Agnos/Atheos

Here's a story. A bedtime story, a fairy tale guaranteed to put both the listener and the teller to sleep in less than five minutes. I wish I could say I thought it up myself, but I can only claim copyright to this (über-pseudo-scientific and tedious) modernized account: (This is a version, to some extent by way of Alan Watts, of the ancient Hindu Upanishad cosmology, or sacred text on the origin of everything.)

Once upon a time, so the tale begins...

Picture the situation, the beginning of it all: no thing there, not even time and space. Got the picture? Well then, the picture you have is wrong, forget it: not even nothing existed - it can't be pictured, there was no canvas. Until there arose Brahman, who appeared and thought 'what the?'. Just try to suspend your disbelief for a moment. You can call it Brahman, or God, or, in the religion of science, a Singularity. (In the theory of the Big Bang, I understand, major leaps of faith surrounding the singularity - what it was, what preceded it, etc. - are necessary. In a fairy tale we need a proper name for such a thing...). And it was aware of absolutely nothing but awareness itself. And after some infinite spans of not-time elapsed, it became aware of boredom. That's right, this Brahman dude was bored, all alone with less than nothing to do.

So it turns into a thought - how, out of what, you might wonder? Out of no-nothingness, that's what (remember the disbelief suspension thing) - and the thought becomes time, and it becomes space. And this Brahman character is, like, woah dude, this is cool - time and space - he feels vast. After several more infinite eons pass, he gets bored again. Yes, time and space - we're talking infinite time and space no less (though these infinities kind of wrap in on themselves) - these are pretty cool to get lost in. I mean, heads to this very day can't quite wrap their minds around these - time and space - no matter how many hallucinogenic substances they ingest.

Eons pass again when bored Brahman suddenly has another incredible insight, and BAM, he turns into matter and energy. Within seconds he grows to galactic proportions, with infinite energy shooting around in all its spectra of radiation. Pushing pushing into the darkness it goes. In fact, creating the very concept of darkness as it expands. More eons pass, and Brahman has experienced about enough of being gamma rays, photons, x-rays, electrons, quarks, gluons, stars, comets, asteroids, galaxies, quasars, black holes, supernovas, etc. He starts to, like, fall asleep in the back of a physics lecture. (Perhaps you can relate to such a sleepy state of mind right now...)

Luckily, he has a really cool daydream: planets. He wakes up and finds himself becoming a vast array of the humongous spheres. These are really cool - they'd come spinning out of stars (another great idea), and collide with other cosmic flotsam. Occasionally they'd split apart, maybe merge back together. Brahman is having the time of his life, doing the mashed planet, it goes like this. But alas, after some billions of years, even this grows tedious.

So Brahman brings his attention to one of these planet spheres he is now comprised of. There are probably other special ones, but let's imagine he focuses on one in particular. Like if you have a pimple, you are 15, are going to the dance tonight, and all you can think about is how to make it go away. Or your favorite book you keep coming back to read, say, The Count of Monte Cristo. Sure, you know how it ends, but still, each time there is something new. (And why do the good guy and bad guy's names both begin with Dan? What's with Dan?)

Well, he doesn't know how this particular planet will turn out. He doesn't know about any of them. And imagine, being all these different planets and stuff is really hard to keep track of, he kind of zones out or drifts off from time to time, and almost forgets what is happening. Like maybe his 'planet x' (aka Alison - hey you in back there, wake up!), forgets that her biggest moon had just settled into orbit maybe a billion years earlier. And that it is actually composed of the same cosmic stardust; Brahman kind of forgets some of the details. In fact, the further he gets from his first big idea - remember the BAM - the less he can easily remember.

So he brings his concentration to one particular planet in a galaxy he notices one day. It's as if he's admiring himself in a mirror, kind of looking along the galaxy edge - like it was a big pizza crust - all the stars lining up like a dense white cloud. It made him think of something he hadn't ever seen - a premonition of sorts - it looked a little like milk. Way like milk. (Ba dump bump.) Some day he might become a she-goat, and feed some kids, and spill some milk. (But we are getting ahead of things here.)

He feels the draw of this particular planet in the milky galaxy, like I said, and brings his full attention to it. Was it something I ate? he might think. Or, what is that bump on my back, could you tell me what it is, hon', I can't quite see it in the mirror? Well, the more he probes and prods, the more fascinated he becomes, imagining all the things he could turn into on this planet. There are all kinds of different atoms and elements he'd managed to become and gather together in this one place. He discovers that if he turns into two little hydrogens they would want to stick to one big oxygen atom. And man, this is a blast - he does it a gazillion times, then a gazillion more. Sometimes this combo gets cold and hard, sometimes cold and soft and fluffy, and sometimes all hot and steamy; but when his temperature is just right - a very narrow band of temperatures would do this - he gets all swishy and flows all over his planet self. Way cool. He does that a bunch. Till he is blue in the face.

But of course it gets old. What next he asks? This is pretty excellent, but I'm getting kind of tired having to think up new stuff to do all the time. His next idea is a real breakthrough, a game changer: in fact, it actually is a game - hide and seek! He thinks, what would happen if I let go and pretend I'm not really all this one big pulsing mass of energy and matter? What if I just hide? And little by little he does just that. But deep deep down, if he ever really wants to, he can remember what he is: everywhere and everything.

And gradually, the nitrogen, carbon, phosphorous, and some other elements start to mix around - as if by themselves, as if they are independent of Brahman. An amino acid - guanine - says "look at me!" Cytosine and adenine lock arms and counter, "big deal, look at us!" (Just a reminder from Biology 101, these are the building blocks of DNA). Things are really cooking now, and it isn't long - maybe a billion years or so - before single celled organisms are swimming around, multiplying, and eating each other up. These are Brahman's primordial soup and salad days. Warm and cozy, plenty to eat. And man, the free love! (Oops, this is supposed to be g-rated). But also plenty to get eaten by. Getting lost ever deeper in the game of hide and seek. Now picture the first flora, and fauna; the first swimmer, and walker, etc.

***

Fast forward some billions of years, and you can see how far we have gotten into this game. Right now, for example, you are sitting and reading some words on this computer screen (having made it well past the average reader who probably gave up after three paragraphs...the blogosphere is so unedited, it's embarrassing!); your fingers seem to be your one point of contact via the mouse to these words. You kind of ignore the floor beneath supporting your chair, and the desk; or the air flowing in and out of your lungs, occasionally steaming up the screen - oops, fell asleep again!; or the power from the sun pulsing through you, beating your heart, and powering the computer. And these are just a few examples of macroscopic overlap. The warp and woof of microscopic and subatomic interconnections are utterly mind expanding. There truly is no empirical point, or line, of separation - anywhere. Everywhere you can think, there is connection. But we can pretend to sever these connections as we tinker, organize, manipulate, create, and destroy: in our frenetic game of hide and seek. But wait, you might say, look at all the cool stuff 'we' can make! What power, 'our' science! True, yes, some amazing fun and games.

But also look how far we've gotten lost: some of us even believe very fervently - zealously, fanatically even - that god is 'up there,' or 'out there,' or inside of 'us.' That is, some entity other than what we see/feel/taste/think/sing/digest/etc. And some few extremists are so deeply mired in this game of hide and seek, they are willing to kill and die in the name of these external gods, created in their own images! Oh what a fix we can get in, the further we get lost in this game. A game at times buoyant and effervescent, at others miasmic, poisonous.

As with all religious doctrines, one could get lost in this Hindu one - and many do - spinning all sorts of anthropomorphic tales. And even weave in some sort of morality, or karma: e.g., Brahman doesn't enjoy the act of killing life so much as creating it. But the game continues to play itself out regardless. And all of our self- and group-justifications for the 'good' and 'evil' roles we play are like so much papier-mâché. But onward we pursue these roles, and onward we must: it was coded into the fabric of our being from the moment we - that is, the universe, or Brahman, took its first breath.

But this 'impartial' observer (hah, as if! Brahman chortles...), sees a world in which war and strife find their fiercest advocates in faith traditions which divide the concept of god from the self. In other words, dualism: god above, flock below. Witness the crusades - Christian v. Muslim v. Jew - and their legacy which continues to this very day.

Another 'impartial' observer (hah! again, good one!), might see little difference between this concept of god - or Brahman, or the universe, or everything - that it's one unified pulsing mass of seemingly differentiated entities: that this concept of unity, or everything is God, is at the end of the day no different from atheism; that perhaps there is no god. All god, no god - what's the difference? On one level maybe precious little difference; but with an ounce of belief suspension, I think they are quite a bit different. When I'm asked if I believe in god, my answer (in question form): does a fish believe in water? I think to leave god entirely out of the equation, even more than just removing it from the self (as in dualism), kind of leaves the world a bit stark. I think it's fun to put god in completely, make it the very essence of everything. I-god, you-god, we all-god: for god's sake!

And in my humble opinion, looking up at the stars on a clear night, or at a particularly beautiful sunset, or a violent lightning storm, or any moment that feels very big: I have a choice, that is, we all do, we can feel very small compared to the vast and capricious universe, or we have the option to feel it is all us, right here and now and forever.

I can't know for sure, so I'll go with agnosticism for now. And meanwhile jump back in, keep playing the game - hoping my 'good' roles outnumber my 'evil' ones - till I hear the roar: alle alle oxen free! And hearing this, return to the source - the thing that has been seeking and finding and losing me again all these 49 years of homo sapienism - Brahman.

