January 22, 2013

Suncourt Hotel, Delhi
Intrepid Travel to the Golden Triangle, Jaipur, Agra, Karauli & back to Delhi

Nice enough group, but again, I don’t travel well in groups as they don’t allow well for my moods and caprices.  Here there are 4 men and 4 women.  2 couples (one married, on their honeymoon); 1 Canadian and 1 Australian man on their first travel adventures; one married Englishman taking a holiday from his family; 1 Australian woman also on her first traveling foray; 1 middle aged Chilean woman who seems independent; and me, 66, on a mission to see the Taj Majal and other ex-glories of Rajasthan.  So here we are together with a young male guide (a ‘Delhi boy’ as I will find out) about to spend 9 days together hurtling through Earth’s space and land in India.

I woke this morning after a poor night’s sleep, to a cold water shower at the Suncourt Hotel in Delhi.  Still suffering with the cold I caught two weeks ago, and desperately needing some quiet time alone, I opted out of 1st group excursion to Old Delhi.  Slept two more hours, and woke better and able to stretch.  Lazy morning organizing a little and reading email.

Sitting in the hotel café waiting for an egg sandwich at noon.  Masala tea cooling (it’s a little salty actually not very good) and waiting for the group to return.  I feel a bit like a prima donna, but am delighted to be alone.  I decide to head out to Humayun’s Tomb on my own, so hire a car through the hotel, and off I go.

The car is a dusty, beat up number and I wonder at the driver.  He speaks little English, is a young thin fellow of indeterminate background who immediately wants to take me to a shopping ("not bazaar") place.  I firmly insist “no shopping, only sightseeing" and he finally (after many, many repetitions of the same) drives and deposits me at the car park of what looks comfortingly like a tourist attraction. 

Sure enough, there are loads of school boys in uniform lining up.  As a foreigner I’m allowed to go in a separate line (albeit for a slightly higher ticket price) and I walk through a nicely kept garden to a magnificent structure housing the remains of one of India’s Moghul rulers.  Structurally it’s as impressive and anything I’ve seen, the Muslim influence of the graceful arches and inner doorways.  Once inside, these buildings are like beautiful puzzles… which way does one turn … which door leads outside.

The driver is waiting for me when I emerge from the park and I insist that he take me to see an Arab saint's tomb which is nearby  He is hesitant, saying that the Arab areas are dangerous, but I insist and he finally drives to a walled neighborhood, parks the car, gets out and bids me follow him.  We walk through a narrow street lined with shops and curious people.  It becomes narrower, and a roof suddenly appears as we are in a bazaar, full of all kinds of goods. He's walking so fast that I don't have time to look.  The alleyways wind, and narrow, and wind and even go uphill.  finally he stops, as a man behind us whistles and beckons.  "You must leave your shoes here.  I will watch.  You go on."  I remove my shoes, and walk on, finally realizing that I should cover my head (I'd brought a shawl) and buy some flowers.  A plate of wilted roses in hand I move on, press my hands together in  prayer as well as I can.  This seems to please people and finally I see some smiles and nods as I move long, not knowing where I am going.  I reach an open courtyard where men are sitting, talking, praying.  There are no women with them, there is a small temple-like structure and I walk cautiously around, not having any idea what I should be doing or where I should be going.  I realize I should not look at or talk to the men, and so I concentrate on where the women are sitting.  I put down my flowers, walk around the shrine, salaam, bow and get outta there.  Back to the shoes and back to my loyal driver who looks relived when I appear.

Now we go shopping.  I, feeling a bit like he'd gone out on a limb for me, allow him to take me to Arts India, a hard-sell tourist arcade where, $300 later, I emerge with some goodies from India.

January 24

Still sick and in Jaipur.  This cold (from the conference, Bodhgaya Jan 16) is 8 days old and getting me down.  Two days not bonding with the travel group as I'm one big hacking cough (I heard it throughout the conference and know how off-putting it was).  Illness on the road is amplified as is everything else, and being with others makes illness that much worse for them.

Amber (Amir) Fort was outstanding.  I’m glad I got at least to see that wonder, though listening to the tour guide was a bit of a bore.  The climb from the street to the top wasn’t bad, but I stayed in bed all the next day while the group went out to explore the pink city of Jaipur.

Major impression of Jaipur … driving is a process of reading and feeling the movements of other vehicles, moving in a stream of separate bodies (tuk-tuks, cars, trucks, wagons, pedestrians) sometimes within 2 inches of each other, somehow all maneuvering through the melee to their destination.  I think Indian drivers must be the best in the world … few violent accidents (though plenty of dented fenders).  Each vehicle a fish in a school … when one changes direction slightly all others accommodate.

I’m having trouble understanding British and Australian accents among my travel companions.  Is it my hearing, my elder brain, the cold,  or them? 

Yesterday when feeling so bad, Mr. Shayam at our hotel took good care of me.  I came into the dining room to get lemon tea with a little ginger, and he brought me lovely hot drink with honey.  Very gentlemanly, caring.   When I thanked him later for his kindness he said,  “Of course … it’s the moral thing to do.”  Have met with nothing but kindness and humor in this country.

January 27

End  of Intrepid tour.  Sukhot Singh Gill, our guide, lost my camera case and connector cable, so I’ve decided not to give him a tip.  Have felt he’s somewhat careless since about 4 days into the trip.  One woman wanted to see a doctor and, while he kept telling us that she was going to see a doctor, none was arranged.  He could have taken me to a pharmacy to get cold medicine, he is mostly interested in flirting and drinking.

I feel even farther from the group now as the cold gets worse.  I can’t understand their language or much of their humor, nor am I interested in the subjects they talk about.  They are decidedly not friendly towards me either--am feeling a bit like I have body odor, but maybe it’s just the cold.

Traveling in a group of people with nothing in common but that they’ve paid a guide for seeing and being in India is fairly boring, I’ve concluded.  I probably won’t take a tour like this again.

The Taj Mahal yesterday was stupendous and definitely the highlight of the tour…. Worth the trip to be there. Never mind that it was Indian Independence Day (Jan 26) and packed to the rafters (metaphorically speaking).  This was another gaff by our guide, who didn’t know that the Taj was going to be closed at sunrise because of an economic conference.  Things are falling apart.

Still, stay with the positive.  The building is glorious, seeming to float behind the long pool built in front.  In spite of the thousands of people cavorting on the lawn, it maintains dignity, grace and a sense of peace … pearly white and perfect.  Begonia (the Chilean woman) wanted to go inside the mausoleum, and  since we had the expensive entrance tickets we got in fairly quickly.  Once inside, however, the crowds milling around the lovely sarcophagus (thankfully shielded by a carved veil) were frightening.  Signs which said no photos were allowed were totally ignored and the mass moved clockwise around the crypt to exit where we’d entered, spit out like the irritant we were.  The well loved queen died in childbirth of her 14th child, and I can’t imagine what she would make of the chaos her countrymen are creating around the peaceful gift her husband built for her.

Rajasthan attracts visitors to its former splendor.  Five hundred year old Mogul palaces are crumbling, forts of bricks will never again repel invaders  or protect inhabitants, photographs of white hunters surrounded by their now extinct kills adorn walls of heritage homes which are supported by tourist dollars.  The maharajas made deals with the British conquerors during the colonial period, allowing them to keep their mansions and live their expensive lifestyles a bit longer.  Now, I was told, the former nobles of Rajasthan are politicians, still wielding power and maintaining a semblance of their former lifestyle, supporting the villages to some degree.  I hope these past nobles are in debt, but I suppose they are just in hiding.

January 29
Delhi airport, heading to Goa
India is the most horrible and wonderful country I’ve ever visited.  It seems at once on the brink of collapse into chaos, disease, poverty and despair and full of energy, devotion, pride, talent, kindness and motion.  The middle class is proudly aware of possibilities, but is it also aware of the need for mass education, social justice and income distribution.  I’ve seen many children out of school; I’m told that polio vaccine is not available to poor children; the central government controls access of electricity to rural areas; garbage is burned, releasing toxins into the air; fires of cow dung are used for heat, creating massive air pollution.

I visited shrines and monuments to India’s past wealth, power and glory and to her ability to give birth to a new religion.  Buddhism rose here because of and out of the corruption of the Brahmins to become inclusive and peaceful. It was a state religion for only a short time and, while it did not solve the problem of the caste system, it gives hope and responsibility for change to its followers.

