Insatiable Wanderlust

Chapter 11 -- Delhi, Hardiwar and the Dreamtime Circus

2008-04-09T23:51:00.000-07:00

My flight from Bangkok lands at Indira Gandhi airport in India's capital city of Delhi around 9pm local time. I disembark into a cramped arrival terminal filled with construction dust, clear customs, grab my backpack off the carousel, and plunge into the throngs of taxi drivers waiting outside the customs gate. After changing money, I head to the prepaid taxi booth run by the local traffic police (recommended by the Lonely Planet guide to avoid ripoffs) and announce my destination -- the Tibetan refugee colony of Majnu-ka-tilla in the northern reaches of the city. The clerk tells me to pay 400 rupees ($10) and hands me a voucher for the ride. Later I realize that the voucher shows a payment of about 350 rupees which means that the police overcharged me 50 rupees. Alas, the scams begin within minutes of landing in this new country.

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 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.

Chapters 7-10 -- Vipassana meditation, Bangkok (part II), the Andaman Coast, Ko Pha Ngan and the Laughing for Life Circus

2008-04-07T23:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-07T22:37:00.000-07:00

The bus ride from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai occurs at the tail end of my recovery from a bout of intestinal nastiness which laid me out for two solid days holed up in my hotel room reading books and trying to consume sufficient fluids. When I finally arrive in Chiang Rai, I have not eaten more than a few bites of rice in the past 38 hours. At the station, a 9-year old girl approaches and asks in perfect English if I am Matthew. Lamthan (pronounced "Lam-tan") is the daughter of the woman who is about to host me for a week-long homestay. She has been sent as a scout to collect me and wait for her mother to pull up in the family car. In less than a minute, the vehicle arrives and I meet Kade, an attractive Thai woman in her late 30s who will be my teacher, guide and host for the week. She smiles and seems genuinely pleased to meet me after months of communicating exclusively by email.

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.

Chapter 5 -- Chiang Mai

2007-12-13T22:57:00.000-08:00

I board the overnight train to Chiang Mai genuinely excited at the prospect of falling asleep on a soft flat bed while caressed by the gentle rocking motion of the wheels passing over the rails. Although I am relegated to the smaller upper bunk, the conditions are quite comfortable except for the occasional bouts of loud hocking by some of my fellow passengers. Before becoming horizontal, I befriend a Thai student in the opposite bunk who plays with a laptop computer for most of the trip. He shows me photos from his own travel around Thailand and asks, somewhat incredulously, why I would spend so much time exploring his country. I tell him that Thailand is a beautiful and interesting place but he is nonplussed by my enthusiasm. He is desperate to visit unfamiliar territory in the West but frustrated that money and his citizenship make this option problematic. I understand the longing and urge him to use his upcoming computer science degree to become the next great technology innovator. Articulating a vision for economic liberation, I suggest that he could create new products and aspire to be the Thai version of Bill Gates. He just stares at me with an incredulous expression which suggests that my motivational speech and Horatio Alger story have not persuaded him that such a future is even remotely within the realm of possibility.

Upon arrival in Chiang Mai the next morning, I commence two key tasks -- first, identifying the right massage school at which to study, and second, finding suitable accommodations for my extended stay. Armed with internet research and my guidebook, I make site visits to the two top schools on my list. Both schools cater to plenty of French travelers so I strike up a conversation in this fading romance language with several current students and get the lowdown on the teachers and curriculum. Despite my failure to practice over the years, I am thrilled when three French women guess my home country as Holland based on the accent and are shocked to learn of my American heritage. It feels like a small victory. After comparison shopping, I ultimately prefer the hybrid East-West philosophy and mellow approach offered at the Sunshine Massage School and sign up for a two-week basic Thai massage class for the low price of 7,200 Baht (~$220).

I check into fairly low-budget accommodations for the first night, quickly realize that it is a bit too basic to serve as my home away from home, and undertake a comprehensive survey of more than one dozen guesthouses to find the best combination of atmosphere, price and quality. At each place, I inspect rooms and attempt to negotiate discounts for a 2+ week stay. Since the high season for tourism has not yet arrived, proprietors are typically willing to agree to reduce their "rack rates" by 10-15%. As I ply the streets weighing the pros and cons of various options, a hotel not listed in any book or site appears to my right. It almost escapes my attention because the sign is small and the frontage looks more like a series of shopfronts. On a whim, I go inside and find large rooms with balconies, mini-fridges, TVs, writing desks, private baths and separate sitting areas. The manager, a friendly Thai woman in her mid-30s named Nuch, promises free coffee, bottled water, cleaning of the room every third day, and as much fruit as I can eat. She is also willing to accept 350 Baht/night ($11) given the length of my stay. Although the absence of a backpacker scene is worrysome, I am encouraged by her personal energy, the comfort of the room, and the decently playable guitar sitting in the entryway. After a bout of equivocation, I call her to lock in our arrangement and promise to begin my residence in three days.

The next morning I check out of my temporary guesthouse. When the owner asks if I am going to Chiang Rai (a city to the north), I can only shrug and imply assent. It would be unfathomable to tell her that I am actually about to check into the 5-star Mandarin Oriental resort to spend a weekend dwelling in obscene luxury with my very close friend and former college roommate. Lugging my bags to the nearest cluster of tuk-tuk taxis, I negotiate for a ride to the gates of this secluded compound. Twenty minutes later we roll into the outer grounds and are met by an army of friendly security and reception staff. I tumble out of this low-tech motorized rickshaw with my two backpacks and hope that I will not be summarily turned away for appearing so obviously out of place. Luckily, the staff summons an electric golf cart to silently transport me to the striking reception hall. I approach the front desk trying not to look like a gate crashing backpacker. They run my name through the computer and, after apologizing for the inconvenience, inform me that the room Michael reserved is not yet ready so they will move my gear to a temporary back-up room for the next few hours. My personal driver ferries me to an incredibly spacious suite in one of the colonial buildings. Armed with Michael's advanced blessing to avail myself of any service at his expense, I immediately call the spa and reserve a time for the "men's facial".

Although I've witnessed many impressive sights in my travels, this resort proves absolutely bewildering. Covering more than 60 acres, this self-contained city is centered around a series of recently built ornate structures inspired by the architecture of the Lanna Kingdom, an empire of city-states that peaked in the mid-15th century and spanned northern Thailand, Burma and Laos. Buildings are adorned with golden stupas, carved wood detailing, and fantastic glass mosaics. Perhaps the crown jewel is a Burmese palace replica which serves as the spa. I meander the sprawling property with my mouth open in awe of the spectacular architecture which makes this place look and feel like many of the historical sites I've visited in southeast asia. Between the statutes, teak mansions, stone entryways, and abundant antiques, the hotel is more akin to a museum. Though I ponder the unfairness of restricting entry to all but the rich and famous who pay to be guests, any feelings of guilt quickly give way to my sense of wonder and appreciation. I enter the spa and spend the next 90 minutes in my own private treatment suite being pampered, scrubbed and rubbed by a professional masseuse.

By the time I'm done, Michael has arrived and checked into our actual 950 square foot suite in a colonial mansion with a giant bedroom, a living room, two bathrooms (one of which is simply massive and has an inlaid stone floor), and a private outdoor terrace. Although Michael is more accustomed to such comforts, the confluence of this place and our reunion causes him to jump for joy. Over the next two days we indulge in fine dining, relax by the pool, make use of the gym, and catch up on recent life experiences. Michael and I first met in 1987 while standing in the meal line at the "6-day advanced course", a personal growth boot camp offered by Werner Erhard only a few years before the eruption of a personal scandal which forced him to sell the company (soon-to-be-named Landmark Education) to its employees and flee the country. A few weeks after the course, we both entered our first year as undergraduates at Columbia University and within another two years had joined the same fraternity and become roommates. Since those halcyon days we have remained close confidantes. He is one of my biggest fans, always providing deeply moving affirmations, helping to process difficult experiences, and urging me to pursue my dreams. So it is a real treat for us to share a small part of my trip and engage in some powerful emotional bonding.

At my urging, Michael agrees to break out of the luxury bubble for an exploration of nearby sights. We rent motorbikes and cruise into the nearby hills to pay our respects to the inspiring gold chedis at Wat Doi Suthep. This temple complex leaves both of us speechless as we circle the central spire, admire the jewels and glittering Buddhas, and pray together for the betterment of all humankind. We approach an older monk who blesses us with prayers, ties a piece of string onto our wrists, and sprinkles holy water on our heads. Our bracelets will remain strapped on for weeks as a reminder of this day. At one altar I kneel and shake a can filled with wooden fortune telling sticks until one pops out and lands on the marble floor. It points me to fortune #24 which reads as follows

Getting this number means you will succeed in what you have done,
it rather takes more time to fulfill, you ought to be cool hearted.
Your fortune will occur soon, but your lover is uncertain.
As for the absent relations you will meet them in the near future.

With this iron-clad promise of success in my travels and a unknown lover waiting in the wings, I am buouyed by the notion that this exciting future will be shaped by my personal initiative and divine providence. Michael agrees with this assessment, says that my path will be fruitful, and urges me to stay the course.

The rest of the afternoon consists of shopping for jade jewelry at a nearby "factory", hiking to some impressive waterfalls in a national park, and then returning to the city for dinner, a glorious massage at a swank spa, and a roundup of local nightlife. At the second bar we visit, the host offers to provide girls who can keep us company. Michael accepts on our behalf and soon two young attractive Thai women are seated at the table and have ordered drinks on our tab. Neither speaks English, so we focus on simple topics (like figuring out our respective ages -- the girls claim to be 19 and 25) and use the digital camera to take photos and collectively admire the display. The woman to my right ("Oh") presses her knee into my thigh throughout our time together. Within an hour, we end the experiment and pay our tab (which includes approximately $10 for the companionship). The girls look somewhat expectant, wondering if they will be invited back to our hotel, but the tension dissolves when Michael and I bow, thank them for their time, and leave alone. At our final stop, Michael befriends the bar owner and insists that I sing a few songs accompanied by the keyboard player. I resist for several minutes before giving in to the pleadings of my longtime friend and proceed to belt out Billy Joel's "Just The Way You Are" and the world famous "Hotel California". After these songs and a few more drinks, we grab a tuk-tuk back to the sanctuary of the Mandarin Oriental.

I feel refreshed, calm, and balanced when Michael leaves the next day. Although my new accommodations at the Lamphun House are far less plush, I settle in and actually unpack my entire bag for the first time since leaving San Francisco. With my clothing now hanging in a proper closet and my books arranged on a shelf, I am ready to spend the next two weeks living in this city and having a purpose. This purpose begins the next morning at the Sunshine Massage School where I receive 60 hours of classroom training over 10 days in the ancient craft of Thai Massage.

The course proves both rewarding and challenging. There are 8 other students -- four French, two English, one Australian and one Canadian. All but two (including myself) are women, a fact which is not displeasing to me. My rusty French gets a workout as I struggle to recall the basic nouns, verbs and idiomatic expressions which used to be at my disposal in the days (circa 1990) when I worked as a singing waiter at the Hollywood Savoy restaurant in Paris. Though almost everyone in the class speaks both French and English, the group progressively splits into language-based factions. Even with this linguistic divide, the communal dynamic is positive and feels increasingly cohesive as the two weeks progress.

In class we learn how to stretch the recipient into yoga-like poses and then knead, pull, thumb, palm and pound the appropriate muscles. Some of the positions are extreme, like ones where I sling the client over my back or raise their torso by slipping my toes underneath their shoulder blades. Other poses are soothing and quite blissful. The techniques prove tricky and I discover the fine line dividing a good stretch and therapeutic touch from damaging and painful prodding. The class is led by Yan, an early 30s Thai man with a glowing smile, a very powerful touch, and a willingness to make up his own rules rather than just play by the book. In addition to his lessons about energy lines and pressure points, Yan teaches me about many aspects of Thai culture. For example, he explains that people who prefer to date Thais and other Asians are said to like "sticky rice" while those who favor Westerners have a taste for "potato". He also gives me some insights into the local gay community and suggests that, unlike in America, Thais do not have a strong cultural aversion to homosexuality. These talks are quite educational and I learn much from Yan that has nothing to do with massage.

Within the confines of a light, airy practice room, we drill techniques, positions, and pressure points with an emphasis on maximizing leverage and minimizing the strain on the masseuse. Every morning begins with some chanting and a few minutes of meditation before moving onto the next lesson. Half the time is spent receiving, the other half giving. My body ends up feeling quite mushy after many days of being repeatedly pummeled. My own technique is a bit crude and lacks the sophistication and intuitiveness of experienced practitioners. Isabel, the lovely French woman who receives my final massage (a 2.5 hour "test" conducted without access to written materials), tells me that my hand, face and foot massages are "really good". She conspicuously avoids mentioning my labored efforts on her back, legs, arms, hips, shoulders and stomach. Frustrated that I am not a natural master, I grapple with this perceived shortcoming and realize that developing true proficiency will require a good deal of practice. I pledge to realize my potential someday.