Aaaaaaaahmeeeeeen!

Hole in one.

I'm not 'a golfer,' but I've shot the links a time or two with my brothers, some of whom are. And I usually discover the Zen koan that the game presents: the harder you try to nail the shot, the more likely it is you'll slice it, hook it, or most embarrassingly, barely dribble it past the ladies' tee - sometimes not even that far. Of course, practice, technique, and equipment all help - at least I'm told they do, not that I've ever tried. But at bottom is the fundamentally counter-intuitive fact that letting go will tend to make for a better swing and shot. Well, letting go figuratively that is - you don't want to brain your fellow golfers (or yourself) by letting the club fly.

Now I don't remember where I heard this golfing story, but with some considerable embellishments, here it comes again:

One day a middle-aged Zen Buddhist monk - Master Bopshong Sunim, nicknamed Bob - was playing a Master's Tournament in Florida. He was very good at the 'letting go' thing, and well, his golf skills were pretty dang sweet. He was tall and well built, especially for a Japanese man. With shaved head, saffron robe, and bare feet - he cut quite the figure. His irons were all a bit rusty - not from lack of use, they were just that old. And his driver's were actually made of wood, some of the grips duct-taped to their shafts.

It was a gorgeous day, palm trees waving, and Bob - at two points behind front runner Phil Mikelson, and one behind Tiger Woods - manages to win with a hole in one on the 18th, a par four! Phil and Tiger, seeing this, break their drivers along the shaft over their knees, and storm off the course. Bob is awarded the prize money - $2,000,000.

"What will you do with the money?" a chirpy ESPN reporter asks Bob, with a sort of knowing grin. A grin that says, why on earth would you even want that kind of money? And how about sharin' the love? He smiles wide and says, "first I will buy new drivers for masters Phil and Tiger. Sometimes we act impulsively out of anger - but so too, we all need forgiveness." "It's $2 million. What about the rest?" Chirpy asks. "Our monastery could use some work, I think. Maybe new mattresses." He scratches the bed bug bites on his hips, bows to the camera, and walks off with two young novices (who had been his caddies, walking the course carrying his bags). The three of them walk through the crowd, headed to the parking lot.

As they climb into a rented Hyundai subcompact, a woman rushes up to them. Bleach blond, halter top, a tan dark as mud - with the blond hair, she almost looked like a photo negative - and bloodshot eyes, she'd flicked a burning cigarette in the gutter before she raced across the pavement. "Master Bob, that was an amazing shot!" she blurts out, holding the door open. Bob bows his head, and smiles, his face lighting up. "But Master, I have been crying my eyes out all morning." She wrings her hands. "You see, my son, my darling new baby son, he was born with spina bifida. We have no insurance, his father left me months ago. I don't know what to do."

The monks confer in Japanese, the word 'spina bifida' bandied back and forth. Bob asks, "what can be done for the child?" "Well, the doctors at the hospital say there is no cure, but they can perform an operation that will ease his pain and suffering." She takes a deep breath. "And he'll need long term physical therapy - his whole life maybe." She wipes away tears with her wrist. More conference among the monks, then Bob asks, "how much will this operation and therapy cost?" "$930,750 for the operation. And the long term therapy - probably millions, I don't know." Her face crumples and she begins to weep heavily. "I don't know," she whispers, barely sniffing out the words, "I just don't know what I'm gonna do."

This is followed by more monk talk as the older of the two novices pulls out a purse, and counts out the remaining travel money they have: $1,647, and some coins. The monk gestures for him to put it back. Then he takes the prize check out of his tunic. The younger novice hands him a fountain pen. "Tell me please your name," he says. He endorses the check, and hands it to Sharon Conner. She thanks Bob, gives him a fat juicy kiss on his bald head - leaving a smear of bright red lipstick - then rushes over and jumps in a car idling nearby. Which immediately screeches burned rubber and is gone. Bob and the novices smile, sending prayers of lovingkindness for the mother and baby, who, even with this operation and therapy, will have a difficult life ahead.

Bob closes the door, starts to back out, just as a golf pro races up. He pounds on the hood of the car. Bob stops, and rolls down the window. "I'm sorry Mr. Bob, it was so crazy over there in the crowd - I mean that shot was amazing, first ever on that hole - I didn't see you had already left. I wanted to warn you about that woman!" The monk and novices look puzzled. "You see, she has been here before. Please tell me you didn't sign the check over to her, please please tell me you didn't!" He looks almost as forlorn as the woman had. Bob asks, "what do you mean?" The pro says, "that woman is a fraud. I don't know what story she told you, but it is just a con!" The novices look worried. Bob asks, "you mean there is no baby with spina bifida?" The golf pro is almost shouting, "no, there is no baby with - with what? - there is no baby with anything, there is no baby." He checks himself, lowers his voice. "There is nothing, I told you she is a con!"

Bob smiles, nods, says thanks, and backs out of the parking space. "Thank goodness," he says in Japanese to the novices, "there isn't a little suffering baby!"

Free Tibet!

Yes, an old message this one.

But having read the recent article in the New Yorker (October 4 issue) about the Dalai Lama, it's one that I am feeling very passionate about. Not that the article intended to incite passion or engagement on the issue. In fact, even His Holiness has used terms like 'given up' on the Tibet issue: I find this most disturbing.

And the thing is, China really deserves an 'embarrassing' international movement to restore at least true limited autonomy for Tibet - and allow its leader and people to return (the Dalai Lama is considered a 'terrorist') - what with its bullying economic tactics of late (currency devaluation, etc.) I don't care if they want to keep with their Maoist capitalism, but when they crush ethnic 'minorities' in the sovereign nations they have annexed, I think it's time somebody stepped in. And that somebody is me. Now. Are you with me on this? (Perhaps not quite yet, but read on.) If the Dalai Lama has found a deep sense of peace with his peoples' refugee status, more power to him, he is a remarkable bodhisattva. But I'm not, and I don't think many of us are. 'In your face, China,' I want to shout!

How effective were the Buddhist monk's self-immolations in the lead up to the war in Vietnam? This is arguable. However, the effectiveness of Gandhi's popular non-violent passive resistance is beyond dispute in shaking off the colonial British yoke. And the effectiveness of Martin Luther King Jr.'s leadership of African Americans and 'whites' in non-violent struggle against racism in America is also a matter of historical fact.

I think the participation by Caucasion Americans (for want of a better term) in the Civil Rights movement helped to bring the issue to a visceral level for the established. It became less simply a 'negro movement' and more of a struggle for the dignity and rights of all people. White and black shot dead, or hand-cuffed and dragged to the paddy wagon, made clear the hideous face of Jim Crow for all to see. And I think if Westerners and others from around the world were to march arm in arm with Tibet, a non-violent movement could not be stopped.

I attended the 'Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear over the weekend. Were there hundreds of thousands? It felt like millions to me, pushing my walker in search of the ADA seating area. Then I got completely bogged down by the crowd. Never even found my girlfriend who was to join me there. My cell phone was useless: everybody, it seemed, trying to call and meet up. The energy of the crowd was full of goodwill, and once resigned to my place (well out of view and earshot of the stage or a videotron, even if I stood up), I sat on my walker for a little more than an hour next to a small girl in a stroller wearing a tiger halloween costume. Her mom, also dressed as a tiger, was attempting to reach the ADA area, as she was a sign language interpreter. The two of us had soldiered on together for a good half hour before giving up the push through the sardine packed crowd.

Later, watching the event at my sister's after party, on her DVR, I have to say I was a bit underwhelmed. The music was great, but Stephen and Jon just didn't seem nearly so powerful as they do on their shows. I cringed a bit with embarrassment at their Peace-Crazy-Love train shtick. The point was clear, but I think it was overly labored, and I felt sorry for the artists, though they no doubt knew it was coming, and had already signed on. However, I was glad to have attended. Did it help 'get out the vote'? I hope so. Did it take energy away from getting the vote out? I hope not. Sanity or fear: your pick. (Yesterday's election results kind of lean in the favor of fear....)

The New Yorker issue I mentioned above also had an article about the role of new media in politics and democracy today. "The truth about the Twitter Revolution," by Malcolm Gladwell. The article drew a stark contrast between the 'strong-ties' needed to get people out in harm's way to effect social change, and the 'weak-ties' of the new media. He starts with the segregated Woolworth lunch counter 'sit-ins' in Greensboro North Carolina in 1960, and moves on from there. The 'weak-ties' that can be facilitated through Twitter, Facebook, the 'blogosphere,' (dare I draw attention to the 'fourth wall' here?), etc., the author maintains, could never mount such profound social change as seen in the civil rights movement.

He goes on to explore the role of these media in the more recent protest movement following the purportedly stolen Iranian presidential election. He cites how the news media were happy to follow events on Twitter, but in actual fact, such 'new media' were at best helpful on the ground once the 'strong-tie' forces got people out in the streets. He also writes, "the people tweeting about the demonstrations were almost all in the West." He quotes Golnaz Esfandiari, who wrote on this topic in Foreign Policy that "'There was no Twitter Revolution inside Iran.'" He quotes further: "'Western journalists who couldn't reach - or didn't bother reaching? - people on the ground in Iran simply scrolled through the English language tweets post with tag #iranelection,' [Esfandiari] wrote. "Through it all, no one seemed to wonder why people trying to coordinate protests in Iran would be writing in any language other than Farsi.'"

