, barely able to lift his own head. “Do not fear”, said the deer, “If you trust in me, I will help you.” “How can you offer to help me? One who wanted to kill you? No I am doomed to die in this pit, just as I deserve.” But the deer would not be discouraged. He practiced carrying a heavy rock until he was confident he could bear the weight of a man. Then, he descended into the ravine and knelt down before the man. “Climb onto my back and hold on tight”, said the deer. When he successfully carried the prince out of the ravine the prince said, “How can I ever thank you? Please, come and live with me in my palace, leave this dreadful forest where another might come and hunt you.” “No, I will not leave the forest, I like it here. But you can do something for me, prince. The animals of the forest deserve your compassion, not your arrows. Please be kind to them and do not kill them anymore.” The prince resolved from that day forward never to harm other living beings and became famous for his compassion to both animals and humans.
In March, I was again called upon to be a performer but in a much different situation. Being the only Celtic singer in Kathmandu, I was asked to sing with my Nepalese band at the American embassy club’s St. Patrick’s day party. They flew in some Guinness from Singapore, specially for the occasion! So, we did it, with only two rehearsals. It is a credit to those musicians that they have learned an improvisational style of music, not only does it make their music more spontaneous, but they can give good performances with little to no rehearsal time.
Sometime in March came the holiday called Maha Shiva Ratri. In Kathamandu this means that many saddhus come on pilgrimage to the Pashupati temple where they sit in meditation and smoke lots of ganja. They also walk around naked and will perform tricks like lifting a stone with their ‘lingam’, (take a guess what part of the anatomy that is). Actually, this is the birthday of Lord Shiva and praying on this day will give you strength to overcome hurdles and fulfill your goals in life. Women worship also. Pashupati is a very famous temple and is considered the second most auspicious place to die in South Asia, the other being Varunassi on the banks of the Ganges. Pashupati is on the banks of the holy Bagmati river.
Also in March came a holiday called Holi. It is one of the most popular and fun holidays among the fun loving Indians and Nepalese. I’m not sure what the story behind it is, but it has something to do with the god Krishna having fun and playing games. One must be sure to wear old clothing on this day because people make balloons filled with tika colored water and throw them at each other. You can get quite multicolored by the end of it. Everyone is fair game, if you go out on the street you had better be prepared to get wet!!! I ventured out only a short distance and had buckets of water thrown on me from a neighboring rooftop.
In April I made another excursion into India. This time I went to Haridwar and Rishikesh, near where the Ganges emerges from the Himalaya onto the plains. I was going to the Kumbh Mela. The Kumbh Mela is a festival that happens every three years in India, rotating between three sacred places where drops of water fell from a heavenly Kumbh, or vessel. On every twelfth year is the Maha Kumbh Mela- the really, really big one!!! This one was a Maha Kumbh Mela! The festival attracts at least nine million people, who go to take a purifying bath in the Ganges. In years past, people had been killed in mad rushes to the river. I took the train there with the millions upon millions of Indians travelling to the festival. There were people on the roof of the train, people sleeping in the aisles, and crowded into the seats. We were lucky to get two upper berths to ourselves. But we were trapped in there over twenty-four hours, with no air conditioner and little AC, as the train stopped for three hours at a time in the blistering April sun. April is one of the hottest months in India, and people were dying that year. It is a testament to their different sense of space that Indians can put up with being trapped together in such close proximity for such a long time without going ballistic. If I had not been used to it by then, I would have gone mad. India teaches you patience, if it doesn’t make you run for your life. The festival itself was marvelous. Millions of people dipped themselves again and again into the Ganges, holding onto chains to avoid being swept away by the strong current. I took a dip myself. At night, Sadhus sat in circles, sharing chillums (clay pipes) of charras (marijuana) in honor of Lord Shiva. Pundits, (priests), chanted mantras while raising candles up and down in their hands, and men, women and children placed floating lanterns adorned with flowers into the water.
I returned to Nepal to find the late April and May weather some of the most disagreeable in the year. It is dry and dusty, a dust that swirls up into your throat as you walk past the piles of garbage lining the streets. Most of the tourists leave at this time, and everyone is waiting for the monsoon. For visa purposes, I was obliged to leave for India for six weeks. I went high up to the hill station of Darjeeling, on the eastern edge of Nepal. Besides being famous for its tea, Darjeeling used to be a part of Tibet, before the English annexed it. It is surrounded by Sikkim, Bhutan and Nepal. It is nice and cool there at that time of the year. It also has a Tibetan Buddhist community with many great teachers and attracts many Western students, although it is much smaller than Kathmandu. There I sat in my hotel room, looking out over the clouds and doing my school work. It’s a famous place for studying, many of India’s top boarding schools are there. That is where the Dalai Lama’s sister Jetsun Pema went to school as well as several princes and princesses of Nepal. But after awhile it gets to be a very boring place, so I packed up my bags and headed south to Varunasi, one hot, scorching day before the monsoon broke.
