10 Day Retreat

10 Day Retreat

After getting settled in Pakistan, I got on the internet to begin planning my trip through India. I knew that I would start in Udaipur where I had a connection from someone I had met in California and I also knew that I wanted to find a 10 day meditation retreat I could attend at the end of November, just before returning to the states on Dec. 1. My search led me to a meditation course as taught by S.M. Goenka at his Vipassana meditation center in Bodh Gaya (one of over 120 such centers worldwide). The course would start on Nov. 16th and end on Nov. 27th, giving me a few days to get back to Delhi for my flight home. I was delighted as the timing seemed perfect. It was only after deciding to attend this retreat that I discovered Bodh Gaya is where Siddhartha Gautama sat under a sacred fig tree now known as the Bodhi tree and became enlightened 2500 years ago. After his enlightenment he became known as, "The Buddha" which is a title that means, "The Enlightened One" or "The Awakened One." The tree that now resides there is also referred to as the Bodhi tree and is believed to be a direct descendant of the original.

I do not consider Buddhism a religion. There are no Gods and no beliefs that must be followed. In fact, one is encouraged to question everything that is claimed in any of the Buddhist teachings (the Dharma). This is extremely satisfying to my questioning, rational, perhaps over-rational mind and quite different from my (very brief) excursion into Christianity many years ago.

The central teachings of Buddhism are described by the 4 Noble Truths:

1) To live is to suffer
2) Suffering arises from attachment and aversion
3) There is a way of living that can lead to the end of suffering
4) That way is the eightfold path

The eightfold path that can lead to enlightenment is:

1) Right view
2) Right intention
3) Right speech
4) Right action
5) Right livelihood
6) Right effort
7) Right mindfulness
8) Right concentration

I find all of this imminently reasonable, particularly since I am encouraged to discover these truths for myself through the art of meditation.

I do meditate from time to time, but not very consistently nor nearly as often as those who are more serious. And my meditation is not very directed, aimed merely at trying to quiet my restless or "monkey" mind or at least to observe it in this chaotic state.

The goal of this Vipassana meditation course is to teach a more rigorous method of meditation. The teaching begins with an instruction by Herr Goenka via cassette tapes to concentrate on the area of our upper lip, the entrance to our nostrils and the nasal cavity up to the bridge of our nose. For the first 3 days we spent the entire 10+ hours of meditation trying to focus our attention on this small area that was reduced in size to only the upper lip and entrance to the nostrils on the 3rd day.

With the pain in my neck, shoulders, back, butt, legs, knees, ankles and feet (did I forget somewhere?) and my incessant monkey mind, this was not an easy task for me. But I did my best and occasionally I would hit a stretch of a minute or 2 in which my concentration would remain relatively unbroken. I could discern some subtle sensations that would ordinarily go unnoticed, such as the swaying of my nose hairs as I breathed in or out and the difference between the cool dry air coming in and the warm moist air going out.

The next step was to use this same tool of focused concentration to scan the entire body. This seemed a bit like using a dental tool to clean the Taj Mahal, but again I tried my best. We were told to start with an alert, calm, quiet, attentive mind of perfect equanimity. I remember thinking that if I could start with all of that, I wouldn't need to take this stupid course. We were told to choicelessly observe any sensation (pain, itching, vibration, tingling, etc.) as well as any reaction (such as attachment or aversion) to any of these. Again and again this idea of choiceless observation with a mind of perfect equanimity was stressed. We are told that it is not due to any external stimuli that we experience joy or sorrow, that it is due instead to our reactions of attachment or aversion to these stimuli that cause these feelings. We are told that ultimately it is within our power to cease such biased observation and that we can move instead into a place of perfect equanimity where we neither crave nor fear anything and instead simply see the world as it is. It is through the practice of meditation that this truth can be experienced. In this way, Buddhism is the ultimate in personal responsibility.

It is extremely difficult for me to purge my mind of the extraneous thoughts that constitute most of my thinking. But hour after hour I tried and occasionally I would find myself settled into what I call "the quiet zone." But I would not be conscious of this while it was occurring. Rather, it was only when the spurious conscious thought that I had just BEEN in a very quiet and peaceful place would enter my head that I would realize that some version of "me" HAD been quiet up until that point. But with the thought of it, it was gone. This touches on the idea of who/what is "me" and comes up a lot in Buddhism. It is one of the central conundrums that must be investigated.