This is a bit harsh, I feel, and the letters to the editor in subsequent issues took the author to task with some pertinent examples of powerful new media accomplishments. However, I think his basic premise is sound. Yet I think it obvious that both 'strong-ties' and the 'weak' ones can and will be necessary to tackle the bigger issues of the day. The Fear/Sanity rally I think did not rank as such an 'issue' -nor did it claim to - but I think it relied almost entirely on 'weak-ties' to get it going (notwithstanding the strong-ties that bind me to my siblings, other relatives in attendance at the rally, and my girlfriend). As you might guess, I think one issue in need of a full-on 'strong-tie' and 'weak-tie' engagement would be freeing occupied Tibet from its oppressive Chinese colonists. (Of course, you will be quick to point out, there are many other big issues in the world.)

This blog is at best a 'weak-tie' attempt at raising the issue that has been raised so many times before. I'm like a very tiny David, with his even tinier sling, facing a vast and growing Goliath, China. What will it take to get millions of Tibetans, along with Buddhists and human rights activists from around the world to march from Dharamsala to Lhasa? I feel like just one word from the Dalai Lama would do the trick: onward! Book me a flight, let's walk peacefully - with our digicams and 'blackberries' raised in defiance - directly into the spray of machine gun fire!

Mr. D. Lama, we await your call...

Huh?

Was having lunch with my sister and niece a couple weeks ago, and suddenly I said I was thinking of going back to school. I think I was as surprised as my lunch companions.

For many years I have been encouraging/suggesting that my oldest son might want to seek a career in something that involved people, given the outgoing and friendly guy he can so often be. (During his teens this side of him is directed mostly to his peers - parents, teachers, and other grownups will often miss it.) A legal career (which would also make use of his considerable bargaining and argumentative skills), a career in psychiatry or psychology, political science, history, anthropology, or social work. The length of schooling and depth of commitment (read: high school transcripts) required for each of these kind of follows a slowly downward path, and reflects his gradual loss of interest in, and success at academics. Nevertheless, though 'father knows best' what his children ought to pursue career-wise (his younger brothers have also been hearing what they would do best at), my encouragement has been all but ignored.

However, turns out that somebody was listening: me! I'm thinking of pursuing a second career in social work, possibly specializing in grief counseling. I am looking for a nearby volunteer opportunity, a chance to see counseling in action, dip my toes in the water, so to speak. I just printed out a volunteer application form for the Wendt Center ("For Loss and Healing"), a non-profit located in northwest D.C. I took the boys there a couple times on the suggestion of a friend a few years back. They would also like to see a resumé. Time to dust an old one off, and add my longest job of all: fifteen years keeping my kids from killing each other, or themselves, 24/7.

Then again, maybe I could become a neurology researcher and figure this MS riddle out once and for all. Or, perhaps anthropology would be more my cup of tea.

Wait, need to focus for a bit, one thing at a time...

Dancing boulders

Sisyphus is cursed to push that big heavy boulder up the hill, though it keeps rolling back...

Seems that my curse - when I choose to accept it - is to try to slow the boulder's seemingly inevitable roll down the hill. As I keep hoping that it reaches the valley floor. But just as the sisyphian story can help us each to see the myth of relentless struggle and stress in our lives - that is, to give us the opportunity to pause a moment and see that there is no boulder - so too my struggles to keep the boulder from rolling away from me: can I pause and notice there is no boulder?

How do I meet each moment, each sadness, joy, or challenge? Do I make it as solid and resistant to rolling as a huge heavy boulder? Or turn the joys and happinesses into something like hot air balloons that I struggle to keep from floating away in the wind?It is these struggles to make the bad go away, or keep the good, that get in the way of just being with them when they are present to me.

The past couple days when doing my physical therapy, a line from my new and improved nightly MS metta (Buddhist prayer) meditation comes to me. I say 'new and improved' since I've edited it a bit. There were too many 'all sentient beings' and other such stock phrases, when I actually meant 'everybody,' for instance. But I added a new line, it goes like this: 'May I engage in daily physical therapy and exercise with a heart open to the beauty and perfection of the universe – and of this ailing body.' I read the prayer (covered in an earlier blog entry titled 'Both Sides Now') each night before turning out the light. I first tried it after turning out the light, but that didn't seem to work so well... But seriously, though much of the words are pro forma and obvious, they seem to bear repeating, even as solipsistic as the exercise might sound. The subconscious seems to work on them, and when I go about my day, they visit me on occasion.

Such as when I'm doing the balance movements of my P.T. session. Feet together, I look first straight up at the ceiling, then back down at my feet; then over my left and right shoulders. Then shake my head from side to side three times, and nod up and down three more - and since traveling to Nepal, nod also three times in the fashion common in the former Himalayan kingdom. (Also quite common in India, this nod is sort of a tilting of the head from side to side - imagine your nose as a pivot - a smile on your face. And these motions can throw off my balance centers in the vestibular glands of the inner ear, which is the point - to try to right your balance in spite of the feeling of losing it.) The phrase 'perfection in the universe - right here in this ailing body' is somehow very powerful. The P.T. becomes mysteriously lighter, less like a boulder, and more like a dance with life. Or life dancing through me.

Speaking of which, toward the end of the P.T. I will dance four or seven swing steps in a circle, then two or three lindy hops. I haven't been to the nearby swing dances - it's been too hot - but the weather has changed rather suddenly. And my girlfriend recently suggested we go back, so we will!

May your boulders melt into lindy hops...or lolly pops!

p.s. Happy Birthday to my hero, Gandhi!

The village: Shangri-la, and where we found it.

Warning, a very long post. Summary: Nepal? Been there, done that.

Didn't make it to 'my' village. But found 'it' in some unexpected places nevertheless. The second picture with Eli was taken on the side of the road that leads up to 'Daman,' the town where an observation tower was built many decades ago. Unfortunately I took no pictures there, only camcorder (analog) footage. Which someday I hope to digitize, categorize, back up, etc. with the other 50 hours of tape I've already got. This will hopefully happen in my lifetime, and before I'm a grandfather. Because once I'm a grandfather, I will be too busy filming again.

As mentioned in my last post, we attempted to find Palung, the village where my subgroup of water supply engineer volunteers went for further technical and more intensive language training. (We lived with individual families, and worked on a water supply project during the day.) We met with Shyam Shrestha (formerly a Nepali Peace Corps' staffer - the Peace Corps pulled out of Nepal during the more heated days of the recent Maoist revolution.)

We had Shyam to dinner at the Kathmandu Guest House restaurant. Affable and soft-spoken, he is Newar, which is the ethnic group native to the Kathmandu valley. He offers to take us to Palung or Nagarkot, a nearby town with views of the Himalaaya to the east, including Mt. Everest - that is, if the weather cooperates. This is very generous, as Palung is maybe a five hours' drive to the west of the valley. In our Nepanglish conversation, I accept the offer of a ride to Nagarkot, which is less than half the distance, and tell him we will make our way to Palung by bus - or somehow. Which is the kind of travel to which I gravitate, that is, well, you know what I mean (our recent hellride already fading into the further recesses of my memory...).

We have learned from the hotelier to go to the 'new bus park.' I remember the old one: basically a bare field, with diesel exhaust fumes and spilled oil to take the place of vegetation, and new or rusted out vehicles, parked without any discernable organization. I wonder how we ever found our buses.

So to the new park we go, and inform our taxi driver we'd like to find the bus that goes in the direction of Palung. The driver has heard of the village - a good sign - but he thinks we'll have to get a transfer. As we ride the clock is continuing to tick, and he tells us the bus has probably already left. He has a manner which has earned my trust, so when he begins to tell me that we would be better off taking a cab the whole way, I am inclined to believe he's not just trying to drum up business. In fact, he even says that he wouldn't drive us there, but he could call in a better cab for us.

After negotiating the price, we pile into Krishna's toyota (top picture), the switch made near the top of Swayambunath hill, seen behind Spencer. (So I did manage to get to the top after all...). And head off. We need to pay some of the money up-front to cover gasoline, then we are off. And are quite relieved to find Krishna is quite the careful driver.

We take a turn toward Palung, and drive ever higher into and out of the clouds then back into the mist till we pass over a ridge. The scenery is by turns breathtaking or prosaic. However, no thatched roofs. I begin to wonder if there is still such a thing anywhere in the country, though the existence of a road makes every dwelling we pass 'not village' by definition. Even when we pass through what looks like a village that our driver says is Palung, still no thatch. Or we could walk to Palung from this place - not a likely option. I don't recognize a thing, so we continue on. Occasionally off in the distance there seem to be brown thatched roofs, but my eyesight isn't what it once was. I'll assume such technology is still there - just beyond my depth of focus.

What happened here? On one level, I let go of trying to reach Palung. On another, I gave up on seeking a rather arbitrary indicator of what constitutes a village - thatch roofs. But still, I hoped to find some ineffable village experience, and for my sons to share it.

