The taxi driver dumps me in front of the entry gate to Majnu-ka-tilla, a walled enclave which serves as home to a community of exiled Tibetans. The air is thick with smoke and haze. Garbage and rubble litter the pockmarked streets. Waves of funky sewage odors attack my nose. It is chilly and dry, much to my relief after spending so much time in the drenching humidity of Thailand. I wander down a dark alley carrying all my gear, disoriented, not knowing where I want to stay. Despite these challenges, I manage to find a room within 45 minutes at the third hotel I investigate. The room seems somewhat expensive at 650 rupees ($16) per night but I am desperately seeking a place to lay my head, take a hot shower, and bunker down for awhile. It is a large room with two beds, an acceptable bathroom, and a small balcony overlooking agricultural fields and dwellings at the banks of the Yamuna river.
I begin each of the next few days by exploring the Tibetan colony. Every morning I eat Tibetan dumplings and peruse the stalls in the narrow alleyways snaking through my neighborhood. In anticipation of my time in the foothills of the Himalayas, I purchase a traditional Tibetan woolen shawl which will prove very useful in the coming weeks and allows me to (sort of) blend in with the locals. I check my email at one of several internet cafes but am frustrated by both the slow connection speed and repeated power outages. Every local business displays large portraits of the Dalai Lama and many men wear red monks robes while strolling the streets.
Shoeshine boys chase my feet and plead for an opportunity to put some polish onto my leather shoes. On the second day, I ask one of these boys to lead me to a particular hotel which purportedly offers laundry service. After he helps me find the spot, I agree to a shoeshine as his reward. He directs me to follow and we walk outside the colony walls towards a wooded park. Although the thought of disappearing into a completely unpopulated grove of trees makes me nervous, I notice a set of benches and realize that the boy just needs to find some quality workspace. He motions for me to sit on the bench and proceeds to polish, brush and buff a pair of shoes which has not been cleaned for months. One of his friends joins and repeatedly pitches me on the benefits of buying a set of padded shoe inserts. I ask their ages -- both are 8 years old. The shine lasts about five minutes and I wait to see if the boy asks for a specific sum. He just looks at me in silence, signaling that I am free to pay whatever I wish. Aware that the going rate is around 25 rupees, I hand over a 50 rupee note ($1.25) and expect a smile in recognition of my generosity. Instead the boy twists his face into an expression suggesting that I have robbed him or maimed one of the members of his family. He asks for 100 rupees, a clearly ridiculous sum. I feel slighted by his lack of gratitude, decline this counteroffer, thank him for his services, and briskly walk back into the colony hoping to avoid a protracted negotiation.
My investigation of other Delhi neighborhoods yields mixed results. Commuting from the Tibetan colony, I assume the status of a colonial overlord by riding on a bicycle rickshaw while an Indian man half my size pedals for 10 minutes between the nearest Metro station and the colony gate. Since the rickshaws are not designed for someone of my height, I am typically forced to bend my head or risk banging it against the roof every time we hit bumps in the road (which occurs almost continuously). I use the Delhi metro to traverse the city without getting stuck in the ubiquitous traffic jams clogging the central areas. The metro system is fast, cheap (most rides cost around $0.25), and shockingly clean. Upon entering the station, I descend underground and pass through a metal detector manned by two police officers, receive a full-body pat down, and submit to a relatively cursory bag search before swiping my stored value card at the turnstile. On the platform, recorded voices in Hindi and English constantly provide reminders about safety and the importance of remembering one's belongings. I decide that my favorite warning is "please do not befriend any unknown person" spoken by a very neutral female British voice. I feel a bit sad being told not to make new friends while in this strange new world but decide to interpret the message selectively -- I will carefully evaluate offers of friendship from strangers and only accept those which seem interesting and non-threatening.
On my first day in Delhi I travel to the old city and wade through throngs of shoppers populating the seemingly endless markets. The experience is anything but peaceful -- people push past each other, vehicles honk their horns while slicing through the masses, cows slowly plod down the streets and lay their waste indiscriminately, and merchants frenetically urge me (sometimes even by grabbing at my arms) to buy anything they have for sale. Despite my normally solid orientation skills, I become hopelessly lost after a few minutes and am swarmed with beggars everytime I stop to search for nonexistent street signs and review my pitifully inadequate map of this neighborhood. To escape the madness, I duck into a shop selling Indian sweets and decide to buy a sampling of the treats. Half are delicious while the other half range from uninspiring to inedible. Returning to the street, I cannot determine my bearings and end up fighting through the crowds for more than an hour before I stumble upon another metro station and descend into the relative calm of the underground caverns.
I emerge in Connaught Place, a centrally-located circular plaza which is home to a variety of high end retail stores, fancy hotels and swanky restaurants. While pacing the plaza to get my bearings, various men repeatedly offer to help me find suitable shopping opportunities or to take me around in an autorickshaw. None of them seem truly authentic in their desire to help, so I brush them off and keep moving. I find solace and quality coffee in a modern cafe (part of the Cafe Coffee Day chain) where tourists mingle with young stylish Indians sipping cappuccino and watching music videos on large flat-screen monitors. As I scan through the guidebook to figure out my next destination, a young well-dressed Indian man at the next table turns to me and asks if I am from Spain. I say no, and he then guesses America. I concede this fact and within seconds he has relocated to my table and begins to engage me in conversation about Delhi and traveling in India. Claiming to be in the cafe as a way to "kill time" before attending an upcoming movie at a nearby theater, he insistently inquires into my interests and itinerary. There is something not quite right about his intensity and the nature of his questions, so I give curt and inaccurate answers while finishing my drink and plotting an exit strategy. The man presses me on my planned form of transit through the country, scoffs at the notion of taking the train, and expresses amazement that I am not intending to travel by "government car" which I suspect he is about to offer to organize on my behalf. Once my drink has been consumed, I call the waiter and ask for the check. My Indian companion tries to pay his 20 rupee tab with a 500 rupee note which he waves around quite conspicuously. He asks me if I can provide change for this relatively large bill, claiming that the cafe can't accept this sum for his small purchase. I decline to give him all my available small notes and sense that he is waiting for me to offer to pay for his drink. Instead, I tell him that this busy and modern cafe surely has the ability to make change, hand the waiter exact change to pay for my bill, and thank the man for his advice while sliding out of the cafe and leaving him alone clutching a 500 rupee note. He does not even say goodbye, apparently miffed that I am not destined to become his next scam victim.
It takes me two separate visits on consecutive days to successfully locate the Parliament Museum. The first day I walk through a district filled with government buildings and teeming with military police. I am stopped repeatedly by the police as official motorcades pass. At one point, my path leads to a showdown with a family of unfriendly monkeys hanging out on the sidewalk. When I finally arrive at the national Parliament building, a man wearing a black uniform informs me that the museum is closed on Mondays (which happens to be that very day) and I should try at another time. Although temporarily stymied, I return the next day and find the correct building. To my surprise, the process of buying a museum ticket takes about 10 minutes as the clerk examines my passport, collects some personal information, and asks me to leave a phone number for contacting my next of kin "in case anything happens while you are in the Parliament building." Then there is another line and information collection process in order to store my bag since many of my possessions (mobile phone, camera) may not be taken into the museum. Despite my frustration at this crazy and inefficient process, I thank the clerk for his help. He responds by flashing me a weak smile and wiggling his head to the right.
Entrance to the museum requires participation in a guided tour. My group numbers around 10 people, of which I am the only foreigner. We pass through metal detectors, receive pat downs from the guards, and enter the Parliament Library building en route to the museum. When the guide offers to lead the tour in either English or Hindi, an older man responds by saying "we are all educated people. English will be fine." The rest of the Indians nod in agreement. I am surprised by this insistence but begin to realize that, rather than being polite towards me, they are demonstrating that communicating in English is tied to possessing higher status in Indian society. The guide leads us through a series of displays tracing the history and evolution of law and governance in India since the days of King Ashoka, the first Buddhist monarch credited with spreading the philosophy and practices of Buddha throughout East Asia. At each exhibit, the guide offers a brief explanation before moving on. There isn't nearly enough time to actually read the long text descriptions at each station or to carefully observe the well-constructed displays. Within my group, most of the men insist on shouting out information whenever the guide recounts a historical event and saying "yes, I know, I know" to no one in particular. Some people ignore the guide and the exhibits, instead choosing to talk to each other. I find the situation confusing and wonder whether this dynamic (inattentiveness, desire to demonstrate superior knowledge, disinterest in learning even at a museum) is due to short attention spans or some other cultural norm.
The highlight is a room constructed to be a replica of the original Lok Sabha (lower house of parliament) filled with life-sized animatronic figures. A facsimile of Jawaharlal Nehru (a leader of the independence movement and the first Prime Minister of India) stands at a podium. Once we sit down, the Nehru model begins to speak while his arms rise and fall, his eyes rotate, his mouth opens and closes, and his torso swings from side to side. We hear, in his original voice, a famous speech he delivered at the first session of the Indian Parliament. Other political leaders are represented by figurines and some automatically shift and move during the speech. It is a very surreal experience.
The museum's near-exclusive focus on post-Independence governance is edifying. But by the end of the tour I still have no idea which party currently controls the government or what key issues divide the country. So taking a cue from the behavior of the others in my group, I ignore the guide (who wants to show us photographs of the Parliament buildings in each Indian state) and start asking some of the Indian men in our group. They compete with each other to explain the current Parliament breakdown (controlled by the Congress Party) and the directly elected Prime Minister (Manmohan Singh, also of the Congress Party). Elections are next spring and the parties are already beginning to jockey for advantage. The next day I watch the English language news on television in my hotel room and am surprised by the extensive coverage given to the release of the new national rail budget. Commentators expound on whether the system needs new trains, better comforts, more efficient ticketing, or lower fares. The depth of the discussion is impressive and makes American coverage of similar domestic issues appear childish.
Upon leaving the museum I am befriended by a well-dressed middle-aged man in our tour group who asks about my origins and itinerary in India. He is an urban professional from Mumbai (Bombay) working for a company selling LED lighting. When I tell him that I am on a spiritual journey, his face visibly illuminates and he launches into a 30-minute discourse on the importance of cultivating a clean and pure heart, of treating others kindly, and of understanding how to align our behavior with higher moral values. I am struck by his passion and the fact that we are having a deep and intimate discussion about personal spiritual growth within five minutes of first meeting. At the end of his quasi-sermon, he gives me a business card and insists that I spend time with him when I come to Bombay so that we can continue this dialogue.
That evening I explore the bustling streets of Paharganj, a neighborhood which serves as home to many backpackers passing through Delhi. I am buffeted by the crowds, continuously assaulted by vehicle horns, and have to step carefully to avoid the cows and their droppings. Ducking into a Tibetan cafe with good quality coffee and a quiet atmosphere helps me to regain my composure and I emerge ready to continue investigating the area. But the cacophony of shouting, engines, and horns combines with the overall intensity of the street scene to throw me off balance. My emotional lightness evaporates leaving me feeling heavy, tired, and annoyed. Just as I reach a place of extreme frustration, a ceremonial parade of men bursts onto the street. Most wear white uniforms and play musical instruments normally associated with a marching band. Others carry a series of multi-tiered chandeliers connected by electrical cables which terminate at a wheeled cart carrying a deafening world war II era generator belching clouds of smoke into the air. In the middle of the procession is a very well dressed man atop a horse wearing a veil over his face. I later learn that this is a traditional wedding procession to honor the groom. The absurdity of every element of this street scene causes my heaviness to lift and I cannot help laughing out loud while savoring the ridiculousness of life itself. This quick transition from annoyance to amazement will become common during my time in India. Just when the oppressive intensity of the physical environment and the culture become too much to bear, something erupts and causes my perspective to radically shift as I am left in awe of the wackiness and richness of this place.
