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The North Face
Date: Wed, 4 Nov 1998
Huge pinnacles of ice, soaring as high as 15 metres above the glacier; icebergs which will never
"calf"; described in our guidebook as "resembling dozens of Sydney Opera Houses".
To me the
most elegant are white-blue sailboats. I had to be restrained from climbing in and on top of the
frozen waves.
Damian said, "We are damn lucky to see this."
True.
But how did I get here?
On the Ganden - Samye trek we got inspired to next try the "Highest Trek in the World"; a
trip
to Everest's North Face advanced Base Camp III (6340 metres). Nowhere else on Earth can
you walk to such an elevation with no need for crampons, ice ax, or any mountaineering skills.
To have enough time I would need to extend my visa. This demanded 4 trips to the Police in
two cities. On my last attempt I promised, if successful, to do the kora around the Shigatse
monastery, home of the Panchen Lama. Gain merit. Soup-up my karma.
Unexpectedly I got 7 days. Time enough to try Everest!
I set out at dusk for the 1 hour circumambulation. I knew from our morning kora that there were
perhaps 1000 dogs asleep (only 1 was dead for sure) around the monastery walls. When I
started the walk a number lay with eyes open, watching. As I moved up the mountain some were
sitting. More trotted down from the hills. I accompanied women who gave out water, left-overs,
bits of rice. Snarls. Growls. The curious fallen puppy we had returned to the litter in the morning
was again whimpering on the path below the den. But this time the sick, crazed mother watched.
I didn't dare touch the pup.
I hurried to safety as the city erupted; a canine chorus.
Damian, a great traveling companion, and I set out on the Friendship Highway (Lhasa to
Kathmandu via Everest). Damian is Swiss, a ski guide and mountaineer who attempted the
Weisshorn in September (unsuccessful due to weather). More importantly he speaks German,
French, English, and reads, writes, and is fluent in Chinese. He loves to barter in the Chinese
manner, organizing huge meals for groups of 8 to 10 backpackers.
Of course we travelled illegally, refusing to join any government approved
touring group. This means we had to hitch the trip, variously on tractors, horse carts, Tibetan
"people movers" (big trucks jammed with sacks and singing locals). We learned that open trucks
are the best ride; taking in the scenery, standing to absorb the bumps.
I don't like hitching. It teaches patience too well. Picture me sitting roadside watched by sharp-eyed,
oily Tibetan crows. Mean opportunists, they sharpen their cruel beaks remembering the
last tourist who died hitching at this spot.
Once we sat all day, finally hiring a mini-bus to take us over a high pass. The driver, fearing the
police, spent several hours negotiating the "charter" (the bribe). The Chinese compromise
was
that the bus could drive us up to the police checkpoint, we would then walk across (somehow
less illegal), and then the bus could pick us up again on the other side.
The Friendship Highway is infamous. On that same pass we squeezed by a huge "semi" almost
capsized in the mud. Several other trucks were stranded. A bus seemed to have slid down the
mountain.
It was a struggle to reach the trailhead.
Tingri to Everest Base Camp Trek:
The most popular walk in Tibet, this was still a long, harsh slog. We managed the 70 km in 3
days, hiring a packhorse for a half day and riding up a jeep track for the last hour with a
Canadian family. We slept in my tent, a smoke-blackened Tibetan home (pots big enough to
cook a goat), and the Rongphu monastery guesthouse. We ate gourmet imported camp food we
had purchased from a Nepali tour guide. We sampled "tsampa" with butter tea (inedible) and
"thugpa" stew (which tastes as good as it sounds). Damian tried the raw, dried meat but had
to
spit it out.
This food is what the Tibetans eat every day, all day.
Rongphu monastery, the world's highest, has stunning views of Everest -- far superior to the
Nepal side. Everyone sits out to watch the play of light at sunset, the North Face golden. In
October the weather is stable, day after day of sunny skies. At times even the peak was clear; no
blowing snow off the top.
It is quite warm except when it is windy. It is always windy. We heard hypothermic horror
stories from those who tented at the base camp.
At the Rongphu monastery the ambiance is end-of-the-world euphoria. When an Israeli pulled a
pistol out of his parka to punctuate some anecdote, no one even blinked. The Tibetan cook there
thought I should pay for a meal I hadn't ordered. When I tried to leave he shook me by the
lapels, pushed me out the door, on to the ground, and fell on top of me. I was too surprised to
be angry.
(One of the big disappointments for travelers is the realization that many Tibetans just are not
friendly. In fact, it is hard to picture a more disreputable rogue than a Tibetan man. I tried to be
tolerant, knowing that the Tibetans are not far removed from a peasant, rural existence. But three
times I saw Tibetan men kick women. Each time I stopped to yell incomprehensibly at the
offender. The third instance, to demonstrate how I should mind my own business, the man then
slapped his wife backhand. I stood stupefied as two other men consoled and hurried her away.
Foreign cyclists are routinely stoned by children, too.)
We set off determined to climb high. We reached advanced base camp I (5460 metres) and
pitched the tent in a protective ring of stones. A surprisingly healthy monastery dog followed us
all the way up the mountain. We pondered whether we (and the dog) were tenting higher than
anyone else on Earth that night.
Next day we got an early start, carrying only a daypack. We calculated a 2:30 PM turn-around
time. This was it. Climb high and then hustle back to the monastery. Perfect weather. It was a 10
hour walking day.
Along and atop the glacier was rock, ice, and dust. No snow. Creaking and continual rock
slide. Caves, tunnels, and under-ice rivers. At one point there was a 700 metre drop-off. We
drank glacial meltwater to prevent dehydration.
We reached the littered advanced interim base camp II at 5760 metres and climbed higher,
perhaps reaching 5900 metres. We lost the trail. Dead-ended several times. Game over.
We took photos. Scrambled in the seracs. And turned back.
This was a long, exhausting hike. I was tired of scree underfoot.
Yet this is an adventure I would recommend unreservedly. (As I do the Lost City trek out of
Santa Marta, Colombia.) To do it right you need the first 3 weeks of October, flying into Lhasa
and out of Kathmandu. YOU could walk to base camp III.
I am ready and eager to leave Tibet. I'm tired of the bureaucratic idiocy in this sad, subjugated
colony. Tired of the misinformation and the mistreatment
of valued "foreign friends".
I will remember the stark landscape; the intense sunlight and black shadows; the detailed relief.
You can see more clearly in Tibet. I'll remember the skies, particularly one otherworldly evening
-- alternating streaks of blue and yellow, which had all travelers straining to explain the
phenomenon.
I will remember the traditional Tibetan costumes; the great Tibetan teeth; the happy, healthy,
filthy, scabby, snot-caked children. (I'm much more compasionate regarding Tibetan dirt after 9
days without a shower. My hands will not come clean no matter how often I wash them.)