January 31

It’s Goa and it’s the tropics and it’s hard not to love the tropics.  There is a fair amount of pollution here in Panjim; however, I’m rested, mostly free of the cold that’s plagued me for 2 weeks, and happy to be in one place for 5 nights, getting my thoughts collected, my pictures sorted, and my body in gear for the return home.

Pilgrimage & Delhi

I haven’t read much about pilgrimages other than the Canterbury Tales and a bit about Santiago de Campostela.  For a while there was a flurry of information and romance about Santiago when Shirley McLaine wrote a book and Emilio Estevez made a movie about their travels.  The characters on the road, their travails, their back stories, and the ecstasies of completing the pilgrimage are different from those of general travel.  There’s an under riding notion that pilgrimage is different from a tour.  I isn't undertaken to collect memories, souvenirs or snapshots, but there’s a spiritual quest involved  But that quest is unrealized (or perhaps not admitted, even to oneself) until well into in the trip. By then, there have been events to remember, souvenirs and photos taken … and then where’s the quest?  It’s elusive … you realize that life changes every day, every hour, as the route becomes the  and the process is the route.  There have been troubles, joys, impressions, maybe even psychological changes to deal with.   You've met people along the way, experienced travails, as well as beauty, and they become part of the journey.  The food one eats, the beds one sleeps in, the water, the dreams, the views of the earth, the air, the aches and pains; the music and the conversations one overhears, the speeches.  And also the loss of the familiar, being unconnected (difficult in these wifi times) from news of home, business, friends, sights and smells we know.  All of what we get and what we miss are in high relief on the road we travel.  At the end, the reason for the pilgrimage is still ephemeral.

I don’t travel well in groups.  I find myself feeling hindered by chatter and drama; I get caught in what people think, want and need from me.  My judgments of others are the judgments of myself.  I want to commune with and experience what’s around me, that which I’m a stranger to, rather than hearing about the lives or even the opinions of others.  And that’s part of my pilgrimage … to come to terms with human need.  On this tour, where structure is pre-fixed, my responsibility for choosing experiences is forgotten and I relax into the present, whatever it is, however mundane, or frivolous.  At first I didn’t experience what was around me as intensely as I would have by myself.  But once we’d all shared the necessities of society with each other, I was free to walk the pilgrimage with like minded souls who might have an inkling of where I was, since they had been there too and were with me even now.

January 20

My Facebook friend, Indu, came to the Ashok, picked me up in her car, and took me shopping.  She lives only 15 minutes away from the hotel and had graciously asked me to come to her house to stay for the night.  Little did she realize that I would still be sick with a cold; I hope I didn’t come across as too sick to appreciate her wonderful hospitality.  We went to  Delhi Haat (a bazaar) to eat lunch and shop a bit and I picked up a very ‘Indian’ bag that caused smiles from hotel keepers and luggage handlers throughout the rest of my trip.  It’s completely ‘60s … mirrored and fringed … and I’m surely pegged as a tourist. 

Indu lives in a spacious and artistically decorated house … cold (Indians don’t heat their mansions, no matter how cold or how high the ceilings, it seems) in a suburb called Gurgaon.  Besides the pottery which she makes, lovely paintings, and various art of Asia, her walls are full of photos of her two beautiful, grown children.  Her son lives in Irvine, California, where he studied physics and now has an American girlfriend and, sadly for Indu, a life in America.  Her lovely daughter, also in her 20s, lives in Mumbai and is trying to make a mark in the film industry.  So the Indian middle class gives the next generation its start in arts and science.  How the society develops?  Social consciousness may have to wait until the wealth becomes older.

I spent two lovely days with Indu.  Met her friend who was as kind and openly friendly, and saw the wonderful art center where she spends time.  A lunch at her friend's home reminds me how we are all in this life together, no matter that we live on opposite sides of the world.


 

Bodhgaya 2 January 16 & 17

Bodhgaya, where Buddha achieved enlightenment.  528 BCE he arrived in a village where there was a Bodhi tree and he sat down in this peaceful place.  He spent 7 weeks there after enlightenment was attained, and then set out for Sarnath to share what he’d learned and begin his ministry/teaching. He returned to the village to teach 3 disciples.

Mahabodhi Temple, Bohdgaya.  Lights, movement, chanting by many  groups at one time.  Mostly monks (though I can’t tell monks from nuns); prostration platforms among forests of stupas, the great complex shrine next to the descendant of the tree of Buddha’s enlightenment.  The first graft off of the original tree was taken to Sri Lanka by Ashoka’s son and daughter.  There it was planted and grafts were taken from it to other places.  Thus, the original Bodhi tree was never destroyed.

Is this really where it happened?  The fact that a major world religion began here seems almost insignificant compared to the intense flurry of human activity going on here today.  Outside of the temple complex is a carnival … flowers, foods, beads, kitchen magnets, plates, all manner of trinkets are being sold.  Pilgrims coming in hopes of releasing their suffering, monastics coming to express their devotion, tourists to see something unusual.  The chanting is serious, dedicated, grateful.  The lights, beauty and intricacies of the structure and setting attest to the complexity of human search for faith and understanding.  Beautiful and meriting study, appreciation and wonder.

Like gothic cathedrals, the spires of the great stupa rise--aspirational?  Would a woman build a stupa or worship a well?  From woman comes wisdom of the earth; from man comes wisdom of the erection.  Will women waken the earth wisdom of man?  Will the stupa prevail?

There are three levels of walkways around the temple.  One at ground level, one in the middle and one above, with lawns.  The middle level circumambulates clockwise, mostly bhikkus and bhikkunis in red robes.  I could describe it as a parade, except that people are praying, quietly chanting the suttas, or simply living within themselves as they move.  It is almost silent.  But it moves as a river, insistent, non-stopping, around the stupa.  I enter as a fish would join a school; I exit the same way, leaving without stopping any of the momentum of the circular force.  Humanity continues around; and I can pick it up again at any place in theflow, smoothly and without stress.

Below is the Bodhi tree, or at least a descendant of it.  There are people meditating. 

Three dogs--I'll call them Pepper, Snap and Fish-- hang with me for a time as I sit quietly on the steps leading out of the temple.  Owning the temple is their job.  They patrol, alert, with casual direction and plenty of flea scratching; attached to nothing and no one, but aware of us and of each other.  No tail wagging while there’s this much activity.  No human touch where there’s fleas.

“Where’s your lama?”
“Doing prostrations.”

I forgot about the prostrations.  What are they about?  Submitting, giving, admitting lower position to the stupa.  I wonder if the Buddha would approve.  He was most adamant about not being considered a god.  He was most adamant about each person finding her own way through the dharma.  If it doesn’t work, don’t do it.  Nothing divine about Buddhism.  Nothing god-like about Buddha.  Simply he found a truth that worked for him and was willing to share it  So the bowing?  Respect.  Symbolic prostration to one’s own ego, or to the inevitability of the 4 Noble Truths:  There is suffering; clinging causes suffering; there is a way to end suffering; there is the 8 fold path.

January 16 & 17
Bodhgaya

The group goes to Tergar Monastery in Bodhgaya for an audience with the 17th Gyalwang Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje.  While I respect him, and am glad for his well spoken words of encouragement to Buddhist women; while I'm happy to be in his presence with my sisters from the conference; while the surroundings are awe- as well as compassion- inspiring as he's under house arrest, I’m unable to take or give a blessing to this man. 

This trip to India makes me realize I’m not a Buddhist in the devotional sense.  My  devotion and gratitude is to the earth; the physical presence of the earth is my temple.  It’s processes and its state of being are my dharma.  I don't invest enough in this man to receive blessing, as I don't know what a blessing is and why it would be more important from him than from any other human of earth. No teacher, no idol, no single human, no building, no creed, no gospel, no dogma, no costumes, no prostrations, no status has devotional meaning.  The Brahmaputra (earth touching) mudra gives comfort.

We leave the very energetic and exciting Bodhgaya and travel by bus to Sarnath and Varanasi.  40 + luggage; 5 buses to coordinate.  No real toilet stops on the road.  Instead we use the fields and bushes along the way and sometimes draw a crowd of locals.  One toilet break on an 8 hour trip.

January 16
Varanasi

After a long bus ride (seems like ½ of it was spent driving within Varnasi city limit with its immobile traffic) we arrived at Hotel India.  A lot of stress after that taxing ride, and we discover that our double rooms, have only one bed.  Another mattress brought in, in an attempt to appease us, but they were either put on a small cot, or on the floor.  Dealing with the yes/no wiggle headshake of management only seemed to make things worse as many did not believe that there were no more rooms and no alternative to our slightly rustic accommodations.