The next morning I queue up to add money to my metro card and notice an Indian woman walk directly to the agent without even glancing at those patiently waiting their turn. Another Indian woman shouts at her to get on the line. The line cutter offers a slightly guilty smile, wiggles her head, and proceeds to the back of the queue. Over the next few days, I carefully observe a complete lack of adherence to any system of ordered lines with cutting being quite common. Indians typically crowd around the window, push competitors out of the way, and try to thrust their hands past others in an effort to gain the attention of the clerk. It takes me awhile to become accustomed to these aggressive tactics and I vow to remain calm even when being shoved aside by people half my size.
When I discuss the topic at a later date with a Portuguese traveler, she argues that this behavior is a symptom of the complete lack of respect that individuals show to each other in normal Indian society. She tells me that average people don't even notice that others are present, place no value on being polite or expressing thanks, and do not experience stress or anxiety. Although she makes these claims with conviction, I don't completely accept her somewhat harsh observations and vow to investigate these cultural quirks through the course of my travels.
Over time, I notice that many business interactions appear quite brusque, even heated at times, and that people tend to be somewhat curt. These behaviors are particularly striking after spending five months in Thailand learning to be overly polite, to bow my head to show respect, to smile often, to remain calm in any negotiation (so as to avoid losing face) and to give thanks for anything done on my behalf. India obviously operates by different cultural norms, although I also notice the importance of social status and hierarchy. At every formal event I attend over the coming weeks, the host makes a point of thanking and recognizing all the "VIPs", a process which can often consume a substantial amount of time as lists of names are read and high status individuals are given opportunities to speak. And I witness such individuals being honored in one-on-one interactions as the lower status person takes their hand, touches the lower leg of the important one, and then brings the hand to their own heart. Since I cannot reconcile these practices with daily interactions which do not incorporate such deferential social graces, the deeper reality remains shrouded in mystery. Regardless, I choose to err on the side of politeness and do my best to elicit smiles from locals as often as possible.
In an effort to find the cultural side of Delhi, I decide to attend a classical music concert at the Ravi Shankar center listed in the latest edition of Time Out: Delhi. Getting to the concert proves an exercise in persistence. The listing for this event contains no obvious address other than a neighborhood where many foreign embassies are located. I walk for hours in the general direction but begin to worry about whether I'll ever find the venue. So I enter the nearest fancy hotel, pretend to be an attendee at an ongoing conference on microbiology, and finally locate the concierge. He sits down with me and spends 20 minutes looking at maps, making calls, and puzzling through the details of my destination. Luckily, he never directly asks if I am staying at his hotel. Finally, the concierge puts me into a cab and provides explicit instructions to the driver and we speed off. The driver insists that all is well only moments before getting us hopelessly lost and resorting to yelling out the window seeking help from random pedestrians. I end up directing the hapless driver and we arrive at a set of closed gates on an empty street. The gates open and I am asked to provide my ticket for the concert. Explaining that I don't have one, the guard hands me an envelope with the requisite invitation and waives me in. For the next few hours, I watch a lovely classical music concert featuring several famous musicians (a sitar player and an aged singing duo) amidst a crowd of Delhi elites and foreigners. The concert honors the 65th anniversary of the birth of fallen Beatle George Harrison. Ravi Shankar, his daughter and Olivia Harrison (George's widow) are in attendance and there is an atmosphere of purpose and somberness. During the breaks I check out a photo gallery featuring images of Shankar with famous people (particularly George Harrison) through the years. Although I do not make new friends this night, the experience is calming and makes me feel highly civilized.
The next day I check out the Ghandi museum housed in the dwelling he occupied during the final months of his life. The exhibits are evocative and I am particularly moved by the display of Ghandi's famous spectacles in a simple glass case. It makes me feel close to this legendary activist who played a critical role in ending British rule over India. Unfortunately the museum closes early due to some special event and I am left to mull over Ghandi's legacy while walking down a street being chased by rickshaw drivers seeking a fare. In a political mood, I decide to attend a panel discussion commemorating 25 years of consumer activism at the nearby India Habitat Center, a complex of buildings housing NGOs and art galleries.
The panel discussion is organized by "Consumer Voice", a Nongovernmental Organziation founded in 1987 to represent consumer interests and test new products in India using many strategies developed in the United States. The event kicks off with a performance by traditional musicians singing an anthem while an important government minister lights a ceremonial lamp in the middle of the conference hall. During the course of the presentations, one speaker tells of how the old telephone monopoly was so inefficient that potential customers were forced to wait for 3 years for a phone line. Another recounts how the nascent movement spurred Parliament to enact the first uniform consumer protection law in 1986 with unanimous support and less than five minutes of debate. I learn that disputes are resolved slowly -- one of the founders describes how the first case filed under the 1986 law (involving overcharges by television manufacturers) took 18 years before the issues were finally decided by the Supreme Court. Few of the manufacturers were still in business, so the victory was mostly symbolic. Though their tangible successes appear to be few, the panel members take pride in noting that India moved quickly to adopt key consumer and environmental legal protections. While it took the United States almost 200 years to enact a "Freedom of Information Act" and only passed the first real anti-pollution legislation in the 1960s, India enshrined a "right to information" in only 60 years and was similarly quicker to embrace environmental regulation (although I see no evidence of any such restrictions during my travels through intensely polluted areas of the country). Most cite American activists as a source of inspiration for their work. This causes me to feel an unusual wave of national pride as I bask in my own participation in a political movement with worldwide impacts.
Practically all the attendees are in their 50s and 60s, prompting one presenter to say "after 25 years we all see the same faces. No young faces". This comment could apply equally to my experience with a US consumer movement dominated by activists groomed during the 1960s, 70s and 80s. After the speeches, the executive director gives awards to practically everyone in the room and in a fit of delusion I assume that my name will soon be called to accept a prize on behalf of my colleagues back home. But my hopes are dashed and I end up being almost the only person without a trophy. The pain of this disillusionment is helped by a giant and delicious buffet feast served after the formal presentations are complete.
On a consumer issue close to my heart, I confront the unfamiliar experience of power outages practically every single day in Delhi. Some last for a few minutes while others go on for the better part of an hour. Within minutes of each outage, the neighborhood begins to rumble as a fleet of backup generators crank up to allow some shops and hotels to restore their lights. Those without such luxuries just suffer quietly and sometimes in total darkness. Many of these generating units look to have been salvaged from British colonial times and emit thick clouds of nasty exhaust into the air. Internet cafes have backup power supplies and warn users to save their messages frequently to avoid losing content. At the main reservations office for foreigners in the Delhi train station, I am amazed to observe a series of car batteries wired together to form a backup power supply for the office server (which presumably runs the reservation system). The battery array (with plenty of exposed wires) sits only a few feet away from the desk where an agent helps me to buy a ticket. Many businesses and hotels have voltage regulators in each room -- boxy devices which ensure that voltage fluctuations do not damage electrical equipment. When I discuss the power situation with the owner of a small restaurant, he is somewhat surprised to learn that such problems are not common in the United States. I assure him that power failures are quite rare and he gazes slightly upward before waxing poetic about the potential to get rich in America. At another shop, a Kashmiri man laments the summertime outages in his home city of Agra which can continue for hours or even days causing food to spoil and leaving everyone drenched in sweat. Some electrical failures are due to the inadequacy of power plants (or fuel for the plants) which forces rotating outages to keep the system operational while others are tied to problems with the rat's nest of distribution wires winding through neighborhoods held together through makeshift connections. I become acutely aware of these pervasive electrical shortages as they are a fact of daily life in this country.
After several days I leave Delhi via early morning train and enjoy my first experience of riding the Indian rails. While munching on the snacks and tea served by the porters, I chat with an apparently middle-class middle-aged Indian couple going to the holy pilgrimage city of Hardiwar (also my destination). The man is excited about the chance to bathe in the sacred Ganges river, something he claims to do at least once per year. I am heartened by the notion that an urban professional in this country feels the need to plunge into the river along with the masses. At that moment, I decide that I must also find a place to submerge some part of my body into this heavily polluted but spiritually significant waterway.
To my surprise, Hardiwar does not offer a reprieve from the intensity of Delhi. Soon after disembarking from the train, I find a hotel room for 300 rupees ($7.50) and spend the afternoon exploring the markets and a few local Hindu temples. But this day is not meant to provide me with the opportunity for quiet reflection. I am almost continuously besieged by beggars, taxi drivers and others pleading for my money. I uniformly say no and bow slightly with my hands in prayer position without breaking stride. But my rejections do little to dissuade those who have nothing from tailing me for long periods of time. My skin color and dress scream of wealth. Aware that I am carrying more cash than they can earn through many months of work, they grab my arms, put on sad faces, rub their stomachs, and use all available tactics to play off any sympathy registering in my eyes. I do my best to remain calm and not overreact. During one stroll down a long winding path from a hilltop temple, I try to throw the child beggars off their game by acting strangely. I put their pleas to music and sing out lines like "10 rupees, oh please, 10 rupees, sir, please, please, 10 rupees". At first the children are a bit stunned and confused by my behavior and the begging stops. One or two kids even get into the spirit and begin singing random words on their own. But the effect soon wears off and the standard begging pleas resume despite my attempt to turn their relentless onslaught into performance art.
Later in the evening, two particularly precious girls pursue me through the market for many blocks with a standing request for chapatis (flat bread). Just as I am about to go buy them some bread, I notice a cadre of other beggars circling with the apparent intention of claiming any free chapatis I decide to purchase. So I keep moving but the two girls sense my hesitation, realize that I am about to crack, and know that success is at hand. A few minutes later we reach a vendor selling fresh puris (another bread) along with savory dipping sauce. He shoos away the beggar girls as I approach and order two breads to go. He pulls the breads out of a vat of oil and hands them to me along with sauce poured into a bowl made out of fresh leaves. I walk for about 20 meters before turning to the pursuing girls and handing over the breads and sauce. In a flash they are gone with the booty, not even pausing to give thanks for my donation. I feel bit miffed before coming to my senses by meditating on the vast economic gap between us.
Based on the actual words of the beggars in Hardiwar, I write the following poem
hello hello hello sir
sir sir hello hello
please sir please
10 rupees
10 rupees
please sir please
chapatis
chapatis
please sir please
No No No
You get nothing from me
Ok, ok, only one puri
In the evening I stroll to the "Ghats", the specially constructed approaches to holy Ganges water diverted from the main river. These are used to facilitate bathing and other rituals including placing elaborate floating arrays which include flowers, candles, and glittering fabrics. I find a spot on the concrete, purchase a large square of wrapping paper for use as a ground cloth (a sheet destined to be used as Reese's Christmas Tree candy wrappers), and observe devotees waiving flaming religious objects at the river's edge. A large peaceful crowd gathers and sits on each side of the Ghats. Chanting breaks out in various sections and men in blue uniforms yell out invocations prompting cheers of affirmation by the assembled. This feels like a sacred event and I appreciate the spiritual power coalescing in this place.
The next day I venture to a few Hindu temples and accept one man's offer to become my guide. He first asks for 500 rupees ($12.50) but quickly drops his request to 100 rupees ($2.50) when I balk at the first figure. Each temple is filled with life-sized figures placed in dramatic postures designed to illustrate famous Hindu tales. The guide regales me with these stories, most of which are extremely violent, and helps to decipher which famous Gods are represented in each scene. At various stations within the temple, someone offers to paint a red stripe at the third-eye spot on my forehead. I accept one offer and have a blotch of color just above the top of my nose for the rest of the day. After we leave one temple, my guide changes the subject from Hinduism to questions about Ayurvedic medicine in California. He wonders whether it would be possible for him, as a graduate of an Indian Ayurvedic degree program, to move to California and get a job. I don't know what to say since my expertise on the topic is quite limited. Realistically, I am aware that he has little reason to hope for this kind of professional opportunity, especially since his best connection to the American Ayurvedic medical world is through me. But I don't want to deflate his dreams and decline to give him a reality check, instead offering to write down my email address just to placate him.