To my delight, I rapidly settle into the semblance of a daily routine. I ride a borrowed bicycle around town, find my neighborhood laundry, start jogging with the locals at an outdoor sports stadium, select a favorite internet cafe (stocked with rare iMacs) and learn which kind of sweets are worth buying. It feels good to connect with this place in a more substantial and meaningful way, to have some structure to my days, and to become increasingly familiar with the rhythms of the city. My guesthouse becomes a true home. Nuch keeps offering me food and becomes visibly upset if I don't take fruit from the communal bowl. I frequently play her guitar and sit on the front deck singing to the massage ladies who work next door. With a bit of investigation, I discover that a group of young Thais sleeping in several ground floor rooms (many of whom spend all day playing computer games) are extended family members. Nuch keeps tabs on my daily whereabouts (always asking "where are you going") in a way that feels very familial and fondly protective.

Every Sunday a giant street market takes over the neighborhood around my hotel. The roads are packed with stalls, vendors, swarms of people, and giant stages hosting elaborate dance performances in front of a giant portrait of the King. I stroll through this market on three different Sundays sampling a wide array of tasty noshes and appreciating the work of local artists. One evening at approximately 6pm, I pay a vendor for a glass of fresh strawberry juice. Before he can hand over the drink, a network of loudspeakers broadcasts a song which wafts over the crowd like some kind of paralyzing gas. Every single person on this packed street stops moving, stands at attention, and gazes into the air. The immobilizing effect ends at the moment this ceremonial tune, which turns out to be the national anthem, ceases. My vendor thaws from his frozen state and passes me a glass of juice which, unfortunately, is too highly sweetened for my taste.

My social network expands with the arrival of Annie Lalla whom I previously met in a Bangkok guesthouse. Since that encounter, she and her boyfriend have decided to end their relationship and continue their journeys separately. Annie moves into the other room at my guesthouse and we spend much time talking about relationships, creativity, the search for true meaning, and our passionate need to lead unconventional lives. We reminsce about our experiences with Landmark Education (her whole family has taken the courses) and Burning Man. One memorable night we wander the old city and are inexorably drawn to a brilliantly illuminated temple complex where we connect with the intrinsic spirituality of statutes while simultaneously recognizing the impermanence of all things.

The next day we venture south on a motorcycle to visit an Elephant Conservation Center and appreciate these creatures in a non-exploitative setting. While driving our little 110cc scooter down a major highway, I recall my recently deceased grandfather's admonition to avoid being trampled by an elephant while traveling through Asia. Although he had never traveled to this region, his fearful premonition causes me to worry that something dangerous may lie ahead. To honor his memory (and out of self-preservation), I remind myself to be extremely careful when these massive animals approach. The Conservation Center turns out to be a real treat -- a non-profit organization dedicated to protecting Asian Elephants, preserving the traditional knowledge of mahout training, converting elephant dung into paper, and allowing tourists to learn more about the history of elephants in Thailand.

We watch a show in which elephants engage in choreographed dances, stack large logs with ease, play musical instruments, and paint representations of flowers by holding the brush in their trunks. This last activity is quite shocking. Apparently, Elephants possess artistic vision and naturally draw using pebbles and sticks. When trained to use a paint brush, they create actual works of art which appear to be the product of a human artist. The onsite gallery contains paintings made by elephants depicting the form of an elephant. Knowing that they are capable of abstract thought forces me to reassess my entire understanding of these remarkable creatures. After the show, Annie and I approach several fine specimens and pose for some photos while offering stalks of sugar cane to feed their voracious appetites (each adult consumes around 150 kg/330 lbs of food per day). Then we decide to ante up for a ride and mount a beautiful adult for a jaunt through the forest under the supervision of a trained mahout. We watch the scenery pass by from our elevated vantage point and observe that the creature is remarkably adept at making a barely perceptible impact on the underbrush despite its massive weight. I leave with a newfound appreciation for these majestic pachyderms and pray for the survival of their increasingly neglected creative spirits.

For better or worse, I am a lifelong fan of the Boston Red Sox and painfully follow the ups and downs of the team every year. I cried when the team blew a seemingly insurmountable lead against the Mets in the 1986 world series, watched in horror as they gave up a game 7 lead against the Yankees in the 2003 AL Championship Series, and then was propelled into a state of blissful shock when they went on a 7-game winning streak in 2004 to capture their first world series title in 86 years. Anxious to track their progress in the playoffs this year, I manage to watch two games against the Cleveland Indians on the television in our spacious cocoon at the Mandarin Oriental. Though Michael is a devout Yankees fan, he offers moral support even as I watch the Sox get blown out and then tries to help my mood by suggesting we move onto other activities.

When the Red Sox reach the World Series, I am compelled to witness this event and end up sitting at the "U.N. Irish Pub" watching Game 2 in an empty bar with only an Australian couple to keep me company. They don't really understand the rules of baseball but the guy is a sports fanatic and wants to learn. While I bite my nails hoping that the Sox can maintain a slim lead, he teaches me about the rules of Cricket. It is the first time I actually comprehend how that game is played. The Sox win this game, and the next time I return (for game 3) the room is half-filled with some American college students rooting for Colorado and an older guy who identifies himself as a Sox fan, glumly claims to know how the game turns out and adds "the Red Sox can be a really frustrating team sometimes". At this point, the Sox are leading 10-5 and it is the 9th inning. Assuming that the man is preparing me for the worst, I brace for an epic collapse that will forever be seared onto my psyche as a painful sports memory. But the collapse never comes and the Sox hold on to win. I breathe a sigh of relief and shoot the guy a dirty look. "I never said who was going to win" he says with a smirk. The next day the Sox sweep their second world series in four years and I take a few moments to imagine the mayhem erupting in New England. But it feels so far away from Chiang Mai that I am only able to bask in the victory glow for a couple of hours before the intoxicating effect diminishes.

More interesting celebrations occur outside the realm of sports. My nights are filled with social activities including my massage classmates, Annie and Michelle (a British woman working for an NGO in Thailand and learning Burmese in Chiang Mai). Practically every evening there is a round of dinner and drinks with some combination of people. At the end of my first week the entire posse goes out dancing at a club called the "Warm Up" where we groove and sway for hours with throngs of young Thais. The DJ plays a mix of electronic and hip hop, with all songs being set to the exact same number of beats per minute (so our dancing tempo remains entirely constant throughout). As is typical in Thai clubs, the women dance with each other while guys either observe from a distance or slowly and self-consciously sway side-to-side. By contrast, the men in our foreigner posse (that means me) dance with reckless abandon and enthusiasm. We observe that only people of the same sex appear to be touching each other, which leads one massage student to wonder whether we've entered a gay club. But this behavior is typical in a culture where men often hold hands but would never be seen in public with their arm around a woman's waist. Western male/female couples engaging in public displays of affection cross the line of propriety, although some younger Thais in big cities are starting to emulate Western norms in this respect (influenced by imported movies and television). Even so, none of the locals in this club appear ready to cross this line with each other.

One young Thai woman approaches and starts a "girls gone wild" sequence with several of the western women. I sneak into the mix and break a cultural barrier by dancing closely to see if she will blink. She holds her ground and gyrates with me for awhile before breaking into a laughing fit with her friends. We pose for a photo to mark the occasion. Other Thais repeatedly offer us entire glasses of alcohol, insisting that we drink as much as possible. Their forceful generosity takes everyone by surprise ("this would never happen at home" remarks one English woman). We stay until the club kicks everyone out onto the street, proud that we have been able to keep pace with the younger generation.

Another night, Annie and I go out with Nuch (our guesthouse guardian) and her friends to a club called "Hot Shots" where dance acts perform on a large stage to popular Thai and Western songs. We get a table in the front and order several bottles of liquor and some mixers. These bottles are all brought to our table so that we can make and refresh the drinks ourselves. Annie and I dance the night away while Nuch keeps refilling my glass with whisky and soda everytime my attention shifts elsewhere, leading to the mistaken belief that I have barely consumed any alcohol. By the time our night ends, I realize that the cumulative toll of these refills has been substantial. Despite being quite buzzed, I carefully drive the motorbike back to our hotel without incident.

The exploration of my neighborhood leads to a few interesting discoveries. Around the corner, on a sidestreet in the middle of the formerly walled old city, lies a strip of bars and restaurants aggressively projecting a relaxed hangout vibe. These places incorporate plenty of blacklight art and soft mood lighting (unlike most establishments which rely solely on overhead fluorescent tubes and plastic tables for ambiance), and lure customers with hand painted signs advertising an array of liquor drinks available at prices ranging from $1.50-3. Based on limited experience, I can vouch for the 50 Baht ($1.50) mojito being a good choice. Many bars have a reggae music theme and host live bands cranking out Bob Marley covers. Often these bands are very close to each other, which produces a strangely discordant audio mix -- like putting on a pair of headphones and realizing that different tracks are playing into the left and right ears.

One night I walk down this stretch and witness a heart-warming sight -- a young Thai guy stands in the middle of the "Babylon Bar" twirling a lit fire staff. Although his moves are quite basic, his body rigid and still, and his face expressionless, I am filled with joy at actually having found rotating fire. To date on the trip, my ability to practice this passionate hobby had been limited to spinning the glowing orbs brought from home with no opportunities to drench my kevlar wicks in fuel. So I joyfully return to this spot a few nights later with Annie and Rachel (from massage class) in tow and my poi stuffed into a shoulder bag. I find the right person behind the bar who agrees to provide me with fuel and let me spin.

While sitting with my friends and waiting for the appropriate fire moment to arrive, I take out my new flowtoys lights and twirl them for a few minutes. Since the locals all notice these glowing sticks and are curious about their construction, I pass them around so that everyone can examine them at close range. At this point, a small boy (probably around 8-10 years old) enters the bar and is drawn directly to the strobing lights in my hands. Breaking free from the hypnotic effect, he pleads to play with them. I let him take a turn with a single light and watch as he gleefully spins it around his head.

A band composed of four mid-20s Thai guys then mounts the stage. The lead singer sports a vintage Afro (quite a trick given Thai hair) and possesses a remarkable ability to mimic the deep, throaty quality of Bob Marley's voice. Despite this vocal richness, the sounds from his mouth are rough phonetic approximations rather than comprehensible English words. Being very familiar with most of the songs, I amuse myself trying to reconcile his soulful wailing with the actual lyrics.

The fire performance area is a relatively small open space in front of the stage with just enough width and depth to accommodate most of my long moves but requiring constant attention to hazards -- low roofs, tree branches and the nearby band members. As I warm up, dip my wicks in a plastic bucket of smelly "Na Mon Khat" (kerosene), and spin out (a practice locals don't seem to follow), my mind drifts back to Burning Man and my last burn in front of the Man with the wonderful cast of performers in the Solar Flare conclave I helped to coordinate. Taking a deep breath, I feel a wave of calm loving energy rolling through my body and know it is time to begin. I walk over to my friends at the front table, dangle my monkeyfists above a single candle, and watch the flame slowly ignite the kerosene. At that moment, the band starts playing "Rivers of Babylon" -- a classic tune off the famous "The Harder they Come" soundtrack album. Taken from a Biblical Psalm, the first verse is:

By the Rivers of Babylon
Where we sat down
And there we wept
And we remembered Zion

I mouth the actual words (not those recited by the lead singer) while commencing with a series of wallplane weaves. I soon move into a polyrhythmic thread-the-needle and split-direction hipreel combo, then flip to an Angel followed by a big open butterfly. I transition to my not-quite-patented asymetric thread-the-needle sequence segueing to an asymetric anti-gravity wallplane weave. Then I wrap up the remaining long poi and begin the buzzsaw, run it through the fountain, turn it horizontal, and start a 2-beat/4-beat corkscrew sequence while alternating between turning my body in spin and anti-spin rotations. After a few spiral wraps, a behind-the-back weave, and a flirtation with atomics, I settle into spin and anti-spin flowers before returning to my favorite wallplane weaves accented with isolations, an oscillating tempo, and polyrhythmic dissonance.

The band transitions to another song ("Don't worry, Be Happy") and I play with under-the-leg stalls, leg wraps, and some isolation/separation moves. Now dancing with exuberance and letting go of lingering worry, I feel negative emotional forces start to dissipate. I form a horizontal buzzsaw, walk over to my friends and the small boy, and bring the fire very close to their faces. The boy's eyes open wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. Borrowing a move from Dave, I stick out my tongue and pretend to lick the fire. Then I retreat and, observing my flames becoming wispy, return to another flower combo with extra rotational force to snuff the fire into oblivion. As my poi extinguish themselves, I look around and notice the small crowd in rapt attention. After a smattering of applause, I sit down with my crew to relax as sweat drips down my face. I am energized and thoroughly self-expressed. The small boy looks in awe and immediately asks to play with the fire poi, a request I firmly decline.

Several nights later, I return to the Babylon Bar with the entire crew from my Thai massage class in tow. The bar staff are very welcoming, again providing fuel and offering me free drinks for the entire evening. I spin for a crowd of about 30, including my massage posse, and feel relatively relaxed and confident with most of my moves. I dance with passion, try to remember to smile, and keep most of the poi beats in sync with the music. Despite the dense and crowded space, I take a risk and successfully execute a few vertical tosses -- a trick which always proves quite gratifying. The feedback from my massage friends is quite overwhelming. Most had never seen fire before and are quite blown away. I graciously acknowledge the compliments and explain that my community at home is filled with spinners possessing skills superior to my own. But the acknowledgement feels good. They have seen another side of me.