This tour costs under US$100/day, an outrageously cheap price for airfare, food and lodging, even in India, and yet expectations are what they are.  I suppose we will each balk at whichever inconvenience bothers us most.  This one doesn't bother me too much, probably because I'm so tired, and I know it will work out in the end.  "If it isn't ok, it is not the end."

Varanasi--ugly, dirty, and so full of vehicles that I wonder where people are living.  I look up out of the bus and see dozens of kites flying, but from where?  Finally, I see children on the roofs of buildings.  Our bus stops, stuck, and I watch one little boy in a red sweater, putting his kite up in what seems like no wind--tugging, jerking, moving until the little red square finally takes the wind.  It continues to move higher and farther away until it’s a tiny red speck ready to do battle with the other kites in its vicinity.  That kite might look down on such squalor that it would never want to land.

Early the next morning, before dawn, our group followed the tour guide through dark streets, to the ghats (steps leading down the river bank) and took a boat out on the Ganges.  In the Hindu faith, bathing in the Ganges at least once in life, ensures rebirth in a higher form, or enlightenment.  The ghats are steps leading maybe 50 feet down to the peaceful river, allowing people to come, visit, bathe, pray, wash clothes, and even have their cremated ashes placed in the Ganges.  I looked at the oil slick on the surface and decided not to dip my hand into the water.

Small dishes of orange marigolds & candles are lit and set into the water as the sun rises.  Large palaces were once home to kings who let their people come to stay and bathe.  These, and what look like apartment blocks, line the river now … but who lives there?  Most look abandoned. No lights shone before dawn or as we walked down or back up the steps of the ghat at 7:30 feeling peaceful for having been on, if not in, the water.

The beggers … a man pushed the stump of his arm near my face … I thought I saw shame when our eyes briefly met … not desperation.  Women held suspiciously quiet infants in their arms, and we walked up the steps, deliberately not looking or feeling … I tried to maintain the peace that came from the river … and succeeded.  It is a powerful place.

Varanasi to Kushinagar 8 hours

Kushinagar is the place where Buddha died (passed on) after eating a meal prepared by a local craftsman.  He’d stated to his followers that he was tired, ready to leave this world at age 80, after 40 years of teaching all around India.  What I love about Buddha is that I don’t believe he preached in the sense of the Christian gospel.  Rather,  he gave what he knew, he taught without expectation or need for anyone to believe. That serene countenance we see pictured couldn’t have been evangelical, trying to convert non-believers  He had experienced something that he wanted to share, simple as that.  Even today, no one pushes the dharma  Far from it. Buddhists (at least in the West) are mostly introspective people, not looking to convert, not wanting to convince.  They accept other religions and practices, and will bring them into their temple grounds, as long as they are peaceful and kind.

And so I wonder:  why is India so chaotic if Buddhism came long 2500 years ago to bring peace and release from suffering?  Is there something inherently deficient about Buddhism that caused India to fall into such dreadful disrepair, or is it because Buddhism died out that moguls, Moslems, destroyed structures, and the Hindu caste system came back as the national identity developed, eventually giving way to British rule.

Now, 60 years independent, the vast inefficiency of the infrastructure is something to marvel at.  Transportation is ridiculously slow by road and limited even by air.  From what I gather, taxes are collected, but spending not well monitored.  There are more children on the streets than seem to be in schools, and education is free only until grade 5.

January 17

We spend a short time on the bus driving to Lumbini, Nepal.  Buddha’s birthplace is now a set of temples, a huge excavation, and a massive shrine surrounded by Tibetan prayer flags.  We are staying at a wonderful hotel (MayaBuddah Garden) where I’d like to rest for several days.  I’ve caught the cold that’s been going around the conference for weeks now, and it’s definitely dulled my spirits and lowered my energy level.  The Mayadeva temple is in a lovely setting, however, and I walk around happily, by myself mostly.

A group of Korean pilgrims sit across the lake from the Mayadeva temple, their beautiful chanting expressing joy and elation.  The archaeologists both inside and outside of the temple are looking for the exact spot, I guess, where Buddha was dropped from his mother’s womb and where he is supposed to have immediately walked 7 paces in each direction.  One of the miracles ascribed to Siddhartha which contributes to his god-like stature.

The holy sepulcher, the dome of the rock, Mt. Sinai, Lumbini… these the sites of the world biggest religions. Now, if only we could keep these religious ideals in perspective and live according to their purest concepts.

L has become increasingly assertive and arguments between her and the local tour guide occur constantly.  She insists on finding a temple run by a Burmese nun she knows and drags everyone in the bus out in the darkness and rain to find it.  I wait on the bus until the traipsing is done.  I’m sorry that I didn’t take off on my own and get back to our lovely hotel for the evening.

Information about what we are doing from moment to moment is incomplete and capricious.

We leave reluctantly early in the morning

January 18
Bus to Svarasti

Yesterday, 3 days into a cold, I spent the day in bed.  I missed the last of our pilgrimage sites, where Buddha was to base for 25 years of his teaching career at a garden, Jetavana, acquired for him by a disciple.  The ruins, according to my roommate, were much like the ruins of Nalanda, and not to worry that I missed seeing them.

Left Svarasti at 5 am next morning with the usual confusion, this time with the added stress of needing to get to Lucknow in time to catch a plane to Delhi.  We’ve had a male tour guide from India, “leading” a group of women mostly from western culture.  Comments, rumors, complaints among the group spread like crazy, as we are wanting clarity about information that is only given sparsely and incompletely.  The Taiwanese women of our group are just as uncomfortable with the leadership as are the western women.  We are like a herd of cats, and trying to get us to move in one direction is a chore.

Yet we do get to Lucknow in time for our flights, despite a broken wheel, misinformation about where to eat lunch, and an airport guard who tells us that the slips of paper we have been given are not tickets to get us into the airport, even to use the bathroom.  Security is very tight at all of the Indian airports I’ve been to, no one can even get into the lobby without a ticket of some sort for a flight that day.  And once in, it’s difficult to get out; once out, it’s difficult to get back in.  Luggage is scanned and tagged before one goes through security, then scanned again. Every body is scanned by someone of their own gender (no xray scans); purses are physically examined even after they’ve been scanned; and today a second physical look is taken before we board the plane.

We arrive back at the Ashok Country Resort.  I left the group when we landed in Delhi, choosing to take a taxi on my own rather than wait the 45 minutes it took the group to get organized, load their luggage and board the bus at the airport.  I told a Chinese woman my decision to leave the group and she looked at me so incredulously that I had to ask if she understood, even though I know she speaks English well. 

The benefits of traveling with the Sakyadhita group were immense.  Hotels and meals were scheduled and more than adequate; transportation was safe; company was good and I learned wonderful things from Lekshe’s talks while on the bus, and from the camaraderie, the fascinating lives of the women with me.  Coming from countries all over the world,  all so independent and strong, and still able to follow consuming, sometimes inane instructions.

But at that tipping point… the end of the tour . .. I completely reverted back to my own ways … and took off on my own in order to get my body to bed in a calm place.  Back at the Ashok, where we’d begun, I took a shower, had a cup of tea, and sat in the lobby reading.  When the group returned, I was centered again.

January 12

Leaving Vishali.   Leaving the conference by bus to Rajgir.  Leaving this little village of 3 monasteries (Vietnamese, Sri Lankan and Cambodian).  Leaving the pigs, goats, dogs and kids roaming the street looking for a living.  The animals rooting in the piles of trash; the kids walking along with us women who are shuttling back and forth between residency and conference at the monastery.  The men on motor scooters who back and forth to the crossroads beyond the monastery; the old men who drive cattle wagons; the women who walk herding of pigs or goats.

It has been very cold.  Delhi was the coldest it’s been in 45 years during the time we spent here in the eastern part of India.  Patna was cold too.  Bracing cold. Sitting in a tent inside of an open monastery we huddled together in the mornings, I was wearing everything I brought with me … two layers of cotton, a thin layer of silk, and a light jacket.  Towards the end of the conference, men would come around graciously serving tiny cups of masala tea or hot water to warm us.  The tent was given a silken door flap to keep away the wind.  But there were many hours of sitting in an environment where one’s breath could be meditated upon as well as seen.

The electricity went off periodically but was magically restored within minutes.  The microphones were also capricious.  Women started getting sick and coughing was commonly heard.   Each mealtime was special because we got to move … either to the warm soup of the Vietnamese kitchen or to the spicy sauces of the Indian kitchen.  Other than the ubiquitous and obvious statement of  “It’s really cold, isn’t it?” no one complained.  Conference organizers just kind of ignored the state of being and moved on with the program.