Later that day I jump aboard a local bus and relocate to the new age mecca town of Rishikesh. Split by the Ganges river with steep hills rising on both sides, Rishikesh offers plenty of monkeys and cows in the streets, ashrams every 100 meters, vegetarian restaurants (no meat or alcohol is allowed in the central areas), two giant suspension bridges, round-the-clock yoga, ubiquitous massage centers, no cars permitted on pedestrian streets, roving bands of wild monkeys intent on stealing any food within reach, and stunning views from my hotel perched in the hills above the Ganges. The travelers in this area are all hardened and mature. Most are here for study, personal growth or religious devotion. Many wear white robes, traditional clothing, and carry colorful woven shawls. A decent portion are over the age of 50. Unlike the party-driven short-term mentality prevalent amongst visitors to Thailand, those plying this part of the India trail are more subdued, spiritual, and focused on their own development. I give thanks to Vishnu for a demographic shift which makes me feel comfortable in this traveler community.
For the first time since arriving in India, I am not hounded by beggars or chased by desperate merchants. It feels liberating and I take the time to walk slowly and observe my surroundings without fear of becoming a target for a monetary plea. My first evening I sit at a café overlooking the Laxman Jhula bridge and watch the sun slowly set while eating a delicious spinach-mushroom veggieburger and sipping on a fresh lemon soda (which quickly becomes one of my favorite cold drinks). A wave of inner contentment washes through my consciousness and I realize that this is a very special place.
The next day I meet up with the Dreamtime circus troupe and officially join the tour. The circus began traveling last fall with only a handful of participants, grew to reach over 15 performers, and is now in the last stretch of a six month escapade. Everyone is from the Bay Area and about half are women (a big change from the male-dominated Thailand circus). For the first few days we focus on rehearsing a revised version of the dramatic show and meet to coordinate tour and show logistics. The circus has a bus, two Indian men who drive and assist as needed (Ram Kumar and Ram), and a pretty sizable amount of gear. Decisions are made by individual "cabals" focusing on various areas of responsibility (accommodations, networking, performance, technical). There is even a "vibe cabal" charged with promoting positive group dynamics through the organization of parties and other communal events. This decentralized power structure works very well by relieving the primary organizers (Chris, KFire and Matt) of the need to make every decision while also giving everyone ownership over the activities of the circus.
Each full performance starts with a set of warmup acts (including juggling and an acrobatic partner balancing routine) followed by a full dramatic show (without fire) intended to convey a series of environmental protection messages (all without words). Our daytime show is fun, slapstick and has creative characters (a traveling clown, a winged bat on stilts, a fish riding a unicycle). The clown is played by an incredibly talented actor who shares my name and manages to keep the audience in stitches with his energetic antics, hilarious body postures, and intense facial expressions (most convey terror or surprise). The show features villains who conspire to cut down trees for profit, poison the waters and open new air polluting factories. The evildoers are bested by earth spirits who protect the traveler while dancing to hypnotic music. I have no onstage role in the show. Instead, my job is to run the sound by setting up the right playlist on my iPod and nailing more than 20 cues throughout the show, so I watch each scene very carefully to ensure that the music shifts at the correct moment. I also program the preshow soundtrack, opting to focus on world music and some tunes by Michael Franti, a San Francisco-based performer who styles himself as an international ambassador for peace and harmony(e.g. "We can bomb the world to pieces, but we can't bomb it into peace.") It isn't clear whether the audience realizes that I am trying to send a message with these songs.
Once the sun goes down, the circus switches to a fire show featuring a series of multi-person choreographed routines. I perform in a fun and tightly coordinated 3-person poi sequence and a sometimes challenging hoop/rope dart combination with KFire. The poi routine is set to a catchy and well-known Bhangra tune which provokes a hugely positive response from every crowd. The hoop and rope dart routine with KFire borrows heavily from moves I developed for a previous duet. In another act, my friend Hitch forms a dragon by balancing two people (holding torches) on his body and lumbering across the stage to fight a warrior with a flaming sword. The finale involves five people simultaneously juggling fire torches and prancing around the stage with frenzied energy. The entire show has many elements designed to please -- funny moments, strange costumes, excellent music, interesting props, quick action, and lots of fire.
As we practice the show in our Rishikesh enclave, I get to know the rest of the crew. They are friendly, accepting, creative and wacky. I quickly feel a sense of belonging to the group and thank myself repeatedly for having the foresight to make this connection before leaving San Francisco. Feeling guilty for having done so little to help with all the pre-departure fundraising efforts, I commit to being a force of positive contribution in every possible way. I volunteer to take on various responsibilities, help choreograph my two fire routines, and do my best to inject an enthusiastic and optimistic social energy into the collective consciousness. It feels satisfying and grounding to have a raison d'etre and to know that this experience will focus my energy in the coming weeks.
Life in the circus takes on a semblance of structure and routine. Every morning at 8am, Hitch (whom I met during the Thailand circus) leads a "power yoga" class on a hotel roof. An acrobatic yoga instructor back in San Francisco, Hitch offers the class as a way to develop our strength, flexibility, and group bonding. The workout is challenging and forces me to strain my muscles beyond any normal level of tolerance. Unlike traditional yoga teachers, Hitch urges us to work through the pain and exert ourselves to the maximum extent possible. I observe my mental and physical limits, endure extreme discomfort, and slowly notice my strength improving after several days.
One afternoon we are invited to appear at a talent show organized by a local school. I head the line of circus freaks entering the venue clad in costumes and makeup. As we start taking our seats, a western woman with blond hair recognizes me from the Thailand circus and identifies herself as one of our groupies on Had Tien during the weeks leading up to the kickoff of the Laughing for Life tour. She is amazed to encounter me with another circus thousands of miles from our first meeting. I chuckle at the notion that my life is defined by a series of circuses, but upon reconsideration realize that there is more truth to this notion that is first apparent. Soon the show begins and it is a delight to watch young children first perform a play about the pollution of the Ganges river and then entertain the crowd with a number of unrelated dance routines ranging from traditional to somewhat racy.
After a series of rehearsals over the course of a week and a full dress rehearsal at a neighborhood restaurant, we are ready to formally unveil the revised show in front of our target audiences. Our first performance follows an afternoon of workshops at a local orphanage called "Ravana's Garden" where the kids all speak pretty impressive English and have plenty of exposure to foreigners. The orphanage grounds host a cafe serving the best organic salads I've tasted since leaving California. Although happy to be served this luscious fresh dish by the orphans, I briefly wonder about the child labor implications of this arrangement before realizing that my concerns are ridiculously misplaced in a country where youngsters routinely engage in far more physically taxing work.
The young waiters become my students in a poi spinning workshop taught in front of their dormitory. To my dismay, I learn that we are not the first to conduct such workshops when the children begin by showing me poi moves they learned from other foreigners. They all demonstrate their tricks for me by pushing each other out of the way and shouting "look, look, teacher, teacher" while wildly twirling the poi and repeatedly hitting both themselves and the others. The lack of respect for personal space creates problems in this context since poi spinning requires some distance between individuals. Keen to remain close to each other, the kids keep whacking their friends (without any evidence of malice) and laugh everytime the strings cross or the paper balls peg someone in the head. Trying to take control of the situation, I demonstrate several basic moves and give individual coaching to each student. Most are completely unruly and just try to make the poi rotate as fast as possible without any attention to control. I repeatedly urge my pupils to "slow down", though this admonition has a limited effect, and try to help them realize the benefits of developing new skills. Ultimately I find a few students who want to master the 2-beat weave, the butterfly and a simple turnaround maneuver. My technique balances specific mechanical adjustments with exhortations and encouragements. While some drift away in search of the popular face painting workshop, those who remain until the end appear to be making progress and exude a sense of accomplishment. To celebrate, I take a round of photographs and let a few kids crowd around me to see themselves on the camera screen. It proves to be an excellent bonding exercise.
We perform two shows at Ravana's Garden on a terraced dry rice paddy. The first show goes quite well, everyone radiates exuberant energy and the audience is enthusiastic. The only drawback is that some spectators, most likely teen-aged boys, throw rocks at performers during several at the scenes. No one is hurt but the prospect of being hit while spinning fire is enough to put everyone on edge. At our second show, more rocks are thrown and we suspend the performance to inform the audience that we will end the show if more stones are cast in our direction. That seems to quiet the troublemakers and we finish without any further incident.
Our final days in Rishikesh are marked by group meetings, celebrations over meals at local restaurants, additional informal fire shows at a friendly venue in our neighborhood, a trip to swim at a nearby waterfall, my own plunge into the Ganges (wading not swimming) and several almost disastrous runins with wild monkeys spoiling for a fight. By the end of our two weeks in this place, we are ready for a change of pace and additional performance opportunities. The crew says goodbye to the people we met Rishikesh -- the manager of our favorite restaurant, our local streetside chai vendor, and a collection of other travelers who became "friends of the circus".
After a 3 hour bus ride along winding roads, the circus arrives at the high-altitude (1850 meter/6000+ foot) city of Mussorie. The city is spread along a ridgeline and affords spectacular views of valleys on both sides. Mussorie is a major tourist destination for middle-class Indians who come here during the summer months to escape the wilting lowland heat. During my stay in mid-March (still the low season), the air is dry and cool and it gets quite chilly in the evening. Luckily, I am carrying the very soft Tibetan wool shawl purchased in Delhi. It keeps me warm and provides some measure of local camouflage.
The town has practically no beggars. There is one beggar child covered with dirt who appeals to me with wide eyes and a look of desperation on his face. But his attempts are not particularly aggressive or intrusive. Over time he is befriended by others in the circus who play with him, balance juggling clubs on his head, and find ways to break through and connect. Our 15-person entourage takes over a block of rooms at a local hotel and, due to some excellent negotiation by Hitch and Matt (the clown), I end up sharing a double for the low price of $2.50/night (per person). The room comes with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking set of dramatic peaks and valleys.
Our second day in town, we organize a workshop for students at a school within spitting distance of the hotel. I teach a decent-sized group to spin poi while giving a discourse on the importance of self-love and personal discipline. I urge them to dance and run around with the poi, an instruction which leads to instant compliance. Though the children may not understand the finer points of my rambling lecture, they stay relatively focused on the poi for the better part of two hours. There is much laughter and several bouts of the children chasing me while trying to keep the poi rotating in split time.
Afterwards I take out my iPod and students gather round to check out the device. They have never seen one and practically sit on my lap to view the tiny screen. I explain that this miniature electronic marvel contains over 6,000 songs and watch their faces ponder this incomprehensible concept. One astonished boy processes the sheer number of tunes, names a series of Indian songs, and asks if any of these can be found on the device. I sheepishly say "no" and it becomes clear that none of his favorites are stored on my ipod. He immediately loses interest and seems amazed that none of these extremely popular songs are included amongst the 6,000. I find myself amused by the notion that the device is worthless because it lacks a good selection of Hindi music. But it reminds me that Indians are proud of their music and may not be particularly interested in songs from other cultures -- this assumption is validated by one man who comments to Hitch that our show is very good except for the soundtrack, explains that Indians don't like our music, and urges us to include more local tunes. I take this advice to heart by purchasing the soundtrack to the mega-popular Indian Bollywood extravaganza Om Shani Om along with a 6 CD Bhangra compilation and load the music onto my iPod for future shows. These additions prove extremely popular with kids and adults for the remainder of my journey.