Varunasi is a city with plenty of history. It is the most holy place in India in which to die. People go there when they feel they are close to death and wait. Afterwards they are burned on the side of the river and their ashes are pushed in. I wrote this in Varunasi:

Impressions of Varunasi

I sit high on my pillared balcony, above the cool banks of the river
Ganges. It is night. Light reflected red and golden on the water by
the ghats. I hear drums and chanting from the temples in the hot,
burning city. Torrents of people coming together like waves on the
ocean, rippling first here, then there. Always looking for satisfaction
of some carnal desire; be it food, love, or possessions. I felt my heart
enflamed with the heat of the heady streets; in my mind I wandered down
narrow stone alleys filled with flowers and shit. The cool banks of the
river Ganga beckoned to me then; to quench my fire, apart from the drama
of life, in her graceful, benevolent presence. Far out in the water
someone has moored his boat. There is a kerosene lantern hanging from
its prow. Someone sleeps there, perhaps a whole family; lulled by the
gentle rocking of Mother Ganga. Or perhaps it is men, drinking and
playing cards. Mother Ganga, Ganga Ma, they come to you to purify their
souls. The purified Ghat Mafioso’s swim in your waters, then traffic
drugs, guns and knives on your shores, in your alleys. Nothing is free
except an occasional bidi, a joke or the rain. Not even a smile, even
that has a price, so often unpaid. The rain makes the streets a river
as the Ganga swells. This place is a place of extremes. Extreme
privilege next to abject poverty and despair. Extreme peace and extreme
turbulence. Who has the time to meditate? I heard of the old man who
sat with crossed legs on a ghat as the river slowly rose, day by day
with the monsoon rains, waiting for the holiest of ends. The charred
wood and remains of the dead make her river bed, while those unable to
afford wood go to the electric fires nearby. The smallpox, babies and
lepers are simply wrapped in white cloth, weighted down with stones and
thrown into the water where the young men swim and play. Occasionally
bobbing to the surface again, torn loose from white binds to float to
shore where they are gently pushed out again by a sannyassi; or
devoured by vultures and dogs. I smell the smoke like burning meat from
my balcony. Life and death, side by side. "See you can still see it's
feet!!!" Shouts the rude American tourist to her disbelieving
companion. The Indian family sits in front of the burning pyre, fluent
in English. They walk on..... One is confronted with the
inadequacies of one's own being, in a place where women tie stones to
their feet and jump overboard with a noose around their necks, only to
be found in the morning, dangling waterlogged from a drifting boat. I
heard of the Japanese tourist who hung himself in his room; driven mad I
suppose by the pounding in the alleyways and the pounding in his veins.
Lost. Lost to family expectations. Lost in the seductive madness that
is Varunasi. Outside my window, in a blinding flash and a loud crack,
a monkey met his end on the electrical wire. Everyone stood around
staring. This place is not for the weak of heart. The humid air sticks
to your skin and seeps into your mind with the sweet stench of boiling
milk confections, burning bodies, jasmine wreaths and open sewers.
Meditating on the water, one sees that all life is truly part of the
everflowing waters beneath; we are all little ripples of the same water,
flowing together and apart in a constant interweaving state of flux.
You can't hold water, it just runs through your hands. But drink; drink
deep and don't be afraid. One day you will die, but all you attempted
to hold and possess, all your passionate desires will live on,
unfulfilled then as now. So why not surrender to the flux; because it
pulls you away from what you are pulling and no one is stronger than it.
....Leading? .....The only true happiness is in giving up the fight for
personal satisfaction. Doing what you can for others and lovingly
releasing your insanity. Watching it float away down the river, leaving
you purified. Away from the hot, steaming alleys; away from the sordid
lovers, beggars, dogs and thieves. Away, away, forever, away! What is
left?
Emptiness of flux
Knowledge that nothing can be held
Peace of oneness under the waves

I returned to Nepal in time to celebrate the August holiday called Teej. This is how my Nepalese friend describes it, (he is a young man).