I loved chanting every evening.  I would climb to the 3rd floor of the Vietnamese monastery, take off my shoes and walk in freezing stockinged feet into the chapel where different groups of nuns would lead chants.  It was surprising how sonorous women’s voice could be … in Pali, in Vietnamese, in Chinese, in Tibetan … and how the harmonies and rhythms of words I didn’t understand could be so soothing.

January 12

Leaving Viashali by bus.  Forty women who had been together seven days listening to the talks, exaltations, chanting and complaints of 500 Buddhist women.

Lichee groves, poverty, sand that grows bananas and mangoes.  Exotic buildings in ruin or extreme disrepair.  Round stick huts with grass roofs.  Chickens peck at muddy trash; eggs in cartons behinds.  They smile in the squalor, close to the base of life.

Sheaves of local wheat.

Traffic jam throught Patna at 10 mph.  Friendly people wave at our bus, lots of activity through the marketplaces and construction sites.  All maner of vehicles, half repainted buildings, large orange sun on the hazy western horizon.  Eyes meet from one vehicle to another; mind and humanity shared.

January 13

Last night in Rajgir, this morning to the magnificent ruins of Nalanda University, which flourished in 600a.d.  The remains have been restored with brick, but original stone work can be seen, as well as carving, and the architecture and grandeur of the place is intact.  Seven monasteries are semi-reserved with dormitories for monks and a central debate area where students hammered out the meaning of  the dharma, I suppose, as all philosophies and religions still do in some sort of forum.  I don’t have enough knowledge of Buddhism to know who and what was actually debated, but I can see that the library and rooms for theological study were immense. And important.  We were told that the prestige of the university eventually fell because of laziness and/or corruption, and the books were burned and buildings were eventually sacked by the Moslems.  The ruins were never rebuilt for use, as Buddhism lost importance in India.  I was struck by the thought  that this site is so like others I’ve seen .. Tikal,  Copan, even Angkor Wat … these great buildings of stone, spread over vast areas and stretching to the sky.  Intricate stories were told within their walls, of gods and men making their way in the world.

India has been everything people have told me.  Much of everything … now that we’re away from Vaishali I see people who are working and producing.  Markets look prosperous and the food and vegetables look fresh and abundant.  The number of vehicles has increased, as well a the variety.  Bicycles, trucks, tongas (small gas powered golf carts used as taxis), bicycle trucks, horse drawn buggy, and pedestrians share the roadways with goats, cows, chickens. It’s a huge cacophony (I’ll think of that word a lot) of textures and colors and emotions.

Vishal -- Stupa & Vultures Peak

A bus ride, a stop, and then on to a busy, large tourist attraction; aerial chair lift to the top of a lushly vegetated mountain.  A large white stupa at the top marks a place where Buddha taught.  We walked on up by foot to Vulture’s Peak where he stayed with Ananda and another disciple and gave the Heart Sutra.  Pathway is a gamet of hawkers of mala beads, post cards, books; at the top thousands of prayer flags, bits of golden offereings on the rocks, and guardian monkeys which may be reborn as humans since they are so near the Buddha’s steps and words.  They are not as offensive as the beggers and hawkers who I close my heart to as I walk down.

From flat farm field of Vaishali to the mountains outside of Rajgir.

It’s all been exotic: the trees, trimmed naturally, and the palms towering above them; the old men wearing shawls over their heads, walking barfoot with staff; the fires on the sides of roads, in villages where there is little or no electricity, a single light bult somewhere in the maze of dirt streets; children waving as we bump by ramshackle homes. 

Mist, land, trees, fire, I'm taken by this land, and its miles of poverty.

On this rutted road between Rajgit and Bodhgaya our large, white, 40 passenger tourist bus seems taken out of time.  We roll through the darkness not knowing what’s around us.  It seems vaguely sinister, dangerous, but we keep going.  How can that be?  Wouldn’t anyone in their right mind stop and find out where we are?  Wouldn’t we find a better way?  The driver does stop at a junction and presumably asks directions.  And we turn left onto another rutted road.

January 6, 2013

 

2nd day of Sakyadhita Conference of International Buddhist Women.  Theme: Grassroots of Buddhism

Academics and devotees, lay and clergy, Europeans, North Americans, Australians and Asians.  I’m probably playing mind games, but being asked about Buddhism in my life is oddly disturbing as I’m such a dilettante here.  I've been consciously studying Buddhism for 7 years, but don't feel that I'm a "Buddhist."  I'm often asked why I've come to India.  Only my desire to learn has brought me here, but it takes me a while to realize that. 

January 9

Three of us walk/stroll to the Japanese Peace Pagoda near the hotel.

                    

One of the women, a nun, tells me about relics, one of which is buried across the lake.  There are many, many of them all around the world, small, some like pearls, she says.  I wonder how there can be so many and she tells me that they multiply.  I say, “like gall stones?” and she gives me a funny look.  I regret my unwise speech and hope I haven't hurt her feelings.  Relics are, of course, symbols of devotion, ways of renewing one's belief with an object of love.

The walk around the lake was lovely and the unearthed relic burial site in a garden, very peaceful and well kept. We walk around in a clockwise direction (circumambulated) the pagoda 3 times (a sign of respect).  Again, I wish I could be more devotional, but my skepticism (or something I haven't figured out yet) stops me.  Even though my back was hurting with the slow walking, I appreciated the sense of peace and am content to know that Gautama Buddha's presence here has caused it to be so.

Walking in the neighborhood, for the first time I see the homes of people in this region close up.  Cows lay about like cats in their most comfortable positions; crows land on the cows to preen them, finding tasty morsels.  Sculptures of cow dung mixed with straw dry in the sun.  They are the primary fuel used in this area and they contribute to the smog. We walk by a small tourist area near the relic garden, with low key salesmen. J bought a little plastic prayer wheel driven by solar power chip.

                  

Back at the tea shop outside the monastery, life again seems mundane again as children laugh and ask for anything in our pockets.  Is this any more real than the idea of a relic of the Buddha being buried only a short distance away?

Thoughts on Buddhism.  We strive to control wildness--even of thoughts…but should they be tamed/trained?  Don’t we love the wild? When we are the slaves of our minds, untamed thoughts can be harmful, but can't wild thoughts also be creative?

Shamata:  calm, quiet.  The reason why we are not ‘awake’ is because of ego.  Studying dharma creates a well balanced, healthy ego, with self-esteem.  This is a preparation for looking through it (the ego) and losing it (even momentarily).

Shamata is calming
Vipassana is analyzing.

If we try to dissect and analyze before enough calming, the insights will not be deep enough.  And so the meditation calms the mind before the analysis.  Shamata is merging of subject & object (breath).  Then one can turn awareness back to itself and watch the mind.  Thoughts are not the problem; identifying with the thoughts is the problem.  Thinking that we are our thoughts and then clinging to that identity that thinks causes suffering.  All of our beliefs are merely the result of our thinking.

‘Space’ is the nature of the mind … there is just awareness there … it cannot be claimed.  The open, awake mind doesn’t project because there is no place.  The word for “awake’ in Tibetan is more than ‘space’ but ‘expanding,’ that is, in process.

Meditation makes attention very sharp and precise so that when we look at the thoughts we can see clearly what they are without ego projection.  (Haven’t reached that clarity myself!)

Talk by Tenzin Palmo~~Everything goes with you on the path: both obstacles and opportunties Life is the gymnasium of the soul.

January 9

The conference is coming to a close.  Panel papers are stimulating and relevant--focusing on practical issues and women’s empowerment.  A monk from Sri Lanka has been the only male to speak and he was eloquent and moving, encouraging and supporting women's desire to be ordained in all Buddhist traditions.  Thai women (from a population primarily Buddhist) are not allowed ordination.  I find this amazing as so many of  the Northern California Buddhist teachers were trained (and ordained) in Thailand.  One would think that they would boycott or speak out against the sexism of the monks in their tradition. (Maybe they are doing this and I am unaware.)

 

Here we are, a conference of academics, monastics, and feminists.  Many are doing wonderful things to promote peace and understanding between cultures.

Workshop about international interfaith dialogue (led by Gabriella Frey) with the passionate Jetsumna Tenzin Palmo as co-participant was a highlight for me. Fascinating and valuable thoughts and actions are going on in the world to get people of faith together to learn how to get along.  Gabrielle Frey of the European Council:  Social harmony can’t be complete if neighbors don’t at least know something about each others’ religions.  We don’t have to believe the same things, but we need to be tolerant and know that we have the same goals of happiness and harmony.
 