Our next destination was Daman, the town with the observation tower I had mentioned above. Shyam had mentioned it when we had talked about Palung, and I'd remembered it from the few days I had spent there as a kind of 'self-retreat' I'd taken at the end of my Peace Corps service. It was near Palung where I'd been to visit for a sort of leave taking.

And, of course, the place was still near. So we drive on up another ridge and come to the tower. Some development had occurred there since my 'retreat' 25 years ago. There is now a 'hotel' next to the place, but we learn of an even better hotel further up the road. Which we discover runs about $200 per room (we'd need two). It is a fair distance back from the road (I couldn't see it), so ask the kids to go check it out, see what the big cost was about. Their verdict: waste of money. It would also have been pretty far from the tower - a longish hike for me, and a few miles car ride. So I say let's see what options might lie ahead - there seemed a ridge top within view.

And there was another hotel. It was much more reasonably priced, had a nice interior (we didn't ask about wifi), but afforded views that were not particularly inspiring. However, I liked the proprietress, and wanted to give her some commerce for the time she'd spent showing the rooms, and besides, it was mid-day.

While we waited for daalbhaat to be prepared - took about an hour - Spencer pointed out the hill across the street, and suggested we hike to the top of it. Eli was having a teen moment - you know, kind of embarrassed that we were there to have lunch, and 'what a dumb hill to hike,' etc. - and was not interested, preferring instead to rest in the taxi. Miller was enlisted to 'help me get up the hill.' And carry the camera, which took the picture of me sitting with him above, having reached the summit. Spencer was very encouraging, and of course very strong helping me walk up the now quite challenging terrain. After our 'trek,' Spencer played with some very young children who were taking turns rolling a tire, teasing it along with a stick, letting it roll down hills, and generally whooping it up. I told Miller that's what he'd be doing if he didn't have tv/computer/laptops/etc. About to become a teen himself, he gave a grunt.

Spencer camcordered the kids, then played back the tape which they thought was hilarious. One child was fascinated with Spencer's braces, and pantomimed his interest in touching them, which Spencer allowed. This little roadside 'hotel/restaurant' was feeling like the Holy Grail at last, the slower we went, the more village-like it became.

Eli joined us for daalbhaat, and we all ate well. I remember he liked it ground up for him as a baby, as did Spencer. Miller on the other hand... He ate plenty of plain rice, and a dad required dollop of daal. Maybe I even made him eat a leaf of some kind of mystery vegetable.

Then we drove back down to look at the 'blue hotel.' The one by the tower. After negotiating the price, we moved our stuff in. Eli watched some TV - I think there was one English language channel, but Spencer came over to Miller's and my room for some cards. Krishna was there, in our room. Our trip negotiation included taxi only - no food or lodging. I had decided to feed him, but figured he could take care of his sleep. In the taxi if necessary - the weather was mild, it was nothing I wouldn't do myself - even nowadays, if it became necessary. (Not sure, but I think the hotelier found a 'free' spot somewhere in one of the buildings for him, he seemed well rested the next morning.)

Spencer suggested we play a game of cribbage - a game we'd played many times during the trip, making up and agreeing to new rules such as: if you actually get zero points in your hand (what is sometimes referred to as the 'big nineteen' since lore has it there is no way to score exactly 19 points in a hand), then you get one point, sort of a consolation prize; or, if the cards in your hand add up to 19 points - including the crib card - then you get nineteen peg points; or, if you start the 'play' with a card that matches the crib card, and say 'see one, play one,' you get a point. Which all must sound excruciatingly tedious to non-cribbage players (and maybe to those who play too!). But it was fun, good father/sons bonding time.

So we played, while Krishna watched. Spencer asked whether I could teach our friendly taxi driver to play, which I started to do, and he played a game with us. At this point, Miller wanted to join, and learn how to play 'kitty,' a nine card game. We'd seen people play this at the 'Casino Royale' in Kathmandu, the most inviting feature of which (for my sons anyway) was that there was no lower age limit - only lowest bet limits. My favorites were the free cups of chai, and at 6:00 p.m., free dinner. All told, we spent maybe $50 there, and had a very good time. The boys had the chance to see how 'the house always wins' (with my money anyway). Eschewing the games of chance, I instead flirted in Nepali (not really Dwan!), with the cute but bored looking chai waitresses. In our blue hotel, Krishna was more than happy to show us how to play the game (similar to the British game 'nine card brag' wiki just informed me). It's sort of an instant Rummy, 98% luck based, at least as far as we understood it. Miller was fascinated by it, and particularly by the way he (and most Nepalis) shuffle cards. (You can see how it's done here. Unfortunately, I didn't film Krishna doing it.) And they deal counter-clockwise, a habit Miller has happily adopted.

We went up later into the tower for some chai and naan, and the hotelier - nice young fellow wearing a blue polo shirt and green Chinese sneakers - joined us for some more 'kitty.' The clouds lifted at one point to reveal a couple majestic white peaks. Which would be the only we saw during the approximately 12 days of our time in Nepal. However, the rich cross-cultural experiences we had on this side trip definitely made up for that.

After returning to Kathmandu, I called Shyam to set up a time to head to Nagarkot. He borrowed a friend's car for this, and for such a mild-mannered guy, he seemed surprisingly equal to the rigors of the traffic patterns. However, the gridlock was so bad for so long, after two hours we were still in Kathmandu. We decided to change plans and go to Pashupatinath, the main Hindu temple on the Bagmati river. This is a very holy site, and only Hindus are allowed access to the inside of the temple; however, there are extensive grounds to cover, and sights to see. the fourth picture was taken at this site.

I sat near where this picture was taken, in a shaded alcove, as I was exhausted already to have walked what seemed the miles from where we parked. Maybe it was half a mile, probably less, but hey... In this comfortable alcove, I sat on a stair and chatted with like situated Nepalis, while Eli, Spencer, and Shyam went ahead to the temple. Miller sat with me, and began to lobby me to be permitted to buy one of the souvenir knives being sold. Though it didn't seem a very spiritual pursuit, I was gradually worn down. And, what the heck - he's a week or two away from turning 13. 'But you won't be able to bring it to school.' With the secret service presence there, I don't worry too much that he will disobey that.

I was talking to a young security guard in 'uniform' (blue shirt, black pants, a badge) about life, etc., when I smelled the strong aroma of burning hair. Just across the river their are several funeral platforms (biers?) where pyres are built and lit. In the picture you can see smoke rising behind us. The picture was taken by Shyam, but it's now obvious he should have been in the picture with us. C'est la vie. The guard also smelled the burning hair, which I mentioned, and he told me that is a very auspicious thing.

I realize the subtitle of this post sounds rather grandiose, and I have tried to do it justice, but ultimately the quotidian nature and slow pace of our visit can only go so far. In as much as our trip was laid back and natural, my idealized memories of village life were given some context - and also left unmarred by present day realities. I think the boys got a taste of Nepal, and a new appreciation for the comforts and luxuries of our middle class life here in the U.S. Numerous like moments were experienced while in Kathmandu. And Miller had plenty of opportunity to hang back at the hotel when he felt like it.

This post has turned into a marathon - and probably a rather jumbled one at that - and for that I apologize. Of course, so many more details come to mind, but I will leave them now. Like Shyam and me looking for a tailor to make a seersucker suit (couldn't find suitable - ha! - material anywhere); and our search for the apartment near the wooden temple that Loret had rented. We couldn't find it. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, or to the uncertain fate of my and my sons' memories.

Namaste, over and out.

The village.

I would put these images down closer to the text that might give them context, but I haven't figured out how to do that. So just look and wonder for now.

(The boys are back in school, including Spencer driven up to Connecticut last week, and things are beginning to settle down here. Time to get back to some travelogue. And by the way, I have returned to feelings generally favorable to the great nation of India, and it's billion or so inhabitants. I have a ten rupee note with the picture of Mohandas Gandhi on it to remind me - however ironic such an image on a unit of currency may strike some - of the inherent goodness of the people dwelling on the vast sub-continent: the cradle of so many spiritual insights and traditions. Not to mention many an excellent culinary art.)

I left off having arrived in the Nepali city Mahendranagar - more of a sprawling village bazaar, which is kind of how one might describe even Kathmandu, just a much larger scale. We had no desire to find a bus to take us on the even worse condition roads to the capital city, so after one night at the Opera Hotel, we rode a sort of taxi/jeep with several other passengers to Dangadhi (pronounced done-guddy) airport, about a fifty kilometer trip. The seats were comfortable - perhaps a tad cramped - and we alternated between chatting with the Nepalis, spacing out, and playing 'twenty questions,' or Botticelli. No games of 'chicken.' Passed only an occasional motorized vehicle.

The air was warm and humid, the day overcast with monsoon clouds. There were no flights to be had that day, so I bought tickets for the next. We were recommended and went to another 'fancy' hotel. I think the rooms were about $20 each, and were quite comfortable, if somewhat spartan. There was even an elevator, which made our fourth floor rooms manageable for me. The hotel grounds were surrounded by a wall, and we entered through a gate. The surrounding neighborhood was basically tin roofed shanties. Most of the town was for that matter. That afternoon I rode a rickshaw in search of a cup of 'chiyaa' (this is the same as Indian chai), and a samosa, and had an experience that brought me back to the day. Nothing earth shaking; I could have easily ordered such from the hotel restaurant/room service.