I'll remember the picturesque Tibetan towns marred by drab Chinese buildings,
telecommunication tower, and loud-speakers still shouting distorted Communesque lies in 1998.
I'll remember the pilgrim touching-up the colours on beautiful rock paintings. And I'll remember
the monk who cleaned the monastery assembly hall by sliding around in over-sized sheep-skin
"skates".
----------
Opinion not fact.
As you've already surmised, I'm no careful reporter. This is Gonzo journalism; subjective,
personal impressions. Take care.
After a few short weeks in Tibetan lands (on your map Tibet is only about 1/4 the size of
ethnographic Tibet) I've grown less sympathetic of Tibetan independence.
To start with, I was suspicious of any cause which is so popular. It is trendy to "Free Tibet",
but
boring to talk of the Kurds. (In the same way that AIDS is chic, but prostrate cancer should not
be discussed in polite company.)
In all my backpacker pro-Tibet propaganda nowhere is it mentioned that pre-invasion Tibet was
a backwards, impoverished Theocracy, an unsanitary slum. One quote I did pick up somewhere
-- "Past tragic, present painful, future bleak. It has never been easy to live on this plateau."
Theocracy is bad government. "Religion" is Monty Python's "Life of Brian". "God"
often
becomes an excuse for corruption and excess. One funeral pyre of a Dalai Lama is covered with
3700 kg. of gold, encrusted with pearls and jewels paid for by donations of poor pilgrims. I
believe in a separation of church and state.
(One of the great stories of Tibet is that of the 6th Dalai Lama. Born to be God-king, he never
took his vows preferring women, late nights in "chang" houses, riding and archery with his
friends.
He was murdered at age 23.)
On the other hand, it would be interesting to see what the current Dalai Lama (like Nelson
Mandela) could have done. Even Confucius called for leadership by the "wisest sage". I found
the film "Kundun" to be very believable. I respect the Dalai Lama's philosophy of non-violent
resistance. But I fear for the cause after his death. Finding his "reincarnation" will be
a disaster.
To be fair, the Chinese are doing some good things here. They are masters of infrastructure;
roads, bridges, telephones. The minorities enjoy a surprising number of privileges, as do our own
First Nations. It could be that more Tibetans live in comparative comfort and security than ever
before. The biggest problem is education. Literacy rates are very low; rural Tibetans can't get to
schools and many urban Tibetans can't afford school fees.
Tibetan culture and religion are as safe as any in the world. Why? Touri$m! What is more
compelling than Tibetan Buddhism?
After a few weeks of casual discussion, observation and beer drinking; despite intensive
lobbying by two Tibetan advocates. ("Lama" in Xiahe and "Tenzing" in Lhasa); I've
concluded
that there will never be a "Free Tibet". The Chinese will absorb these lands by immigration.
The
Clinton visit to China slammed the door. China now has legitimacy -- in exchange for a few
economic crumbs.
The best I hope to see is one final visit by the Dalai Lama to Tibet in his lifetime.
There will never be a Free Tibet. But the greater danger for Tibet and even China is world
monoculture -- "Coca-colonization".
When I think of Chairman Mao, the "Great Helmsman", I think of his stern, gigantic white
statue
in Chengdu ... dwarfed in a sea of neon advertising for Cognac, Toyota trucks, and Swiss
watches.
Never Ending Peace And Love
Date: Thu, 26 Nov 1998
I remember fondly the first time I visited Nepal. I arrived by air.
This was my first introduction to the "commission" problem by which Hotels pay touts a
percentage for delivering a customer. At the airport, touts hold up signs advertising their favourite
Hotel.
The next bit is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to friends on that 1995 first visit.
"I love the anticipation you feel when arriving at a new place. It's a little like Christmas
eve when you were a kid. Over here there are the delicious uncertainties of entry visas,
currency exchange, and where to stay on arrival. Mass confusion. And I haven't even got
to India yet.
Today I reached Kathmandu. I really, really wanted to. Another mad scramble.
We psyched up and then plunged into the manswarm of touts, louts, and taxi hacks. Like
the stock market floor but with a greater sense of urgency.
I pointed to a little guy in the back and called out TIBET GUEST HOUSE. Surprisingly, I
actually made it to a taxi with him despite the tugging and shouting of his competitors
who insisted he was insane, a murderer, and that his hotel had burned down. The tout
would pay the cab. As we escaped the airport the authorities decided to shut down the
highway for (speculating wildly) road repair. We U-turned to take a crumbling backroad
"shortcut". When we were far enough away the taxi pulled over and insisted on doubling
the agreed fare. A charged argument ensued in Nepalese.
I Buddha smiled, content as a sacred cow in the middle of rush hour traffic."
Canadian author Tim Ward tells of the time he came upon a destroyed Buddhist temple
converted to village latrine. The central statue had a big decaying turd in the middle of it's lap.
Ward admired the Lord Buddha's "composure in the midst of decomposure".
I aspire to the inner calm of the Buddhist.
But, entering Nepal this time, it was not to be.
I spent my last night in Tibet, not surprisingly, sleeping slumped over the steering wheel of a
parked truck in which I had hitched to the border. (The drivers were afraid that they might be
caught by the police if I walked into the border town of Zhangmu at night.) At first light I strolled
down, elated to be leaving Tibet. Someone called my name from above. It was Matt, a mellow,
musical American whom we had rescued (in our horse cart) descending from Everest. Matt had
ruined his legs trying to hike out -- he could no longer walk. He and I were soon scarfing a
fabulous Nepali breakfast at a funky cliffside restaurant looking way down into Nepal. The air
was full of music, curry, and portent.
En route to Kathmandu (standing in an open truck!) we lost 4500 metres and gained 2 hours and
15 minutes. (You won't be surprised to hear that all of China runs on Beijing time.) We "Tibetan
refugees" were a giggle of school girls, our senses open, excitedly pointing out banana palms,
pigeons, and butterflies. OVERLOAD after the deprivations of China and Tibet.
Kathmandu is polluted, loud, and crowded. We didn't care. "They got hot rain falling from the
ceiling. They got MACHINES wash your clothes!" We marveled at flush toilets, tall buildings,
women decidedly not in Tibetan robes. We overdid it in the best bookstores in Asia.
Nepal is a feast! We gorged on calzone, apple strudel, lasagna, and bagels. I could live on bread
alone -- dark European "brot" which gets sweeter as you chew. Restaurants offer patio gardens,
rooftop lookouts, hammocks, and Blues music. The birds are table tame.
For my birthday I treated myself to a barber shave and head massage; "one of the best travel
bargains on all 7 continents".