A few of the topics at the conference:

 

Buddhist Women of the Himalayas

Ambedkar's Perspective on Women in Indian Society: Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar ( knew nothing about this 'untouchable' who became a writer of the Indian constitution)

The Changing Roles of Buddhist Nuns and Laywomen in Cambodia

Than Hsiang Kindergarten:  A Case Study

Self-Esteem, Self-Promotion and No-Self

Identity and Samsara

The Good Girl Syndrome:  Feminism and Being an Authentic Practitioner

Lay Buddhist Women in Buryatia

Beyond Text: Rebirth Narratives of Model Women in Buddhism

Dress and Liberation:  Ordained Buddhist women in Britain

The Council of Europe's Investigation on Religious and Cultural Relativism

Gender Equality among Buddhist Clerics in Korea

Buddhism and Aging

Why Educating Nuns is Important in the 21st Century

 

So many more!!

 

http://www.sakyadhita.org/

January 2, Dubai to Delhi 

Flew over some of the most rugged terrain I’ve ever seen.  Southern Iran and Western Pakistan.  Brown, grey ridges of what must be huge mountain ranges separated by dry valleys with not a sign of vegetation or settlement.  How dare anyone try to  live there … it can’t be easy for humans.  The people who live there must know there is more and better land to be cared for; some land somewhere that will care for them.

January 3, Delhi

Easy pick up at the airport at 7pm local time, and a short drive to the hotel, which was part of the Sakyadhita Conference Tour package.  Jet lag or excitement, I’m very tired, but I don’t fall asleep until midnight …then, slept until 6 am.  I'm at the Ashok Country Resort.  It seems to be out in the country, though it’s only 15 minute drive from the airport … no sidewalks, plenty of open land, large, old buildings nearby that look like colonial houses.  Ashok is also an old estate with several buildings and gardens (though it’s too cold to take advantage of them today).  I find out that these estates are now mostly horse ranches. 

As I’m alone in my more than adequate room for two, I take a good, long, hot shower.

In the breakfast room I start to look at the buffet when an employee comes to me and says ‘Please sit down.’  in no uncertain terms.  Once I am seated, he comes and invites me to serve myself at the buffet.  Lovely fruit, sausage, 2 kinds of beans, a rice porridge w/ peas & sesame seeds.  I stop at the coffee pot and cups, but again am told to sit down and will be served.

Note to self:  remember to let Indians keep face and keep their jobs by following procedures.  They are so polite it isn’t hard.

January 4

Women from USA, Australia, England, France, Germany, Sweden, Taiwan have converged at the Ashok.  The excitement of meeting people of like gender and spiritual interest is wonderful.

I connect with a woman near my age from Melbourne, JM, and we head out to the National Museum of Delhi.  As she has an errand to do first about fixing her phone, so our trip becomes an adventure of finding and then fixing.  The hotel's driver (after much discussion with the concierge) takes us to Connaught Place and dropped us near a Nokia store.  There we meet a young man outside the store who very kindly helps J understand that she has to wait until 7 pm that night before the phone will work.  We chat for quite a while with this pleasant person, and when J asks how and why he would stop to help strangers, he simply answers “Karma is good”. 

First impressions:  Delhi looks like it’s been under construction forever and still is in disrepair.  Connaught Place is a series of rings that are connected by streets radiating from the center. I had no desire to go to the center, as all looked chaotic, dusty and pointless.  Colonnades overhang shops of all sorts in no particular organization.  Phone shops, tailors, travel shops, etc all have equally unattractive storefronts.  Even our driver did not know how to find the phone shop, except that international Nokia has a large, blue sign.  So far, Delhi seems as chaotic and dirty as Dubai was orderly and clean. 

We continue on with our driver into a nicer part of town.  Diplomatic and government offices show off spacious green lawns and well-kept, clean streets and buildings.  We spend two hours in the wonderful National Museum and are able to see artifacts from Harappa (5000 years ago) to the Gupta reign (300 years ago).  Well arranged and well lit, there is another floor to the museum that we do not get to because of  our hunger for food over culture. We take a tuk-tuk (aka auto rickshaw, a motorized golf cart that are ubiquitous, used as taxis in Delhi and other Asian countries) to the Pandara shopping center, a small, horseshoe shaped strip mall full of restaurants.  Our driver steers us to the Pinda restaurant which is full of Indians; it's pleasant and quite good.  Expensive though, and as tourists we spend $10 each for lunch.

 

We take off after lunch on our own, and walk to Kahn Market, a labyrinth of stores, some upscale, some local and full of variety.  J bought a little plastic box that she needed, and we both find our first pashmina scarves … me a purple one (I think I spent $30 which was too much, but it’s quite lovely) and J less for one of wool print.   I learn that the more expensive pashminas (from the wool of Kashmir goats) are made of under-the-chin wool, while the less expensive come from wool on the back of the neck.  Looking forward to buying more shawls!!

January 3, Delhi to Patna

We leave Delhi hotel at 9 am in 4 buses, lots of misinformation and confusion, but no chaos (that’s Buddhists for you.  Trained in equanimity, we remain calm).  Some (the Swedish women come to mind), look perturbed, but they just stand aside, waiting.
Bags packed, people seated, we finally set out for the airport, where we will fly to Patna.  Eventually things became clear as we finally received boarding passes and check-in at the airport went smoothly.

A nice young man sitting next to me on the plane told me his name was Afroz, which means ‘success’.  He wants to know what my name means and I tell him that 'laurel' means reward or honor.  So I guess my name means 'little reward or honor.'  He is the 7th and youngest son and is majoring in business.  He will go into his father’s business, he says, after school.  He taught me 'thannaada' for ‘thank you’.

We land in Patna where the weather was blissfully warmer than Delhi and wait at the bus for instructions.  First, however, lunch at the airport held us up… we wait, and wait and finally take off at rush hour in Patna, a busy transport town, and on to Vaishali, the site of the 7 day conference. 

 

Evening poverty along the way, staring at the bus, eyes perhaps as stunned by me as I am by them.  Roads in poor condition, the bus wove from side to side.  There are sometimes fires along the side of the road and I see people huddled around, keeping warm. electricity is limited.

 

 

We arrive at Vaishali at around 7:30 (3 hours) to the hotel staff at the Residency lined up outside to greet us at the door with soda and smiles …Check in somehow moved to successful resolution.  I have a clean, bright room with comfortable bed and lots of hot water at the shower.  I’m rooming with two women from California … one a high maintenance, but very sweet woman from San Diego, the other a Zen priest from SF Zen Center who knows Mary Mocine.  This could be fun.

A good night’s sleep.  Dream I’m in a foreign land. In the dream there is a small local girl who comes to me in pain because her earring has infected her ear lobe.  She asks me to remove the earing, but when I look, I see it’s serrated and will be very painful to remove.  There is a group of entertainers in the dream who for some reason I think can help.  I ask a man who seems like a doctor and he, while sympathetic, says it can and must be removed in spite of the pain.  The child understands and wants me to try but I am hesitant.  I go in search of someone who can give me topical Novocain at least to dull the pain a bit. (I wake with the word Faluja--a site in Iran which saw fierce fighting in the US war there).

Note:  I’m at a conference with 500 hundred Buddhists.  The pain/suffering of life is the first noble truth.

Starting the year off right

December 31, 2012

Shared breakfast with Donna at the First Street Café in Benicia … our usual weekly tete-a-tete, with the added event of a ride to BART for me.  I’ve packed, repacked and  packed again over the past week, getting my luggage down to manageable weight and size for a woman of my years and constitution on a 5 week itinerary in India.

Yes, there is the matter of my years.  I started traveling when I was 7, so know the routine of packing and leaving things behind.  First traveling on my own at 15,  I learned the joys of not knowing exactly what will confront me, delight me, confound me.  With my first foreign travel at 19, I learned the meaning of adventure, danger, and letting the sparkles of the present flow around me.

With recent travels, I’ve also learned how much pre-arranging I need in order to keep my creatureliness in good working order.  So  most hotels have been booked in advance, flights have been bought, and this, my first experience with organized tours, will definiately be experimental.

January 1

Dubai, Le Meridian Hotel at 10 pm Middle East time (that‘s about 10 am California time).   I deplaned into a strangely familiar world with shiny marble floors, English signs, efficiency … um, but men wearing white dresses and head scarves. Large airport, enormous, I walked for what seemed like 20 minutes to immigration.  Easy, comfortable, my tired brain didn’t have to stress.   Got a taxi cab quickly and the friendly driver described the city, deposited me at the hotel (a mere $6) where I was met by a doorman who took my luggage.  At my age, I no longer need to grab it first, I’m willing to tip someone to help me.  Inside, the receptionists were hospitable, intelligent and helpful, though the various English accents are stunning … African, Asian, Indian … all speaking English with a twist.