One interesting experience involved my sitting neighbor to my right (we had assigned seating). He was an Indian looking fellow (dark skinned) and occasionally, from a disturbance deep within his gastro-intestinal tract, he would emit an explosion of gas that was accompanied by a sound that was part bull frog and part elephant seal. The dimensions of this "burp" were so astounding that were adolescent boys intent on out burping each other to be in his presence during one of his eruptions, they would instinctively bow down as humble novices to their new master. I'm sure that everyone else in the meditation hall was as astounded by Mr. Burpie's outbursts, which were a daily occurrence, as I was. Because I was sitting directly next to him I suspect that the vibrational rush ordered up from deep within my being in response was perhaps more pronounced for me than it was for most. Regardless, I discovered after my first few exposures that my body no longer responded in this manner and would remain quite undisturbed by the event. I believe my response changed from one of shock to one of much greater equanimity, much like we were instructed to try and cultivate. But in this case, "I" did not create this equanimity, it simply appeared.

Perhaps that is how it comes about. Any striving to cultivate wisdom and to incorporate it into my personality is simply an exercise in ego development. Perhaps true wisdom simply grows from a well cultivated garden.
At any rate, I spent the rest of the 10 days trying, with little success, to choicelessly observe my body as I scanned it from head to toe and back again. In the end, it was clear that it would be unrealistic to expect any sort of epiphany from 10 days of instruction. This is a practice that must be used regularly if one expects to benefit from it. And while enlightenment is probably possible at any instant, one should not be surprised if it does not come even after years, and perhaps lifetimes, of sincere practice. But I am currently of the mind that final enlightenment is preceded by a series of steps in that direction, each one helping to extract one from the pain of dukkha (suffering) and each one bringing with it a greater measure of peace, compassion and gratitude. So one need not wait until complete enlightenment occurs to reap benefits from the practice, they will begin to accrue immediately.

Only time will tell if I possess the wisdom necessary to continue this practice.

The Face of The Buddha

The Face of the Buddha

I'm a fidgeter, always have been. As a kid I'd always squirm around in my seat and drum my fingers on the table. If my parents had any rhythm they would have found a drum teacher for me instead of slapping my hands and yelling in exasperation, "stop it!" If for no other reason, this was enough to make going to Sunday school and church painful. I did pretty well during my construction years but when I got a desk job as an engineer, I seemed to find many more excuses than anyone else to get out of my chair. I'd get up to go talk to someone instead of calling their extension. I'd go to the library or down to the shop at the slightest provocation. I managed.

So I knew going into the 10-day meditation that it would be a challenge to sit cross-legged on the floor for extended periods. When I was in Pakistan, I would sit with the guys on the floor for lunch and would only make it a few minutes before I had to adjust my poor, aching, western, 58-year-old legs. What little meditation I did back home (about ½ hour a week when I don't miss Sangha) I do on a bench with my legs folded back underneath it. With that I can sometimes survive a half hour or so without too much difficulty, but not much more.

So I entered the retreat with some trepidation over this matter which was not alleviated when I saw the schedule. The meditation periods would start with a 2-hour session from 4:30 – 6:30 am. After some breakfast and a short break we'd come back for a 3-hour session from 8:00 – 11:00 am. Lunch and a good long rest period would be followed by the make-or-break 4 hour session from 1:00 – 5:00 pm. Finally we'd end the day with 3 hours of sitting from 6:00 – 9:00 pm. Over the 10 day retreat, this would represent about 5 years of sitting at my current pace.

Before the retreat even started (day 0) we had an informational meeting of an hour and a half followed by another gathering in the meditation hall which included a short (1/2 hour) sit. Even this was torture for me so I went up to the teacher afterwards and told him of my predicament, thinking I might be able to score some extra pillows. "No problem" he said, I could use a chair. While my ego wanted to protest this obvious sign of weakness the others would see, my legs convinced my mouth to remain silent, saying only, "thank you."

I started the next morning (day 1) in that chair and couldn't help but notice that I was the only one (of about 50) who required such a crutch. I felt like the big Sahib. Even with the chair, I still had pains in my neck, shoulder, back and butt (apparently my butt is only rated to about 150 lbs, not the 170+ it has to bear). So during the morning break, I fashioned a cushion by putting my thermo-rest into my sleeping bag stuff-sack, pulling the draw string and filling the thermo-rest with as much air as I could manage to force into it. This created a large, firm sausage-shaped pillow that I could sit astride, with my legs folded back.

I used this pillow exclusively for the rest of day 1, all of day 2 and the beginning of day 3. But even so, I had to shift between 4 different positions, at times enduring a lot of agony before succumbing to the shift.

If I've been told once, I've been told a thousand times that I must lift with my legs. But during breakfast on day 3 I did not take heed of this ancient wisdom and lifted my spoon filled to the brim with an oatmeal-like substance without using them. The result of my reckless action was a disturbance in the force field in my lower back, right side.

As far as back spasms go, it was not a particularly serious event but it was an ever present source of difficulty during my meditations and made my sittings an even greater challenge.