We perform a fire show in front of our workshop students on the school's basketball court perched on the edge of a steep hill just below the main town. Locals line up on nearby roads, terraces, balconies and roofs and gaze down at our flaming routines. The show goes pretty well and the kids seem genuinely stunned by their first exposure to the fire arts. Afterwards I engage clusters of kids, shake their hands, and thank them for coming to the show. This becomes my most cherished part of every performance -- greeting the children and watching their faces as they first hesitate then grab at my hand, tittilated by the chance to touch this weird quasi-celebrity foreigner.
One teenaged boy approaches and asks if I would like to dance with him. I pause for a moment, surprised at receiving this request from a heterosexual boy, but quickly agree. A throng of children circle around as we dance to some thumping Panjabi beats. Another boy joins the fun and soon there are two boys gyrating, flexing their bodies, and thrusting their hips into me. It is strangely homoerotic, authentically loving, and completely fun. We push each other around, make funny faces, and raise our hands into the air in celebration of this cultural exchange. The boy says "you are a very good dancer" and wiggles his head when I return the compliment. I challenge others to dance but most children are afraid to show their stuff. During a frenzy of dancing, one boy shouts out "this is the best night of my life" and I am shocked by the comment. It is hard for me to believe that a few hours of workshops and a circus performance could qualify this night for "best ever" status. I am deeply moved and well up with a sense of pride that our efforts are having such an impact on this one boy.
The next morning I am roused from sleep while in the midst of a dream about home. In the dream, I sit in a Bay Area BART station awaiting the next train headed towards my office. Filled with dread and anxiety, I experience a sense of being overburdened by life commitments. Reflecting back on my sabbatical, I despair that the extended overseas journey failed to shift my perspective, temperament or ability to sustain any inner peace. Was the trip nothing more than an amusing diversion? Why did I come home so early when it was possible to continue my spiritual quest? Just when I hit a low emotional spot, the dream ends and awakened consciousness emerges. Feelings of utter failure permeate my thoughts and the emotional hangover from the dream puts me in a bad mood for the whole day.
That evening we set out to perform our fire show at a school approximately 2 km from the main town. We arrive and begin setting up our props and equipment. While our crew lays electrical cables, connects speakers, and organizes our fire tools, the entire group of students living at the school assemble and watch the action. This is a common circus experience -- an audience typically materializes as soon as we arrive and observes every element of our setup and takedown. They wait patiently as we warmup, meet to discuss safety issues, and test out the sound and lights. Already feeling grim from the disturbing dream, my mood worsens when I realize that our stage is small (a hassle for one of my fire routines) and that our entire audience will consist of about 50 people.
Before the show, Chris gives a short speech and urges the children to make noise if they like (or don't like) anything they see. It is a stock element of his pre-show talk but this group takes it to heart. As soon as the first routine begins, the audience begins screaming, shooting their hands into the hair, and going wild with enthusiasm. I am surprised by the extreme reaction. We realize that, at least on a per-capita basis, this crowd is the most responsive to date. Their excitement is contagious and my dark psychological state gives way to feelings of joy. After the final act, I keep the music going and everyone converges onto the stage for an impromptu dance party. Another boy asks me to dance and we all circle around to celebrate our shared connection at this wonderful moment in time. After the dance party we share chai and cookies with the teachers who discuss their appreciation for our efforts.
The circus gang returns to our hotel in high spirits and proceeds to hole up in a large 6-person room which serves as our socializing space. We drink whisky, order room service, light incense and candles, give each other massages, and watch very bad movies on HBO (including the truly horrible yet amusing 1986 film "No Retreat, No Surrender"). Over the course of our stay in Mussorie, this chamber (known as "room 6") becomes a community gathering spot and hosts a variety of quality bonding events including the infamous desert and bodywork party.
I explore the town of Mussorie and shop for nothing in particular but end up buying a traditional Himachali men's cap. People are generally friendly though not intrusive. One afternoon I take a glorious run along a trail hugging the side of the mountain and almost start crying with joy when admiring the killer views of never-ending peaks and valleys. I am reminded of how this trip astounds and humbles, opens my heart, makes me feel lucky to have such a blessed life. At night I accompany other circus folks to various restaurants. We frequent one Tibetan spot with many Dalai Lama photos, scrumptious momos (dumplings), and a strange mix of 1980s American pop music. Due to our appearance and group dynamic, locals often approach and ask why we are in this town. When told of our purpose, some demand to know how they can see our show. On the evening of Saint Patrick's Day, we parade through the streets in costumes spinning glow toys en route to one of the few establishments serving alcohol. Our procession draws a crowd of amazed spectators who have never witnessed such a sight. Upon arriving at the bar, the circus folks proceed to get intoxicated on very expensive drinks, sing loudly along with the live performer (a guy on guitar who plays half of "Hotel California" before forgetting the words), and then stumble back to the hotel to consume additional amounts of whisky. It is a fitting way to celebrate this important holiday.
Our second-to-last Mussorie show takes place at a large school for Tibetan children. When we arrive in full costume with our gear, it becomes clear that our show is causing mixed reactions amongst the teachers and students. Everyone is upset about the violence in Tibet and many have family members involved in the demonstrations in both Tibet and India. Some don't believe that it is appropriate to host a lighthearted circus performance given the seriousness of the situation, and we are informed that our planned show for the following day at another Tibetan school will not happen. Notwithstanding the weirdness, we setup our equipment in front of a massive group of students wearing green blazers. The crowd numbers into the thousands by showtime. Chris begins with the standard introduction but adds an extended moment of silence to honor the Tibetan people in this time of crisis and signal our support for a free and peaceful Tibet. Some children begin to cry. It is a powerful and moving moment. The show is well received despite the discomfort of sitting under the direct midday sun. After the final act, we unfurl a large banner proclaiming "Peace" and play a Tibetan song. The scene gets chaotic as kids converge from all directions. I shake many hands and am asked for autographs by the younger students. A few of us remain in the schoolyard until the last requests are fulfilled. Although the situation is clearly tense, the outpouring of enthusiasm suggests that our appearance ends up being a positive and respectful contribution to this community.
After one more show at a nearby school, we pack the bus and prepare to depart Mussorie for our next destination. Upon leaving, Chris informs the group that the rat inhabiting our bus appears to have been killed by a cat. Previously I learned that we are supposed to respect and protect the rat, even though it eats clothing and food left onboard, because it is the sacred carrier of the Hindu God Ganesh. According to our Indian bus driver (Ram Kumar) and his assistant (Ram), the rat is responsible for the tour avoiding bad luck and the bus being spared of mechanical problems. We discuss the possibility of finding another rat to inhabit the bus but no one wants to invest their time in this project. Within days of the rodent death, our bus begins to experience multiple failures including the loss of air conditioning on the final drive back to Delhi. The group consensus is that we are fortunate, in light of the rat's demise, to have escaped a catastrophic breakdown.
En route to our next destination, we traverse winding mountain roads and are saturated with incredible panoramic views of hills, valleys, terraced fields and forests. At one point we stop for a bathroom break on the side of the road overlooking a river and throw rocks into the distant flowing water. Some heave small boulders down the hillside. The boulders roll down towards the water and cause mini-avalanches along the way. It all seems like good fun until someone notices two older men on the other side of the river pointing at us and shouting. We look down, notice a trail abutting our side of the river, and see a procession of donkeys and people emerging from beneath some trees directly in the path of the rolling boulders. Some of them are clearly angry and start running up the hillside towards our bus. "Problem?" we ask Ram Kumar, who typically laughs off any challenges by responding "no problem." In this case, however, Ram Kumar looks nervous and says "problem", a sign that we are exposed to potential danger from a confrontation with locals on this remote rural road. Everyone is ordered back onto the bus and we speed away before the donkey procession can reach our location. Over the course of the next day, I keep imagining that this group will suddenly arrive to exact revenge. Fortunately, we never see them again.
After several hours of transit, we arrive at the banks of the Yamuna river along with folks from Swecha, an Indian environmental advocacy group partnering with the Dreamtime Circus to provide crucial logistical support at the beginning of the tour. Protecting the Yamuna is one of Swecha's key campaigns and they occasionally take groups on multi-day river tours to promote awareness of the sources of pollution along this important waterway. Our campsite is situated in a valley surrounded by gorgeous undeveloped hills and only a short walk from the river's edge. I walk to the banks, submerge in the apparently clean waters and feel renewed by the cold plunge. After unloading our gear and claiming tents, we pile back into the bus and proceed to the nearby town of Lakhmandal, a famous town because of the large number of Shivalingam artifacts found in the area. A symbol of the power of creation, the Shivalingam shows the penis of Lord Shiva (a primary Hindu God) penetrating a yoni (vagina). In a culture with conservative norms about sexuality, it is quite fascinating to realize that this symbol plays a central role in Hindu religious worship.
Clad in full costumes and makeup we step off the bus and plow through the assembled crowds carrying our equipment to an ancient temple. Although we have permission to use these grounds for our performance, one of the temple guardians inform us that a large crowd of worshippers will soon arrive to chant and honor the ancient Shivalingam housed in the main building. At the appointed hour, several hundred men assemble in lines and chant rhythmically for almost half an hour. Between the chanting and our freakish appearance, the scene is otherworldly and evokes a feeling of magical realism. I don't know whether it is all just a dream. Once the ritual is complete, we commence our last performance of the tour. The crowd loves the routines, howls at the right places, and cheers when we transition to the fire portion. After the final bow, our men form a line at the front of the stage to prevent local men from storming the stage and groping the women - a problem occurring at previous shows when the crowd was composed of large numbers of males. I am part of this blocking group and take the opportunity to shake hands, work the crowd, and thank people for coming. Everyone seems thrilled and relatively calm. For those of us in the circus, this is a bittersweet moment because there will never be another performance on this tour. But we feel lucky to have such an incredible and holy location for the final show. After packing up the gear, we return to our campsite, spin fire by the river and marvel at the beauty of our surroundings under the light of a full moon.
The next morning we again cram ourselves back into the bus and endure a 14-hour marathon en route to the relatively obscure destination of Rotak, the hometown of our bus driver (Ram Kumar). We encounter several crude roadblocks organized by children demanding petty tolls and threatening to bombard us with colorful dyes if we resist. We laugh at each stop, appreciating the silliness while worrying slightly about the potential for a confrontation with an unruly mob. Later that evening, we cross into the state of Haryana without making a donation to the tax collector. Since each Indian state is akin to a separate country, border crossings involve the payment of taxes based on the type of vehicle and distances to be traversed. We fail to locate the appropriate government official and are forced to backtrack based on information relayed to us during a fuel stop by a friendly man driving a truck carrying a huge load of sugarcane. This gun-toting driver offers us several stalks of cane and demonstrates how to use the teeth to peel off the bark and get access to the juicy pulp. A few of us try this technique and do our best to avoid breaking off our teeth in the process. Since the bark is quite dirty and potentially contaminated with unhealthy substances, this mouth-based peeling trick may prove to be the cause of a gruesome sickness which overcomes Keeli in the subsequent 12 hours.
We turn the bus around and drive 15 minutes back to the state border. Chris and Ram Kumar disembark and find a man sleeping on a bed along the side of the road next to a nondescript shack. This is the tax collector and he is not happy to be awakened late in the evening. With some prodding, he leads Chris and Ram Kumar inside, lights a candle, and spends an extended amount of time trying to calculate the correct tax. According to Chris, he significantly underestimates the amount. Score one for the circus.