After a good night’s sleep, I woke early and got up to walk around.  Knowing where I am physically and first hand is important to me.  I like to place myself on the earth, wherever I am.  It is a fairly mundane neighborhood, with only a few hotels.  As I walk farther, I find a clean, middle class looking neighborhood that could be Miami or Los Angeles.  Homes have clean-cut, geometric construction and are painted neutral colors; groceries or snack shops dot corners of main streets.  Not many people are out; mainly men perhaps walking to work and a few women of indeterminate ethnicity who look like office workers.  I stop for breakfast at a coffee house across from the Emirates College, where I see people in airline uniforms.  The weather is perfect, the food delicious, the service friendly.  I continue, heading back to the hotel and see men out washing cars.  I assume these are drivers whose job it is to keep the cars spic and span and ready for their employers’ use.

A little later I head the other way and realize I’m close to the very simple metro and could have gone downtown easily on my own.  Feeling it's too close to flight time to Delhi, I kick myself for not doing something (for the first time), and head back to the hotel.

March 27-April 7, 2012 Second Trip to the Pacific Northwest

March 27-April 7, 2012

Trip to the Pacific Northwest.  The NCECA (National Council of Educators of Ceramic Arts) was held in Seattle, WA this year, and while I'm not an educator of ceramic arts AT ALL, I thought being there around wonderful work might arouse my creativity and/or confidence for making ceramic art. So I booked a flight and a downtown hotel for 3 days in Seattle.  This would give me 11 days in the Pacific Northwest, so started dreaming and collecting ideas of where to go.

A trip to Eastern Oregon seemed mandatory, as the Columbia River Gorge still beckons me. A short time with nephew Brian, and a little bit of Washington would be great. Then I thought of my old Girl Scout chum, Flaury, who lives in Vancouver. What a treat to spend time with her and perhaps visit her home on Galiano Island. Bare outline made, central mission (the conference) settled, car rented.

Once I landed and picked up the car in Portland, I headed north. There's nothing so wonderful than to be in a new, reliable car, on a road I've never traveled, with 3 days before I have to be anywhere at all. The newness of everything I see and smell, the freedom of no plan, a credit card with a zero balance, and unbounded curiosity--the joy of "beginner's mind."  No preconceptions, no expectations, no desires, no aversions.

However, I've learned that when driving I need to know where I'm going, each day, otherwise I drive dangerously; so I brought a new GPS with me and set it for a town about 2 hours from the airport. I also secured my needs by finding out there was a Super 8 Motel nearby.  If I content myself with a decision about where I'm going to sleep that night, and make sure I eat at least 2 meals a day, I'm free to enjoy movement through time and space much more.

2004 Guatemala CENTRAL AMERICA, part 1 August 15, 2004 

I arrived in Antigua early this morning after a one hour ride from the airport in Guatemala City. I’ve never stopped in GC….it looks so ugly from the air. A large, smoggy city, crowded and unappealing, more than one experienced traveler (as well as the tour books) have told me to head straight out of town.

Getting close to Antigua, the older capital of Guatemala, the air grows cleaner, the streets are lined with rows of bougainvillea cascading over stone walls, and, eventually, the tires clatter on cobbled streets as we reach the central city. I decided to treat myself to a night at the Casa de Santa Domingo before heading out to San Marcos. It’s an old monastery, ruined in one of the many earthquakes this city is prone to, and refurbished elegantly with heavy wooden beams, Spanish tile, gardens and lavishly planted courtyards attended to by several huge macaws. My room is large and comfortable with a little garden terrace outside. The bathroom is larger than some hotel bedrooms I have stay in, and I couldn’t resist the tiled tub with Jacuzzi!

After checking my baggage with the reception desk at 8:30 a.m., I had a cup of excellent coffee, freshly made cheese and tortillas (the waiter laughed a little maybe because I think I ordered a peasant breakfast) and then decided to walk around town. I wandered around all morning, visited my favorite haunts from last year, window-shopped and looked into some of the galleries that featured Guatemalan painters and craftspeople. I love returning to favorite foreign places, feeling the same pleasure I get from visiting an old friend. So much is familiar, and the comfort of the past slides into the present meeting, yet there is still the slight anticipation of strangeness, curiosity and excitement, knowing that something has transpired in the interval between the last meeting and the present.

 I remembered the cafés with large, messy bulletin boards full of news of rentals, movies being shown and Spanish lessons offered about town. Two or three are combination restaurant, internet café, used bookstore and general hang-outs to get away from the bustle on the street and perhaps get into a conversation or backgammon game with another tourist. I remembered the colorful marketplace, which I hadn’t fully explored last year. I remembered the cafes around the central square and the lovely fountain where tourists and locals alike could hang out and relax from the business of the city.

 Many of the old, practically ruined old buildings from the 16th century have been cleaned up and opened as combination parks and historical sites. They juxtapose newer, smooth-fronted buildings painted warm, deep red, yellow or bright turquoise as well as natural colors. No building is over three stories tall, and some are decorated with wrought iron doors and balconies. The narrow streets are cobbled with grey fieldstones which create a deafening sound of truck and car traffic during rush hour. The narrow streets are cobbled with grey stones, which cause a deafening sound when truck and car traffic passes during rush hour.

Overriding all, for me, are is the volcanoes.  Volcan Agua is the primary resident of Antigua. Rising close and dramatic on the south side, it stands as a benign dictator, reminding me of the power of the earth. Volcan Fuego, off in the distance and only visible from a second story window, sends up smoke occasionally. Its distance comforts me, yet it also stands as an observer of human frailty. I understand the ancient people worshiping the fire gods with the volcanoes in their midst.

On my second walk out of the hotel I went to a movie. “Cold Mountain”, a Civil War period piece was playing at the cine off the square. So odd to be transported to 19th century wartime United States and then sudden return to 21st century Guatemala. Not much difference, visually. Arriving at the hotel at 8:00 I was turned away from the hotel dining room because I didn’t have a reservation. There was nowhere else to eat in the hotel other than the formal restaurant. I thought about the testimonials from the Clintons and Madeline Albright, who had stayed here, and wondered what makes people want to rise to the top if they must conform to the hours posted.

Antigua is quaint, but there are so many foreigners living and or visiting that it's also interesting and cosmopolitan. Most of the Mayan women appear serene in their hand woven, colorful native clothing juxtaposed by the agitated Americans, Europeans and Asians in their shorts, t-shirts and tennis shoes. The upscale art galleries, venues for concerts, internet cafes, tour offices and little restaurants and shops are interspersed with lively and colorful street vendors. Women and children carry large, flat baskets, often on their heads, full of woven belts, hats, purses of all sizes and colors, beaded bracelets and shawls. Men carry bags of cashews, peanuts, macadamias and hazelnuts or they drape belts and other leather goods on their arms. The youngest child can balance a basket of textiles on her head, and the oldest woman can sit in the street surrounded by woven articles.

I am tempted to stay here for a few days to look at more of the art, but I need to get to San Marcos to secure my home for the next four weeks. Tomorrow I'll take a van-shuttle to Lake Atitlan. I should be able to get across the lake by noon and hopefully meet up with the woman who holds the key to my rented house. I'm excited about seeing the natural beauty of the lake, as well as meeting the people in San Marcos. I also am anxious to drop off the English books I brought with me (they're heavy) at the local school. I will offer to teach English if they will have me.

.


August 16 Woke this morning in Antigua to an unfamiliar dream. In my dream I heard a radio alarm. I tried to pull out a plug, then another—there were many wires connecting it to the wall. Then I tried to take out the battery. It still wouldn’t stop ringing. I was annoyed and considered smashing the thing but feel that’s too destructive. The radio disappeared and I woke up.

 On the ride to Panajachel this morning, I met a young man going to study International Law and Human Rights (what a great title) in Costa Rica. He told me that 51% of the top 100 economies in the world are now corporations, not governments. Shell Oil controls Kenya. The government there has no army—the corporation acts as the military.

Now I’m in San Marcos looking out the front door of this little house at the r ain. It’s a small, white cement block A-frame, with a bathroom and extra room on the back, and a stone floor. I’m sleeping on the second floor, bathing on the first. Small, electric oven with two burners, sink, stone shower and tub. No refrigeration, no comfortable chair. Dogs in the yard. Large, round, yellow, cement platform in the front under a very tall papaya tree. Two English neighbors, Ed and his brother, Kevin, helped me settle in, thank goodness. I felt inept at seeing the physical details, like the standing water in the shower. It took 30 minutes of Ed’s work to get the thing draining properly. I’m unplugging, but not totally smashing, the rules from my life before now.