Nepal is an amalgam of 3 religions; Hinduism, Buddhism, and Tourism. There are about 120
National holidays. Some sort of festival happens every day. I just missed "Kalatri" (Killing
Night)
when Hindus make sacrifice in Durga ("The Destroyer") temples. All manner of beasts are cut,
the blood dappled on cars, buses, rickshaws. Even Royal Nepal Airlines sacrifices goats in the
name of aviation safety. The blood ensures that Durga will not use these vehicles as instruments
of destruction over the coming year. (Durga seems to be the most severe of the many powerful,
easily-miffed Gods.)
This is a country of temples and half-built hotels. (Tax break for making "improvements" to
your
business. Therefore, leave rebar sticking up from the roof.) I stayed at "The Earth Hotel"
in
Kathmandu. In Pokhara the "Holy Lodge" and "Nirvana" were full, but I found "Heaven's
Gate"
strangely vacant.
My second night in Kathmandu I was invited to attend the wrap-up session of the biggest
convention in town; "The International Conference on Spiritual and Moral Values for a 21st
Century". I had some doubts. The conference was sponsored by a group of Nepali upper-caste
Brahmin. I'm not sure how they justified their cause with the intrinsic injustice of their too elevated
social
status.
I was seated with the uncastes in a foreigners section by well-meaning, white-robed volunteers.
Only a tinge of cult. Like every conference, this one was mostly protocol and very little content. I
started looking for the door when the ethnic dancing started, but then stayed when I saw a pretty
woman (with whom I had chatted in a shop) dressed in white leading a dignitary on stage.
The highlight was an Ozzy delegate who told a lengthy tale of a young man, like himself, who
dreamed of changing the world. By middle age he had resolved to just improve his neighbours,
his family, and friends. Who, in old age, found that it was challenge enough to simply improve
himself a little bit.
I could relate to that.
They spoke a great deal about healing. I could use some of that too.
Where better than Nepal? It's like a spiritual new age Kingdom. Yoga, Astrology, Tibetan and
holistic medicine, Reiki, Acupressure, Shamonry. Westerners take courses in "Consciousness
Transference", "Insight to Compassion", and even "Meditation while Trekking".
My Dharma Bum
friends from Tibet signed-up for a course in "Dharma", hanging out at the Great Buddhist Stupa
of Boudanath.
I had been there before. I rarely "revisit" -- there are too many "new" destinations.
But
Boudanath is just too wonderful a place. The chaos of the "Monkey Temple" at night was great
fun again; dogs chasing monkeys chasing tourists. And I went back to Bhaktapur, a village
preserved as a living museum. The timeless rituals of pottery, dyeing wool, threshing grain by
hand on wicker trays, women gathering around the communal water tap, and hundreds of
children playing among ancient temples.)
Many Westerners go all philosophical here. We voice our deepest thoughts on the evils of
creeping cultural homogeneity ... in our favourite Western restaurants (Helena's) and our
favourite German Bakeries (Brezel's).
Many seek solace and spiritual transformation. The most rapt devotees at Boudanath, faces lit by
butter candle lamp, aren't the monks but Western women.
Never Ending Peace And Love is, I suppose, all well and good. But I'm not in the right frame of
mind for meditative posturing. I will seek sanctuary in the Nepali Himalayas.
Annapurna Sanctuary
Date: Thu, 10 Dec 1998
"A man brought in a little girl. He said she was four years old. She looked about two. I
knew she was dying. Her father asked if we had any medicine. I said we didn't; he'd have
to take her to the hospital. He looked at me as if I'd suggested he take her to the moon."
- Monica Connell
This story of old rural Nepal is one I heard many times. Unlike Tibet, every kind of pestilence
can flourish in this climate; rats, leeches, bedbugs, roaches. Dysentry was a big killer. TB a
plague.
Things have improved immensely since Tenzing and Edmund climbed Everest. Communication,
transportation, schooling, health care; all much better due largely to the advent of foreign
attention and Trek tourism.
I'd like to report that Nepali cultures, the environment, and tourism exist in a harmonious
symbiosis. But I don't think it's quite true -- yet.
Sustainable tourism? Why not? Nepal is as good an example as anywhere in the developing
world.
Trekking here is not a "wilderness" activity. You can't get away from people, 75% of whom
still
live in small villages of between 15 - 80 families. The subsistence economy is non-monetary.
Villages can grow and trade for almost everything they need.
That balance is disturbed in those areas frequented by "rich, lavish, and foolish" Westerners
who
think it's fun to walk up and down mountains. (No Sherpa would walk one step futher than he
must.) And nowhere in the Himalayas is more disturbed than Annapurana, by far the most
popular hiking destination.
The "Annapurna Circuit" trek is 3 weeks walking up and over the Himalayas to the Tibetan
plateau, crossing a monster pass, and back down again to jungle. I did the last half of the Circuit,
the "Jomson Trek" acclaimed for views of 2 of the highest peaks in the world (Dhaulagiri and
Annapurna) and even more famous for the best trekking "teahouses" in the world. On Jomson
you stroll from one terrific lodge to the next, struggling only whether to order the apple crumble
or the baked "Snickers" (reportedly a Scottish invention).
In Tibet we had scornfully poopooed "Teahouse Trekking"; we pictured 3 week warriers,
"highways" littered with unburned toilet paper.
Annapurna is not real hiking. But it is fun.
I started as high, dry, and Tibetan as I could in Kagbeni village; closely packed mud houses,
dark tunnels and alleys. Protection from the constant wind.
Kagbeni is Tibet. The same arid luminosity. This is the northernmost point I was allowed to
travel; the gateway to Lo Mustang, the last of the Forbidden Kingdoms of the Himalayas. The
Tibetan trading caravans still pass by Kagbeni as they always have, horses festooned with
mirrors and dyed plumed headgear.
Nepal claims 9 of the worlds 14 highest mountains (over 8000 metres) none of which had been
climbed in 1950 when Herzog's expedition arrived here. He had permission to climb either
Dhaulagiri or Annapurna. His team, the elite of French climbers, were badly hampered by the
best maps of the day -- all completely wrong.
Inspired by Herzog's journal, I set out first to climb up to the Dhaulagiri Icefall, reportedly a 9
hour sidetrip -- if you find the correct route. I wasn't worried as I carried a tent, food, and all
the
gear. There was no trail but I ascended as far as humanly possible up to a spectacular waterfall. I
couldn't see Dhaulagiri but had wonderful views of the Annapurna massif 30 km. across the
valley.
Up there were only me and the huge condor-like Lammergeiers, though I'm sure I heard voices
and whistling coming from the waterfall at night. (Perhaps I'm becoming an Anamist?) When I
poked my head out of the tent in the morning, a big old Yak was peering back at me. The herd
had climbed all the way up just to drink at the waterfall. They love to get high, these beasts.
Dhaulagiri. Would it go?
Bung Ho!