We arrive in Rotak after midnight. Ram Kumar insists on bringing us directly to his home despite the late hour. Several family members meet the bus on a main road and guide us through a series of alleys to a multi-story cement house abutting a large pool of stagnant water and an empty field. After greeting the extended family, we pack into a small bedroom on the top floor and several bottles of whiskey are produced. The drinking continues for over an hour before heaping plates of vegetarian dishes (subjee and dal), rice and chapatis arrive. We finish feasting after 3am and plead to be taken to a local hotel. Ram Kumar obliges and his sons assist with checking into a downtown guesthouse. They assume that we will gladly pack 3-4 people into each room. Since these rooms contain only one large bed, we ask for additional mattresses. This request seems to piss off the hotel staff who are mystified as to why we have any qualms about sleeping 4 people on a queen-sized bed.
The next morning I wake up and immediately join a party in progress down the hallway. Today is the festival of Holi, a national holiday celebrated by smearing colored dyes on the face, hair, arms and clothing. Some Indian men invite us to join in a bout of morning craziness. The interior of their room is covered with splotches of brightly colored dust, everyone dances to Bhangra music, and alcohol is being generously consumed. It is 10am. Several drunk guys paint my face with various colors and encourage me to dance with them. I join the fun for awhile but it starts to get weird when one man inappropriately grabs at our women. Although disturbing, it is a common occurrence during the circus tour. Many Indian men appear to be deeply sexually repressed and do not understand western cultural protocols governing male-female relations. Western women are typically treated as sex objects to be ogled, groped, and approached with aggressive sexual overtures. I suspect that this behavior is driven by several factors -- arranged marriages, taboos on casual sexual relations within Indian culture, images from movies and television, our style of dress, and a misreading of western norms. In particular, Indians watch as Western men and women touch each other in social situations but fail to comprehend the complex rules and nuanced signaling which governs our physical interactions. As a result, many of the circus women have their breasts and butts grabbed unexpectedly by Indian men. It is frustrating, sometimes threatening and impossible to avoid.
After leaving the party, several of Ram Kumar's sons arrive and tell us not to exit the hotel for fear of being mobbed in the streets by aggressive and intoxicated men. Curious to see this dangerous scene for myself, I go down to the hotel lobby and engage with a crowd of somewhat drunk men. I ask one of them why people throw colored dyes at each other on Holi and he responds with a detailed history of Indian culture and a comparison of various religions. Although proclaiming himself to be a Hindu, he tells me that Buddhism is the only sensible religion because it recognizes that reality can be explained by the cycle of cause-and-effect. These are interesting observations but none help answer my question. Other men chime in to expound upon his points but cannot agree on a single reason for the colors. After about 20 minutes, the social dynamic shifts and the men exude a strangely menacing vibe. At this point, Ram Kumar's sons grab me and order me to go upstairs. I cannot understand why this is happening but am relieved to escape a situation which is trending into hostile territory.
At noon the bus arrives and Ram Kumar's sons shepherd us out of the hotel in a military-style operation. The locked gate of the hotel is opened briefly and we are urged to move quickly to the bus under the protection of the family members acting as a security force. A crowd of color-drenched men stares as our gang strolls across the sidewalk and boards the bus. We drive for five minutes, disembark on a main avenue, and are escorted down the alleys by a phalanx of family members. Along the way, many locals stream of their homes to observe our arrival. Our guides seem a bit nervous and urge us not to linger. We make it to the house without incident, are welcomed by family members pressing dyes onto our faces, and proceed to the roof. Soon our skin and clothes are drenched in bright colors and everyone has fun in the process. We are unaware that most of the colorful dyes used on Holi are designed for industrial use and considered toxic to humans. Later, we discover that these dyes are linked to renal failure, temporary blindness, neurological damage and cancer. Luckily, we do not possess this information during the festivities and are content to smear it on each other without any hesitation.
Ram Kumar's family treats us like relatives. His sons (Ramesh, Rakesh, Rajesh and Ravinder), their wives, and the grandchildren are present. They all live in this 5-bedroom house with each nuclear family occupying a bedroom. They serve copious amounts of food and drinks and force neighbors (sometimes by waiving sticks) to leave us alone when there are too many people vying for our attention. All of them speak English, some of them quite well, and we share stories and observations about India. Ramesh is keen to show us a professional music video he has produced centered around the Hindu God Hanuman. He gives us copies of the video CD which normally retails for about $1.
Word of our visit travels quickly and a fairly sizable crowd soon gathers around the house. One neighbor explains that 500-1000 people, including some from other parts of Rotak, are present to catch a glimpse of the foreigners. Since this town is not a place where tourists visit, most locals have never seen a live westerner, are extremely curious, and want to interact. I make a few forays into the streets to engage thrilled onlookers. I am quickly engulfed by people who want to touch me, shake my hand and ask questions. The kids smile broadly (although a few seem fearful) and want to grab me, put dye on my face, and take photos together. A gang of children tells me to call one of their friends "choo choo" (which either means "mouse" or "little one" in Hindi) and go absolutely wild when I yell out this name. They learn my name and chant "Matthew" whenever I am visible or make a public appearance. Boys ask me to dance with them, to sing a song, and to say their names. Mothers bring their babies near and ask me to take photos. At times the crowds swell, people compete for my attention by yelling over each other and grabbing my arms, and the intensity becomes overwhelming. Feeling besieged and potentially in danger of being crushed, I flee indoors to find quiet space and regain my balance. The experience helps me to understand how a group of well-intentioned Indians can quickly become an uncontrolled mob.
My conversations with the neighbors yield some interesting insights. One woman tells me that she is an avid worshipper of Jesus Christ yet considers herself a devout Hindu. This apparent contradiction highlights the complicated manner in which Hinduism embraces prophets and Gods from many religious traditions consistent with the belief that all these figures are merely manifestations of a unified divine energy. This view intrigues me and I struggle to comprehend the Hindu perspective on spirituality. Later I purchase a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and begin rereading this important spiritual text during my travels through the south.
A young man asks me to advise on which academic degree will maximize his chances of landing an Information Technology job with a local outsourcing firm or winning a coveted H1B visa allowing migration to the USA. He hounds me for specific career recommendations as if I can provide some useful insights into the choices confronting him in the coming years. Not able to assess which are the most advantageous degrees, I tell him that social networking is the key to obtaining a good job. "Yes, yes" he replies as if this information is not news, "I will take that course next semester". I realize that he is confusing computer networking with social networking but don't have the energy to outline the differences. The conversation then turns to our families. As is the case with practically all Indians, he lives with his parents and must get their approval for every key life decision. He is shocked to learn that I am unmarried and have not lived with my family for two decades. His first concern is how I manage to feed myself without a wife to do the cooking. I explain that Americans typically leave the family home in their early 20s, often move far away to pursue their own independent lives, and place great value on autonomy, individual self-reliance and privacy. These concepts are so alien to him that I cannot determine whether he comprehends their meaning. As we delve into these cultural differences, I suspect that he feels sorry for me and imagines that life outside of the family structure must be deeply unfulfiling. The gap is so wide that I am challenged to provide a positive portrayal of a life as an independent single American man. Perhaps it is better for him to be less enamored of America given the long odds against his ability to successfully move there.
The circus discusses with Ram Kumar whether it is possible to perform a fire show later in the day. But we realize that, without proper security, such an event would likely turn into a riot. The local police officer pays a visit to talk about the situation and suggests that a show would be ill-advised. Although somewhat disappointing, this decision clears the way for us to consume more whiskey without fear that our motor skills will be put to the test later in the day. Instead of a formal show, a few of us decide to spin glow poi and juggle illuminated balls on the roof after dark. Crowds form almost immediately on all the nearby roofs to observe the lights. I yell out "choo choo" to noone in particular and hear rounds of laughter coming from different directions. Some of the kids in the streets yell "Matthew" and cheer when I acknowledge their efforts to catch my attention.
We have all become larger-than-life celebrities and experience the simultaneous inflated sense of self-importance along with the need to maintain some separation and privacy from the masses. It provides some insights into the lifestyle of truly famous people and reaffirms my own view that this kind of public attention cannot be sustained without inflicting real damage on the ego. Luckily this particular episode lasts only for a day before we move on to Delhi.
The next morning Ram Kumar's family returns to our hotel to facilitate our departure. We load our gear on top of the bus, pile inside, and ride back to the family's neighborhood. As we stop to drop off our hosts, I can see that a large crowd is present. They are waiting for us. Some of the kids recognize me through the window and start calling my name. We are asked to get off and make a last public appearance. As I exit the bus, a female family member paints a splotch of red paint on my forehead, places a garland of flowers around my neck, and puts a piece of sweet candy in my mouth. Every member of the circus gets this treatment. We are all stunned by the attention and just stand on the sidewalk smiling and hoping that the scene stays under control. I lead the kids in a chant of "choo choo" and then cry out "Rotak is number 1!" to offer them some positive feedback about their town. They cheer, mostly because I am directing my energy towards them and acknowledging their existence. After a half hour of saying farewell, we reboard the bus and set off for Delhi.
Our reentry to Delhi does not go as planned. Although our intent is to find suitable accommodation in the quiet Tibetan enclave of Majnu-ka-tilla, we discover that the entire neighborhood is shutdown due to the political unrest in Tibet. It isn't clear whether the closures are a function of a local protest or the flight of people to assist with protests in other parts of the country. But the neighborhood looks abandoned, no services are available, and we realize that the plan needs to be altered. Our major concern is how to dispose of a variety of items on the bus which are no longer needed. These include wooden set pieces, hula hoops, various raw materials, and a collection of items which range from reusable to garbage. Since there is no municipal waste disposal system in Delhi, we are unsure what to do with the stuff and feel guilty about creating more trash. As we separate everything into piles on the side of the road next to a park, several police officers show up. They seem concerned by our actions and tell us that we will need to move along shortly. At first, we misinterpret their concern as relating to the potential for these items to be abandoned as trash. But it soon becomes clear that all of our "trash" will be mined by locals and the police want to be in charge of who gets to keep any desirable items. As Chris negotiates with the police, I notice one officer looking at a bullhorn and suggest that we give it to him. Chris makes the offer and the officer instantly accepts with a smile. With this gift, we buy ourselves a little more time to keep sifting through our gear to determine what can be left behind. Finally the police insist that we go and, despite our trepidation, tell us that it is perfectly fine to leave piles of our garbage on the side of the road. We drive away with the discarded remains of the circus lying on the street and a growing horde ready to scavenge anything of value.
That night we unload the bus for the last time and take Ram and Ram Kumar out for dinner at a local restaurant in the bustling and congested Parharganj neighborhood. We present them each with a framed photo of the entire group and sign our names on the back. They seem genuinely moved by this gift. After the meal, we walk back to the bus and say tearful farewells to these two men who have been part of the circus family for the past five months. Ram Kumar and Ram drive away as we stand waiving at them, thankful for their service and friendship, sad that the adventure is drawing to a close.
Over the next few days, the circus crew starts to dissolve and people leave for home. We hold a final party which includes a big group dinner at a local restaurant offering bhang lassis on the menu. The meal is followed by a big sharing circle on a Parharganj roofdeck, a round of emotional speeches, and an extended late-night adventure to several high-class lounge bars in the upscale Connaught Place neighborhood. At our last destination, a fancy bar called 24/7, we dance, spin poi, juggle, and generally act circus-like while the entire staff and the few other customers look on with great amusement. The following night, many of the remaining folks check out a free concert by a French hip-hop/drum/dub/bass band called X-Makeena. The show is wonderful and some of us are targeted by a local television station for post-show interviews. I happily offer my thoughts to the camera and throw out a series of relatively succinct soundbites. Several days later, the manager of my hotel smiles when I enter and exclaims that he saw me on television. He recounts how he pointed to the screen and told his family that "this man is staying at my hotel". From that moment on, he treats me like a celebrity and voluntarily offers to extend the discount we originally negotiated for our entire group on the first night.