A few other events of note occur during my stay. First, it comes to my attention that legislation I drafted and negotiated before leaving California receives the Governor's signature and thereby becomes law. This welcome development provides some professional gratification and makes me feel that all my time and effort devoted to passing this bill was not in vain. Second, I spend a day shopping for new prescription glasses. After several hours of trying on practically every pair in the shop, I opt for a frameless model and ultimately decide that this new look is a step forward in my personal aesthetic. Third, I use the television in my room to compare the news coverage provided by five different networks (Australian Broadcasting, BBC World, CNN, Bloomberg and Al Jazeera) and decide the highest quality, most in-depth, and least slanted coverage is provided by Al Jazeera. This is a surprise, to say the least, since I had assumed that Al Jazeera would be tainted by a strongly pro-Islamic/anti-Western bias. Instead, I find that their coverage consistently examines developments and issues thoroughly and from the perspective of average people rather than power elites. By contrast, CNN looks like zero carb and substance-free infotainment.

Near the end of my stay, I take off on a motorbike to visit an internationally-recognized and critically acclaimed artist named Suwan who lives in a bamboo tree house about 30 minutes outside of Chiang Mai. Referred by our mutual friend Kob, I work through some mangled driving directions to eventually find the rural treehouse which serves as his primary residence. After living in Europe and the US for over 30 years, Suwan has returned to Thailand to cast aside the trappings of convention in favor of a simple lifestyle. He is building his own dwelling out of natural bamboo grown on the property, forages for mushrooms, cooks simple meals on a small stove, rides his bicycle 2 hours to Chiang Mai to see friends, occasionally teaches Thai massage, and continues to work on new art projects. From the top floor of his bamboo palace-in-the-making, I sip coffee and admire the peaceful scenery in this pastoral area. We talk about art, politics, religion, and dissect a number of problems with both Thai and Western culture. It feels totally refreshing and exhilarating, and I leave in complete admiration of his decision to opt-out of the typical rat race in favor of this basic but almost utopian existence.

My final days before leaving for Chiang Rai are spent suffering from a nasty intestinal infection which forces me to stay close to the hotel and prevents any eating for 48 hours. The bout makes me fear for the very integrity of my digestive system and I start dreaming about the ability to eat solid food. But all things eventually pass and my normal rhythms return once the antibiotics begin to neutralize the infection. Even so, I check out of the guesthouse weakly dragging packed bags and hoping for the best during an upcoming bus ride. Nuch's friend Coke graciously offers to drive me to the bus station (at no charge) and refuses to leave me until he is satisfied that I have purchased the correct ticket. This is a typical example of the kind of generosity I routinely experience from Thai people throughout my journey.

As my bus pulls out of Chiang Mai, I take my first bite of food in more than two days -- a clump of unflavored sticky rice. It feels very good to finally eat something and know that it is likely to remain in my body for awhile. My next stop is Chiang Rai where I expect to be immersed in a physical and emotional healing space. It seems like the right time for this change to occur.

Chapter 4 -- Bangkok

2007-11-20T00:08:00.000-08:00

My packed flight from Tokyo to Bangkok leaves much to be desired. The hot stale air inside the cramped plane makes feel increasingly ill by the time we land at Suvarnabhumi airport. I stumble down the jetway suffering from a throbbing headache and alternating waves of nausea and fever. My physical condition is so dodgy that I worry about potentially fainting before passing through immigration or at least sweating so profusely that officials will deny me entry on suspicion of carrying some infectious disease. While waiting on line I take slow and deep breaths, swallow a few mouthfulls of water, and try to psychically will away the discomfort. Luckily, the official barely even looks up and quickly stamps my passport with permission to enter Thailand for 60 days. I grab my bag, exit into the main airport, and am instantly surrounded by touts promising rides into the city at bargain prices.

One particularly attractive Thai woman almost lures me to her vehicle with seductive eyes and broad smile, but I pull away just in time and find the official taxi line. Unfortunately, my assigned driver speaks virtually zero English and has no clue where I want to go. I show him the exact location on a map which has street names written in Thai script but he just stares at the graphical representation for several minutes and makes clicking sounds with his mouth, a sure sign that he is confused and frustrated. I trace driving routes on the map with my finger, repeat the name of my destination neighborhood (called "Thewet"), and point to a particular intersection of two major streets. Although the location seems pretty obvious, he continues to be completely flummoxed. It occurs to me that he may be illiterate and unable to decode my attempts to pronounce unfamiliar Thai street names. Though the taxi has yet to move at all, my queasiness surges and a dull aching penetrates deeper into my skull. I am increasingly desperate to lie down in a cool, dark, and quiet room.

He finally starts driving but fails to turn on the meter. I point to the device and ask for it to be activated as a way to protect myself against being ripped off at the end of the journey. He offers to charge 450 Baht ($13) as a flat fee but I decline and insist that we rely on the measured fare. He complies while nervously laughing, a clear indication that I've busted him trying to scam me. Five minutes after we have left the airport, he pulls over to the side of the highway to again study the map and appears no closer to understanding the route. I feel anger welling up inside and a rising urge to start yelling, but barely manage to retain my composure. I urge him to call the guesthouse on his mobile phone and point to the number listed in my guidebook. He starts to dial but then cancels and restarts the process a number of times. I peer over his shoulder and see that everytime he presses the "2" button it comes up as a "5" on the display. He keeps trying to make the call on his malfunctioning phone, hoping that eventually a "2" will register. I glance at the guidebook, see that the "2" occurs four times in the number, and determine that he will never be able to complete the simple dialing exercise.

I tell him to drive and insist that I can guide him to the right place. He resumes driving and keeps looking nervously at my map each time the car slows down due to traffic. He pumps the accelerator haphazardly so that the taxi repeatedly lurches everytime the gas is applied, causing me to jerk forward while sitting in the back seat. The uneven motion exacerbates my nausea. I contemplate what past bad deeds merit being cursed by a bad driver who cannot read a map, is trying to rip me off, and pushes me to the edge of car sickness. We finally get to the desired intersection and I locate the guest house. I shoot the driver a knowing smile when paying the metered fare of 275 Baht (compared to the 450 Baht he offered at the outset) and stumble into a combination guest house/restaurant on a quiet street lined with leafy trees. I quickly check into a pleasant wood-paneled room with thatched palm covering the ceiling and a private bathroom for 500 Baht/night ($15). My first order of business is to lie motionless on the bed with the air conditioning blowing at maximum and a bottle of water by my side. One hour later, my stomach settles and the knot behind my temples dissipates. I am refreshed and ready to reacquaint myself with the buzzing metropolis of Bangkok.

My return to Bangkok has the feeling of a homecoming. This is my third visit to the city over the course of 8 years, so I am already oriented and comfortable navigating through the downtown neighborhoods. Although many people dislike the heat, grit, pollution and noise of this major urban node, I find it exhilarating and filled with life. In contrast to the detached and sterile social atmosphere of Japan, I immediately feel more engaged in the flow of this city. Walking the streets feeds all the senses with the beautiful, the bizarre, and the nasty. I pass street vendors cooking savory noodles, curries, soups and unidentified animal parts threaded onto skewers. The sidewalks are cracked and strange pools of dank water create a fetid minefield. Mechanics weld and fix machinery on the curb, letting loose a torrent of violent sounds and flying sparks. Across from my guesthouse is an open air market packed with stalls selling vegetables, raw meat, cooked food, household items, flowers and clothing. I snake through the warren of sellers, careful to avoid tripping on electrical wires or hitting my head on low-hanging steel poles. As a giant-sized person in this land, I often whack my head on objects placed well above the height of a typical Thai. Even doorways are usually too low for me to pass without stooping a bit.

On my first full day in the city, I focus on buying a mobile phone and signing up for service. In Japan, not having a phone made me feel even more isolated and significantly increased the difficulty of basic social logistics. Not wanting to repeat this handicap in Thailand, I walk across the city to visit a famous shopping center with an entire floor dedicated to the sale of mobile devices. The scene is chaotic and somewhat overwhelming -- endless booths run by individual proprietors selling selections of new and used phones. I pass by a group of Arab men aggressively haggling with a laidback Thai vendor over the price for an unlocked iPhone and notice that there are already faux-iPhone (and even bogus iPod) knock-offs being sold. It is difficult to even focus on anything in particular, so I try to slow down the process by going to one booth at a time and scanning the shelves for something very small, simple, and relatively cheap. The vendors all try to push phones which can play mp3 files, have crappy built-in cameras, contain cool games, and offer bluetooth connectivity. None of these features matter to me. It turns out to be somewhat challenging to find a stripped down tiny device which just makes phone calls and sends text messages. Finally I stumble onto a new LG model which is light, can barely be felt when inside my pocket, and does all the basics (including speakerphone). The vendor agrees to sell at a price of 1200 Baht ($36) along with a SIM card (200 Baht/$6) and my first increment of prepaid minutes (300 Baht/$9). Within moments of making the decision, I am the proud owner of a working mobile phone with a local number. The speed of the transaction and activation feels surreal. Empowered by my new connection to the network, I carry the phone onto the street and begin to send text messages to various contacts in Bangkok. I am no longer off the grid.

In Thailand (like in most developing nations), mobile phone service is purchased on a prepaid basis in increments of about $10. Refilling an account is easy -- just purchase a card at a convenience store (7-11 is a major retailer of phone credit). Switching networks is uncomplicated because there are no long-term contracts with service providers. And users only pay when they initiate a call or text message -- calls to anyone within Thailand are billed at around 3 Baht/minute (~$0.10). Recieving any communication is always free. So if someone calls me and we talk for an hour, there is no charge to my account. For an American, this may seem like an odd arrangement. The bottom line is that I'm happy to talk to loved ones from around the globe on my new phone, so long as they make the call.

After settling my communications protocols, I make a pilgrimage back to the most holy Buddhist monuments in the city. As I approach the famous reclining Buddha at Wat Pho, my body begins to tingle at the familiar sight. I have developed a special relationship with this Buddha over the course of multiple visits. Each viewing of this massive figure with the peaceful half-smiling face and mother-of-pearl inlay on the souls of the feet leaves me awestruck. I emulate his pose in an attempt to tap into a higher power and gain a shortcut to enlightenment. Unfortunately, this strategy does not prove successful. So I move to another temple building and watch a phalanx of monks chant in unison while prostrating themselves before a giant golden Buddha altar. Then I duck into the massage building and ask one of the practitioners to treat the intermittent pains shooting across my back. She obliges, pounds my middle back with packets of steaming herbs, and does some excellent kneading of the tender muscles.

On my third day in Bangkok, the outlines of my spiritual quest begin to emerge. In the morning, I sit at a small restaurant eating fried a plate of noodles amongst a crowd of students wearing their official uniforms and a single monk clad in his trademark orange robes. Upon finishing his meal, the monk begins to chant softly. Everyone falls silent and the proprietors approach, bow, and clasp their hands together in the prayer position. The remaining customers quickly freeze and assume the same pose while I do my best to imitate the appropriate posture. When the young monk, who looks to be around 20 years old, finishes the prayer, he gracefully lifts his body away from the table, turns, and glides away without a single word or gesture. At the moment he passes onto the street, the freeze lifts as both patrons and staff suddenly recommence the bustle of activity. I am amazed by the deference afforded to this monk and humbled by the sequence of events.

The experience prompts me to explore the religious icon district of Bangkok's old city in search of a suitable Buddha statute to provide inspiration in a future home. During my last visit in 2004, I wandered into a shop and encountered a dazzling Buddha statue so impressive that I was compelled to purchase it no matter the cost. But the store refused to oblige, claiming that the figure had been special ordered by a private buyer who had yet to retrieve it. When I attempted to place a comparable special order, the salesperson looked at me with no discernable facial expression and said "not possible." I pressed her and asked to contact the artist, to which she replied "not possible." So I left the store determined to find another Buddha as glorious as that one and scoured all the shops in the neighborhood. Fate was not my friend on that day -- no comparable Buddha revealed itself. Since my desire could only be satisfied by the one Buddha I was unable to acquire, that trip to Thailand had a Buddha-less ending. In hindsight (especially when considering certain events occurring in my lovelife at that time), I suspect the Buddha was trying to teach me a lesson about desire, attachment and suffering.

Since several years have passed since that frustrating search, I decide to revisit this district to see whether the Buddha of my dreams is now waiting for me. Is the time right to finally bring this Buddha into my life? My sense of direction leads me astray and I walk in circles for an hour before locating the store which originally hosted the glorious statue. Entering past rows of ornaments, life-sized figures, and shelves packed with Buddha accessories, I pray for the object of my desire to be waiting in the same spot. But it is not there. I scour the entire shop to try and discover a fascimile of that Buddha but only see low quality distant cousins. I describe my vision of Buddha perfection to the salesperson but there is no glint of recognition in her eye and she merely points to a section of the store with cheap and uninteresting imitations. It dawns on me that I may not be ready to have the Buddha object. Higher powers are repeating an important lesson about the fruitlessness of passionately pursuing something which drives me wild with desire. I accept my fate without bitterness and move onto other tasks.