I stashed my pack in the rocks and went to search the impassable cliffs and ravines. I finally
found a dry waterfall which formed a perfect ladder/staircase. It ended in an overhang. I resolved
reluctantly to turn back. (Perhaps I'd learned some common sense after getting lost in the Andes
overnight last trip.)
Descending I spied another possible traverse which couldn't be seen from below. Precipitous
grass slopes, thorny shrubs, several more dry watercourses, a long ridge, several false summits.
Finally, eyeball to eyeball with a glacial icefall spilling out massively from beside the Dhaulagiri
summit. Beautiful and
terrible. This was the glacier which killed 7 U.S. climbers in '69 (avalanche). In '73 another U.S.
team summited having had supplies air-dropped. (including 2 bottles of wine and a live chicken.
Of course the sherpas would not allow the chicken to be killed on the mountain. It was carried
down snowblind and frost-bitten.)
Herzog's team climbed up here, returning to report that the glacier was too dangerous. I
concurred with their recommendation, "Let's have a go at the other fellow."
However, it took Herzog a month just to find Annapurna 1. That massif has perhaps 50 peaks!
This put their expedition very late in the season. Monsoon was coming. Climbing would then be
impossible.
I too had to traverse over mountains to reach Annapurna. I was lulled into a false ease on
Jomson where you can hike with "your hands in your pockets". Now I was into more typical
Nepali hiking; high ridge top down to river valley, across amazing permanent (and temporary!)
bridges, and back up to ridge top. Exhausting. I had a number of really tough days.
But I was inspired. The Annapurna Sanctuary is one of the most incredible glacier basins in the
world, completely surrounded by huge peaks; Hiunchuli, Modi, Fang, Annapurna 1, Glacier
Dome, Gangapurna, Annapurna 3.
These mountains are indescribably impressive. I won't try.
The "gate" is guarded by everyones favourite peak, Machhapuchare ("Fishtail"). Jimmy
Roberts
climbed, in 1957, to within 50 metres of the summit but turned back from the steepness of the
final ascent. On his return to Kathmandu he suggested to the Nepalese government that they
keep at least this one peak unclimbed, "a symbol of the inviolate". No permit has been issued
to
this day.
Access to the Sanctuary is via an intensely scenic gorge; a narrow, winding trail through dense
bamboo and huge trees. You scramble over river boulders; gnarled, polished hardwood roots;
traverse the most recent avalanche tracks; climb bamboo ladders.
There are no permanent settlements here. This is the only major trekking route in Nepal subject
to serious avalanche risk. Occassionally backpackers are trapped in the basecamp when tons of
snow collapse into the gorge from the unseen. On November 11, 1995 a freak early winter
storm resulted in the death of 63 people in Nepal. This caused a bit of unease when it started
raining,
hailing, and snowing while I ascended to the notch of the Sanctuary gate.
The basecamp itself is bleak. An eerie calm. No wind, though clouds swirl in every direction up
on the mountain tops. The scene is dominated by huge, white, vertical Annapurna -- one of the
most difficult faces ever climbed. On Christmas day 1997 an avalanche here killed Anatoli
Boukreev, "the Tiger Woods of high altitude", and subject of the current best seller "The
Climb".
In high season there are more backpackers than beds. Many sleep on tables or the floor. Of
course I was snow snug in my tent. In the morning I pulled open the flap to watch first light on
Fishtail.
A Canadian woman in our lodge said that it had a bit of a "Christmas dinner" atmosphere. True.
It was snowing yet we were toasty around a big table draped with heavy carpets. A kerosine
burner blasted underneath, keeping out feet warm. A boisterous night. Rum and hot chocolate.
Canadians were in the majority at the table. (Jomson was visited by only 400 Canadians in 1997
but this year it felt like I met 400 on the trail. We are easy to identify. MEC gear and a Maple
Leaf -- except the Quebecqois, of course.)
Herzog survived Annapurna and so did I. Actually, Herzog is the only one left alive of the team,
still a National hero, though a hero without any toes or fingers.
I'd recommend Annapurna to anyone. A high level of fitness is not required. If you can walk 4-5
hours with a day pack, you can do the 300 km. Circuit. Actually less than a quarter of walkers
carry their own pack -- most hire porters. French groups mount unnecessary "expeditions" (like
Herzog), a massive entourage carrying tents, kitchens, toilets, and food. We met one elderly Brit
who had somehow signed on to one of these monstrosities. He sheepishly admited that for 16
tourists they started with a support team of 47! (I wondered how many of the French walkers, if
any, were embarassed to see their coolies humping dining tables over the 5400 metre Thorong
La.)
I'd like to do the whole circuit with a trained, certified cultural guide who could explain the village
ways, point out the flora and fauna along the way through the various climatic zones. Pack horses
would be better than porters. A group would all enjoy the Circuit. The faster, more adventurous
could sidetrip,
meeting-up at specified lodges at the end of the day.
I'd consider trying a "Trekking Peak". These are "hills" (only peaks with permanent
snow cover
are called "mountains" here) which require a guide but no particular mountaineering expertise.
I
talked to many who had Peak permits, but not one who actually made it to any summit. All of the
designated "hills" are higher than any mountain in Canada.
But is this Trek tourism sustainable? Can tourists actually help more than they hurt?
I think so. The best of the Trek villages are wonderful -- clean, happy, friendly. You might be
walking in the Swiss alps. People don't ruin natural beauty, motor vehicles and electrical wires
do. Stone fences and irrigation canals, terraced fields, villages clinging improbably to ridge tops
-- all very pretty.
And local artisans are flourishing. And I've seen that tourism can promote cultural reclaimation.
I rode back to town on the top of a bus with a second generation Tibetan woman (she had been
born in a refugee camp). She was articulate, educated, self-confident and very proud of her
heritage. She was well groomed and very well dressed. She shouted encouragement and waved
at the dusty Tibetans bringing their horse caravans in to Pokhara to trade. "Can you believe it?",
she exclaimed. "They NEVER bathe!"
PS
Herzog's book "Annapurna" is the classic of traditional mountaineering exceeded only, perhaps,
by Bowman's "Ascent of Rum Doodle".
PPS
I saw the Tibetan phenomenon of a blue and gold striped sky many times in Nepal. As the sun
sets behind high mountains, the entire sky is filled with a golden glow, except for bluer shadows
from the highest peaks, some of which are out of sight.
Annapurna Sanctuary
Happy Holidays. Wish You Were Here.
Date: Tue, 22 Dec 1998
So, you think you can tell,
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain,
Hot ash from a cool rain,
Can you tell a green field,
from a cold steel jail,
a smile from a veil,
Do you think you can tell?
- with apologies to P.F.
My first Christmas away. Homesick?
I remember being homesick for my cat Cleo when I was about 10 years old.