As the circus chapter concludes, I feel gratified and filled with love. The experience has been meaningful, fun, and exciting. My involvement in two circus projects (Thailand and India) prompts me to consider whether I should commit to participate in other similar ventures as part of my life at home. Could this be the way to transform a self-indulgent art form into a sustained charitable practice? Are there disadvantaged children at home who would benefit from a visit by the circus? Perhaps. I will give much thought to the possibilities in the coming months.
I am ready for some solo adventures and prepare to venture towards the south in search of opportunities for personal growth and spiritual development. When one chapter ends, the next begins. Although my intentions are clear, I have no idea where the future will lead.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Chapter 11 -- Delhi, Hardiwar and the Dreamtime Circus
Monday, April 7, 2008
Chapters 7-10 -- Vipassana meditation, Bangkok (part II), the Andaman Coast, Ko Pha Ngan and the Laughing for Life Circus
Due to a variety of factors, I have been unable to find the time and energy to craft comprehensive stories recounting my remaining experiences in Thailand. Had they been written, they would comprise chapters 7-10 of this blog. Most exist in the form of notes and partially-drafted entries. With any luck, they will be fleshed out into full-blown tales sometime in the not-so-distant future. For now, I am providing a highly abbreviated summary (the "30,000 foot overview") of the adventures. Readers can also peruse my complete Thailand photo album to get a sense of my environs and companions during these months.
After leaving Chiang Mai for the last time, I spent 10 days in a silent meditation retreat near the city of Phitsanulok. It proved to be an intense ordeal which almost drove me to the edge of madness but ended up infusing me with a calm, quiet, clear and joyous spirit. With my release from meditation boot camp, I rode a wave of inner bliss and contentment which endured for several weeks. I returned to Bangkok in the midst of celebrations honoring the King's 80th birthday and managed to catch a glimpse of this living demigod while his motorcade rolled past throngs of delirious cheering Thais.
In mid-December, my friend Monty (from San Francisco) arrived and we joined forces for a week of travel to the infamous Phi Phi island and the insanely beautiful Railay beach. I indulged in a fair bit of scuba diving at some of the best reefs in Thailand (achieving advanced certification on my birthday), bonded with fire spinners, drank a few beers, watched rock climbers scamper up steep limestone cliffs, and managed to reach new depths of relaxation. I then spent a few days visiting a friend in Khao Lak, a resort town on the Andaman sea which was devastated by the 2004 tsunami, and attended a made-for-television extravaganza honoring the victims of that disaster. After a quick stop in Ranong, and an afternoon "visa run" into Burma, I hightailed it to the island of Ko Samui to give a lucrative New Year's Eve fire performance in front of a subdued crowd at a swanky 5-star resort. When the show was over, I caught a late speedboat ride to the nearby island of Ko Pha Ngan and arrived at the beach of Had Tien in time to join an all-night New Year's rave party.
January was devoted to the Laughing for Life circus. For the first two weeks, a crew of talented international performers (from Sweden, Spain, Canada, Japan, Thailand and San Francisco) gathered at Had Tien to plan for the tour, practice routines, and put on several benefit shows at local venues. Convening at this special beach proved fortuitous. It is a remarkable haven populated by spiritual seekers, new age devotees, lovable eccentrics, shamanic healers, ashtanga junkies and a seemingly endless supply of yoga classes, spirulina balls, coconut shakes and stunning ocean views. The circus shows came together beautifully and our repeated public appearances turned us into minor celebrities. Then the real work began as we departed from paradise and ventured to the northern reaches of the country to spread joy and wonderment to remote villages rarely visited by foreigners. Over the course of two weeks, our troupe did 10 days of shows and workshops with most of the remaining "free" days devoted to travel, causing me to refer to the grueling schedule as a 'sprint-a-thon'. The children benefiting from of our efforts were from various Hill Tribes (specifically the Akha and Mien) and the Karen people (Burmese migrants living quasi-legally at the fringes of Thai society). We taught circus skills during the day and performed a kick-ass fire show at night for the entire community. The children were enthusiastic, bursting with smiles and eager to play with our curious band of merry pranksters (see my photos for some examples). We slept on floors, packed ridiculous amounts of gear and people into the back of a truck (true to circus form), performed on dodgy stages with minimal equipment, got mad at each other, fell in love with each other, and felt perpetually sleep deprived. I cycled through every conceivable emotional state each day. My face began to hurt from smiling and laughing so much and I was tempted to adopt a few of these love-starved young souls. The experience was intense, draining, exhilarating and totally worthwhile.
At the conclusion of the circus, I returned to Bangkok for a week of decompression and civilized pleasures but found myself desiring a more tranquil and nurturing environment. So I traversed the rails, roads, and seas to make another pilgrimage to Had Tien for two glorious weeks of bliss-filled socializing, soul-searching, and peaceful meditation. A number of circus folks also materialized and we continued to revel in our evolving communal bond. There was plenty of fire play, lingering over savory meals, deep discussions about the meaning of life, and a few genuinely profound observations about the necessary conditions to achieve sustainable happiness. My heart chakra opened even wider, my aura was cleansed, and I felt completely loved and accepted by a community of long-term foreigner residents inhabiting this beach who call themselves "the family". On my final night, I performed original songs to a large crowd at the local new age resort (called "The Sanctuary") then spun fire for hours while friends sat around a bonfire doing yoga chants and the full moon passed overhead, lighting the entire cove with brilliant, sacred light. It was a fitting end to my time in Thailand.
The inner tranquility and heart-centered existence which characterized the last months in Thailand gave way to a radically different (sur)reality. This is a good thing. I recognize that every day presents me with opportunities to learn from others and practice the techniques necessary for sustainable happiness. Exploring these notions while laying on a beach is one thing. Putting them into practice while traveling through India is a far better test of whether, and how much, I'm actually learning about myself.
Chapter 6 -- Chiang Rai and Nan Province
My homestay with Kade (also known as "P'Kade") focuses on grounding the body and mind. The physical dimension takes the form of relatively gentle daily yoga while the mental element involves an exploration of my personality as understood through study of the Enneagram. Kade is a well-known published author of many yoga books, an accomplished naturalist and bird watcher, and a certified Enneagram teacher. She abandoned a fast-paced lifestyle in Bangkok to settle in a more peaceful area, focus on individual students and create a healthy and nurturing environment for her daughter. In person she emanates a calm, self-possessed aura and is clearly a healer dedicated to the well-being of others.
Her house is situated about 20 minutes from the city amidst a compound of buildings which comprise the Mirror Art Foundation. Although Kade does not work for the Foundation, her husband (who lives in Bangkok) is the founder and executive director so she is part of the organizational community. The Foundation is dedicated to serving indigenous Hill Tribes in the surrounding areas by promoting sustainable economic development, improvements in public health, and gaining political recognition for Tribal members. The organization teaches English, multimedia production and computer skills. It's an inspiring endeavor which draws a regular flow of foreign volunteers who traipse around the grounds and assist with various projects. In just two months time, my stint with the Thailand circus will bring me back to this exact spot for a partnership with Mirror Art. But this future is unknown to me during my stay with Kade.
I soon recover from my illness and am ready to explore the area. Since Kade's home is somewhat removed from Chiang Rai, I rely on her to drive me around in order to visit various sights. Our second night together, she takes me to a fashion show organized by a local designer named "Pimpa" who has been studying in Paris and boasts a name which has unfortunate English overtones. Told that this is the first major fashion show in the history of Chiang Rai, I savor the opportunity to witness such a momentous event. We arrive at a fancy hotel and enter a function room fitted with a runway and stage lights for the occasion. The room is filled with local VIPs and foreigners and there is an air of excitement as a bevy of teenaged models strut up and down the platform displaying sparkling accessories, floral prints, capri pants, and revealing items which show some serious skin. Older well-dressed women sit in the front row watching in both admiration and surprise at the spiked heels, sexy dresses and low necklines. I am thrilled to be observing the entire scene and keep giggling to myself at the strange juxtaposition of traditional Thai culture and cutting-edge French fashion.
The next day we begin with a 2-hour yoga practice, talk about our lives over breakfast, and spend the afternoon diving into the Enneagram. The Enneagram typology was first developed in the early 20th century and refined into its modern form during the 1970s. The system includes nine basic personality classifications, each with six possible variants, leading to 54 distinct subtypes. My own familiarity with the Enneagram is comes from conversations with friends at home and reading a excellent reference book brought from home. When we first start our conversations, I explain that my own study persuades me that I am a type 3 (a.k.a. "the Achiever") which means that my behavior is often motivated by the desperate need for accomplishment, external validation and the aura of success. Despite my insistence and near-certainty, Kade urges me to take a step back and asks me to answer a series of questions worded in somewhat mangled English. I do my best to understand the intent of these queries and provide honest responses. After some back-and-forth about my tendencies, Kade suggests that I am probably a type 7 (a.k.a. "the Enthusiast"). This observation takes me by surprise and I fight it for a day or two before finally realizing that she is correct.
In contrast to the achievement and status orientation of the Type 3, the type 7 is addicted to seeking new and interesting forms of stimulation. This type deeply values freedom, is scared of missing out on worthwhile experiences, must remain occupied at all times, and does whatever possible to avoid experiencing pain. According to my reference book, the Type 7 can be understood as encompassing the following strengths and weaknesses:STRENGTHS -- They approach life with curiosity, optimism, and a sense of adventure...they are bold and vivacious, pursuing what they want in life with a cheerful determination. They have a quality best described by the Yiddish word chutzpah -- a kind of brash nerviness...their thinking is anticipatory: they foresee events and generate ideas on the fly, favoring activities that stimulate their minds -- which in turn generate more things to do and think about...their minds move rapidly from one idea to the next, making them gifted at brainstorming and synthesizing information...Perhaps Type Seven's greatest gift is the ability to maintain a positive outlook and sense of abundance. When this outlook is tempered by realism and a willingness to deal with difficult feelings, Sevens are able to generate an infectious enthusiasm for whatever situation is at hand. Far from timid, they live fully and encourage others to do the same. Further, their willingness to explore and to be open to new experiences can lead them to be well rounded and knowledgeable. They truly make the world their home and enjoy sharing with others the riches they find on their journeys.
WEAKNESSES -- Ironically, sevens' wide-ranging curiosity and ability to learn quickly can also create problems for them. Because they are able to pick up many different skills with relative ease, it becomes more difficult for them to decide what to do with themselves...they try to keep their minds busy all of the time. As long as they can keep their minds occupied, especially with projects and positive ideas for the future, they can, to some extent, keep anxiety and negative feelings out of their conscious awareness. Likewise, since their thinking is stimulated by activity, Sevens are compelled to stay on the go, moving from one experience to the next, searching for more stimulation...they try everything to make sure they know what is best. On a very deep level, Sevens do not feel that they can find what they really want in life. They therefore tend to try everything -- and ultimately may even resort to anything as a substitute for what they are really looking for...Sevens' characteristic temptation is the tendency to become dissatisfied with whatever they are doing or are currently experiencing. The grass is always greener somewhere else, and so they begin to look forward to the future, as if another event or activity will be the solution to their problems...This style of wandering attention has far more serious consequences for Sevens since so much of their lives are ruled by it. Thinking becomes anticipating, and they do not stay with anything long enough either to experience it deeply or to get any real satisfaction from it...They believe that by experiencing as many things as possible, they will know which options will make them the happiest...Sevens "jam" their own awareness of pain, deprivation and sadness by constantly keeping their minds occupied with interesting and exciting possibilities...[Under stress] their enthusiasm for their own opinions can rapidly shift into a tendency to debate or critique the views of others. They can become short, impersonal, and highly impatient with any degree of incompetence in themselves or others. Under high stress, their underlying anger and resentment bubble to the surface, and they vent their frustration by scolding, nitpicking, and delivering withering sarcastic comments.