Abandoning the pursuit of physical objects, I go to nearby Wat Mahatat seeking an introduction to the practice of meditation. After identifying myself at the front desk, a radiant older Thai woman sits with me and discusses the basics of Vipassana meditation. I demonstrate a genuine interest in learning more and she soon hands me off to Phra Suphe, an older Buddhist monk dressed in orange robes who speaks excellent English. Although his initial gaze hints at a certain wariness about my intentions, we talk for over an hour. He tells me that the only truth about life is impermanence -- all things are changing and nothing lasts for more than an instant. I am jolted by the realization that, in the months leading up to my departure, I often justified the radical life shift by reminding myself that change is the only constant. This notion provided comfort by helping me to understand the futility of trying to hold onto any situation whether it be an apartment, a job, a lifestyle, or a community of friends.

The monk practically mocks the fact that people clean their bodies on a daily basis but never take the time to clean their minds, an objective which can only be accomplished through regular focused meditation. Learning to meditate requires practice, devotion, and commitment. Since nothing persists in the universe, meditation must become an ongoing practice (even 15 minutes per day) in order to attain any benefits. These benefits include developing a more focused mind and ending personal suffering through freedom from grief, sorrow and greed. He reassures me that the introduction to insight meditation will not be accompanied by an attempt to convert me to Buddhism. This promise is strangely disappointing since my weak attachment to Judaism leaves me feeling quite open to conversion under the right circumstances. He laments that the world is in trouble because leaders have forgotten about cleaning their minds and cultivating merit and routinely abandon the key moral precepts of not killing, not stealing, not sleeping around, not drinking alcohol, and practicing meditation. Listening to his recitation of this list, I definitely agree with three of the five admonitions but don't have the heart to share my disagreement over the costs and benefits of sexual promiscuity or intoxication. So I nod and do not take issue with his list of societal ills.

While absorbing his speech, I realize that this type of meditation may be the exact practice needed to help me steady myself on the road and achieve my personal transformation goals. Travelling alone triggers sharp emotional ebbs and flows. Within the course of a single day, I can cycle through a range of moods -- elation, contentment, frustration, and alienation. In the midst of emotional volatility, I am seduced to judge others, engage in self-criticism, and obsess about the future. This protective mechanism disconnects my heart, mind and senses from the here and now, taking me away from appreciating the simple beauty of each moment. Can meditation offer a path to break free from these patterns, to generate inner peace and contentment, to remain confident about my ultimate destiny, and to learn to love myself regardless of external circumstances? Can judgement, fear and anxiety be replaced with compassion, love and connection? While restraining my enthusiasm for meditation being a silver bullet, I decide that it would be foolish for me not to see what this ancient discipline can offer.

I follow the monk into the basement where we stand in a long narrow room with tile floors and ceilings just an inch higher than the top of my head. He first takes me through the steps of a walking meditation -- gazing at the ground, propelling myself forward slowly with deliberate intention, and focusing on each movement of the foot (lifting, moving, dropping) by silently pronouncing the words inside of my mind. He demonstrates the proper sitting position (legs crossed, hands connected with palms facing up, thumbs touching) and instructs me to concentrate on the rising and falling of the abdomen with the intake and exhalation of each breath. Every time a thought enters my consciousness, I should note its presence, give it a label ("worrying", "thinking", "future", "past") and silently repeat the word several times before returning to my breath. We do these exercises together for 20 minutes then the monk leaves while my body is firmly locked in a sitting pose.

I attempt to focus only on the movement of my chest tied to the intake of air and cycle through 2 rounds of sitting and walking postures over the course of 45 minutes. Each time that my mind empties for a few moments, thoughts of the past and future flood into consciousness. Every quiet void is invaded by voices, visions and powerful emotions. I feel intense pain in my legs and across my back. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip. Consistent with the monk's instructions, I allow these sensations to persist without taking any physical action to alleviate the suffering. To my surprise, I occasionally tap into a peaceful clarity and am highly present to sounds, smells and sensations. But I cannot inhabit this space for more than a few breaths before an array of unwelcome intellectual voices arrive to analyze the situation and offer real-time commentary on the experience. I worry that my mind is weak, perhaps past the point of repair, and become dejected by my failure to demonstrate even a sliver of mastery at this mind cleaning exercise. After mulling my failure to instantly succeed, I conclude that achieving any level of success will require dedicated practice and swear to take the plunge in order to explore what pot of gold lies at the end of the meditation rainbow. I return the next day for another hour of meditation practice, but it will be another seven weeks before I can honor my commitment and truly explore the potential of Vipassana.

The following day I rendezvous with another friend of uber-connector goddess Lisa Ruth. Kob is an early 30s Thai woman who has traveled extensively, works at a major design center in Bangkok, is plugged into many fascinating local communities, and spends much of her free time checking out cultural events, taking yoga and dance classes, and hanging out with her tight-knit female posse. Her friendliness and enthusiasm are contagious. Within minutes of meeting, she begins suggesting places to visit, people to meet, and a slew of activities which may be of interest. She is one of the most genuinely likeable people I have met in a long time, and I feel lucky to make her acquaintance. Over the next week I join her girl-crew on various occasions to attend a dance class, munch on papaya salad and curry, and lead a teach-in on the basics of poi spinning. We pledge to organize a bona fide party with full-on fire spinning when I return to Bangkok the following month.

I also visit with my former landlord and her boyfriend. When she lived next door on Sacramento Street in North Berkeley, Natalie was a lovely presence and would often come over to share an extra bowl of Thai curry and rice. Now back in Bangkok working for a major company, she exhibits a strong entrepreneurial spirit and we talk about various business opportunities such as opening an English language school or a Bangkok branch of the Cheeseboard. I remind her that the Cheeseboard is a worker-owned collective, so this model may not fit with her profit-making objectives, but she claims that it may be possible to copy the recipes without adopting the ownership structure. Natalie and Gon collect me early one morning and we drive almost an hour to the city of Nakhon Pathom to cruise the famous floating market and visit Wat Phra Pathom Chedi, the tallest Buddhist monument in the world. I consume so much food at the market that it becomes exceedingly difficult to stay awake during the ride back to Bangkok. The next night Natalie and Gon take me to Chinatown and treat me to a large steaming bowl of shark fin soup. Thinking about the ecological implications of this culinary choice, I wince for just a moment before slurping the meat and savoring the flavor. This marks the second politically incorrect dish in my diet over the past two weeks (the other being whale sushi in Tokyo).

Back in my neighborhood, I check email while recovering from my fourth massage of the week. While waiting for a website to materialize on an interminably slow computer, a dazzling and poised Canadian woman sitting next to me strikes up a conversation. Her name is Annie Lalla. She and her American boyfriend (Anton) have just arrived and both of them start quizzing me about places to visit in Thailand. At one point she mentions possibly attending one of the infamous "full moon" parties on the island of Ko Pha Ngan. I tell her not to expect too much, especially in comparison to Burning Man. At the mention of my favorite desert extravaganza, her face lights up and fire practically shoots from her eyes. She reveals that the two of them met at a previous incarnation of Black Rock City (Burning Man's location) and are still buzzing from their experience this summer. An instant and powerful bond forms as we start swapping stories, realize that our respective camps were only blocks apart, and marvel at our participation in the collective consciousness of this crazy community.

Later the three of us share lunch and find other connecting threads. After hearing them both recite certain unique phrases, I mention Landmark Education and wait for a reaction. My hunch pays off as they practically explode with enthusiasm about these human potential and development courses and start testifying to the benefits for themselves, their family, and friends. My introduction to Landmark in 1987 caused me to enroll in a series of their programs over a number of years, so I share tales from the old days (back when Werner Erhard was running the organization). We revel in the power of open communication, of making highly ambitious and unconventional commitments, and of pursuing outrageous life experiences. I am completely energized by our interaction. We agree to meet again in the city of Chiang Mai a few days later.

Anton and Annie represent the kind of travelers who make me feel proud to come from a Western country. But they are the exception. Observing the actions of other tourists, I often feel shame by association. One day while touring the Vimanmek mansion and royal throne palace , I observe two German women standing at the ticket counter. As these two fairly overweight women hand over their money to the Thai woman sitting behind the counter, one barks in English "where can we find food here?". The ticket seller, not fluent in English, clearly fails to comprehend the question and shrugs. The German woman seems infuriated by the non-response, raises her voice, and practically screams the word "food" while closing her hand and pressing the tips of her fingers against her lips. Her disrespect and self-centered arrogance is sickening. I cannot bear to watch any longer and walk away in disgust. Another day I am checking my email in a shop located in a part of the city where many package and business tourists tend to stay. A middle-aged American businessman sits next to me and calls his office using Skype. During the course of the conversation, he repeatedly exclaims that he can't believe all the crazy things he has observed here in "Bangkok, Taiwan." I barely restrain myself from leaning over and correcting his major geographical faux pas. Listening to his conversation, I am saddened by his almost complete astonishment at the fact that other countries have different cultural customs. It only reinforces my belief that Americans lack a basic familiarity with what occurs outside of their own tiny universe. One evening I am eating dinner near a middle-aged American man sitting with an attractive younger Thai woman who is clearly serving as his rented girlfriend for the week. She looks incredibly bored and her eyes scan the perimeter of the room as they struggle to find something to discuss. When the waiter arrives with a plate of fried spring rolls, the American immediately sees that something is missing and demands "plum sauce". On the mistaken assumption that all Thai restaurants automatically serve "plum sauce" with this dish, he practically starts lecturing the waiter and says the word "plum" over and over again, as if the act of repetition will cause the waiter to recognize that he has forgotten to bring a standard Thai condiment. Despite his protestations, neither his Thai companion nor the waiter have any idea what the man is requesting. I squirm uncomfortably upon realizing that this American cannot distinguish between the Chinese restaurant serving Egg Rolls with plum sauce at his local mall back in the USA and the standard dips accompanying spring rolls in a Thai restaurant. His smugness and incredulity cause me to be extra polite to the waiter and I leave a large tip as if to compensate for the ignorance and insensitivity of my compatriot.

One of my final days before departing, I visit the Golden Mount and climb hundreds of steps to a viewing platform at the base of a shiny golden Chedi and survey the Bangkok skyline. Inside the shrine, I seek my fortune by shaking a can containing a series of small sticks tagged with numbers. When my shaking becomes sufficiently violent (aided by intense mental focus on the question at hand), one of the sticks pops out and lands on the floor. The number directs me to a printed fortune which reads as follows (typos preserved from the original):

Enjoyable life. Despite any illness, no need worry.
All in the family will be happy and have good lucks.
Long journeys will be undertaken safe and sound.
Desires will be fulfilled. Patient recovering.
Legal case in your favor. All is good for you.

Buoyed by these predictions, I prepare for the next phase of the journey. Upon reaching Chiang Mai I intend to settle down, slow my pace, and become a student of Thai massage. With all the omens seeming to be positive, events are unfolding according to some divine master plan. I let go of expectations and trust that destiny will provide. For now, my heart and mind are unburdened.

Chapter 3 -- Nagoya, Kyoto and my Tokyo return

2007-11-18T19:26:00.000-08:00

While en route to the city of Nagoya on a relatively slow train, I contemplate how it feels to be alone on the road. Since leaving Tokyo, I have been deprived of much meaningful human contact apart from a series of weird, surreal and brief interactions with other humans. As this extended period of solitude begins to take its toll, I remember my loving community at home and begin to wonder whether my decision to take this sabbatical is a mistake. Why pursue this self-imposed exile when the consequence is social isolation and a creeping sense of alienation? I task myself for not being sufficiently aggressive in reaching out to strangers and fear that I may have lost my nerve. Am I really up for the challenges presented by this journey? Is it simply my destiny to walk alone down a road to nowhere?

Doubts continue to wash over my mind as the train arrives in Japan's fourth largest city but I manage to let them dissipate and turn my focus to logistics and orientation. After shuffling down the train platform to the information desk, I figure out the location of the local youth hostel and decide to walk there lugging two backpacks -- the main pack stuck on my back and the smaller one hanging loosely over my chest. Upon leaving the station, I notice a group of young men sitting on the sidewalk waving English signs proclaiming "Free Hugs" (apparently related to a similar crew in Tokyo). They seem so out of place that I suspect these men are part of a doomsday cult, a multi-level marketing scheme, or a reality television show. Determined to take advantage of any opportunity for a quality social connection, I walk up to the group and signal my willingness to be hugged. Three of the men come forth and offer enthusiastic but limp-armed embraces. One literally jumps and throws himself at me, landing on top of my front pack and wrapping his arms around my body for no more than a second. Although the quality of these hugs does not compare favorably to those I've experienced from random strangers at places like Burning Man, the experience is strangely uplifting and injects me a renewed sense of optimism about the coming days.

Unfortunately, my decision to stay at the Nagoya youth hostel turns out to be a mistake. I am placed into a room with 5 other men and expected to sleep on top of fold-out mattresses spread across the floor. Upon entering the room, I am keenly aware of a rank odor in the air that reminds me of decay and death. I cannot tell if this is linked to the cleaning supplies used by the staff or a natural scent emitted by my fellow roommates. It doesn't really matter.