The shop owner wore a perspiration soaked tee shirt (it was sunny out now, and he worked over a hot stove inside). He had short black hair, a stout build and bearing, and a polite taciturn manner. He didn't make any big deal about the tall white guy who speaks Nepali who'd just blown in. They also had Seven-Up, and given the heat I had one instead of the chiyaa. The samosa was savory, and not too spicy. An elderly man (probably between the ages of 50 and 70 - but looked more like 80) stopped and chatted a while with me. I gave the young boy who bussed our table a one rupee coin (which is about as miserly as it sounds - it was more just to do it - tipping like that was very uncommon back in the day). I also gave him a bright shiny penny telling him what it was. The elderly man said he had a collection of over 100 foreign coins from as many different countries. Impressed, I offered him a quarter, but he declined - already had three of them.

Later, back at the hotel, Spencer said that he felt 'bad' staying in such a fancy hotel surrounded by such poverty. The next morning, he said he wanted to get his hair cut at the barber shop in a shanty just across the lane, so we went, paid about a dollar for the cut, and tipped about a dollar. I can't remember a nicer looking cut. Spencer was glad to have patronized the place, but he was a little worried about getting infected by the straight razor. (No such infection arose.)

We made it to the airport in plenty of time, and rode a Yeti Airlines' twin-prop to Kathmandu. As we flew, we were served a little bag of peanuts (the ingredients read: "Peanuts, Edible Oil [sic], Iodized Salt, etc. [sic]"), and were offered a choice of soda pop, 7-up or Miranda (similar to Fanta). I chose plain water, what is called mineral water, and comes in a plastic bottle (with which we are quite familiar in the U.S. where we just call it water). And the loud noise of the propellors left little room for chat with my seat neighbor, Eli. Instead, I considered our trip, what we might find in Kathmandu, and what we didn't do in Dangadhi.

Topping that list - what we didn't do - was go to 'my' village. Dangadhi is in the far western region of Nepal, same as the tiny village of Khateda where I had spent most of my time in the Peace Corps. It lay a considerable distance from the nearest road head - maybe a ten hour walk. That is, ten hours for a young and healthy me. It was likely that we wouldn't be getting any closer during our trip. To get to the village now would require that I be carried there - and the way things seemed to have gotten so expensive in Nepal, I was having to rethink a village visit. The training village, Palung, that I and 7 other engineers trained at I knew lay relatively close to a road head (maybe an hour hike), and just several hours drive from Kathmandu. This became my new hope.

We arrived at the Tribhuvan airport, and found a taxi large enough for us and all our luggage. Then went to check into the Kathmandu Guest House that would be our home away from home for about ten days. There are a range of lodging options from deluxe to 'simplicity' the lower end costing $4 per night, and consisting of little more than a bed, with access to a common bathroom. We chose something near the middle. While there, we took several side trips to see the sights in the Kathmandu region, including the famous Swayambunath, or 'monkey temple,' where Eli and Spencer had a great time feeding the wild primates their favorite snack, biskut (kind of a mildly sweet cracker - in the tradition I think of England and the Raj). The temple lies at the top of a hill with hundreds of steps leading to it. After about fifty steps, I sat down (and waited for the boys to make the ascent and return) near one of the many vendors selling Buddhist or Hindu tchochkes. Jewelry, carvings, bells, etc. I provided some interest for the pilgrims on their way up to the temple: 'hey, look at the monkey who speaks Nepalese!' Actually, kidding aside, had a nice conversation with a young man - a Hindu - and the vendors nearest me. It seemed that there was little distinction made about Buddhist vs. Hindu pilgrims at the various temples we visited. (Note the picture of me with two Sadhus, or Hindu holy men, at the base of the Buddhist temple.) Both religions are very tolerant - the one having evolved from the other - and as such they stand in stark contrast to the Abrahamic religions of the west and middle east. This past weekend a 'Unity Walk' was held here in D.C. - perhaps elsewhere too? - a very timely idea. The walkers were to visit a Sikh temple, a synagogue, a church, a mosque. Wish I could have made it.

This travelogue grows tiresome I imagine. All the dramatic and death-defying stuff was covered in Hellrides i to iv. Though there is much to say about our time in Kathmandu - the temples, the shops, the food, the people, and so on - I want to point out one last feature of the valley: our transportation. Usually in a taxi.

We'd usually hail and ride in a Tata taxi. What, never heard of Tata? I've read that they are one of the largest commercial truck, bus, and car manufacturers in the world - perhaps bigger than our 'big three', maybe bigger than Toyota, Honda, Hyundai, or Volkswagen. Twenty five years ago I don't think they made small cars - taxi size - but they do now. Perhaps because of a less than high quality pedigree, most Tata taxis in Kathmandu have a big translucent 'Suzuki' sticker covering the upper third of their windshields. Which provides the passengers two small comforts: first, for partially obstructing the view of oncoming/merging/brake-slamming traffic - the drivers were thankfully always short enough to have good visibility; second, for providing the likely false sense of security that in the event of a head-on collision, the glass would be less prone to shatter in life-threatening shards. Without that, the chance that the glass is designed for safety seems ludicrous. Many of the taxis don't even have seat belts.

Always an adventurous ride, but I have to say that after the night bus, any jack-rabbit starts, brake slams, and very close calls were seldom worth more than a yawn.

But the streets of Kathmandu were just teeming with taxis, motorcycles, tuk-tuks (smaller motorized taxis), bicycles, rickshaws, and pedestrians. The ratio of these modes of transit had changed markedly after 25 years. And resembled the traffic conditions of Delhi. Where back in the eighties the roads would be packed with pedestrians, bicycles, and rickshaws - with only an occasional motorized vehicle - it is now completely changed. Pedestrians and bicycles take their lives into their hands by setting out into this crowded smoke-filled frenzy. Or so it always seemed. We never saw an accident, however, though there were plenty of near misses.

For the first couple of weeks after our return home, my driving became relatively pretty reckless. As my Nepali language skills had improved each day with use and immersion, it seems I was unconsciously soaking up the driving style as well. I did manage to keep the car on the right hand side of the road - usually - but I gotta say, riding in India and Nepal had some side effects. Passing a car one evening after dark I hit a (newly installed) "Stop for Pedestrians" sign at the Capital Crescent Trail (a 'rail to trail' bike and pedestrian path in Bethesda) where it crosses a fairly busy street. The sign post was flexible - some kind of hard plastic - as was the sign itself, so nothing was damaged beyond some paint chipped off of the right side view mirror. Spencer was riding in the car, and will not let me forget that incident. For me it was cautionary, to be sure, and my driving has returned more or less to the slow and careful mode I've long practiced.

The title of this post is 'The village,' but so far I've only hinted at such. Next post will explore the topic once and for all. Now it's time for a break.

Night bus from hell; part iv

Which will be the last installment, I promise.

(The picture above shows the three Nepali men who rode in the bus behind our 'most excellent seats.' They were very friendly, and occasionally helped me understand what was going on. Mainly their presence just made me feel vaguely - tacitly - supported, and hopeful about the human race, when causes and conditions led me to feel otherwise.)

It occurs to me you may be wondering why and how I 'let' this all come to pass. As mentioned in an earlier post, I love to travel without any specific plan. Fly to Delhi, and go overland to Nepal, end of plan. I love that. However, I don't particularly enjoy discomfort, terror, disgust, or any of the other unfortunate mind states that this bus trip occasioned. In my defense, I will only offer up the parable of the frog in the slowly warming pot of water. At first it's pretty nice, the frog floating on his amphibious back as the temperature is very relaxing and spa like. This stage analogous to the nice hotel concierge, the pleasant and smooth micro-bus ride. Then gradually the water heats up - cramped bus, crazy traffic driving around Delhi, uncomfortable seats, etc. As the water nears the boiling point - games of chicken, pedophilic overtones, etc. - there seems no escape. What would we do at three a.m. by the side of a desolate Indian road, not knowing the language, etc? My fancy for planless travel notwithstanding...

However, in spite of it all, and the loss of control of the situation - the veritable submission to mother India - something intangible is gained. A deepened appreciation for the small comforts of life? For my relative health and dear sons? To spell it out like this makes it sound banal and formulaic - and obvious. But there is something more, something that makes me still want to be carried helplessly by the quixotic winds of the great cosmic mystery from time to time. Perhaps it is in - or following - these moments of total release, that feelings of euphoria can arise.

Back to our tale: Just before dawn - the darkest hour - the road (by now quite narrow, but thankfully hardly used) kind of forks. One tine leads up to a defunct bridge, and the other down to what appears to be access to ford the river. The river isn't very wide, but the current seems brisk. We stop, the headlights kept on. The driver and a couple scouts walk down to the river's edge. One fellow wades out and is soon up to his thighs, turns around and they all come back to the bus. There will be no attempt at that crossing: I feel both relieved and forlorn at the prospect. The boys and I thought the thrill would be worth the risk - such has the night rent our faculties of reason.