I'd met a Canadian woman in Panajachel the last time I was in Guatemala who told me she had a house she was interested in selling.   I came to see it, and we corresponded over the next two years; I visited once more, and the following year (as she still owned it) I offered to rent it for a month or so.

August 17 I woke up to bird songs this morning, and roosters crowing. I’m not sure that crowing can be included in the category of birds singing, although there is a kind of rhythmic dialogue between the sweet, musical sounds and the rough, insistent crowing. I’ve slept deeper, these two nights in Guatemala, than I have, it seems, in years. Is it the quiet or the unplugging of the radio? Still, I wake up thinking of my life “back there.”  The man, the work, the money, the parents. All attached to something that feels like failure just now—or at least lack of success. And there’s a vague, somehow both wonderful and disquieting suspicion that what I do now is who I am.

 A dog came to the door to distract me. I threw it some food. I need to buy: soap, purified water, candles.   I suppose we are the work we do. The interactions and efforts we make both define us and limit us ... but we feel we exist. And yet most of human striving is to become free of those limitations and definitions—to reach a state of oneness with something infinite. Goals: to become more visually aware again, i.e., to see like an artist. To encounter others courageously and authentically. To stay healthy.

 Be like the bird Who
 Pausing in flight
On limb so slight
Hesitates ... Then sings
Knowing she has wings (Anon)


 August 18 Las Pyramides meditation, 5:00 p.m. A gray-haired woman in a long white dress, serious, bejeweled, intense.The Spanish girls out in front of the pyramid are courting two children, asking them to draw pictures for them. I'm here for a morning of meditation. First, a regression, she says, and asked for everyone’s age. Mostly the women are in their 20s and 30s. I squeaked out my age (58) and the woman next to me said she was 59! I thought she was perhaps 50 and so did everyone else. A gasp went around the room and the leaderess (who might be in her 60s) said in Spanish “You sure don’t look 59”. I immediately felt like I was 65. What ageists we are!

 Inside the pyramid is at least 20 degrees warmer than outside. Visually lovely, but I wouldn’t want to live here. I can see how it would be cozy in the rain. We sat on hard board platforms, placed on white mats. Am I too cynical for this? Very holy, feminine holiness, and the leader (no name) told us we were going to regress to age seven, which is the time when the spirit and mind come together in an individual human. The thoughts and feelings of age seven are what the rest of our life is led by. At seven my parents were moving our family away from the closeness of an extended family in the East to adventure in the West. Maybe I could use this turning point as reference.

 A couple of relaxation exercises later we were moving backwards in time in our minds. She had to start at 50 for us old folks and continue the backward journey by 5 years at a time. Thoughts, feelings came easily until I realized that I couldn’t remember thirty very well, or twenty-five, or puberty. What I did recall well were selected, memories scattering in time that have become part of my repertoire since then. I’m not sure that memories are good things, then, as we just replay them. They tend to fossilize the attitudes we have about ourselves, for good or bad. Our stories become our life, our expectations, our shadows, our fears, and shape the present. The meditation lasted about an hour, there was a blessing at the end and all was over. What a difference from Donald’s light-hearted, dimpled Buddhist teachings. Perhaps spirituality needs to be serious, but somehow I think we are missing the point if life can’t be laughed at. Especially for those of us who have the creature comforts taken care of to the extent that we do, life is a joy to experience.

After the meditation I took books I hadn't given away to the school. There I met two American English teachers, Magdelena and Kevin. Magdelena is an earnest and enthusiastic volunteer from Riverside, California who came at the behest of a previous volunteer to “set up an English program” at the Institute. From what I saw of her teaching (2 minutes only) I wonder. I hope she can use the books—she agreed that the newer books on the market are flashy, busy and difficult to use. Magdelena was highly enthusiastic, happy to be in San Marcos.  Kevin, maybe 25, ignored me after a quick greeting and seeming like an expat unsure of how to behave towards others from his country.

 And so I returned to my little house at sunset. I read, realized that I don’t have enough drinking water for breakfast, tried to sleep on the unbelievably hard bed and finally gave in to the foam mattress on the floor which is only marginally more comfortable.

A boy of 6, maybe 8, walks home from school with a backpack and a machete. For protection? Later I found out that perhaps it was for hacking his way home through the dense forest.

 A bird in the square hoping onto the door sill of a car to look at himself in the rear view mirror. Again and again, he hops from the mirror to the view point.   Narcissism in the bird kingdom.

 A shopkeeper gives me a flashlight, saying, pay me tomorrow because he has no change for my 50 quetzales.

 I buy veggies at the little grocery. As I’m leaving, pondering whether or not to buy eggs or not, the woman there puts 2 eggs in my bag.


August 19 San Marcos on Lake Atitlan. I am spending lots of time writing, reading, and, doing some art with the watercolor pencils I brought. I'm still looking at all of the green, wondering where one thing ends and another begins. Outside of my house are several papaya trees, guavas, bamboo in the back, loads of ferns and avocados.

 


It is beautiful here, rustic and simple. I don't have refrigeration in my little white casita (it's about 15 x 15, two stories, with a bathroom and small room on the back), but do have hot water, a flush toilet, a fairly comfortable bed, and a view of a volcano out of my upstairs bedroom window. It's a semi-A frame. The first construction is about 15 x 15 feet, two stories, with a small, winding staircase at the back of the room. The floor is made of the volcanic stone ubiquitous to this region (perhaps the whole country) and the walls are plaster covered cement blocks. The second story is the wooden A, dry and solid. A second area was added to the back, creating a bathroom and another small room. This is also stone and cinderblock, and the roof forms the deck outside of the bedroom. I will come to understand that the windows are too high, and there is no comfortable place to sit except on the bed upstairs.

I'm going to start doing yoga every morning for the next two weeks as I've committed all of $10 per week to the woman next door who teaches it. There are several yoga classes going on in San Marcos, which is known for its alternative lifestyles for both expatriates and tourists. Food is plain and simple; there are only a handful of restaurants, one which shows movies on a 19 inch TV, but no museums, few cars, and only two paved roads here in this village, one that comes into town, and the other that goes out (can you guess they’re the same road?). Most of the pathways between houses are dirt, or field stones set in cement. I’ve actually seen a couple of trucks delivering supplies to the three little stores on the central square and I managed to find a flashlight today. Because the shopkeeper didn't have change (a perennial problem in Guatemala for some reason), I was given credit until, as he said, “Whenever you can”.

 Next morning, the combination of heat, lack of breakfast, and a yoga routine far more rigorous than what I have been used to combine to cause a near faint after about 30 minutes of exercise. I am by far the oldest person in the group, and feel justified in dropping out of the routine for a few minutes. Yet I am determined and after three days of ninety-minute sessions, I am feeling better, stronger and eager to continue. My breathing has improved, as has my strength and balance. Dripping with sweat after each lesson, I walk back to my house. I consume a banana, a cup of coffee and bread with oleo.

I'e found three little grocery stores. I did not find a place to buy meat until the last week I was here, so contented myself with eggs, rice and beans for protein. Perhaps because of San Marcos’ reputation as the New Age center of the Lake the emphasis is on vegetarianism, at least among the foreigners. Or perhaps I was just hyper-sensitive to this because of my neighbors. Cristina did intimidate me a bit. I snuck off to San Pedro for a hamburger one day and felt much better for it.

I'm meeting the locals (both native and expatriates). The kids are charming and friendly; the women and girls are shy or noncommittal about me, and the men are busy. Females all wear the local costume, while the men wear simple Western clothes. They speak Spanish, but also Cachiquel, the Mayan dialect of this region. I brought a dozen English language books with me to give to the school. As I sat on the stone benches in the center of town with my pile of books the children were let out of school. Soon I had a group of about ten boys around me, ages six to eleven years old, all eyeing the books and eventually asking if they might look at them. Fascinated, they looked through the English picture books and started reading or asking questions. Eventually they started asking me questions about the books and English and I asked about their language, Cachiquel. Two little boys taught me how to say 'hello' and 'goodbye', but later I found out that they had reversed them. The girls told me the truth after the boys left laughing hysterically. Laughing with them is the best.