This description feels correct. I am an experience junkie, always seeking the next thrill, visualizing the next project, and afraid of missing out on amazing opportunities. I have a hard time fully experiencing joy and wonder in the present moment because of my mind's obsessive future-orientation. Compulsive planning dominates my consciousness, leaving me challenged to authentically feel what is happening in real-time. Even my successful efforts to create wonderful social situations or pursue intense adventures are undermined by an inability to savor the fruits of my labor. It's a cruel trap. And I can become very judgmental (both of myself and others) at times, an ugly tendency which sabotages intimacy and causes me to feel shutdown.
The Enneagram offers prescriptions for the plight faced by a Type Seven. Specifically, the book suggests the following:Cultivating a quieter, more focused mind brings Sevens into closer contact with their own essential guidance; thus they are able to recognize which experiences will be of real value to them. No longer distracted by anxiety about making wrong choices and missing out on the best course of action, integrating Sevens simply know what to do. Exploring reality in greater depth does not cause integrating Sevens to lose their spontaneity or enthusiasm; on the contrary, they become more free to savor each moment...The key for Sevens to understand about themselves is that as long as they are directly pursuing happiness and satisfaction, they will never attain them. Fulfillment is not the result of "getting" anything: it is a state of being that arises when we allow the richness of the present moment to touch us. When Sevens understand this and are able to let go of the conditions they place on their happiness, an inner spaciousness opens up, and the simple pleasure of existing arises in them. They understand that Being itself, pure existence, is pleasurable. Thus they become deeply and profoundly appreciative of life itself...Above all, Sevens realize on the most profound level of their consciousness that life is really a gift.
This feels true. In order to be liberated from my own cycle of suffering, I must cultivate techniques for present-moment living. This means slowing down my mental buzz, learning how to embrace feeling over thinking, and grappling with uncomfortable emotions which are otherwise submerged by a wave of obsessing on future activities and scenarios. I realize that the key to my sustainable happiness is learning to experience what is happening and lowering my emotional guardrails. Only by giving myself permission to access raw powerful feelings can I expect to break through the monkey mind fog and embrace the beautiful experience of life itself.
The other key is being able to focus on completion and the development of true mastery of particular subjects. I am most satisfied when focusing on a set of skills or knowledge. For example, the practice of fire spinning and music allows me to continue challenging myself while feeling centered and grounded. Developing a set of ongoing practices should help to promote inner peace and sate my addiction to finding the next thrill. Kade urges me to try meditation and to sit in uncomfortable negative feelings. My subsequent experience with Vipassana meditation proves to be extremely helpful in this respect.
Kade is a good teacher but we run into some language barriers. It is very difficult to discuss complicated personality traits without a very comprehensive command of language. While Kade has a decent working knowledge of English for basic communication purposes, I find myself struggling to understand some of her explanations and occasionally become frustrated by my inability to use natural speech patterns. Instead, I am forced to perform real-time internal translations to select easier words and expressions before speaking. This process is not conducive to a free flow of ideas and, on occasion, I give up on trying to fully express myself. Even so, I review my book every day and spend many hours thinking about the nuances of each personality type, of my own tendencies, and of strategies for achieving more sustainable happiness and promoting healthy states of being.
Recognizing my Type 7 desire to explore a new area, I go running a few times during the week. Suited up in my spandex workout pants, New Balance sneakers, and lycra shirt, I jog outside the Foundation compound and through a variety of villages which line the main road. My presence provokes quite a bit of local interest, especially since I look like an alien transported directly from an urban gym to the rice paddies of northern Thailand. People stare with puzzled facial expressions and little children stop playing to observe my odd behavior. I can only imagine how rural villagers, who work the fields and engage in hard manual labor every day, are reacting to my voluntary choice to exercise by running up and down the road. The views of rice paddies and lush hillsides are beautiful and cause me to well up with joy. I am so happy to be in this place and to be investigating my inner self. I once again thank myself for having the wisdom to embark on this journey.
Outside of our time practicing yoga and discussing the Enneagram, Kade and I take trips to town and visit a number of local attractions including some hot springs and Wat Rong Khun (also known as the "White temple"). The White temple is a fantastic reinterpretation of Buddhist architecture intended by the artist to be "an imitation of heaven", leading the visitor through elements showing the cycle of life and the enlightened land of the Buddha. It is a completely unique monument which includes a pool of hands reaching up from hell, angry godlike figures, and murals depicting the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center. The artist, a Thai man named Chalermchai Khositpipat, happens to be on site the day we visit and I manage to get a photograph with him and Lamthan for posterity. Then I munch on some absolutely delicious pineapple to celebrate this auspicious occasion.
I ask Kade to help me find a Thai name. My given name turns out to be difficult for Thai people to pronounce (a typical effort sounds like "Math") and I am forced to repeat it many times at each introduction. Hoping to find a better way to connect with local culture, I decide that it would be preferable to have an easily comprehensible name. Kade takes my request under advisement and, one day, announces that my name should be "Maitree". This name apparently means something along the lines of 'generous good-hearted man'. I accept the new appellation and begin to use it whenever introduced to Thai people. The effect is better than I could have expected. People immediately recognize the name, smile broadly, respond with some kind of compliment (e.g. "very good name") and easily remember me. For the rest of my time in Thailand, I call myself Maitree and find that the name allows me to bond more powerfully with many Thai people. The experiment is so successful that I decide to find a local name in each country that I visit.
One day I walk around the compound in search of information about the work of the Mirror Foundation located in the surrounding complex of buildings. At their Hill Tribe project office, I watch a video about their efforts to help improve the quality of life for the various tribespeople living in nearby areas. It is a moving presentation and I realize that it's time for me to visit a village for an overnight stay. After consulting with the staff, I elicit an offer to spend a night at an Akha village with "AGong", a guide who has worked at the Mirror Art Foundation for many years.
I possess a strong fascination with traditional hill tribe culture. Past journeys to Southeast Asia included an exhausting hike with Liz to Kelabit villages deep within the jungles of Borneo and another grueling trek to an Akha village in northern Laos. In Vietnam, I explored several villages and learned much about the traditional customs and current problems facing different indigenous peoples.
By comparison, this overnight journey is done in luxury. I ride with AGong on the back of his motorbike along paved and well-maintained dirt roads, absorb the visuals of a lush countryside which takes on the character of an impressionist painting due to the golden light of a setting sun, and enjoy the rush of cool air against my skin. He takes me first to a "traditional" Akha village, shows me the spirit gate used to ward off evil ghosts (a giant wooden swing reserved for use during a particular festival) and explains how to tell the difference between Akha and Lahu villages -- the structural beams supporting the roof of an Akha house form an X at the top while Lahu roofs are shaped like a simple triangle.
We proceed to his home village which resembles the first one except that residents don't wear colorful outfits and the houses appear a bit more modern in their creature comforts. I notice the solar panels on each home, the result of a government program granting a system to each tribal family. The electricity provided by each 120-watt panel is sufficient for basic lighting and some operation of a small television and DVD/VCD player. AGong somehow managed to get two panels and is able to run his television for longer periods of time, which means that many children pack into his living room at night to watch videos. Everyone wins from his good fortune.
After arriving in the village and getting oriented, I walk to an open field where children are playing football (a.k.a. soccer) and horsing around in small clusters. I choose this moment to pull out the LED-illuminated frisbee which has been sandwiched inside my backpack since leaving home. It is the first time the disc makes a formal appearance on my journey. At first, the children don't know what to make of the plastic saucer and some run away as it approaches them from the air. But a few intrepid boys quickly figure out the game and soon the rest of the kids start buzzing around calling for me to throw the toy in their general direction. We are all laughing, running around, and having a great time with the flow of the action. I teach two of the more talented boys how to throw a forehand and one of them almost succeeds. After awhile the kids are no longer afraid of this huge, strange looking, older farang (foreigner). Once again my faith in the frisbee as a social bonding tool is vindicated.
I slip away from the action and turn towards a crew of very young children. I pull out my camera to see if they will let me take some photos in exchange for letting them study the images on the display. It doesn't take much convincing. This game quickly gets frenzied as the children jump on top of each other, aggressively pose, shout, and start grabbing at the camera to see the results. I am careful to protect the device while making sure that they can see themselves close up on the high resolution screen. When the collective energy becomes too crazy, I put the camera away in the hopes of calming everyone down. But it doesn't work. The kids start playfully attacking by poking my body, clutching my hands, and wrapping themselves around my legs. With so many of them piling on, I imagine myself as Gulliver fighting off throngs of Liliputians and worry that there may soon be critical mass to completely topple me onto the muddy field. I call upon deep energy reserves and manage to carefully shake off the clinging cherubs and run back to AGong's house hoping it will provide some form of sanctuary. The children follow and scream out various words including "Arigato" (Japanese for thanks). Just as I arrive with about a dozen kids in hot pursuit, AGong emerges from the house and cries out "dinner is ready". The kids slowly break off their attack and soon AGong and I are sitting on a bamboo platform facing platters of rice, fried ferns, an omelette, strips of roasted pork, shredded bamboo and chili sauce.
While we eat I notice his wife hovering but maintaining a discrete distance. I ask AGong how they met. He chuckles for a moment, explains that they were first paired 15 years ago, and shares that she was 14 years old at the time (and he was 27). When asking her parents for permission to marry, he brought over 3 bottles of Thai Whisky and 2 buckets of milk as an offering. Combined with his heartfelt entreaties, this was apparently sufficient and the marriage was blessed by the family.
AGong tells me a condensed version of his life story. Orphaned at a very young age when both his parents died, he was raised by priests and therefore considers himself a Catholic. Thankful for their generosity, he became a missionary and traveled throughout the area to spread the Christian gospel to various hill tribes, most of whom historically practiced a mix of animism and ancestor worship. Even those who became Christians appear to hold to some of these older religious traditions. After 10 years of serving as a volunteer, he decided to seek paying work and ended up as a guide after learning English at the Mirror Art Foundation. His English is surprisingly fluid and comprehensible for someone with almost no formal training. Today he leads tours to villages and helps act as a liaison between his employer and the tribes.
During dinner, AGong admits he is worried because tomorrow is the day he may finally receive his Thai citizenship. Due to his unusual upbringing, he never managed to get the proper papers to prove his birth and therefore has been stuck with a series of temporary permissions to work and travel in his own country. This problem is common amongst tribal peoples and has been exacerbated by the Thai government crackdown on illegal refugees from Burma and Laos. The Mirror Art Foundation focuses on assisting villagers to receive citizenship so that they can lawfully travel, work, and receive government benefits. AGong speaks with passion about his connection to this area and these people, seeming mystified by the prospect that anyone could reject his claim to citizenship. He has lined up local village leaders and elders to testify as to the validity of his claims. Yet there is trepidation in his voice, and I can tell that there is alot riding on tomorrow's government interview.
AGong asks me about the situation of the hill tribes in America. For a second I am stumped, then remember the plight of the Native Americans. I tell him an abbreviated and simplified version of how the American hill tribes welcomed (or at least accepted) the arrival of Europeans only to end up slaughtered, cheated and ultimately robbed of their territory by these invaders. The bright side, I explain, is that our Hill Tribes are the only peoples allowed to profit from gambling in most parts of the country. Upon offering this observation, I feel a bit foolish since this fact seems to merit no more than an asterisk in the retelling of Native American history.