Once the bus is turned around - this takes a while - we are informed that another road detours maybe five kilometers away, no worries sahib. We ride along in silence - Shiva and Soro murmuring quietly together (perhaps plotting - but I only suspect this in retrospect, as I still don't apprehend The Sting on the bus. As we ride along, the globe slowly rotates in the direction of the sun, and we begin to see houses, trees, the occasional early morning jogger (this really surprises me - I'd never seen a non-western jogger in India or Nepal). Perhaps they were fugitives making a hasty retreat from some macabre crime scene, their blood soaked hands having been rinsed in a monsoon puddle, providing a nice little breakfast treat for the mosquito larvae. (Such thoughts do not cross my mind - only as I type this later do such thoughts arise.) I am just too tired this morning, after night bus hells one, two, and three: the passing images outside the bus windows come as if in a dream or hypnotic state. I'm vaguely aware that the houses are beginning to look a bit more like those I remember in Nepal - though not a one has thatched roof, a commonplace 25 years ago. Tin is now the standard, which is not nearly so pleasant to look at, but I know from experience does a much better job of shedding the rain.

We pull up to our 'station' (it's more like a tea shop, there are no other buses there, or much place to park really), before day has broken - it's maybe five a.m. There are many Indians walking about, however. Which reminds me, for the entire trip not one of us carries a watch and must always ask somebody for the time of day. Neither I nor my sons ever wears a watch (I used to carry a pocket watch, but that has been replaced with a cellphone - always showing the correct time - except on the other side of the planet where there is no Verizon service). Bleary eyed, I ask the boys to unload our carriage, and be sure to post one of them with the bags out on the ground, and be on the lookout for, well, the context is obvious, I don't need to supply a noun here. Which it turns out is the very wrong place to suspect thieves...

I ask Soro where I might be able to change some money (we are still in India) to pay for transit to the border (still a mile or so off). This question was my first mistake of the morning. He and Shiva assure me that they will take care of that, find me a tuk-tuk, and handle the money. I pull out a ten dollar bill - thinking they will exchange it for rupees for me - and hand it to Shiva. Mistake number two. Soro says no, that will definitely not be enough, do I have any more? I pull out a $50 bill, and exchange it for the ten I had just given. Exactly as I make this hand off - mistake number three - the Entertainer sounds loud and clear in my mind. They say yes, that will be enough, jump off the bus, and begin their impenetrable haggling with the horse drawn carriage just in front. I am cursing to myself in several languages at this point, repeating one of my favorites, 'haidenai!' (a German approximation of 'dagnabit'), as it dawns on me - and I explain to my sons - what just happened.

The short trip might have cost at most 500 rs. (less than ten bucks) if I'd been able to exchange into Indian currency and haggle. I wonder who pockets the difference? My good friend Shiva the crazed pedophile, and his side-kick Soro, that's who! At least it seems obvious to me they do. It serves as a slap in the face to wake me up. I climb off the bus and shake hands with our erstwhile captors, smile, congratulate them on their excellent hustle - no joke, that's really what I said (maybe Soro understood, maybe not) - and wish them godspeed the heck back to that godforsaken wasteland they call home. It will take several days for me to get to the point where I no longer refer to India as 'teeming with thieves and knaves' (my best approximation in Nepali: chhormaanisharu - subbai badmaas!) which is a sentiment shared by many Nepalis. My boys load the cart with our belongings, help me on, and try to calm me down. And really, as the buggy plods along - hard wooden planks grinding my raw butt at each pothole - there is much to be thankful for, and I do calm down. I tell them that night was at least as bad as any hardship I ever faced in the Peace Corps. Of course I'm now twice the age I was, and have the welfare of three children to consider. But still. They say it wasn't so bad, which I find very relieving, I've perhaps been successful in shielding them from some of the worst. Or they are just saying that to comfort me.

We roll along peacefully through forest and rangeland. Until, that is, we come to a 'gate' - seemingly in the middle of nowhere - with indecipherable signage. We are informed it won't open till 6:00 a.m. Which it soon does. We roll slowly on to the Indian checkpost. The official is maybe 35 or 40, casually dressed, and speaks English pretty well. We fill out the customs forms, hand over our passports, and wait the requisite half an hour, swatting flies and mosquitos. All the while dozens of what appear to be Indians and Nepalis freely traffic in both directions, not needing to stop. This 'racial profiling' as it were, only vaguely gets under my skin, and I make a snide comment to Eli who is helping fill out the forms. He shushes me: a role reversal, I sound like the teenager. It could have been far worse - I remember sitting in a bus once for upwards of three hours at the Nepal border. We are neither asked for bakshish (bribe money), nor given any such hints. The fellow informs me of the fine print on our visas that says we would be unable to return to India sooner than two months from today. Which I think would be far too soon anyway. However, I explain that our visit in Nepal was only to last two weeks. He tells me we could get that changed at the Indian embassy in Kathmandu.

He stamps our visas, and we are free to go. In contrast, after we cross a wide river over a hydroelectric dam, the Nepali pass control doesn't even look at our passports, let alone any visas. What they want, is a thorough look at the contents of our luggage. To which search we willingly oblige the camouflage clad security officers. With whom I can speak! In Nepali! We are soon back on the road. However, it turns out there is indeed a pass control that checks our visas, etc. But by now my mood has completely come back, bobbing to the surface like an apple in a barrel at the Shrovetide fair - a mood higher even than the helter-skelter at said fair! (Thanks Fyodor D. for these similes' inspiration.)

I am able to change some money, then haggle with two or three (was it four?) bicycle rickshaw drivers for portage to the Hotel Opera, the finest hotel in Mahendranagar (about $15 per room - after haggling - of which we need two). Soon the rickshaw I'm riding in is overtaken by one of the boy's, and I am tagged 'it.' The drivers quickly get the gist of the game, and help out with the chase. Gradually we fall back into a normal pace. Then I am over taken by Miller pedaling his own rickshaw, the driver and luggage in back! Then comes Spencer, and the race is on! Eli and I hang back as weary passengers, Spencer and Miller far ahead. I'm having a great time chatting with my driver, and ask how much the other rickshaw drivers will pay for the ride they are getting. He laughs, and he points out one of his sons walking in the opposite direction. When I mention that my wife recently died, he offers to help me find a 'new wife' in Nepal. Nice of you to offer, I say, but I have a girlfriend back home. Can she prepare good daalbhaat, he asks (the national meal of Nepal)? No, but she's a great cook. Besides, I can make excellent daalbhaat!

We are now finally in Nepal - it's just the flat netherland know as the Terai, not the middle hills in which I and most Peace Corps volunteers lived and worked - but nevertheless, the place feels like Shangri-la. Lush vivid green rice paddy lined with lentil and potato and corn, and the occasional 'weed': pot plants taller than me. Blue skies, hills in the distance - and only rarely does a motorized vehicle pass by.

Just read a fascinating article in the New Yorker about an Indian named Madan Kataria who advocates and teaches 'laughter yoga.' It may seem to some that the Indians in this tale of woe on the open road had the last laugh, but as I remember us racing off in our bicycle rickshaws, I'm laughing still.

May Soro and Shiva be free from suffering. May we all be free from suffering.

Namaskaar!

Night bus from hell; part iii

(This picture was taken before we left the station, but we already look tired and uncomfortable.)

We'd never had dinner, and at some point late at night - maybe early in the morning? - we stop at a roadside 'restaurant.' Some fluorescent lights hang in an open air structure, moths flutter about, throwing strobe-like shadows. There are several picnic tables, where scattered late night diners nurse beers or small bevelled glass cups of chai (a milky sweet and spicy hot cup of tea). It's warm and muggy out, the air heavy with ennui.

Some minutes or hours before this stop, the bus driver stopped for no apparent reason. As mentioned he did that from time to time, so I don't at first think one way or the other about it. Then I see the direction his eyes are gazing: off to our left there is a tap stand - a faucet on a riser pipe about belly or chest high. There are some boys standing around wearing nothing but underpants - or maybe swimsuits, hard to tell in the light - and they are 'bathing', their olive skin glistening wet. A light shines, from high overhead, illuminating the scene. Moths flutter, cicadas chirp their almost preternatural helicopter sound, and the warmth and humidity rise in the stationary bus as we sit there, no breeze from the open windows. Shiva seems to stare intently at the bathing scene. Still, I don't think much about this, hardly noticing. Maybe he stopped (for a change) to light a cigarette - he'd usually do it while playing chicken. I was exhausted, my mind numbed by the night terrors, my now aching butt, and the late hour. So we've stopped, whatever. Time to relax a bit, don't have to exert my muscles to keep from sprawling akimbo across my boys as the bus careens from one near death moment to the next. And change my sitting posture from one rather raw gluteus cheek to the other, or reposition my posterior to the place in front of or behind a tiresome mound, about the size of a wallet, lodged under the seat.

After some moments/minutes/eons we pull ahead. And soon come to stop at the aforementioned restaurant. As you may recall from my first post, I don't have many rupees left, so I show the clerk what I've got and with limited Nepali/Hindi I mime and try to explain we'd like as many rotis - aka chapattis - as that would buy. They arrive after some minutes, and, well, these are not the best rotis I've ever had, but they aren't bad. Not bad at all in fact. In village days of yore, each night I'd have whole wheat ones, the flour ground that morning in the small mill by the stream - the turbine built of wood by hand - each one rolled and cooked in front of me as I sat cross-legged on the floor; they were tossed directly from the wood fire griddle onto my large stainless steel plate, next to a mound of savory and hot spicy greens - or in the height of the dry season, nothing but fresh ground garlic salt - my stomach aching with hunger at 9 or 10 p.m. Those, now those rotis, they were the best I'd ever had. The best naan I find nowadays in Indian restaurants are fine, delectable even, but don't come close to the culinary ecstasy that those intense hunger pang induced roti meals afforded. Well, these rotis - dripping with ghee (clarified butter) - they come as close as I can remember to the village gold standard. Not whole wheat, or as soft, but they are fresh and hot, and quite excellent. Our extreme adrenaline deprived hunger no doubt helps with the savor. We greedily dive right in. There are no napkins, so I wipe the ghee on my shirt and pants (still trying to get the stains out from that). They bring out some subjee (curried vegetable) which I hadn't ordered, and some daal (lentil) which I had. Some words, like most foods, are the same in Hindi as Nepali. They keep on with the food till we are stuffed (or perhaps in my boys' cases, bored).