Rather than checking out and finding alternative lodging, I decide to spend as much time as possible doing activities outside the hostel. The first night, I set out to explore the downtown vibe in the hopes of provoking random social encounters. After cruising through shopping malls and wandering along streets packed with shops and restaurants, I successfully find a dinner spot, eat a delicious meal alone at the counter, and then slowly start walking back towards the hostel. At the edge of the dense commercial zone, I stroll past a cluster of younger Japanese sitting on the sidewalk beside a folding table drinking beer and singing songs along with an out-of-tune guitar. As I approach, one of them calls out in English and offers me a beer. I quickly survey the situation and decide to accept his offer to join the group. After a few minutes of smalltalk, I take out my Oggz glow poi and demonstrate some spinning techniques. This display catches their attention and they all applaud after I complete a sequence of moves. Sitting down to rest afterwards, one of the Japanese men approaches clutching a guitar.

He introduces himself as Tatsuya and, in quite impressive English, engages me in an extended conversation. Strumming basic chords and wailing lyrical fragments, he plays a series of very unusual Beatles songs such as "Across the Universe", "Lady Madonna", and "Within Without You". I immediately appreciate his musical sensibilities. In an effort to reciprocate, I borrow the guitar and perform Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb". He seems surprised and elated by our musical exchange. We spend awhile conversing, singing, and drinking before it dawns on me that I am at risk of returning to the hostel after the official 11pm curfew (another strike against this place). So I say goodnight to Tatsuya, who invites me to meet the following evening, and jog back towards my hostel. Soon it becomes clear that instead of getting closer to the hostel, I am completely lost and disoriented (a rarity for me). It is 5 minutes before 11, so I hail a taxi with the expectation that this option is my only hope for getting back before the gates are locked. The taxi driver, who speaks no English, appears totally flummoxed by the language barrier and shows no glint of recognition when I point at the hostel's location on a map. He takes the map, turns it over, and spends what seems like an eternity trying to determine where I want to go. As the minutes tick away, I consider what might happen if I violate the 11pm curfew. Finally, the taxi driver is confident enough to start our journey. As we proceed, I repeatedly reach over the passenger divider and point to my destination on the GPS display mounted on his front dashboard.

Arriving outside the hostel, I quickly pay, dash out of the cab, and burst through the front door at 11:07. A few minutes later, I hear the front desk clerk locking the door and closing a set of internal shades. Struggling to regain my breath and suppressing my anger at the draconian curfew, I realize that my moleskin notebook is missing from my shoulder bag. While there is nothing of critical importance written in its pages, I feel daft at having left it in the cab while overcome by the panic of trying to return before the curfew.

I slip back into my room and am welcomed by the persistent noxious smell which forces me to wonder if someone has actually died in my absence. There are four other bodies strewn across the floor on mattresses but they all appear to be breathing. Quietly sliding onto my bed, I attempt to avoid the olefactory discomfort by drifting quickly into slumber. When at the precipice of unconsciousness, I am jolted by a bout of thunderous snoring coming from the man situated just below my feet. The intermittent snores resemble the sound of machine gun fire. I am shocked by the volume and intensity, unable to believe that one man can unknowingly be the source of such a brutal auditory assault. In an act of desperation, I try to dampen the sound by sticking my index fingers into my ears and curling the rest of my hands around my head. This trick appears to work, at least until my body has fully relaxed and the fingers slip out of my ears. During a break in the snoring, I manage to make the leap into sleep. At one point in the middle of the night, I am again awakened by a round of gunfire and dream of being caught in a rainstorm on an unfamiliar battlefield with no place to hide.

The next morning I flee the hostel early to catch a train and bus towards the ancient town of Magome. Based on the advice of a family friend, I intend to hike between Magome and Tsumago on a forested trail which winds over the hills through through other small villages in the area. It is Sunday and Magome is packed with Japanese tourists roaming the main drag, admiring the traditional houses, and desperately searching for things to purchase. Not enamored of the scene, I quickly escape the throngs and find the trail towards Tsumago and begin the 8 km (4.8 mile) hike. Within minutes I am practically alone on the trail and starts climbing towards a nearby peak. Unfortunately, I feel physically weak and a bit feverish (perhaps a touch of the old malaria from a past Africa journey). Each step forward becomes increasingly taxing. So I slow down my pace, press onward, and fire up my new iPod. I set the iPod to play random songs from my massive collection and wait for musical inspiration to strike. As I trudge along a trail which shifts from asphalt to cobblestone to dirt, a familiar haggard voice emerges. Dylan tells the story of a man who had everything and then lost it, urging me to ponder the parallels with my current state of existence:

How does it feel, How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

As the chorus unfolds, my grimace turns to a smile and I start laughing at the absurdity of my situation. I am an anonymous solo traveler who abandoned a full life only to head nowhere in particular in an attempt to understand how it feels to be me. As Dylan's words continue to sink in, the Red Hot Chili Peppers suddenly arrive to remind me about the dark beauty of being alienated from society. Taken together, I feel strangely comforted by the realization that my struggle is common and others have been far more confounded in grappling with the meaning of their lives. This comfort gives me strength and the hiking becomes much easier. I pass golden rice fields, stop to admire a pair of "male" and "female" waterfalls, wander through a sacred bamboo grove, and stroll through clusters of well-preserved traditional dwellings. Each sight helps me to cultivate a growing sense of inner peace.

Only a few others are hiking this path, and I do my best to nod at each one and utter an enthusiastic "Konnichiwa" as we pass each other. Most return the greeting, albeit with less excitement. As Tsumago approaches, I catch up with a Japanese man who (to my great surprise) initiates conversation. Although his English is basic, we establish that he is acting as a courier bringing an important document to a foreigner living in Tsumago. Without prompting, he pulls his precious cargo out of a backpack and shows it to me -- a printout of the Wikipedia page describing the life of Shimazaki Toson, a famous turn of the century writer who spent his childhood in Magome and, later in life, created a major scandal by publishing a book detailing incestuous relations with his niece. I find it humorous that this item merits transportation by courier since there are presumably computers in Tsumago. Instead of asking such an obvious question, I read the entry and feel lucky to have this real-time information about an important historical figure from this area. The Man then asks where I am from, and when I utter the words "San Francisco" his face lights up and he asks if I know Metallica, a band he believes to be from the Bay Area (although I later discover they are from LA). In limited English, he shares his love of hard rock and we recount the many great bands of that era. Then the sky rumbles and rain begins to fall lightly on both of us. He shakes my hand and runs off ahead to deliver the Wikipedia printout before his backpack gets soaked. I arrive in Tsumago just as clouds begin to make their own deliveries and hole up with a chestnut ice cream to wait out the deluge.

Returning to Nagoya, I experience the extremes of Japanese social dynamics. On the first train, some older folks sitting nearby insist on sharing a never-ending supply of snacks and drinks with me. I open one bag to find tiny (and crunchy) whole fish along with some wheat crisps. It is unexpectedly tasty and I quickly finish the entire bag. We end up talking about Iraq after I notice an anti-war pin being worn by one of the gentleman. After 45 minutes, I switch trains and end up in a car filled with younger Japanese who do not take any notice of me (or even each other). Most allow their gaze to be fixed on their mobile phones as they tap the keys and stare at images and text scrolling across the oversized screens. They are sending email, checking web sites, and reading "manga" comics. No one looks around and there is practically no noise apart from the sounds of the train itself. I marvel at how everyone exists within their own private bubbles without any obvious type of interaction. Even in a crowded train, I feel totally alone and practically invisible.

Back in Nagoya, I remember that Tatsuya invited me to come join him for drinks that night at a place called "The Hub". I locate this English-style pub, grab an outdoor table near the front door, order some fried food, and hope that I won't be wasting my time in this spot. Within 20 minutes, Tatsuya walks up and seems both surprised and happy to see me. He sits down and immediately hands me a vintage copy of a book by Bruce Lee explaining and illustrating his key fighting methods and techniques. Tatsuya then disappears for a few minutes to attend to other business, leaving me alone with this self-defense bible. For a moment, I worry that he expects me to use this manual to prepare for an imminent fight. Regardless, I find myself absorbed by the text and vow to renew my study of martial arts which lapsed after I stopped attending karate class at the age of 14. When he returns, we discuss the life of Bruce Lee. He tells me that it is one of his life's ambitions to remake Lee's last film "Enter the Dragon". When I ask if he is a filmmaker, he laughs and explains that he is a medical student and intends to become a psychiatrist. As if to prove the point, he pulls another book from his bag and starts showing me photographs of cancerous human tissue. We scan through several pages and, as he points out various types of malignancy, I secretly pray for my own organs to be free of such mutations. After the photos are exhausted, he reveals that his ancestors were low-level Samurai and launches into an overview of several hundred years of Japanese history. He scribbles notes and diagrams on napkins to illustrate each point. I am fascinated by both the content and his energetic intensity. He desperately wants to transmit this knowledge and believes fervently in its importance. I can only absorb fraction of what he says but make sure to keep the napkins for future reference.

At that point, other friends of Tatsuya come over to join us. One of them, an American guy, asks about my journey and, upon hearing the itinerary, insists that I should not carry more than $50 anywhere in Thailand because I'm likely to get robbed. He tells of being on a cut-rate tourist bus to a popular destination that got pulled over and held up by armed criminals. This story doesn't surprise me -- I've heard plenty of horrific tales associated with travelers who take these cheap charter buses used to ferry inexperienced tourists from one major hub to another. His story reminds me to always take the public transportation used by locals and allergically avoid special tourist vehicles.

After more rounds of discussion covering a wide range of topics, I realize that my 11pm hostel curfew is rapidly approaching and say goodbye to Tatsuya. Earlier that night, I had asked the staff about whether it would be possible to return later than 11pm. Despite my repeated pleadings, the Japanese woman working at the front desk pointed to a printed set of rules stating that only guests occupying a private room may get keys to the front door and refuses to yield. As I bid farewell to Tatsuya, I feel particularly incensed by a policy which seeks to prevent roommates from disturbing each other via a late night reentry into the sleeping sanctuary. This notion is laughable when comparing the impact of slipping back into the room and sliding quietly into bed with my roommate's engine-like snoring.

I arrive back at the hostel only moments before 11pm and spend another night enduring what sounds like waves of ordinance exploding only a body-length away from my face. The next morning, one roommate (an American) shares that he came back at 1am and just banged on the door until someone let him in. As I listen, this story makes me feel foolish for having played by rules with which I do not agree. I pledge never to make the same mistake again.

On my final day in Nagoya, I take a whirlwind tour of the Electricity and Toyota museums. In a land of cute figurines, stuffed kittens sleeping in woven baskets, and fantasy characters striking poses evoking wonder and terror, is it any surprise that this culture would create the Electricity Chicken, a superhero of alternating current who has come to teach the masses to embrace the wonders of clean and efficient energy? I encounter this wonderous being at the Electricity Museum while learning about the safety of nuclear power (even during a really severe earthquake), the promise of solar energy, and the difference between two and three phase distribution cables. Perhaps because of my profession, I am actually quite thrilled by the idea that such a museum exists (even if the information is somewhat slanted). Hordes of schoolchildren crowd the floor and practically get into fights to play with exhibits involving buttons and levers. I am content to watch the display of real-time electric supply and demand balance, to closely examine the mock transmission cables, and to try and determine which corporation is funding the museum. Later at the Toyota museum, I learn about the history of automated weaving (with demonstrations on antique machine looms), watch metal being forged into parts using a pneumatic press, and observe robots performing simulated welds on an automobile. I am left impressed by the tenacity of Japanese industrial engineers.

Satisfied that my time in Nagoya was well spent, I board another Shinkansen bound for Kyoto and pray that my social karma will continue to improve. I am met at the train station by Sheila and Jenny who serve as my local hosts for the week. Sheila, a Scottish expat living in Japan for the better part of 18 years, has agreed to let me stay at her house near the city center. Jenny, a Canadian who considers herself at home in England, is another houseguest with whom I share a bedroom. Both of these women served as tsunami relief volunteers in Thailand where they met my friend Lisa Ruth. This marks the first of many excellent social connections facilitated by Lisa Ruth over the course of my trip.

Back at Sheila's place, the alcohol starts flowing as soon as my backpack hits the floor. Several drinks are quickly consumed before we go out for dinner and continue to imbibe with others from Sheila's local expat crew. This group consists of an older British man, a German woman and her Thai husband. The British man shares bits of a fascinating life story -- working on a farm in Rhodesia while fretting over vicious attacks by pro-independence rebels, moving to Iran to help with another farming venture in the days leading up to the Islamic revolution, and living in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco exploring gay life and alternative culture. I am enchanted by tales from these past eras and practically beg for more details. By the time we reach the after-dinner Irish pub, I hit the threshold of total alcohol saturation and am forced to actively refuse subsequent rounds of beer. The others pick up the slack and laugh at my relatively low tolerance. I quickly realize that long-term expats in Asia are highly skilled and professional drinkers.