After high school myself and 3 close friends toured Europe in an orange VW van. That still ranks
as my best trip. Age 18 -- a most excellent age for travel / discovery. I tried to emulate
characters from Michener's "The Drifters".
Towards the end of our Grand Tour we resolved each to go do our own thing. I was quickly
devastated. It seemed so pointless to travel and not have anyone close to share those
experiences. I still feel that way at times.
I'm almost never homesick. But I often wish you were here.
These email missives help me a lot. At least I can share an inkling.
For the holidays I thought I might tell you about some of my travel companions, about the kind of
people I meet on the road.
I've evolved to the point of preferring to travel solo. This is not unusual. The majority of
backpackers travel alone or as a couple. It is rare to find groups of 3 or more who can travel
together for long.
Many ask, "Don't you get lonely?" Not lonely, as I am rarely alone. It is actually a treat
when I
get a day completely to myself.
Best I think is to travel solo but to rendezvous with friends en route. (When are you coming to
meet me?)
Vikram Seth said that travelers who wander months require an "attitude of mind capable of
contentment with the present". Perhaps that's true. But (as you know) budget travel is much
easier than most imagine it to be. Almost anyone can handle it.
Of all the cultures I've observed, the main one is, of course, the backpacker culture. I've traveled
with hundreds of different people from all over the world and met many thousands. There are a
few I've really admired.
I also tend to gravitate towards "expats" living in these countries as they
often know how things work behind the scenes. Always an eye-opener.
Where backpackers gather the talk is of cheap hostels, good restaurants, and places not to be
missed. They always have some sort of warning for you. They always speak of the highlight of
their trip.
They don't have much in common -- except a claim not to have children back home. There are a
few people traveling with their kids, but the consensus is that the low-end travel circuit is not the
place for children. Actually the kids thrive, but the parents are wracked with fears about what
might go wrong.
The biggest surprise to new backpackers is whom I've dubbed the "Israeli Army". In countries
like India they are often the most numerous nationality. Many Israelis travel after their mandatory
3 year military service in such numbers that I often wonder if there is anyone left in Israel.
I trekked with Alon from Tel Aviv who explained that the Army breaks into two main camps --
the "party types" who go directly to Asia, and the "nature lovers" who head first
for South
America.
Israelis are notorious for being loud, aggressive, and cheap. Dozens of times I've seen some poor
shopkeep hounded until he sells an item below cost. Israelis buy 7 day trekking permits for the
21 day Annapurna Circuit Trek and later claim they didn't realize it would take that long.
Networking, they know the cost of items all over the world. (Whenever I want to know the rock
bottom price, the cheapest hotel, or the best value restaurant, I ask an Israeli.)
On the other hand, Israelis are often the most adventurous, informative, and fascinating traveling
companions -- especially the ones traveling solo who despair of their terrible reputation. The men
are world-wise, politically-savvy cynics. The Israeli born women are often tough-sexy. Trained
killers!
The other big surprise is the scarcity of Americans. It is rare to come across a Yank outside big
name tourist destinations. I smiled when I heard of a Trek in Colombia which allowed every
nationality EXCEPT Americans. (They make too good kidnap victims.)
I did find a lot of Americans in China. I always introduced them to locals as "close friends of
Bill
Clinton". No one is as easy to embarrass as an American.
Many live up to the stereotype; loud, over-enthusiastic, Amerocentric. Those
open-eyed enough to realize how the rest of the world sees them can be very good company. I
enjoyed traveling with Julie from Wyoming. She was the first other person who, unprompted,
said that she quite liked the Han Chinese people, that she didn't blame them for the misdeeds of
their government and hoped they wouldn't blame her for the crimes of the USA.
Twice I met up with Dave, a Jesus Christ lookalike from New Jersey. A chronic traveler, his
girlfriend had taken off somewhere without him, prefering to travel solo. (They had reunited by
the second time I saw him.)
I've traveled with some marvelous, respectful Japanese backpackers. Impressive in that people
from that culture have so much difficulty "getting into" backpacking and even more difficulty
learning English, the lingua franca of travel. The Japanese are the "rubes", constantly being
taken
advantage of, constantly getting ripped-off.
"Hiro", who brilliantly hired a taxi to Tibet, disagreed with my assessment. While he agreed
that it
used to be true that most Japanese didn't know what they were doing, that now they are quite
informed, that more women are traveling than men, and that I should understand that many of the
Japanese have "disgraced" their families and forsaken careers to go on the road.
I was somewhat chastened by his rebutal. And yet over and over again, hundreds of times, I've
seen Japanese backpackers who look the part -- dyed long hair, custom-torn jeans -- but afraid
to leave their guesthouse. For days.
A high percentage of backpackers are smokers. Bored smokers, I often think. Killing the
plentiful "down time" with cheap smokes. A high percentage of slackpackers don't get much
done in a day. Most guilty of this are those on a strict, low budget.
No doubt the average age of backpackers is increasing. But age is rarely a consideration in travel
companions. Destination, language, and budget all factor much higher.
I met a tough German woman, 55, who had been away from home cycling for over 4 years. She
was bitter in having been turned back half way into Tibet. She planned to try again on a different
highway.
There are more professional couples. I met a chain-smoking Swiss couple who were traveling
on-line. Their journal was emailed via a palm-top computer.
Photos were mailed home, scanned, and inserted. You can visit their "reise" at
www.Campbell.CH.
Julio from Spain travels one year of every five. Next time he promised to bring his girlfriend who
stayed home to run his small business. They will remember him in the tiny Tibetan village of
Longmusi -- he brought a Salsa dance tape to the "disco" there.
I always enjoy the company of the educated, understated Brits. I traveled off-and-on with Jess,
an exception to the rule, perhaps the most intelligent, opinionated person I ever met. Brilliant and
an original thinker, but somehow blinded, I thought, by a failed Catholic upbringing, a rage at the
ruling aristocratic Protestant elite. (Is Canada the most classless place on Earth? I don't give a
damn how rich or connected you are.)
In some leap in understanding Jess venerates the poor and Godless. As an example he explained
that the only intelligent folk he can find in San Francisco, where he now lives, are the illegal
Hispanic (presumably lapsed Catholic) restaurant workers. Jess debunked the Tibetan
monasteries we were visiting. I tried to point out the societal benefits of tradition, even religious
tradition but he was unequivocal. I pictured him as the kind of dogmatist who thrived during the
Cultural Revolution in China, burning the "olds" and establishing a new order based only on
science and reason.
Jess despises the rich and powerful. Mockingly he reminded me that "It is easier for a camel to
pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
The French, the French, are a curious race -- but they always have style. Fashionable dress is de
rigeur even in the most remote jungle or mountain top. The women are often chic and beautiful.