 Information from the Internet: In the Highlands of Guatemala are the Quichéan-Mamean Maya languages and dialects, including Quiché proper, Cachiquel, Kekchi, Tzutuhil, Pocomam, and Mam. In the western highlands around Huehuetenango, Jacaltec is spoken. There is lots of building going on in this little village: new homes, road expansion and multiple family/hotel dwellings. I expect that more and more tourism will come in, even though it's not currently very accessible.

 I took a walk around the lakefront today and on my way back, I found a se vende (for sale) sign. The caretaker told me that the house is owned by an Italian family. It’s 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, and they were asking $125,000. It's just across the road from the lake, hence has a great view, beautiful gardens...? I’d have to figure out what the Guatemalan view is of trash before I’d consider living here. They must think that plastic will return to the soil the same way that fallen fruit will. Wrappers, bottles and papers as well as banana peels are everywhere!! There is a huge recycling bin in the center of town, right in front of the secondary school, but no one is taking care of it, and what simply looks like a huge garbage dump is only slightly disguised by signs reading “metal,” “plastic,” “foods”.

  August 23 Life continues to be relaxed and green here. It's beginning to rain more, and I'm expecting September to be pretty wet. There are astounding dry lightening displays almost every night, over the mountains to the east. Last night the lightening started coming close enough so that I could hear thunder, but usually I just see the flashes, sometimes lighting up one entire side of the sky, every 30 seconds or so. In addition to the lightening, there are lightening bugs around the house. It’s hard to know what to look at, but I can’t look away.

I feel out of space and time. The town is small and there is only so much work available. The foreigners are, I believe, expected to be either tourists, who bring new money into the community, or long-term residents who offer a service that will bring in the tourists. My neighbor, Ed, does some construction work for a local vendor, but generally, the expats are not a drain on the economy--they create the economy.

San Marcos is known around the lake for its alternative lifestyles (aren’t all of these lifestyles “alternative”?) from yoga to Bach Flower Remedies to Reiki massage technique. The original and still predominant center for esoteric/healing studies is Los Pyramides, a group of habitable pyramids built near the lake, hosting meditation, yoga practice, living quarters, and restaurant.

I'm reluctant to even volunteer to teach English because it will take the opportunity away from the long term expatriate residents. The Mayan population seems settled, satisfied with the slow-growing foreign business, and eager to work to improve the infrastructure of the town if it will mean economic prosperity. Ostensibly, they listen to the advice and follow the models of the foreign residents. There is a Peace Corps volunteer here who is trying to launch a mushroom growing business. I know very little about him, and I wonder if he’s not the most intrusive of the foreigners, sent by a wealthy government and needing to ‘make work’ for himself, useful or not. The men carry bricks, dirt and cement, dig ditches and foundations, build, fish, run the launches, and run small businesses. The women generally run the stores, sell wonderful fresh bread, tamales, or whatever they can on the streets or out of their backyards, and keep their families clean and organized by washing, cooking, and sweeping all day. Almost all of the women and girls wear native dress, a hand woven, heavy colorful skirt gathered by an equally colorful belt and a blouse or huipile. Almost none of the men wear native dress...the boys wear t-shirts and the men wear long-sleeved shirts and jeans. Perhaps unfortunately, the Mayans also make money by selling their land to the foreigners who want to invest or live here. Much of the prime real estate on the lake is owned by absentee foreign owners or businesses. The valley is planted in coffee and many foreigners live there. The barrios (1, 2 and 3) with their mud huts and concrete block houses (Mayan) are up on the sides of the hills. Time will tell if the Mayans stay in the villages or move to the cities.

September 4 I haven't written for a while and the thoughts and impressions are piling up. I'm writing in my journal, but sitting at the internet seems like too much work somehow. You'll have to imagine more of the same as I've written before. Friday I took off to the 2nd largest city in the country, Xela, as the Mayans call it, or Quetzaltenango, as the maps call it. With its 110,000 people Xela is more political, more cosmopolitan, more…well, it is a city, and after seeing the 1,000 people of San Marcos exclusively for three weeks, it was great to be around people who were over 30 years old, hustling, bustling and looking productive and interesting. My own time there was dampened by adjusting to the 7,000 ft altitude with a big headache and limping around on perhaps the broken toe I gave myself by smashing it in the stone shower for the umpteenth time before I left.

Oregon last summer

Road trip to Oregon August 2011. I'm thinking ahead to other places, other lives. Well, actually this life, but another chapter. There's that constant feeling that I might be missing something, that there's something else. Oregon might be fun to explore. So I loaded up the car, contacted my nephew, and made one hotel reservation (in Hood River, Oregon).

I love to drive, but my stamina for the concentration it takes to drive all day is getting lower. Not to worry, this is America, where motels are abundant, my credit card bill is paid up, and I can speak the language. First stop for the night was Arcata, CA, in Humboldt County, home to a State College and long known for pot production and dropping out into the forests of the Trinity Alps. It is a cute little town, with a town square surrounded by shops and restaurants, laid-back atmosphere. I stayed at a Motel 6, ate at a popular Mexican restaurant and strolled around the square.

As I drove back to the motel that night, I saw a lighted sign above the freeway warning that 50 miles ahead cars were stopped on Hwy 101. Highway 101 is the only route to Oregon at the coast, and its closure would mean that I'd have to travel inland through the mountains, an extra 3 hours of driving that would detour around miles of beautiful Oregon coastline. I asked at the motel desk about the closure, but they had no information. I called the California Highway Patrol but they had no information; as far as they knew the road was open.

So next morning I ventured north, trusting in the highway gods. Almost to the border, traffic suddenly did slow to a clawl. As I inched along, I saw cars parked on the shoulder and dirt and people walking along the road toward a bridge. It suddenly occurred to me that the highway was crossing the Klamath River, where a grey whale and her calf had wandered some weeks before. After about a week the calf had swum back to sea, but the mother whale had stayed behind. No one knew why, and there were fears that the fresh water would harm her skin, and that she wouldn't find enough to eat in the shallow delta.

I parked my car and walked out to the bridge. When I got to the middle, I could see her. Below me, a huge pale shape circling below, blowing air and water out of her spout, and seeming to be enjoying herself for the amusement of onlookers, or waiting, biding her time in the dark green of the Klamath. Mesmerized, I stayed and watched too. She had room to turn easily and to almost disappear into the water, but it was clear that an animal this size could not live in such a small amount of space. I was on the road because I needed more space. I knew that she was in distress ... I certainly would be, if I had wandered into such a restricted environment. There must have been scientists around to monitor, but I couldn't see anyone bothering her. The people watching were quiet, respectful, but also interested.

A tall young woman carrying one and trailing two or three children and a husband came to stand next to me on the bridge. We exchanged greetings and I asked if she knew anything about the whale. She lived nearby and had been to the bridge daily, she said, for two weeks. Authorities had been trying to chase the whale out into the sea by making noise up river, and by making whale sounds down river. But she was not expected to live much longer. I expressed my sorrow. The woman told me that the Hurok Indians, who lived along the riverbanks, had told her they find whale skeletons near the river frequently. It would seem that this might be a hospice for grey whales. Perhaps it was her time. She and her calf had come up river, mother had said good-bye to her baby, sending it back to sea, and she was waiting to die. This, then reminded me of the nature of things. I felt grateful that the Klamath opened into the sea, to allow what was there to find a peaceful place to rest.

Annunciation paintings 11/30/2010

I have probably seen 10 or more paintings of The Annunciation, the moment when an angel appears to Mary, wife of Joseph, and informs her that she is pregnant, by immaculate conception, with the son of god. On seeing the first painting, not knowing what it was, I was struck by the sense of tension between the angel and Mary… she not comprehending, he (the angel is male, I believe) simply present with the news There must be symbolic and prescribed forms in all of the paintings… Mary usually holds a book; there is a dove or bird overhead; the background is somehow divided so that Mary and the angel are of different worlds, but united vividly in the foreground by the news; Often, there are rays of light emanating from the angel towards Mary.

My first inclination is to identify with Mary … to put myself into the state of receiving such news … a virgin … having a child … pregnant ….

She has, in all of the paintings, a humanity to her … a face that reveals surprise, acceptance, shock, resignation, disbelief, refusal ….the emotions that a woman would normally feel at this kid of news. Was she raped? Did she dream this implantation? What would her husband say? Who is this child? How will I deal with this? Get outta here! I don’t think so! Unwilling, powerless, accepting fate, wanting to escape, refusing this commitment, curious about the babe.

There is pregnancy in the paintings themselves … the tension leads the viewer to wonder what will happen next … who she will become, where the angel comes from and who will take care of this mother in waiting.