I wake up with a foggy mind and heavy head the next morning but recover quickly from the state of physical depletion and begin my exploration of Kyoto. This beautiful city offers a virtually unlimited supply of temples, palaces and shrines ranging from the grandiose to the scenic to the pedestrian. I admire 1500-year old Buddha images, zen rock gardens, imposing gates, and ponds surrounded by precisely arranged greenery. Some shrines offer promises of good fortune in life and love if one performs rituals and donates money. Many of the sites have been ravaged by fires, rebuilt repeatedly over the past several hundred years, and have signs chronicling each time the structures were damaged by conflagration and naming those who led the restoration efforts. Practically every building has an admission fee and many collect additional charges to see all the attractions. It can cost almost $10 to see all the offerings in each complex (or more depending on whether various lucky amulets are purchased). I venture throughout the city on a borrowed bicycle committed to seeing all the highlights and, after an extended period of relishing so many beautiful ancient sights, ultimately succumb to an acute case of temple fatigue. I take a break from the temple orgy to explore shops in the ancient city and am surprised to pass two Geishas dressed in full regalia. Upon further examination, I realize that these are actually faux Geishas -- tourists who pay a shop up to $150 for the privilege of being made up and allowed to parade around the streets pretending to be Geisha apprentices. I wonder how the proprietors would react to my interest in undergoing the ritual and begin to laugh out loud envisioning such a scene. Then I realize that this could be an excellent business opportunity in certain San Francisco neighborhoods.

In the course of strolling throughout the city, I observe that jaywalking is relatively uncommon in Japan. Most people instinctively wait until the appropriate pedestrian signal turns green. As a native New Yorker, I find it very difficult to restrain myself from scampering through any obvious hole in oncoming traffic. Discussing this phenomena with expats, one person asserts that although Japanese people are reflexive rule followers in this respect, they can be tempted to cross against the light if someone else goes first. I decide to conduct a series of experiments and attempt to become the jaywalking equivalent of the pied piper. My results show that, in many instances, by violating the crossing rules I actually embolden others to follow suit. Was I shaking them out of their conditioned blind obedience to the law? Were they just open to emulating a Westerner? My experiment do not include follow-up interviews, so I am left to speculate on how to explain these results.

As part of my efforts to interact with locals, I practice spinning poi in a central spot on the banks of the river running through the middle of the city. Nearby a band of young Japanese men play Irish folk songs with extreme proficiency. I sync my poi to their beats, which proves to be an interesting combination. Despite the large numbers of young Japanese in the vicinity, no one approaches to ask about the poi although I do catch some furtive glances directed my way. I am stumped by the continuing social distance separating me from the Japanese people. After spinning, I walk over and successfully engage the band in a conversation. One man speaks fairly decent English and invites me to see them perform at a local pub later that evening. It feels like a small victory and that evening I watch them play a set in front of a crowd of expats in the old part of the city. After the show, I ride home by following the river and observe clusters of young lovers and small social groups trying to find some private space.

One day I meet another friend of a friend for lunch. Taking a break from his career as a massage therapist in the Bay Area, Spencer came to Japan to study Aikido but ended up becoming an overworked English teacher slaving away for a ruthless and abusive company. A few weeks after I leave Japan, the company collapses and thousands of foreign teachers (including Spencer) are unemployed. Although Spencer seems grim about his fate during our lunch, I feel confident that he will find a way to weather the storm and try to provide some perspective and encouragement. We talk about Japanese culture, the difficulty faced by foreigners seeking to make meaningful social connections, and the pros and cons of Reiki versus other types of energy work.

Over the remainder of my time in Japan, I explore the social difficulties faced by foreigners through conversations with a variety of expats. Some suggest that there is a generalized fear of the outside world which is a vestige of Japan's historical isolation and traditionally inward focus. Indeed, the Japanese do seem to be quite fearful of outsiders. One evening I am directed to a truly disturbing youtube video which teaches English by showing a dramatized robbery of a terrified Japanese woman by two foreigners and emphasizes important English phrases such as "please spare my life" and "take anything you want". I am saddened by this paranoid perspective on life outside Japan and wonder about the prevalence of this extreme fear that outsiders are dangerous.

Other expats suggest that the distance is the product of a culture predisposed to recognizing the hierarchy of social status, disfavoring spontaneous contact and placing a premium on presenting a completely dispassionate face to the world. This is compounded by the widespread lack of English language proficiency which creates huge barriers to interacting unless one speaks passable Japanese. I find myself continuously surprised by how few Japanese understand basic English despite receiving many years of language training at school and being continuously exposed to English through popular culture. Some expats remind me of the shame caused by the appearance of incompetence, so it can be preferable for a Japanese person to avoid trying to communicate when there is a prospect of failure. As a counterpoint to these negative views, one Japanese woman suggests that foreigners living in Japan may lack a genuine desire to make friends with the locals. In light of the fact that very few of the long-term expats are actually conversant in Japanese, and after listening to a steady stream of biting negative comments about Japanese culture, her theory strikes me as plausible. Upon deeper reflection I am confused by the whole issue and have a difficulty reaching any conclusions based on my short time in the country.

To gain further cultural insights, I watch some Japanese television and try to decode the meaning of the numerous game shows and reality programs. In particular, I am fascinated by eating contests and stay tuned as a woman consumes 184 pieces of sushi in one sitting and a man wins the ramen noodle soup tournament by downing 29 bowls. Later I discover that the sushi woman is a national celebrity based on her unnatural ability to pack unholy amounts of rice and fish into an almost elastic stomach.

My last night in Kyoto, I join a dinner celebration at a Turkish restaurant in honor of Sheila's birthday and invite Spencer to come and meet a large expat crew. The table ends up segregating by sexual orientation with the gay and lesbian folks at one end and the decidedly straight people at the other. I am positioned right along the dividing line between the two factions and regale a lesbian couple with stories about the wonders of Burning Man. Over dinner, one expat helps me to understand the Japanese bias towards establishing group identity over the Western preference for highlighting individual distinction. She confides that the Japanese approach is more compatible with her nature and expresses unease at the competitiveness of Western society where everyone tries to impress others with their achievements and judges those who do not measure up. In Japan, she feels accepted without having to prove herself or demonstrate that she is an accomplishment machine. As a product of the competitive society, I am almost blind to this dynamic and allow myself to consider how it may not work well for everyone. It is a good lesson to ponder.

After dinner, the group wanders through rainy and crowded streets towards a dance club. But Spencer and I become separated and soon find ourselves unable to locate the rest of the posse. Lacking both keys to Sheila's house and any knowledge of how to find the club, I ask Spencer for a place to crash and he generously obliges. We continue to discuss Japanese culture, stock up on sweets at a local market, ride a train filled with expressionless people, and then chill in his apartment where I am finally able to watch the Simpsons movie. The next morning I catch a bus back to Sheila's place and find both her and Jenny lying semi-conscious on couches with half-full liquor glasses and ashtrays piled with cigarette stubs sitting on the table. Within 30 minutes I pack, say my goodbyes, and am off to catch my final Shinkansen back to Tokyo.

Back in the capital city, I reunite with Amy who insists that I spend the night at the apartment she shares with her boyfriend (Masa) and their pet rabbit. As a token of my appreciation, I offer them the gift of a half-bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne (bought only after unsuccessful attempts to find any quality California wine for sale). Masa does not speak any English but does his best to welcome me into his home. They take me out for dinner at their favorite conveyor belt sushi restaurant where I am the only foreigner present. The sushi chefs parade around the crowd holding live fish and urging people to place their orders just before the creature is cut into pieces. Amy insists on ordering directly from the chef rather than grabbing plates off the belt, claiming that this approach will yield the best quality cuts of fish. I take a pass on the sea urchin (uni), stuff myself with various types of tuna (including the fatty "toro" cut), and gorge on the tasty eel (unagi). When cuts of whale meat are offered, I express disgust and explain my objections to the continued practice of whaling. Amy explains that the whales are only killed for research purposes but I counter that this rationale is a bogus smokescreen used to justify Japan's desire to provide an uninterrupted supply of whale meat for its domestic market. After a few minutes of this back-and-forth over the politics of whaling, I succumb to the urge to try new things and order a plate of whale sushi. The dark purple meat is fatty and tastes pretty damn good. I feel only mild shame while shoveling the flesh into my mouth and manage to justify the experience as an opportunity to conduct important research.

After dinner, Amy and Masa take me to the public bath a few blocks from their apartment. The establishment offers a series of hot and warm pools in sex-segregated chambers. It is a wonderful Japanese tradition. Although I walk around naked without any embarrassment, many of the Japanese men press small towels over their groins in a bizarre exercise of modesty. After taking a shower sitting on small plastic stool, I test the different tubs and am particularly keen to try the milky bath (filled some type of opaque white liquid) before stumbling upon the electric current corner. In one pool, two walls placed close together shoot electricity into the water. I sink into the middle of the field and start having difficulty breathing as invisible cables wrap around my chest and squeeze my entire rib cage. By adjusting my body position I manage to move the current to different spots and feel strange tingling and involuntary muscle contractions. I am totally fascinated by the discomforting sensations and puzzle over whether the current is physically helpful or harmful.

The next morning I board another plane and am soon en route to Thailand. During the flight, I decide that my trip to Japan was a success. Despite my frustrations and a sense of unfulfilled desires, I allow the experience to be complete and perfect. Moreover, I feel ready for the next phase of this epic journey and prepare for my return to a favorite travel destination armed with an ambitious agenda. My trip has only just begun.

Chapter 2 -- Exploring greener pastures

2007-10-08T19:29:00.000-07:00

The next chapter of my Japan saga moves from the bright lights, nonstop action and social activity of Tokyo to a frenetic solo exploration of more remote destinations. Although I feel physically spent from the combination of Burning Man, moving, saying goodbye to my friends, and the first few days in Japan, my gut tells me to make efficient use of my limited stay in this country and move quickly through a series of destinations at breakneck pace.

Armed with a 14-day unlimited usage pass for the Japan rail system (purchased for $390), I decide to squeeze good value from this investment by engaging making a sweep through a series of small cities and rural destinations in the mountains to the north and west of Tokyo. So I flee the bright lights of the big city on the "Shinkansen" bullet train. Simply put, the Shinkansen puts American rail transport to shame. Although I have enjoyed rail travel in many countries, Japan takes the experience to an entirely new level. These sleek trains cruise at speeds of up to 150 mph, are precisely on-time (to the minute), run frequently (typically every half hour), and offer an incredibly comfortable and smooth ride (no drinks will spill). Onboard electronic displays announce (in Japanese and English) upcoming stops while conductors are polite and barely noticeable. Upon arrival at each platform, employees at the station perform a deep bow until the cars come to a complete stop. I am in love with these trains at first sight.

My first stop is the small city of Nikko. Upon arrival, I trudge up a long hill lugging my two backpacks (one large on my back, a smaller one carried on the front) in some fairly fierce heat and humidity. By the time I arrive at my hotel, I am drenched in sweat. Nevertheless, the proprietors of this very sweet guest house offer me an unoccupied shared room at a reasonable price ($25). To my surprise, I am greeted by a trio of Americans (from Seattle) working for the hotel. This is very unusual, so I inquire about their story. They tell me about traveling across the country by bicycle and using an international volunteer network to find short-term employment opportunities throughout Japan. Later that day, the American woman serves me a zen vegetarian feast prepared by the guesthouse chef -- udon noodles, tofu smothered in peanut sauce, salad, mushroom hotpot, wild rice, and fresh fruit. It is the best meal I will savor in Japan.

On my first day in Nikko, I march through the heart of the town and peruse small tourist shops before heading to the Tosho-gu shrine. Located within a forest, the complex includes various temples, bridges, gates, and other clearly marked focal points. It is worth the visit but still leaves me somewhat underwhelmed in part because many of the core areas of the old buildings are inaccessible. I also have a negative reaction to the neverending fees (on top of the $10 admission ticket) charged to enter various premium areas of the complex, such as a $3 charge just to walk across a famous bridge, a $5 fee to see a sleeping cat statute, another $6 fee to see a shrine with beautifully carved doors, and the everpresent stalls selling incense, candles, and amulets to ward off bad fortune. Although I recognize the need to finance upkeep of such a place, the nonstop charges feel greedy and makes the complex feel more like an amusement park than a religious shrine.

I am struck by the presence of numerous tour groups, both Japanese and Western, all of which involve color-coded accessories (hats and pins) for the participants. These participants follow leaders carrying distinctively numbered flags. As one English speaking group passes, I listen to the tour guide provide extremely cursory explanations of key statutes and architectural features (such as, "this is Buddha"). At one particularly striking array of Buddha statutes, an Indian woman is so frustrated by the lack of context that she turns around and ends up explaning basic tentets of Buddhism to several middle-aged tourists from the US. "You see, Buddhists believe that we are reborn many, many times" she says. An American woman listens with a puzzled look on her face, as if she has never heard of anything so ridiculous yet wants to remain polite in the face of this crazy talk. I manage to barely restrain my laughter at her reaction.

After touring the various buildings and walking the forested paths, I return to the town of Nikko and promptly find several bakeries selling a wide array of traditional sweets. Not wanting to skip an important cultural experience, I seek out single servings of many appealing varieties. This turns out to be more challenging than one might expect because most sweets are sold in bulk gift packs. Committed to sampling and not gorging, I finally locate a few individual goodies. One sweet cake wins me over with the following English description printed on its package -- "it is such a heart warming cake that everytime you eat, you hear a cheerful sound." When munching on this particular item five minutes later, I strain to hear the promised cheerful notes but am only able to discern a quiet grinding noise. Nonetheless, the process of consuming this cake does provide a few fleeting moments of pleasure.