I'll always remember one unsettling dorm night when a gorgeous French girl burst in late, drunk,
tore off most of her clothes and lolled topless. She was en route to visit her brother who was
attempting to be the first person to rollerblade around the world.
I spent some time with Sebastien, an Italian Buddhist who lived several years at the Labrang
monastery, now the largest in the world. He had once done the prostration meditation, facing
inwards, around the 3.5 km kora. That was 4 days, 10 hours per day. The best aspect he said
was the camaraderie with the other pilgrims -- that and the tremendous ab. workout.
Over the years he had grown disillusioned with the Tibetans, however. Buddhism is rapidly
becoming a business and a career, not a"calling". There is a story
of a Kathmandu businessman who could not find anyone to buy his used Mercedez -- until a
Tibetan Rimpoche arrived and paid cash.
High lamas are often wealthy and can even marry.
I've met far more Canadians on this trip than ever before. I traveled with Jenny, a pretty Chinese
Canadian who had just graduated from Princeton with a degree in Black American Literature.
(Toni Morrison is at Princeton.) Jenny is polite, self-depricating, considerate -- just like most
Canadians. All over the world we enjoy a terrific, perhaps undeserved reputation. Even self-righteous
critics of the Great White North like myself get all patriotic abroad. At first I thought
that Jenny didn't carry a flag. Then I detected 3 very subtle Maple Leafs dyed into the fabric of
her pack.
The closest "friend" I've met on this trip is Damian from Switzerland, a gregarious, outdoors
enthusiast. We did 2 big treks in Tibet. Someone trying to describe the two of us said that it
looked like Steven Spielberg was having breakfast with Keifer Sutherland.
I'll keep in touch with Damian. But I've learned the hard way that it is impossible to stay in
contact with past traveling companions. I often give out my own email, but I rarely promise to
write.
I have a ticket home booked for May '99 ... but I think that is probably too soon to return. I
hope to extend the trip as long as health, enthusiasm, and cash hold out.
Thinking of you.
Happy holidays! Wish you were here.
PS
I'm next gone to Bodgaya, India where I hope to see the Dalai Lama.
I'll Never Do It Again
Date: Tue, 12 Jan 1999
India, again.
I visited here once before. The following is the "gist" of a letter I sent to friends after
that LAST
visit. I want to see how my impressions change this time.
"I saw India mainly through the eyes of V.S. Naipaul, one our best living writers. Though
removed from his ancestral land by 100 years and half a world, Naipaul was compelled to
brutalize India in his 1964 book 'An Area of Darkness'. He was condemned by many for a
too critical analysis. Salmon Rushdie said that visiting India 'ruined Naipaul as a writer'.
In 1976 Naipaul revisited the same themes in 'India: A Wounded Civilization'. Still critical,
but less so.
Naipaul is clean, precise, completely unsentimental. Maughmy. His observations ring true.
'Indians defecate everywhere. They defecate, mostly, beside the railway tracks. But they
also defecate on the beaches; they defecate on the hills; they defecate on the river banks;
they defecate on the streets; they never look for cover. ... the one thing we can and must
learn from the West is the science of municipal sanitation.'
They do uncoil anywhere and everywhere. It is a great mingling of cow, dog, goat and
human feces. Shit dust is in the air.
I don't mention the other usual noxious filth, open sewers, the mountains of spent trash.
Where are the 'sweepers'? Where are the 'Children of God'?
And disease. I just left Gujarat State where BLACK PLAGUE broke out in '94. The
government advised 'antibiotics, flight, and prayer'.
What personally irks me is the amount of eye disease here, of every disgusting variation.
I'm told that much of this is avoidable. I saw a shapely Hindu woman walking my way --
and the progressive women of Bombay are allowed to look at and even smile at tourists. I
hoped to meet her gaze. As she approached I saw that one eye socket was empty.
You can imagine how I appreciate the public hawking, farting, snotting, and nose picking.
Loud and proud. I entered the National Bank in one small town; employees were spitting
gobs of red betel nut on the floor.
I agree with Naipaul that Hinduism is failing India in this modern age. (I much prefer
tolerant Buddhism.) Massive inefficiency, nepotism, and injustice due to the Caste System
persist. Fatalism is evident; people put up with their lot in hope of reincarnation to a
higher caste. Marriage is still arranged by family within caste, even among the urban
educated elite.
The Indian government practices reverse discrimination, alloting jobs to specified low
castes. Well intentioned but, reportedly, problematic. Seventy upper caste students burned
themselves to death in protest during a highly
publicized one week period. (One low caste entrepreneur went door-to-door in the ritzy
neighbourhoods selling fire extinguishers to worried parents.)
Naipaul relates the story of a foreign businessman who educated his intelligent
'untouchable' servant. On leaving Delhi, the businessman placed the servant in
a good job. On his return he found the man back cleaning latrines. The servant had been
boycotted by his clan, barred from his smoking group in the evening. Alone and unable to
marry, the man was forced back to his God-allotted caste.
Widow burning? Yes. And thousands of wives die in 'kitchen fires' every year. The husband
upgrades to a new wife and another fat dowry.
Naipaul painted a depressing picture: over-population, pollution, urbanization,
persecution of minorities.
The tourist is harassed by touts, hacks, and beggars. Every second encounter with an
Indian is a scam. Every financial contact an attempted rip-off. Even government officials
short-change.
But then I thought that I had over-estimated Naipaul. His argument is eloquent,
persuasive but, perhaps, wrong.
I arrived first in mystical Benares (Varanasi), holiest and most disreputable city of India,
pilgrimage site of the dying. And me in the midst of some mid-life death and aging
fixation. Where better to throw myself on a pyre?
Yet I had the opposite reaction. I became Mr. Gregarious, in love with life. Some kind of
zealous minor prophet. A Jewish-Canadian yoga hippie and I spent a day being nice to
hawkers and beggars. ('What's your name? How are you doing? Where do you live?') He
rang a bell to cleanse the air of ill-feeling.
Our strange behaviour attracted the attention of a cool Indian sadhu and soon found
ourselves in the Ghat Ashram of an equally cool Swiss-French Guru. We smoked a ritual
bong and talked bullshit spiritualism for hours. These Hessian journeyers seek something
higher and find, usually, diarrhea. India does, though, seem to bring out the noble best in
Western travelers. It did for me.
These sadhus look great; ganja-eyed, painted, flowered, bangled, seeded and beaded;
dreadlocks, rags, and fierce tridents for the Shivites. I have a guarded respect for the true
Holy men of Hinduism, some of whom are officially declared dead by the courts before
setting out. One ascetic did not leave his cave for over 50 years. Many sadhus,
unfortunately, have fled debt, the law, or their families who are often left helpless.