“That is Teej! Women dress up in red saris, (often their wedding sarees), look much pretty and gorgeous as you recall. Women wearing saris and fasting the whole day, (not even water), is to make their husbands happy and for their benefit to be with him the whole life time. They go to Pashupati, (the line of gorgeously dressed women is miles long), and worship Shiva, wild crazy god who likes to drink, smoke pot and make scintillating love and rest in peace afterwards... you know! For those who are not married, they can also fast and wear sexy saris, but they pray for their beautiful future life with a future husband. They pray for the good husband who can take good care of them and the family thereafter and make love as scintillatingly as they want, and support all the family members with enough wealth!”
On Teej I dressed up in a red sari to the joy and amusement of my landlords family- “You look like a Nepali girl, are you going to dance?!!” they said. That was not only because I was in a sari, but also because I have similar features, although my skin is lighter. I heard that often in Nepal. On the way there I saw women singing and dancing in a carefree, abandoned manner at the crossroads. I went to Pashupati with my girlfriend Binam. She told me the mistake I had made. You see I wore a strand of traditional beads around my neck, in Nepal that means you are married. She made me keep them on however, and pretend I was married to a Nepali man in order to avoid going the long way around to the river like the other tourists. It worked and we went the short way, like the Nepalese women. Non- Hindus are not allowed in the temple, so Binam and I did our own little offering ceremony, placing baskets of flowers and offerings into the river and making prayers.
One of the most profound experiences I had in Nepal was when I went to see a shamanistic Buddhist healer known unofficially as the sucking lamo. A lamo is a woman of extraordinary powers among Tibetans. The sucking lamo lived in the vicinity of Bodha, in a small apartment, four floors up. She was very popular among Nepalese, Hindus, Tibetans and Westerners. Sometimes people would bring her photographs and she would do absent healings. She was specially recognized and endorsed by the Dalai Lama. She had the special capability of taking on the spirit of a female Buddhist wrathful entity and harnessing its powers to heal. She wore a feather headdress and went into a trance before she began her healing sessions. She would heal people by first listening to their complaints and giving some sound advice, like ‘stay away from meat and garlic’ as well as giving psychic information. Then, she would place her mouth on the spot that was hurting you and suck- ferociously. When she started to do that, most people screamed, I know I did. She would suck and suck and suck. So hard, so very hard, leaving great marks. She would suck out big bloody chunks of horrid looking matter and spit them into a plastic tub. Sometimes she would suck out small stones. Sometimes she used a copper straw to suck, but usually she used her mouth. Sometimes she would smack people very hard. One young man was supposedly possessed by the spirit of a wizard; she beat him up for days on end. So why did people go? Because afterwards you felt better. Maybe it was just the catharsis of the thing, but I know that the first time I went I had been pre-ulceric for weeks. I felt better right away and it lasted months. Nepal is indeed a mysterious place.
My time in Nepal was totally magical. I still dream of taking off for there and never coming back. From the giant green hills terraced by rice fields that surround Kathmandu, to the marvelous and mysterious city itself, surrounding the royal palace, it is a place that calls out, “return, return”. The narrow, winding backstreets are filled with enchanting surprises. Not only the elaborate woodcarvings on the traditional houses and numerous temples, but the wonderful people themselves, who are always singing and dancing and still worship their king and queen. Yes, Nepal still has a king and a queen, ruling in a constitutional monarchy. The king of Nepal is the seventh richest man in the world. That is what comes from having been at the crossroads of the booming opium trade, between India and China. It is too bad there are still so many beggars and street children. Sometimes I would take them to eat, or buy them shoes. When I arrived, I had a hard time adjusting, I felt my space was always being invaded. By the time I left, I knew I was going to miss the ever-present small talk and good humor of the people I met. That openness was something that belonged to all the people, regardless of their cast or social station. Recently I received an email from Baba Muni. It seems he made it back to his beloved India with the help of our friend Aimee. I hope he can get his guitar and his diary without any trouble, and write his memoirs. Aimee is herself a crossroad among humans. Something one finds in a place like Kathmandu. She is half Tibetan, a quarter Italian and a quarter Native American. She grew up on Vancouver Island. She was in Nepal visiting relatives, learning the Tibetan language and discovering her roots. I did manage to make a recording with my little band before I left, struggling with bad equipment in substandard conditions. The experience was really worth it though. There is definitely a lot to do in Kathmandu! Nepal is a sacred country, and everyplace in it is permeated with the sacred. There are temples everywhere and even the very trees are worshipped. I now have a lifetime full of memories and hope the future will bring me back for more visits and more memories. A few words from the much loved Nepalese national anthem are: Hammi Nepali- We Nepali-Nepal I love you!!!