After dinner, we sit and drink a bit of Thai Whisky. The sun has set and a creeping chill starts to raise the hairs on my skin. I like this feeling since it is not a normal body sensation while traveling in a tropical region. I watch as villagers squat around a few fires, gnaw on the remnants of dinner, smoke cigarettes and gossip about recent events. Once the sky is completely dark, I grab two sets of glow poi and walk over to the main gathering of people. After a few minutes of observing, I pull out my Oggz, turn on the internal LED elements and watch as the orbs begin to shift through a range of colors. This captures their attention. I step back and begin to spin, moving through a variety of sequences designed to show off the hypnotic power of these toys in the right hands. Although focused on not making a mistake, I can occasionally observe faces in the audience and note a mixture of intrigue and fear. When I bring the balls into a horizontal buzzsaw and approach several young ones, they slowly back away and keep a healthy distance from the revolving lights. I finish my spin, receive rousing applause from the group, and hear a shout of "very interesting" from some unknown villager. I do another spinning demonstration with my set of Flowlights and elicit a similar response. Interestingly, no one asks to play with the lights, which leads me to fear that they may perceive these unbelievably weird objects to be possessed by evil spirits. Realizing that this would probably be my conclusion under similar circumstances, I resign myself to the conclusion that these villagers may now see me as a direct representative of a nasty demon or wicked ancestor. So it goes.
I return to AGong's house and he shares his desire to move out of this relatively remote village to another more centrally located one where there is plentiful grid-connected electricity and it is possible to get internet access. He wants a home where both he and his children can learn computer skills (as basic as sending email) which he perceives to be the key to upward mobility and economic prosperity. I don't disagree with his assessment (being personally unable to imagine life in a place with no net connection) and wish him luck with making this change. We then head off to bed. I lie on a pile of blankets placed on wooden platform and slowly fall asleep to the sounds of livestock, dogs, passers by, and crying children.
The next morning I wake to a herd of cows passing the doorway of AGong's house. After a quick breakfast, AGong summons me to his motorbike, cranks the engine, and we glide away from the village. Later he drops me back at Kade's place, gives me a bow, and heads off to check on the status of his citizenship application. I later learn that he succeeds and is granted the formal recognition he so desperately desires.
One day later I bid farewell to Kade and Lamthan and board a bus headed towards the fabled city of Nan. Located in the northernmost corner of the country nestled against Laos, Nan province is characterized by an agricultural economy, lesser-known hill tribes (such as the Lu, Htin and Khamu), and insane natural beauty. During the 14th and 15th centuries, the province was part of the Lanna kingdom which spread across much of northern Laos, Thailand and Burma. It is generally overlooked by travelers and does not receive much traffic on the farang (foreigner) circuit. The prospect of spending a few days exploring the region feels intriguing, so I make a dash for the main city in the hopes of finding some magic in this remote corner of the country.
Upon arrival, I realize that this city has not been infected with the typical trappings of a travel destination. There are no stylish cafes, only a few internet spots, and English is not very widely spoken. After a bit of searching, I check into a large teak hotel and pay 350 Baht ($11) for my first night. After decompressing by watching some inane Australian television show on the set in my room, I embark on a search for dinner. This quest takes me to a night market where mobile kitchens serve fried noodles, rice and soups to patrons sitting at folding tables set off to the side. I pick one based on the English writing on the sign. The older man standing behind the skillet asks for my order in English, and I tell him to whip up something with noodles, pork and vegetables. After bringing me the steaming plate of fried noodles, he sits down and engages me in conversation.
I learn that he is 62 years old and holds two jobs. During the day, he fixes automobile axles. At night, he and his wife prepare meals at the market. He sleeps in his car, apparently to save both time and money. He asks about my journey and expresses surprise that I am alone and don't have either a girlfriend or wife in tow. I get the sense that he actually feels sorry for me. When learning the duration of my trip, he responds that it must cost alot of money to be away for one year. I realize that he cannot imagine having this much money. I tell him that it isn't that difficult because of the difference between the economic situation in the US and Thailand. At once a creeping sense of shame overtakes my consciousness. Here I am talking with a man who works two jobs and sleeps in his car to survive while claiming that it isn't even a serious hardship for me to spend 12 months galavanting across the globe in search of personal fulfillment and spiritual meaning. The gulf between our worlds is staggeringly unfair. Although I could imagine being filled with rage if I were in his shoes, the man smiles and seems genuinely thrilled to be having this conversation. When I tell him that he looks young for his age (which is true), he smiles and starts talking about the challenges of having diabetes and being unable to use injectable insulin. I offer my sympathy, which feels woefully insufficient, and then he is called away by the next customer demanding a plate of noodles. He thanks me for the conversation, urges me to come back again, and charges me 25 Baht ($0.75) for my dinner.
Two days later, I embark on my own version of the Motorcycle Diaries. Balancing all my gear on the frame of a rented Honda Dream, I head north to explore more remote portions of Nan province en route to Doi Phu Kha national park. Riding out of town on the bike, I feel joyous and liberated. Each stretch of road offers fascinating scenes in the life of rural Thailand. I pass farmers tending to their rice crops, villagers sitting around for a midday chat, and roadside stands selling piles of the famous oranges grown in this area. I stop at an art gallery and admire some contemporary pieces, take a detour to visit a temple adorned with ancient murals retelling stories of the Buddha's past lives, and provoke stares of wonder (or is that terror?) as I slowly cruise through a local market. After passing the town of Pua, I turn onto a new road and speed towards a range of hills. I feel the bike climbing quickly and have to focus on a series of sharp curves which make the ride much more exciting. After a few minutes of winding upwards, the views become startling -- in all directions I admire an endless series of ridges and valleys. Over the stretch of 25 kilometers (15 miles), I gain 1000 meters (~3000 feet) of altitude and notice a significant temperature drop. At this level, low-hanging clouds are sweeping across the road causing little pellets of mist to sting upon striking my face at high speed. Even so, the intoxicating freedom leaves me practically drunk with awe. I am so glad to be at this exact place at this moment in time, and again quietly celebrate my decision to take this time away from home.
I reach a national park checkpoint and encounter a man who speaks only a smidgeon of English but informs me that my desired guesthouse is closed. His cousin, the owner of the Bamboo Hut described so appealingly in the Lonely Planet, has apparently decided to head south for employment opportunities and no longer tends to the complex of bungalows or leads tours. For a moment, I am stumped by this development and wonder if my plans will be thwarted. According to the Lonely Planet, official park accommodations and food supplies must be reserved in advance. I have only a few oranges and 1 liter of water. Trying to break the language barrier, I ask about alternatives to the defunct Bamboo Hut and the man claims that I should be fine just showing up at park headquarters. I give him 200 Baht ($6) for the entrance fee and proceed onward with guarded optimism.
Accommodation and food turn out to be no problem. Within minutes of arriving at the visitor center, I hand over 300 Baht ($9) for a very small bungalow and order dinner from the restaurant. It is not clear that there is any sort of menu, and communication is very tricky, so I count on the cook to take care of me. My faith is rewarded with a plate of rice, vegetables and chicken. At the restaurant, I encounter a trio of Thai University students who are spending the week at this park studying the essential oils secreted by certain native plants. They seem good natured and invite me to join them in devouring a much more comprehensive feast prepared by the same cook. They all speak fairly advanced English, which is a relief, so I try to find out more by asking about their lifestyles and hobbies. In response, the guy tells of his preference for video games and movies. One woman talks of her furry Gatsby, a lovable pet which is quite stinky. The other woman does not appear to have any hobbies or interests at all. So I entertain them with stories of my travels and passions. They seem a bit overwhelmed by my presence and, upon finishing dinner, announce that it's time for them to go to sleep. According to my watch, it is only 7pm. Not dispirited by this social abandonment, I return to reading "100 years of Solitude" and am mesmerized by Marquez's fantasy imagery for several hours before collapsing inside my tiny thatched hut.
The next morning, I ask the staff if there is a guide who can take me hiking. Within a few minutes, they find a man dressed in a jungle camouflage uniform embroidered with park department insignia. Observing nearby a Thai couple plucking bloody leeches from their feet, I pull out my leechproof socks (more like gaiters) ordered online for this very type of hike, slide them over my socks and pants, and pull tight the elastic cords. My 32-year old Thai guide introduces himself and thankfully speaks some rudimentary English. He leads me on a well marked "nature trail" which starts flat and muddy but soon becomes quite steep. To my delight, the leechproof socks work remarkably well. Although dozens of these slimy beasts assault my boots and climb upwards hoping to drill for blood, none can penetrate my gear. Having a solid defense makes me relax in the face of the onslaught.
We quickly climb about 300 meters, leaving me sweaty but energized. At one junction, we veer off the trail to visit the well-known Chumpoo Pukah tree. At the viewing point, I am unable to figure out which tree is famous until the guide points at it. It is truly unremarkable in all respects. He tells me that it has a beautiful pink and red flower which can be seen in March. I try to imagine this flower in full bloom but unfortunately fail to come up with a visual. Bushwhacking up the hill, the guide shows me a grove of banana trees with young fruit and tells me how it is possible to extract 15 liters of drinkable water from each tree just by cutting a strategic hole and inserting a straw. A few minutes later, he successfully forages for a special forest fruit which is tangy, stringy and quite refreshing. The trail continues to climb and more sunlight comes in through the canopy. "No more leeches" he says since they cannot survive outside of a shaded and moist environment. Now I feel very relaxed and try harder to appreciate the trees, moss, and plants passing to our sides. My mind wanders to future events and I repeatedly pull my consciousness back to the present. Staying tuned into the present moment proves to be a continuous challenge. As we arrive on a flat grassy plain, the trail widens and slopes downward. There are partially obscured views of the hills trailing off in all directions. I feel strong and able to continue for many more hours. But there isn't much more left. The guide's mobile phone rings just as we reenter the park campgrounds. I am amused by the fact that Thailand's cellular phone network provides far superior coverage than can be found in places like California. I thank him for his time, hand him 100 Baht ($3) as a tip, and then return to my bungalow. Within an hour I pack, mount the motorbike and say goodbye to the park. Riding on the twisting road, I silently meditate on the rush of freedom flooding my synapses. It is a very good day to be alive.
That evening I stop in the town of Pua and find a hotel room at one of the more swank places in the area. After trying in vain to locate some interesting social opportunities at restaurants in town, I return to my place and end up socializing with the brothers whose family runs the hotel and attached restaurant. They insist that I drink Thai vodka and beer with them. One brother is studying hotel management in Chiang Mai and works at the luxury D2 hotel. He is desperate to leave Thailand and hears stories of riches to be gained from working menial jobs in developed countries. When I ask about why he would choose to leave his family and community, he tells me that, according to a friend, it is possible to make $300 per week working in Australia. I quickly do the math in my head and realize that this perceived pile of riches amounts to around $15,000 per year which is a poverty-level wage. I start to explain that the costs of living are very high in Australia, that his lack of marketable job skills and dodgy immigration status will prevent him from finding quality employment, and that he may feel alienated and pine for his family and friends. But I've had this conversation many times before with people in developing countries and learned that no dose of reality will dissuade someone from wanting to pursue what appears to be big money. So I let it drop and hope that he decides not to leave Thailand for a life of poverty in the West.
The next day I resume my journey, admire the countryside, stop at a waterfall for a particularly gratifying swim with an enthusiastic local guide leading the way, and ultimately return to the teak hotel in Nan for some rest, meditation, and a last night of wandering this quiet town. With my Nan adventures complete, I return to Chiang Mai for one final visit and spend a few more days with Nuch (the hotel manager) and her gang. We go out drinking and dancing, share stories, and generally behave like a family. I feel at home in this city with these people. It is a blessing.
I finally finish "100 Years of Solitude" and marvel at the richness of Marquez's descriptions, the grandeur of his vision, the magical quality of the tale, and the underlying message that everything is impermanent. Even the greatest of empires fades, happy times will give way to bad ones, and everything we accomplish may ultimately be forgotten. It provides the perfect groundwork for my upcoming meditation retreat -- an experience I will find immensely challenging. Rather than obsessing about this future, I focus on experiencing the present moment. I am doing my best to internalize the lessons of the Enneagram on the eve of entering a meditation bootcamp which will alter the way I understand the relationship between body and mind.