At the Ashram a woman from Boston told us that they use the term 'sadhu' loosely in
Benares. Here it means 'anyone who hasn't had sex yet today'. She told us that American
women with gold cards like to hang here with their Indian Gurus. I wondered if she was
one of these sexual adventuresses.
I started listening to Enigma and lighting incense. I read on India.
India is impossible for a list-making sort. (Those who would have things organized in India
might, as well, "try to straighten a winding road".) There is no reliable information.
Nothing is up-to-date. Yet in my new found Buddhist acceptance, I simply embraced the
non-system. Nothing works in India and yet millions get where they are going anyway.
OK.
Leaving the wonderful little town of Pushkar, I simply stood in the middle of the highway
at 11 PM waiting to see how I would reach the train station 15 km away. I was not
surprised when the first car stopped. The enthusiastic dentist-gent was the Olympic Judge
for Table Tennis and would be going to the Atlanta Olympics. We had much to talk about.
I was soon sipping whiskey at his fine house. The driver got me to the train right on time
(2 hours late) and directly to the sleeper car.
Everyone loves the trains. They move 10 million people every day and employ over 1.5
million workers. I sleep wonderfully on the train but I'm a neophyte compared with the
skinny Indians who can dead-sleep on concrete, any time, anywhere.
Naipaul wrote that Gandhi was a magnificent failure. That he glorified poverty. That he
slowed progress. That he didn't free India. And that Gandhi didn't change India. I
disagree.
Consider that India, without Pakistan and Bangladesh, is bigger than Europe and has
more different cultures, languages, and climates. Consider that Punjabis, Sikhs, Gurkhas
and the many other separatists are still part of India. Who is
more to credit or blame than Gandhi?
Consider that soldiers of pop-cultural imperialism like myself make little dent here. Coke
was thrown out of India recently (though they are making a strong comeback now). The
kids listen to nothing but Hindi. Bollywood rules. India has absorbed every invader so far
except the British who escaped. Tourists wear Indian clothes, perform Puja, and decide on
cremation instead of burial.
Naipaul wrote, 'India is poor and cruel. All Indians are implicated.' Yet this place has
millions of University graduates, a highly educated elite.
The Indian culture is strong, surviving even in wintry Saskatoon."
After 50 years India remains the worlds largest democracy -- a model for other developing
countries.
That was my last trip to India. I was a little brutal in my critique, don't you think?
This time Darjeeling was my first stop. The guest house visitors book was full of comments like,
'This was our favourite place in India.' Darjeeling is charming. But it is not India.
Separatists here would call it 'Ghorkaland'. To me it looked like Nepal; Himalayan lands wedged
between Nepal and Bhutan. About 75% of the population speaks Nepali.
You've heard of the famous tea from 78 aging, failing plantations here. Darjeeling is a British
construct, a "Hill Station". High altitude, low latitude -- perfect for tea and tourists.
The quaint legacy of the British; impressive, imposing, decaying public buildings; pasteries and
tea at Glennaries; botanical gardens; billiards at the Gymkhana (Tea Planters) Club.
I loved strolling the pedestrian mall on Observatory Hill. It is almost unchanged since the days of
the Raj. The clock towers and fountains haven't worked, though, since the Brits Quit. And of
course they took the sign with them; 'Dogs and Indians not allowed on the Mall'.
The Toy Train still works occassionaly, hauling tourists up the hill. Gricers know that this steam
line has 5 switchbacks and 4 full loops.
I came to see the magnificient views of Kachenjunga floating above the clouds.
I came too to visit the famous breeding centre for that most mythical of cat -- the Snow Leopard.
Actually, the animal prison here is quite good specializing in local and endangered beasts.
They've had success breeding Red Panda, Tibetan Wolf, and Siberian Tiger (huge!).
Automobiles here are cute, mostly Hindustani Ambassadors, the design unchanged from the
British Morris Minor of the 50s. YOu feel like you're on the set of some really old James Bond
movie.
I rode a battered Land Cruiser farther North into Sikkim. They have inspirational slogans painted
roadside. 'Better late than The Late'. My favourite was 'Chop your own wood and it will warm
you twice.'
Next installment the REAL India, the City of Joy.
Your pundit.
Rick
PS
I'm keen to read the new nasty book about Naipaul written by Paul Theroux, the most successful
and controversial travel writer. I like Theroux for his amusing, paranoid worldview. "Writers
are
like cannibals. People are their subjects."
Of course the untrustworthy Theroux doesn't deserve to hold a candle to Naipaul.
sadhu
City of Joy
Date: Mon, 25 Jan 1999
I arrived in the City of Joy. A wonderful day. Nothing was open. No vehicle moved. The
beautiful new cable bridge, normally choked, deserted.
Nothing was doing -- except cricket. Boys and men played everywhere, the space glorious.
They are mad for cricket here. "You from Canada coming? You are seeing the CLASH India-Pakistan?"
It is too dangerous for nuclear super-rivals to play on the subcontinent, so they play in Toronto.
(Matches are planned soon in India. A disaster looms.)
You can quote me as a physical educator. "If there is a more useless physical activity than
baseball, it is cricket." I blame the British who inflicted this disease on all their colonies,
except
snowy Canada.
I strolled empty Calcutta for hours, clueless. Finally I saw the poster:
"24 Hour National Strike against Globalization, Privitization, Unemployment, Indiscriminate
Computerization, and Murderous Price Rise, etc."
In the Calcutta Telegraph the next day: "Bengal Basks in Strike Glory. With blood on its
hands, West Bengal stood ... boastful of bringing life to a complete halt."
Bengal is a poor region with Marxist local governments. The Strike, protesting national
government economic policies, was successful here while mostly ignored
in the rest of the country. Everyone seemed pleased that 2 strike-breakers died in roadblock
confrontations, and relieved that even more weren't killed.
Next day Calcutta was back to normal; loud, polluted, ugly. One of the most densely populated
cities on Earth.
The City of Joy is no joke. The poor migrate here when life in the floodplains becomes a death
sentence.
There are few Westerners, mainly those "in transit" and a core of NGO volunteers. A vocal
few
defend the city. "It has a soul. It's the centre of the Arts."
I stayed at the Salvation Army in the backpacker ghetto of Sudder Street. Two blocks away is
New Market, the biggest in the city. In the mountains of garbage behind was a scene from Hell;
dogs, humans, black pigs, and crows, all scavenging. In Calcutta the pigs and crows are thriving,
the dogs and humans might be close to death.
I was reminded of a dusty bus stop in Nepal where I watched huge vultures, wings spread for
balance, battle dogs and pigs for a buffalo carcass.
I've seen too many pitiful dogs; open-sored, limping 3-legged, squinting hopeful, but suspicious.
Even one parapalegic, dragging useless hindquarters across the village meat market. I
involuntarily compared these desperately poor Bengalis with pariah dogs. Pups and children
appear quite healthy, then quickly deteriorate, a cumulative effect of disease, malnutrition, and
bad water.