By day 4 I decided I would have to resort to a natural cure that I have used in the past for everything from any type of stress to fighting off a cold. Vigorous exercise. I used to get on the treadmill during lunch when I worked as an engineer and found the resulting endorphin-induced calm afterwards consistently helpful. I also knew that the heat generated by some exercise would help melt the knot in my back.

I was lucky enough to have a private residence so I started to run in place in my room during the morning break. I'd already been busted for picking up litter on the grounds during an earlier afternoon break (one is supposed to meditate all the time, not just during the sittings) so I had to hide this forbidden activity by closing the translucent windows.

I would run in place for 30 minutes just before the 8:00 am sitting and would be rewarded by a sit that not only was relatively free of pain for at least the first half hour, but was also accompanied by a calmness and quiet mind that was otherwise quite rare.

I would hang my clothes on a hook in front of me and change into my swimming shorts when I ran. I'd set the alarm on my watch, take off my glasses and start. My feet would protest mildly at the start but soon I was running in place with little difficulty. Again I was consciously grateful for my new heart that continues to function as it was designed. I continued this forbidden activity for the remainder of the retreat, always grateful for the results.

I don't remember which day it was, but during one of my runs as I looked up and gazed without intention in a generally forward direction, I saw it.

In the folds of my underwear, hanging on the hook a couple of feet in front of me was a distinct image of a meditating Buddha. There was a long slender nose disappearing into the forehead made from a convex undulation, with 2 long almond-shaped eyes, both closed in meditation, formed by concave indulations on each side. Even the overall shape of the face seemed very Buddha-like, though I suppose that someone not in a Buddhist retreat might see in it a face that looked more like the aliens reported to have been observed in the Rockwell, New Mexico region of the U.S.

I was intrigued and then amazed as I looked at this image, realizing that if nothing else it represented a new art form (brief relief). I'm quite blind without my glasses, so much so that it is important that I not forget where I put them since, with their slender wire rim, they are quite invisible to me. My vision is so bad that I can't see the top letter on the charts and it was once described as 20/2000. That is, I see at 20 feet what a person with normal vision would see at 2000 feet (almost 6 football fields, including end zones). So I wondered how this image might change when I put my glasses back on and saw "the reality" of whatever I was looking at.

Figuring that without the freedom for my brain to fill in the vagueness with something that I might subconsciously want to perceive, I was more than a little surprised to find that with my glasses on, the face of the Buddha was still clearly present in my underwear!

This was now getting serious. After all, it's not every day that I am witness to a miracle such as this, for by now that is what I felt it was. I would have taken a picture of it since I was pretty certain that no one would believe that this image was as clear as I would claim, but that technology had been placed in a locker with everything else that might have detracted from my meditating experience. This included my cell phone, all jewelry, good luck charms, books and writing implements.

I pondered for a moment what to do. I mean if this had been an image of the Virgin Mary instead of the Buddha, it may have formed the beginning of a major shrine for the world's Catholics. For a moment I had a vision of a huge line of pilgrims making their way from far off lands to look at my underwear. I also imagined that were it the Virgin Mary, this might be leveraged into a considerable financial return for me as well as the Bodh-Gaya Vipassana center.

But this wasn't the Virgin Mary, and so my next thought was of Buddhist sand art. Monks will sit hunched over a Mandala, often chanting while tediously spilling bits of colored sand into the complex pattern, which days later results in a brilliant design of great beauty. But because everything arises and then passes away (Anicha) and we should therefore have no attachments, they take this work of art down to the river and dump it in.

And so, with no disrespect intended, I took my underwear down and put them back on.

Varanasi to Bodh-Gaya, Preparing for Enlightenment

Varanasi to Bodh-Gaya, Preparing for Enlightenment

I had hoped to send one last post before entering my 10 day retreat and had a plan to do so. It was a good plan, but this is India and one must learn to expect the unexpected, to abandon expectations and go with the flow since to resist is futile. So what follows are a couple of stories from before I entered the 10-day retreat.

My last night in Varanasi was another incredible evening. I wanted to hear some Indian music and had noticed a flyer for what was described as Sufi Soul, kiwali music at a nearby guesthouse. I sat on the roof top with 100 others as we enjoyed the haunting sounds of a master flute player, accompanied by a guy on a vertical stringed instrument played with a bow (excuse my ignorance here) as well as a percussionist on a set of Tablas. They did a single song that must have been at least 30 minutes (all their songs were of similar duration) mesmerizing us all. This was followed by another set in which the flute player was replaced by a harmonium player and a sitar player who combined their voices in spiritual chanting that was breathtaking! It required the determination and will of an ascetic, but I managed to hold my camera by hand for over 30 minutes to record most of this. It should make for an interesting bit of video.