That night, I explore an "onsen" (public bath) near my hotel. The onsen includes an area where men shower while sitting on plastic stools adjacent to a set of natural hot pools for post-shower soaking. This facility also has an outdoor pool surrounded by perfectly manicured plants and trees. I slip into the outdoor pool, submerge in the soothing hot water, gaze up at the stars, and feel perfectly relaxed.

The next day, I abruptly change my plans and forgo more local sightseeing (due to rain) and decide to speed towards the next destination -- Nagano. This spontaneous choice fills me with joy as I begin to taste a morsel of the unadulterated freedom available on the journey. As much as I am an insatiable planner, I am in love with the idea that the plan can change on a moment's notice. In light of this chance to embrace liberation, forgoing a rainy visit to a local waterfall seems like a relatively small price to pay.

After another three train rides, two of which involve the Shinkansen, I arrive in the lovely city of Nagano. Some may remember that Nagano hosted the 1998 winter olympics. But most may have forgotten since the Nagano games attracted the lowest American Olympics viewership in the past 30 years. Those who do recall the actual games may cringe at the memory of US hockey players trashing their hotel rooms after a poor showing and thereby bringing further dishonor to our international sports reputation. Rather than dwelling on any of this sordid history, I simply walk the streets with my eyes wide open, seek out temples, and embark on a daytrip to a nearby scenic mountain retreat.

I manage to find a shockingly inexpensive ryokan (traditional hotel) in the city center. My room is perfect -- tatami mats on the floors, a roll-up futon for sleeping, a small table set with a teapot and biscuit, a crisply-folded robe, slippers half the size of my actual feet, a shared bathroom right next door, and a common bathing area with showers and a hot soaking pool. After settling into my first private accommodation (the others having been shared) since moving out of my apartment in San Francisco, I find myself deeply in love with this room, this hotel, and my entire trip. For only 4500 Yen/night ($40), it feels like a Japanese bargain.

The next day I walk to the primary religious shrine in Nagano, a complex known as Zenko-ji. It's an impressive collection of buildings (especially the main temple), made even more compelling by the fact that monks and lay followers are actively worshipping throughout the day. In the main temple, I pass the hordes of pilgrims and buy a special ticket to traverse a pitch black underground passageway hoping to find the "key to heaven" placed somewhere along the wall. With a little luck I manage to discover the key, grab onto it, and hope that this feat will help with my rebirth into the next life. At the nearby transmigration pagoda, I am too cheap to pay for the chance to rotate an octagonal sutra holder guaranteeing enlightenment but do try to turn a small stone wheel billed as capable of saving me from pain and suffering. My initial attempt meets with failure as the wheel refuses to budge. But I am determined to avoid a gnarly rebirth and finally use all my strength (physical and mental) to make the stone rotate. It is a relief.

Slipping inside another worship structure, I press my hands tightly together in the prayer position and ask for guidance. Pondering doubts about the wisdom of my self-imposed exile, I ask the universe to help me answer several key questions -- What am I supposed to be learning during this year? How can I best use this unique opportunity? When will I find direction for the future? Is enlightenment within my grasp? Within moments, a response quickly forms in my head -- "keep going". I take this to mean that my path is correct, that this time in Japan will help with the transition by clearing my head, and that the only course of action is to continue onward while waiting for meaningful growth opportunities to present themselves. Since this reply is comforting, I choose not to ask any more questions for the time being. At that moment, 2 monks enter the building and perform a ritual involving chanting, igniting a fire, burning lots of incense, and beating on a large drum. After the ritual is complete, a few practitioners are encouraged to come forth, circle the embers of the now extinguished fire, and inhale lingering incense fumes. Following their lead, I approach the altar in the hopes of doing the same but am warded off by the monks. I suspect that this is another divine sign pertinent to my trip but cannot figure out how to interpret its meaning. So I decide not to feel rejected and move along in search of other interesting temple sights.

That evening, I venture out on the town hoping to stumble upon an interesting restaurant. Assuming that this task will be relatively simple, I stroll through various downtown streets but repeatedly encounter small establishments with menus entirely in Japanese Kanji script. Unlike in Tokyo, none of these restaurants offer plastic representations or photos of their food selection. Looking at the exterior of many such places, I cannot determine what kind of food is served, am unable to read any portion of the menu, and can't peer through the closed opaque front doors to figure out if anyone is actually inside (or if the restaurant is open). Based on my experiences to date, it seems that my chances of finding an English speaking waiter are not great. After an extended period of searching, my frustration level rises and I contemplate whether the challenge of finding a decent meal in a major city is comic or tragic. Finally, I decide to try a place with some photos on its menu (even though there is no English) and throw myself at their mercy. Upon entering, I am greeted with a rousing cheer from the entire wait and cook staff (which I presume means "welcome to our restaurant" rather than "leave before we kill you"). They offer me a seat at the counter and, to my great surprise, pull out an English language menu. I order a fried dumpling concocted with layers of meat and eggplant, 2 pieces of raw tuna on sushi rice, and a pancake made of cabbage, egg, flour and dried bonito (a fish). The meal is delicious.

As I sit and savor the food, I observe the staff engaging in an ongoing call-and-response routine -- one yells out some phrase and the others (along with a number of customers) cheer in response. During one such exchange, I swear that the word "Kurasawa" is used and imagine that the cook is yelling "Who loves a good Kurasawa film" to which a smattering of the assembled patrons scream their assent. When I go to pay my bill at the register, the waiter asks me something in non-comprehensible English. I assume that he is curious about my nationality and respond "America" in my best Japanese accent. He then asks if I speak Japanese. "No" I tell him, "Japanese is very difficult." He smiles and says "English is very difficult." Touche, I say to myself, and perform a deep bow in his honor. He then bellows out a call to the other staff and they respond with a cheer (which I believe is probably "thanks for coming" rather than "Kurasawa films kick ass"). I walk back to my hotel with a smile on my face.

The next day I set out to purchase a headset to use for making phone calls over the internet with Skype (which allows calls to be made from anywhere in the world to regular phones in the US for about 2 cents/minute). Internet cafes are uncommon in Japan and do not outfit their computers with the microphones necessary to use this software, so I decide to take matters into my own hands and buy a small headset. After a decent amount of effort, I locate a huge computer store at the edge of the city and spend awhile perusing their impressive selection. Although there are relatively few customers, none of the sales people approach me to ask if they can offer assistance. Despite having pledged to limit purchases to those items necessary for traveling (to keep my pack weight manageable), I decide to spring for a headset, iPod remote control, and tiny iPod charger. At the checkout register, I hand my VISA card to the cashier and wait to see if I'm about to experience another international financial hiccup. The cashier runs my card, checks the display on her register, and then says something to me in Japanese. As far as I can determine, she is either telling me that the card has been declined or asking me a question of some sort. It's not at all clear to me which one is more likely. We both smile at each other and there is nothing but silence. She says something else, perhaps hoping that through repetition I will understand. It does not help. I remain confounded by the holdup but have a sense that the issue is not related to the validity of my credit card. After a few moments, she calls to her manager and they discuss the situation. He looks at me, smiles sheepishly, and it becomes clear that neither of them can offer any explanation in English. They both call over a third person who is also unable to help bridge the language gap. We are stuck at an impasse. The manager uses his in-store radio to call others.

After 5 minutes, a fourth staffer appears with a slip of paper in his hands. Apparently, they have run a Japanese phrase through an internet translator and can finally share their concern with me in written English. The paper displays a handwritten question -- would I like to have all three items charged to my credit card in one lump sum? This seems absurd since the whole bill is approximately $30 and I had simply handed over my card when presented with the total. Instead of expressing incredulity, I simply smile, nod and say "hai" (which means yes in Japanese). Within 15 seconds, the relieved cashier has completed the transaction and I am on my way.

After succeeding at my shopping adventure, I decide to visit the famous "snow monkeys" inhabiting the mountains one hour north of Nagano. This area is blessed with pervasive geothermal activity -- it is not uncommon to observe steaming water seeping from the ground and smell bursts of sulfur in the air. At Jigokudani park, an entire community of macaque monkeys live in and around a giant pool of hot water constructed for their exclusive use and are free to roam throughout the nearby rivers and forests. Although they are best known for their wintertime antics, my visit occurs on a day when temperatures approach 90 degrees (F). Despite the weather, a few monkeys appear to enjoy swimming in the large hot pool. More stay out, however, and choose to perform typical monkey tricks -- chasing each other, mutual grooming, and climbing on every possible surface. During my short visit, I observe over 100 monkeys and am amazed by how close they come to humans. While there is no direct touching, a few practically brush my legs in passing. I have to restrain myself from reaching out to pet some of the particularly adorable ones (specifically the babies).

After spending quality time with my fellow primates, I hike to a nearby "Onsen" to replicate their behavior by getting naked and sitting in pools of hot water reserved primarily for humans. My mood rises as I settle into a large outdoor pool located next to a raging river nestled amidst a series of mountain peaks. Two nearby middle-aged Japanese men hold hankerchief-sized towels in front of their groins. Although the "onsen" culture is heavy on nakedness, these two appear to be very uneasy about sitting outdoors in the buff and contort their bodies to avoid displaying any R-rated content. By contrast, I feel very alive and free to be soaking naked just like my monkey cousins. Afterwards, I walk through the next town filled with spas and a series of public baths. At one central location, I am amazed to find a public foot bath. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I pull off my boots and jump in only to realize that the water is absolutely scorching. After a few seconds, I let out a monkey-like yelp and leapt from the pool, hoping that none of the locals notice. Thankfully, there are no witnesses.

My last night in Nagano, I again walk the city in search of a suitable restaurant. In the course of my search, I am approached by two attractive Japanese women. The first stands right in front of me and asks a question in Japanese. I assume that my youthful good looks have left her helpless to resist my Gaijin charms. The only word I can decode is "massage", and I soon conclude that she is not offering this service due to a sense of overwhelming sexual attraction. I thank her for the offer and keep walking. A second woman soon starts pursuing and then says something to me with conviction (perhaps "you are my soulmate from a past life"). At this point, I turn to survey the businesses on either side of the street and realize that she is practically ordering me to come into a hostess bar. Given the laguage barrier, I ponder how she and I could have any sort of meaningful interaction apart from her pouring drinks into my glass and looking soulfully into my eyes. Though honored by the interest in my wallet, I decline and continue the search for an evening meal that ends in finding a restaurant using vending machines to sell tickets for bowls of ramen noodles.

I check out of my sweet Ryokan hotel the next morning and almost shed a tear saying goodbye to the older couple who run the place. We have not managed to communicate apart from a few hand gestures and bows, but I still feel a sense of emotional attachment. I lug my pack to the train station to find transport to the city of Nagoya with an afternoon pitstop in Matsumoto. I disembark in Matsumoto just to wak the streets and get a sense of the city famous for a 400-year old castle, delicious soba noodles, and being a center for performing arts and classical music. Sure enough, there is a large music festival in progress the very day I stroll through the central area. Turning down one road, I encounter four separate stages hosting bands, solo acts (a.k.a. guy with a guitar), choral groups, and a dance troupe. The only thing missing is a crowd of spectators. Performers are playing to audiences of a dozen or less. Because it is extremely hot (around 90 degrees) and humid, I surmise that the poor turnout is due to the unpleasant conditions (who wants to sit in direct sun during the middle of the day?). I look at the program and notice that none of the acts are scheduled to continue past 4pm. Just when the temperatures are set to cool down, the festival will be over. This seems like poor planning. But in the spirit of nonjudgemental traveling, I allow this critique to pass and just appreciate the fact that I am able to bear witness to the performances.

The highlight of the afternoon is watching a female choral group singing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" along with a prerecorded orchestral track with the imposing Matsumoto castle serving as a backdrop. In front of the stage is a solar array and a demonstration wind turbine (placed next to an electric fan which blows air to make the blades spin). None of the audience seats are occupied due to the heat but a few observers huddle underneath nearby shade tents constructed for vendors and information displays. The group is led by a Japanese man in his mid-30s sporting an extreme hairstyle and wearing a shirt covered in sequins. Though their soaring 6-part harmonies are slightly off-key, the women are beaming and seem to be filled with joy at the opportunity to sing this classic rock tune despite the oppressive temperatures and lack of spectators. Watching from underneath an patch of awning, I am overcome by an emotional wave and, to my surprise, end up being deeply moved by this truly shmaltzy display.

A few hours later, I finish my lightening strike into the heart of Matsumoto and board a train headed towards Japan's fourth largest city -- Nagoya. I feel energized by the nonstop exposure to new sights and sounds. I close my eyes, pray for interesting encounters in the days to come, and allow myself to dream about what the future will hold.