I'm painting the worst possible picture.
I visited the border of rural Bangladesh; green paddies, lush mango groves, fertile fields. There
were no walking skeletons. Most often I'm impressed how happy are the poor, their simple lives.
Some of the "garbage dump architecture" (Alex Frater) appears "homely", and breezy.
In Sri
Lanka the beach shacks of the poor Tamils appealed more than the "modern" Sinhalese homes.
I didn't visit the goonda-controlled slums, the bustees of Calcutta or Bombay. I'm reluctant to go
with no greater purpose than "picturesque poverty". (James Cameron)
I should make clear that the Indian peoples are bodily fastidious. While the streets are rank, teeth
and gums are brushed, the body ritually scrubbed. Westerners are always struck by how much
clothing is washed. The dhobi-wallahs, washers, are seen by every body of water, all day, every
day, enthusiastically slapping the laundry clean on boulders.
Naipaul pointed out that the impoverished wash the most because they have so few clothes. The
poorest women are conspicuous -- they own just one sari and have no undergarments. Of
course they wash and bathe at the same time.
It seems a contradiction that these ritually clean people are so unaware of the filth around them.
I'm told that it is caste related. It is unclean even to notice shit underfoot.
Everyday I'm asked, "You are liking India"? I always respond, "Great! Wonderful people!
But it
is very dirty, polluted." (I can point in any direction.) Locals always look puzzled at such an
unfounded concern.
Most far-traveled backpackers would concur that India is the most rewarding destination.
The Indian peoples are fascinating and fanatic. Friendship assails the stranger. You are besieged
with Indian company, all hopeful new "pen friends".
I was the lone Westerner in town. A jolly smiling chap introduced himself and his pretty wife.
Next morning I had breakfast at their home in the Police Lines -- he was the Commissioner. This
lovely, traditional Bengali family had come to know a number of Westerners. His last posting was
in Nadia, home of ISKCon, the International Society for Krishna Consciousness. Hare Krishna,
to you.
I've been befriended by English teachers, political activists, free-lance journalists, priests, and
a
traveling vegetable oil sales rep.
A proud father pushed his 3 year old through a crowded bus so that the Sahib might admire his
prodigy's knowledge of world capitals and political leaders, with just a little prompting. Only in
India.
A tiny woman approached me at a bus stand; Roshan, a Parsi from Iran, the first lady lawyer in
Karnataka state. Vivacious, articulate, impressive. She had traveled all of India, providing us with
a wealth of advice. Even the price of tiger prawns on Varkhala beach! I assumed Roshan was
that rarity, a single, academic career woman. Actually she had 9 children in 10 years, the
youngest 14 and all still in school.
I was reading the autobiography of another Indian barrister, one M.K. Gandhi. Roshan's life was
even more exceptional.
Actually it's a problem to meet the women of India. Few are forward enough, and speak English
well enough, to engage.
I did meet an Islamic dentistry student studying at an Arab-financed university. She was horrified
at what I was doing. Roaming India was her worst nightmare.
I traveled first class compartment with a lady journalist, a BBC correspondent from Myanmar.
We were both en route to see the Dalai Lama. When I saw her next she had shaved her head
and become a nun. (Not on my account, I'm sure.)
Bodgaya, the most important pilgrimage in Buddhism. This is where Prince Siddhartha meditated
beneath a tree until he achieved enlightenment. The moment of all awareness is depicted seated,
with the right hand touching the ground, "calling the Earth to witness".
Bodgaya is a tiny enclave in the middle of Bihar state, India's poorest. Dacoits (bandits) still loot
pilgrim buses with impunity. These dusty Gangetic plains are where the historic Siddhartha was
born, taught, and died (from eating poisonous mushrooms).
Around the ancient Bo tree temple, Buddhists from every sect have built. You can contrast the
Thai, Japanese, and Korean monasteries. I stayed in a makeshift dungeon dormitory in the
Burmese monastery where I had a fine reunion with backpackers I had met in Tibet.
The Dalai Lama did not disappoint. Larger than life, energetic, enthusiastic. He charmed the
audience. A one-man-show.
He was very humble. "In my knowledge and teaching of the Buddha, I might stand slightly taller
than the pygmies."
He spoke in Tibetan. We listened to simultaneous translation on FM radio. Of his teachings I
have little recollection as most were incomprehensible.
In fact, few of the thousands assembled each day under the huge bamboo supported tents had
much idea what he was talking about. Certainly not the simple Tibetans. Perhaps the discourse
was intelligible to the book-Buddhists, Westerners who have read every text on the subject.
No one complained. Like me they were happy to be present, listening to his laugh, his melifluous
voice. I read, wrote, and napped. It was tranquil. Even tranquilizing.
One of my few notes: "Think of all sentient beings as your Mother." Christians are only
concerned for "souls" of man while Buddhists revere all living creatures.
His Holiness referred to the "friends from the West" as "depressed,
self-obsessed". He advised we renounce acquisition, heaping-up. No clinging or despising.
Another note: "Relinquish self-cherishing and self-grasping". That translation became a bit
of run-on-fun.
We spent our evenings at the Bo tree, the most marvelous of all the Buddhist festivals I've seen.
Thousands circumambulated the temple, smoky and fragrant, lit by tens of thousands of candles.
Hundreds practiced the impressive prostration meditation. The murmur of mantras merged with
the clamour of candle salesmen, mostly kids reaching through the fence.
The Dalai Lama called for a Prayer Night and a Peace March for the victims of the Iraq
bombings. "The mischievous ones will somehow escape. Only the powerless will suffer."
He
was diplomatic in his criticism of the U.S. and England. But he was the only diplomat in town. I
felt badly for our American friend Michelle. Perhaps this is why so few Americans backpack.
The best story in Bodgaya is the Maitreya Project, another "World's Biggest Buddha". This
one
will be 152 metres high, seated! (The statue of Liberty is 46 metres.) A high-tech Buddha;
elevators, assembly halls, telecommunication centre. Earthquake-proof, it must last 1000 years.
Undoubtedly it will be built. There is a lot of money in Buddhism these days. Perhaps Richard
Gere, or the high lama Steven Segal, will lead the mega-project fund-raising.
The GREAT IRONY is that the Buddha specifically forbid his followers from making any image.
Buddhism is not centred on any Gods but is a a personal philosophy, a code of morality:
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Right understanding (uninhibited by superstition or delusion)
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Right thought
| | | |
Right speech
| | | |
Right action
| | | |
Right mode of living (do no harm to living creatures)
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Right endeavour (self-discipline)
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Right mindfulness (alert, contemplative)
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Right concentration
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Your pandit-wanna-be has gone South.
Namaste!
(Onward to Page 3)
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