Then comes time for a bathroom break. Bathrooms in the west have some things you probably won't find at roadside spots in Asia - or many other places for that matter. Clean running water for instance. Or toilet paper. Or how about a commode? Sorry, what you have is a small hole in the floor, about the diameter of a small roti, (isn't that fitting?) with two enamel foot pads either side on which to squat and do your business. Number one is not a problem - for guys anyway. Fortunately that is the only number that's called for this evening. In Nepal I'd never had any difficulty with such a setup - even the lack of toilet paper: you'd use a lota (pitcher) of water to pour bidet style to cleanse oneself with your left hand. This seemed far more hygienic than the smear that toilet paper... Okay, I'll stop here and consider that my audience may include some folks who were not in Peace Corps Nepal.

Walking to and from the WC, however, is a bit more of a concern. The monsoon rains (rarely heavy, but relatively frequent) have left the puddles and potholes full of murky water. Sitting on the bus so long with my legs in the shape of various pretzels in our 'special seats' makes them a bit more rubbery - or spastic - than usual, so along with my cane, I need a son's shoulder to lean on as I walk. Once in the WC, I am on my own. And the floor is wet. There is a roof, so much of this wetness is likely anthropogenic (climate change notwithstanding). As I shuffle and do a Mr. Bojangles 'old soft shoe' over to the hole in the floor, I remember the article I'd read about the supposed benefits of ring worm for sufferers of auto-immune disorders such as MS. And my sister's suggestion to go barefoot in just such a place as this if the opportunity should present itself. Well, I'm not barefoot, but I'm wearing my ultra-comfortable ten year old (and they look that old, or more) leather sandals which do not come close to sealing against the potentially ringworm infested waters here. I think I'd rather not get ringworm just now, so early in our trip, if ever, so I shuffle slower. Do I have ringworm now? Will my MS fade away? So far, no signs, positive or negative.

We climb back on the bus, careful to remove our shoes as we do. Shiva asks us - by pointing - to be mindful of this (it is rather déclasé to have your shoes on a seat - it is considered to be 'polluted' in both India and Nepal), and given our bathroom run and the monsoon mud we have been negotiating, our cultures are in complete accord on this point. We leave the shoes under the driver's seat, sit down, and are joined in our cramped surroundings by a young man, who speaks a good bit of English, and introduces himself as the son of the driver. 'Might I ride front with you? Please sahib?' A plaintive grin.

He and the driver smile, the boys and I consult and agree that it would be okay. 'Sure, join us, there is plenty of room,' I say spreading my arms to encompass our legs, other splayed body parts, and piles of luggage. And I say that with only a hint of irony in my voice. I'm too tired to try to make it more obvious.

Soro Gupta and I exchange handshakes and smiles, and Shiva smiles wide then turns on the engine, puts the bus in reverse. Soro is friendly enough, but I am not exactly in the chatty mood he seems to inhabit. He's got an olive green t-shirt and side burns. He's twenty five, and his guess of my age I think is somewhere around 75. I am vague on this point, as I would often ask folks to guess if they asked my age (which is quite common in both Nepal and India). The guesses would range from around fifty to a high of 95! I think my mostly gray hair really threw them off. Maybe the cane, as well. Also, guessing high is perhaps safer in a culture that still respects the elderly. (For the record, I am actually only 49 years old...). We exchange some bio bits, and I mention that I have a girlfriend back home. He is not to be one-upped at that, he has 'many girlfriends, dozens even!' I ask him whether they are each aware of this surfeit, and he replies that they most assuredly are not. Nudge nudge, wink wink. I ask how he would feel if he was one of 'dozens' of boyfriends of one of his girlfriends, and he says that's simply impossible.

The guy is by turns annoying, smarmy, friendly, and amicable. What he is able to do, however, is translate what his 'father' says, or what we say back. Which is something of a blessing, but primarily a curse. Turns out it's not really his dad, but he's the son of his dad's friend. One of the recurrent items on Shiva's agenda, is that we need to pay something for the carriage of our luggage - let's just take a number out of the hat - right, 2000 rs! It's starting to sound like a very auspicious number (for Indians). But then no, he's just kidding. Then after a moment he really does need the payment. Back and forth. I reply that I already paid for the carriage back at the bus park - but in fact I didn't actually see the money end up in the driver's hand. Which is a point I don't share, but is reason enough for me to have my doubts. The money may have lined the micro-bus driver's wallet. It's back and forth, like this, but with laughter and smiles. And the occasionally terrifying game of chicken to mix it up a bit. I agree to pay at the end of the bus ride, when (if) we reach our destination - they have worn me down. Except I have no rupees. They'd all been made into rotis, and eaten. Soro talks with Shiva and tells me that $20 would be enough. I do the math, it is far less painful than 2k rs. would be, so I agree, and eventually hand over the note that I fish out of the pouch I carry hanging around my neck, under my shirt. A very helpful accoutrement in what is starting to feel like a den of thieves. This turns out to be hustle number one - the smaller one. Or maybe number two, or three? Or trial set ups?

But hustles like this are small fry compared to Shiva's newest line of inquiry: turns out he - through translation by Soro - is very fond of Miller, and tells us this several times. And, he asks, could Miller sit or lie in a position - he pats the seat just next to him - that would allow Shiva to look at him as he drives? (If it hasn't dawned on my readers by now, you may recall that bus stoppage by the bathing boy tap stand; the incident is now front and center in my memory.) Miller says, repeatedly, 'no, thanks, I'm fine right here,' which is what I back him up on with no hesitation. If, on the other hand Miller would have agreed to change places as Shiva was suggesting, he would have remained fully within my field of vision, and with all the adrenaline rushing through whatever organs my adrenaline rushes through, I was in absolutely no danger of drifting off to sleep. (A scenario which might have allowed Shiva to 'fiddle about' or perform some heinous act on my darling son.) This line of questioning continues a few more times till I say, "listen Soro, my son said 'no,' and that's final. And, as a matter of fact, I would like you to just stop talking altogether. I'm sick and tired of this conversation." Full stop.

I've grown worried now about this insane THC crazed (possibly, or maybe it's amphetamines?) pedophile bus driver making verbal advances toward my youngest son. At one point he offers to buy him, or trade the bus for him! What a sorry sad joke. I check with Miller (who is reading during much of this, and is therefore oblivious, thankfully) and he said he would be okay being sold for $10 billion as long as he got half. (Which would go a long way to hire body guards and such to keep Shiva at arm's length.) So I make the counter offer, which effectively ends the issue of a purchase. After shutting up Soro, I confer with Eli, who has been alternately sleeping, reading, or just zoning out. In addition to the disastrous accident scenarios occasionally playing out in my imagination, now this: me attempting to hobble over and bludgeon with my cane a perp violating my child. My question to Eli is - after summarizing for him the conversations and my fears - 'if it becomes necessary, would you be willing to beat the living shit out of this guy? If I ask you to?' 'Sure dad,' comes his tired reply. His tone also conveys the message that dad, maybe you worry a little too much? However, it feels good to know that these strapping young men would have my back if push came to shove. Which it never did, thankfully.

Well, it's break time again. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly... I invite you back for more thrills and chills with Soro and Shiva in the (hopefully last installment) 'night bus from hell; part iv.' You may be relieved to learn that I'm starting to see glimmers of light at the end of this long dark tunnel...

Night bus from hell; part ii

Are we 'on the bus' or off?

Here we sit, up in our 'special seats,' the night quickly falling. We come to an unexpected traffic snarl due to some sort of parade going past, lots of saffron-clad women. We never learn what that was about, just that we have to turn this hulking mass of vehicle around and backtrack several miles.

As said, we are sitting right up in the front, our feet sometimes touching the large protruding windshield. If we look, all of India seems to be out on the road this night in their taxi, or motorcycle (perhaps with a sari-clad passenger sitting side saddle behind the driver), or bicycle, or tuk-tuk (with several passengers hanging onto windows and the back door, standing on the bumper), or a rickshaw slowly peddling along. Occasionally the bus screeches to a stop, just inches from an intransigent cow, or pedestrian, or vehicle. Easy to imagine we are riding the Jagannath, as devotees of Krishna throw themselves under our crushing path. The true wonder, however, is that in all our days and rides in Asia, with all of the close calls, we will witness not even a single fender bender. But we didn't have this hindsight yet, and our eyes and tummies lurch with each sudden stop.