Chapter 1 -- Tokyo

2007-09-28T01:55:00.000-07:00

My last night in California involved a lavish dinner at the famed Chez Panisse with Jack and Dooz. We savored nettle pizza and baked goat cheese while quaffing Burgundy and marveling at the wonderful craziness of life. Since Dooz had first lured me to California, and Jack became one of my first Bay Area friends, it seemed fitting to share this last supper with both of them. Within a matter of hours after this decadent meal, I was being driven to the airport by the wonderful Alex Momtchiloff and soon found myself standing on line waiting to check in for my flight. In front of me was an older man who struck up a conversation. He was returning to his native land (the Philipines) for a vacation and quickly explained that had been a fighter pilot in the US Air Force for many years. After a bit of prompting about his wartime experiences, he shared the fact that he had been a fighter escort for the Enola Gay on its fateful mission to drop the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima. I asked what he saw, and he froze for a moment before saying that it was the biggest blast he had ever witnessed, that he turned his plane around and hightailed it out of the area, and that people were just vaporized with only shadows left on the ground to memorialize their existence. I didn't ask if he felt guilty or responsible (the $64,000 question), instead opting for more subtle probing questions. Except for a few haunting memories, he didn't seem particularly phased by having been a participant in this horrific historical event.

My arrival in Tokyo was fairly uneventful. After an 11 hour flight, I barely broke my stride passing through customs and was on a train into the city within 15 minutes of exiting the jetway. Two hours later I settled into my temporary Tokyo home -- a centrally-located hostel catering primarily to the community of 20-something backpackers passing through the city on a tight budget. The hostel was clean, air-conditioned, friendly, had shared rooms with bunks, offered internet access, and was outfitted with advanced Japanese-style toilets which (at the push of a button) provide a soothing water cleansing. All this for the low price (in Tokyo) of $25/night. I stayed here to avoid burning money too quickly at the outset given that Japan would certainly be the most expensive destination on my itinerary. I also wanted to come into contact with others making similar journeys.

I quickly met a crew of travelers and set out the following morning at 6am with a few hardy souls to explore the famous Tokyo fish market. The market was bustling with activity at this early hour as swarms of small cargo vehicles darted through impossibly small passageways. Buyers surveyed stacks of whole frozen tuna carcasses emitting a mist as they thawed. The rising condensation created a low-level fog over the entire area. Traversing through some of the aisles, I stumbled across my friend Kara Nelson from Berkeley (not so surprisingly, since she told me she would be at that market) whom I had not seen since our time together at Burning Man. Our reunion was cheerful and surreal, with the smell of fish hanging heavy in the air. After catching up on recent events, we strolled through the narrow aisles for awhile dodging traffic before she and her fellow engineers returned to their water quality conference and I continued to lead my crew towards other Tokyo neighborhoods for a day of sightseeing. The afternoon was filled with interesting destinations including the Imperial Palace (which is surprisingly inaccessible and affords distant views unless one has connections with the royal family), the Museum of Contemporary Art, and finally a trip to the fabled Roppongi district for an evening of drinking, eating, and Karaoke.

My group arrived in Roppongi by subway and attempted to meet up with some additional friends of friends. This attempt was foiled by our complete lack of orientation and the general absence of comprehensible street addresses in Tokyo. So we wandered through this giant shopping mall and, in an effort to find a public phone, headed to the piano bar at the Ritz Carlton hotel. This bar, located on the 45th floor, is straight out of "Lost in Translation" featuring sweeping views of the Tokyo skyline, clusters of small tables under very high ceilings, and a jazz singer performing in the corner. I was mesmerized by this scene, which seemed eerily familiar, when my gaze turned toward an approaching Japanese man surrounded by supplicants and bodyguards. After catching a better look, I realized that this man is former Japanese Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi, someone quite recognizable due to his very distinctive hairstyle. He strolled right past me and entered the elevator only a few meters away. This brush with political celebrity was quite startling, although the significance of the encounter appeared to be lost on the others in my group. They were still looking for a public phone, which we ultimately discovered in another part of this massive complex.

The friends of friends were eventually found and a combined collective of about 15 people headed out for drinks, dinner, and a long round of Karaoke in a private room with pitchers of beer. This motley group consisted of several Americans, one Japanese woman, a couple of Brits, and a few bicultural Japanese/British. Two of the new additions were US Naval Officers stationed in Japan. I sat next to one, who later harmonized with me on a rousing karaoke rendition of the Beatles tune "All My Loving", and he disclosed his complete opposition to the US involvement in Iraq. We discussed the futility of the situation and I crossed my fingers on his behalf, hoping that he will not be pulled from his current assignment to serve a futile and dangerous mission in the Persian Gulf. Once the karaoke session ended at 3am, we stumbled back onto the streets of Roppongi and were amazed to find the entire area hopping with activity. Surveying the main avenue, I noted that every single street-level business remained open at this hour including bookstores, cafes, and convenience stores. The streets were filled with taxis trolling for customers who might agree to pay their ridiculously exorbitant fares. Because the Tokyo subway shuts down at 12am, many people out partying simply continue until the stations reopen at 5am. At the locked station entrances, a number of men were asleep on the pavement, some leaning against the walls waiting until the trains recommenced. Some were wearing business suits and clutching mobile phones. My group browsed in a bookstore for the final hour. Just as we prepared to leave to catch the 5am train back to our hostel, speakers in the store announced that it would soon be closing. It appears that the reopening of the subway marked the official end of the night in this central party locale.

Over the next few days, I roam through many Tokyo neighborhoods to try and get an overall sense of the city. Saturday is spent with Kara in search of temples, a camera battery charger, an iPod case, and some quality noodles. It is quite hot and humid during the afternoons and I am amazed that locals are walking around in business suits while I sweat profusely wearing only sandals, shorts, and a t-shirt. Despite my depleted energy due to the sticky heat (and lingering fatigue), I am able to appreciate the overwhelming energy coursing through the city's central neighborhoods of Harajuku, Shibuya, Ginza, Akihabara, Asakusa and Shinjuku. I focus on absorbing the neon glow from the vertical signs scaling the side of practically every tall building, observing the well-dressed youths clad in extreme fashions, and trying to find shade and air conditioning at regular intervals. I snack on random foods whenever possible and focus on staying hydrated. I do not avail myself of the opportunity to shop at a mind-boggling array of luxury goods stores hawking every top shelf brand name of consequence.

Tokyo is a very walkable city. Each neighborhood is fairly compact and the subway system is both ubiquitous and phenomenally efficient, so one can hop on the train and disembark in a desired neighborhood ready to explore on foot. The only challenge is maintaining proper orientation due to the fact that very few streets are clearly marked, some do not appear to have names at all, and signs are only occasionally written in Roman script. This renders my local maps of marginal value, so I rely on a compass and my general sense of spatial location. These tools serve me well, for the most part, during my walks through various neighborhoods.

I experience a few significant frustrations during these early days. One involves repeated denials of my ATM card leading to a mild sense of panic. Not having access to cash in a foreign land can cause anyone to feel vulnerable. To make matters worse, it took two calls to my bank to sort out the situation. During the second call, I was forced to wait on hold for almost 2 hours before talking to the correct agent who told me that the card was suspended due to suspicious activity, namely attempts to withdraw money in Japan. This pattern was apparently suspicious even though I had previously called them (before departing) to request that I be authorized to use the card in Japan and Thailand. Left very angry by the incompetence of this bank (Washington Mutual) and the wasting of my time in Tokyo, I vowed to seek unspecified revenge against them in the future. I will not forget.

On Sunday, I visited Yoyogi park in search of jugglers and fire spinners. The park scene felt very familiar, similar to Golden Gate park on a weekend day. At the entrance, Elvis lookalikes all stood around, dressed in leather, and occasionally danced in formation while rockabilly music blared in the background. Moving along, I passed guys holding signs offering "free hugs", drummers, folk musicians, old ladies practicing tai chi, families picnicking, and finally a cluster of jugglers balancing clear acrylic balls at various points along their upper bodies. It was amongst this cluster that I found the world famous "Yuta" whose videos I know from You Tube. A mid-20s Japanese man, Yuta is an excellent spinner with perfect planes, very clean lines, and a nice repertoire of distinctive moves. We meet, talk shop for a few minutes, and the he shows me a 16-point stall sequence which I decide it is my life's mission to master. He also displays a move named the "infinite loop" which is a never ending hyperloop. I feel humbled by the experience and vow to step up my practice regimen.

After bonding with Yuta and a few of the other spinners who spoke English, I wander off to meet a friend of a friend who has agreed to show me around. Amy is a somewhat unconventional Japanese woman -- in her mid-30s, she runs a beauty spa, has never married, and lived in Los Angeles for a couple of years. We sit down for coffee and immediately begin discussing the meaning of life itself (my favorite topic of late). She opens a window into Japanese culture and I find myself fascinated. In talking about relationships and enduring love, she tells me that many marriages lack passion and wives expect their husbands to cheat with other lovers but assume that the affairs will be discreet and secret. Despite this cultural norm for a typical marriage, Amy clarifies that she would break up with her current boyfriend if he actually cheated on her. She also explains the culture of the "hostess bars" where men pay women to serve as escorts (conversation, no sex) for the evening. She worked in one such bar and relates that it was generally fun especially when her responsibilities included eating at fancy restaurants with friendly, respectful, wealthy men. Later in the evening, we see billboards advertising "host bars" (where women go to be fawned over by young men) that highlight photos of men who are the biggest earners in the club. For several minutes, I consider whether this career path could be an alternate professional calling.

Amy explains to me that Japanese women sometimes wear outrageous clothing to get attention (and introduces me to the term "Goth-lita", a combination of Goth and Lolita) and men focus on their hairstyles. After she makes this distinction, I begin to notice a subculture of Japanese men who cultivate extreme "rock star" hair. Along with a stylish mop, they typically sport dispassionate facial expressions colored with a hint of disdain for everything around them, as if this world is simply not interesting enough to keep them engaged. The degree to which this nonconformity is essentially standardized causes me to laugh. In Japan, there appears to be little desire to push the envelope beyond accepted cultural norms, even norms governing nonconformity. So these "rebels" end up looking like fashion clones.

At my request we check out a Pachinko hall, an arcade packed with gambling machines which collectively emit a defeaning cacophanous roar -- a mix of windstorm, aerial bombardment, circus, and video game sounds. We can barely communicate amidst the electronic howling but manage to find a machine and put our luck to the test. Amy slides 1000 Yen (~$10) into the slot and we begin to play. Small metal balls begin streaming through the playing surface with one occasionally going into the center hole which triggers an animated sequence followed by a series of spinning dials. Like a Vegas slot machine, symbols on imaginary parallel wheels spin until slowing to a final resting place. I am so confused by the game that I can't even tell whether we have won or lost. Amy keeps adjusting my hand which rests on a small metal knob controlling the force of the metal balls shooting towards the top. My cluelessness is becoming embarrassing. After 5 minutes, the game is over and we are 1000 Yen poorer.

Walking out of the Pachinko parlor, I force Amy to explain everything that just transpired. She tells me that the animated sequences portray scenes from certain animé stories. Since I don't follow animé, the representations are of no significance. Although we lost 1000 Yen, she claims to have once won as much as $1500. She admits, however, that people generally lose money and many become completely addicted to the games. I am grateful for the experience but have no desire to keep going. Then again, I am not the type to gamble in a casino.

We proceed to the bustling neighborhood of Shinjuku to find a restaurant. Amy points out all sorts of relevant sites including older streets, local bars with only half a dozen seats, and the various types of host and hostess bars. We end up in a multistory building looking for a good restaurant. At each floor, the elevator doors open onto a completely new and different entertainment universe. I find myself amazed and overwhelmed by the incredible number of restaurants and clubs packed into the vertical space. We eventually find a restaurant with tables separated into semi-private rooms. Due to the fact that the entire menu is in Japanese, Amy orders for both of us. The dinner is delicious -- soft tofu custard, salad, slices of cooked salmon, dumplings, and other tasty treats. After the meal and another round of fascinating conversation about the differences between Japan and America, Amy walks me to the train station and I return to the hostel. It has been an absolutely wonderful day.

The next morning, I decide it is time to leave Tokyo and take refuge in more pastoral and mountainous areas. Just four days in the big city have left me exhausted and seeking quieter surroundings. So I head to the train station and climb onto the Shinkansen (bullet train) towards my next destination -- Nikko. I feel satisfied by this taste of Tokyo and am excited about what lies ahead.

The journey begins (sort of)

2007-07-30T18:35:00.000-07:00

The deed is done.

Despite all my planning, I've held off on purchasing airplane tickets for the first leg of my sabbatical. My hesitation has been fueled by a sense that something will prevent me from taking this trip. A sinking feeling that events beyond my control will take this option off the table. Like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life", that I will be confronted with a last-minute crisis, feel compelled to abandon my dreams of exotic travel and will never be able to leave home.

Such an event may still occur (fingers crossed). But after receiving divine encouragement yesterday, I went ahead and bought my first set of airplane tickets. On September 12th, I'll be headed to Tokyo and then, 18 days later, to Bangkok. My intention is to stay in Thailand for 2 months before heading to Burma (Myanmar) for a month and then onto India and Nepal for an indeterminate period.

All the other pieces are falling into place. I gave notice on the apartment, am beginning the final windup of my job, have been shopping for travel gear, got new passport pages added, and am crossing items off my long to-do list on a daily basis. Despite this impending upheaval, life at home remains normal. For now.

But I feel as though the countdown has begun. And that my dream is coming to fruition.

One thing's for sure -- it's going to be a crazy ride.