Gradually it grows as dark as eternity, and the road becomes less crowded. And narrower. And often ridden with vast potholes impossible to steer around. To lighten the mood, our intrepid driver - I forget his name, I'll call him Shiva, or the 'destroyer' in Hindu mythology - he turns on some blaring Bollywood music. It's particularly loud as we are seated near the speakers up front. As the music plays, there is a plastic icon - Vishnu perhaps? - near the ceiling above the windshield, which emanates strobing colored lights to the sound of the music. A mallah, or garland of plastic red and black flowers is draped over and attached to the sides of the bus. Shiva particularly likes one or two of the songs and plays them over and over (hard to tell much difference - the screeching voices, tabla, sitar, and 'violins on meth' tend to produce a similar tonal effect, regardless of the lyrics; of course not knowing any Hindi doesn't help.) In addition, there is a skip or something in one of his favorites - or it mysteriously keeps restarting on its own. He asks me if I like the music - at least his body language seems to ask that - and I mime back 'it's fine [smile smile], whatever you prefer' - just keep your eyes on the road o demigod of destruction, please! Then I say - what am I thinking? - if you have any Beatles, or Dylan, maybe some Motown, that would be great. Having heard my request, he turns up the volume. We cover our ears.

So far, so good. What am I talking about, you may ask, 'bus from hell?' All this is child's play... Right you are - uncomfortable seats notwithstanding - but wait.

On the open road, Shiva drives erratically, slowing down or speeding up with no apparent reason, or sometimes even coming to a complete stop. Though vehicles generally drive on the left (India having been a British colony) our driver usually barrels down the middle of the road, only moving left when there is an on-coming vehicle. Or a median. Spencer said it was like playing chicken: we'd come upon a slightly slower bus or truck, Shiva would move fully to the right hand lane and floor it. This being a heavy Tata bus it didn't have much oomph, so we would begin the long process of passing. Ahead of us, we would see one, two, or four approaching lights. One or two was not especially worrying, but the four light combo meant that our mirror image was approaching us. And though my eyes rarely shut during this long night, these were some of the moments when they did. We would just barely pass the slower vehicle, and quickly swerve back in front of it, just in the nick of time - as our mirror image would do the same. Chicken, sure, but everybody wins, right?

There I sit, and cross myself, offer up a prayer to St. Christopher, patron saint of safe travel; then cross myself in the Hindu manner - sort of hold your right index and middle fingers in a sort of relaxed scissors position and brush against your forehead then chest and mumble, 'hare raam.' Then take a deep breath, notice the miracle of just being here, hurtling through space and time, on our way to Nepal, my sons surrounding me. Fleeting moments of ecstasy between images of face-plant-skid collision-accident-scene-forensic-investigations-black-and-white-and-red-all-over. One final prayer: s'cuse me, while I kiss the sky!

Stay tuned for the rest of the 'night bus from hell...'

The night bus from hell.

The night before the night before was rough enough, the main event having been a 14 hour plane ride from Trenton to Delhi. My seat was on the aisle next to a woman and her young daughter, and they asked me if I could trade seats with their husband/father who had the middle seat in the row ahead of us. I answered that given my neurological condition, it was important to be on the aisle - to get up and move around, use the lavatory, etc. - but if the woman in front was willing to move to the middle, then sure. Well, the young woman was not willing. Let me also point out that the rather large plane - seats ranged from a to j - was populated mostly by Indians, or, at least, Indian in appearance. Including the aforementioned parties.

So, I sat with that situation for some minutes, and it didn't feel so good. And what is the big deal anyway, a middle seat? There are kids starving in India for goodness sake... So, I said sure, I'll switch, and did so. Well, as if instant karma were at work, after I settled into my seat, the young unwilling woman's seat to my right did not function, and would not tilt back, no matter how hard we and the flight attendant pushed on the button and seat back. She was told it could not be fixed until a ground crew could get to it, there was nothing that could be done. No free drink or plastic wings lapel pin. Nada.

So, I felt a brief moment of self-righteous smugness, but that only lasted a few seconds. I soon discovered my compassion rise, and compel me to offer to the damsel in distress, that during the flight we could switch off. Which we did, she sitting upright to watch various Bollywood features (on the surprisingly well-stocked movie/tv show/game screen on the seat back in front of each passenger), while I would catch a few seconds of bobble-head airplane sleep. Then I would read or watch a movie while she dozed. And truth be known, there really wasn't much difference in the comfort of our seats, regardless of the slight tilt.

Touch down in Delhi, pass control, baggage, customs, and we are there. It is going on eight p.m., I don't speak much Hindi (some overlap with Nepali - like the difference between Dutch and German maybe), and we have no plans or reservations. Which is exactly the kind of travel I love. My teens don't share my passion for such 'dukha travel.' In fact, I would imagine few do. But getting there has always been at least half the fun for me, and it was good to see that hasn't changed with the slowing of my step, the graying of my hair.

We wander a bit, Eli prodding me 'where are we going dad?' or 'the taxis are outside, what are you doing?' I answer that he may prefer to take a few steps away and pretend that he is not related to me. He seems satisfied with this plan. Then an angel appears in front of me. She is middle-aged, has an American accent, and is waiting for her family. They live in Delhi, and work for some NGO or other. She tells me about a very reasonably priced hotel/hostel, and how to pre-pay for a taxi ride to it. Two taxis, that is. Oh, and the hotel is very close to the swank 'Vasant' which the taxi drivers will know. It is a very long trip - well, not that long, maybe 30 minutes - and the taxi drivers manage to find only the Vasant. It's late, we've had a rough time of our day/night/day, so what the heck. One night sets us back $350. I charge it, and vow to make up for it in the days to follow.

At this hotel, I discuss with the concierge how one might travel overland to Nepal. C.P. Sharma had a soft and friendly mannerism, wore a navy blue suit, and due to a childhood accident had a very shriveled right hand. We talked of life - our respective lives, that is - then got down to business. He would arrange a 'micro bus' (what we call minibus) to the bus park where we could find the bus to Nepal, and the ticket would cost a government set fee, maybe a few hundred Rupees each. The micro bus would cost 2000 rupees (about $60). Okay, now we had a plan: we would have a late check out at three, and catch the micro bus at four p.m.

Went back to our room. There was an English language channel showing The Sting. We watched perhaps for half an hour. We all love that movie, never tiring of the stellar portrayals, the so very clever plot, and the vindication of the 'good guys.' Packed up, went downstairs for some mango lassis, samosas, and a game of cribbage as we awaited our transport.

The concierge introduced us to the driver who wore a gray v-neck sweater, a detail I remember because it matched his hair. And in my memory, there are very few Indians with gray hair. Perhaps this is simply not the case, or maybe the population is so much more heavily weighted in the direction of youthful black hair. I wouldn't think it is due to a greater use of hair 'rinsing' products, what with the Asian reverence and respect for the elderly, etc. Anyway, he got us to the bus park, and walked us a good long distance - the boys lugging the bags, and me lugging myself - past rows and rows of rather worn and dented gray busses. I kept imagining rounding the corner to find the sparkling new shiny and tall luxury bus section. Didn't happen. I remember back in the day finding such a relatively comfortable, air-conditioned bus, that took us all the way to Kathmandu.

So it's about 6:00 p.m. when we get on the bus - dented, dingy, hot, and crowded. Pretty much all the seats are taken, but the driver says we can sit on the 'very comfortable' seats way up front next to him. Take the normal bus seat, shorten its back, and remove the area to put your feet on the floor, and you more or less have the picture. And then all of our luggage has to go on and around this area as well.

After buying the tickets - which to be fair to the aforementioned Mr. Sharma cost only about 250 Rupees each - our drivers (of the micro and macro busses) haggle over what it will cost to transport our luggage. Yes, the luggage we are more or less sharing our 'spacious' seats with. The number they arrive at is Rs. 2000. I check my wallet and pouch, could have sworn I had several five hundred notes just moments ago, but no, they are gone. So I ask Mr. Micro if he can make change for dollars, he answers yes, and I give him $60. The first time I see some green stuff vanish. At this point, I should have heard the strains of Scott Joplin's The Entertainer starting up, but no, it would be some time before such insight would dawn on me. (Which is the soundtrack of The Sting. And which is getting ahead of things.}

After sitting in our already only semi-adequate seats for 45 minutes - though I must say here that at any given time there was space for approximately 1.3 boys to lie out in some semblance of reclination - the driver climbs aboard. He has maybe a seven days' growth of beard, an easy - if mildly manic - smile, and a hacking cough, which he will self-medicate with perhaps a dozen or so cheroots over the course of the trip. Not a chain smoker, but close enough. As we head off, his driving style - which I will come to realize is not really all that different from any we will find in Asia - actually seems to have been inspired by another smoked inhalant, something in the cannaboid family. It is perhaps not common knowledge, but the word 'assassin' derives from the word hashish: apparently assassins in ancient Persia or somewhere would take large doses of the herbal extract - from a houkah perhaps - before going off to perform the deed, in an attempt to quell any fear. Which wouldn't work for me, if ever I become an assassin, because the herb often just makes me feel paranoid. (At least that is what experiments in college taught me.) No need for any capitally criminal plot participation. In any event, this tangent was merely conjecture on my part, and we find ourselves on the clogged streets of Delhi, putting toward our destination: a border town with Nepal's Mahendranagar.

And this post grows long: I need a break. Perhaps you do as well. Stay tuned for the next episode of 'night bus from hell'...