As if this performance was not enough, a woman started dancing with it. She was beautiful as were her graceful movements. I don't think it would be likely to see such dancing in the us. Though I was a bit concerned that she might think I was hitting on her, I did go up to her afterwards and express my appreciation for making a very special night even more special. She took the complement without offense or suspicion and instead gave me a huge and genuine smile, like the one she was displaying during her dancing.

As I walked along the Ghats back to my hotel I felt I'd been uniquely blessed yet again.

The taxi picked me up at 4:30 in the morning to take me to the airport. I had a sleeper car so figured I'd be able to get some sleep during the 4 hour ride to Gaya (which is a short tuk-tuk ride from Bodh-Gaya).

HA!

The train was packed like only India can pack 'em. It was a struggle but I managed somehow to get my backpack, my daypack and myself into the middle bunk. Once there the surrounding floor area was quickly covered with wall-to-wall humanity and I could neither see out any window to be able to find my stop nor imagine how I might be capable of extracting myself from my current position.

But I managed to get reasonably comfortable and tried to dose off, thinking that perhaps in 4 hours I might find the conditions improved.

I did manage to get a bit of semi-sleep and when I regained the better part of my consciousness, I began to notice the people around me with more interest. These were the folks who would either help me find my stop and get me out or not so I was relieved when they turned out to be some young high school students, most of whom spoke at least some English. They were quite friendly and helpful and said they'd tell me when we got to Gaya. They were in the middle of a 4-day train trip from Punjab in the northern-most part of India to Calcutta in the southern-most part. They had just placed 3rd in a music competition and they were the sweetest kids you could ever meet. With bright eyes and eager smiles we chatted about everything from economics (they were quite surprised that I did not know about Ravindernath Nath Tagore and his Nobel prize) and music (they love Michael Jackson). They taught me how to say I love you (ami tomake bhalobashi) which they had me recite to their teacher whom they called over from a neighboring compartment to meet me. They were delightful and when we got to my stop were instrumental in helping to extract me from the human sarcophagus in which I was entombed.

After arriving in Gaya, I was recruited by a monk to ride along in a tuk-tuk to Bodh-Gaya with several others. Along the way the driver would pick up some and drop off others. At times there were as many as 10 others. If you've ever seen one of these 3-wheeled glorified scooters you might be incredulous that 11 of us (some like me with considerable luggage) could fit into and on one of these, but I'm sure this was not a record of any sort. That's just the way things are done in India, no space is willingly left unused.

After arriving in Bodh-Gaya I had to catch another ride to the Bodh-Gaya Vipassana Meditation Center, which was surprisingly far from town, particularly to the poor rickshaw peddler.

Once there I got registered and unloaded my backpack (always a joy!) and was preparing to go back into town to get something to eat and find an internet café when one of the facilitators, Remi from France, said that lunch would be provided for us at the center and that I could use his computer and their wi-fi internet connection to send my last post before entering the 10-day retreat.

That sounded like a good plan but I was foiled by 3 converging issues:

1) The computer Remi loaned me had a French keyboard. Several of the letters and much of the punctuation is different than a us keyboard and aside from challenging my patience (what a great tool for discovering aversion and lack of equanimity!), it slowed down my writing by more than half.

2) There was no outlet in my Spartan quarters and Remi's battery was only good for about 1 hour of (very inefficient) typing.

3) In the end it all didn't matter because when I went to connect to the internet to send what I had, it was down and my time had run out.

So you now have what I would have sent then. I'll report on some of what happened during and after the retreat in another post, hopefully within the next day or 2.

Sometimes you gotta say, "yes!"

Sometimes you gotta say "yes!"

After I left Delhi and Rita's protective bubble, I learned what everyone who has ever traveled through India knows. It seems like everyone is trying to scam you, either a little or a lot, depending on how gullible/trusting/stupid you may be. To make several long stories very short, I've been plenty of all 3. So like everyone else who has savvied up some, I have now developed an automatic response as soon as someone, no matter how pleasant their delivery might be, comes up and says, "hello" or pretty much anything else. After, "hello" their favorite lines are, "where are you from?", "Can I help you?", "Where are you going?" (I, in particular, usually look lost). As soon as I hear one of these lines I immediately tense up and tell them, pleasantly at first, "no thank you." If they persist, which they usually do, I turn up the volume and by the third time it's even money that I'll deliver some version of an unrestrained, "get the hell out of may face!" scream.

And so it was on the banks of the Ganges this evening when an old (70?) grizzled guy in a torn t-shirt came up to me and shook my hand. I offered mine hesitantly and he immediately began to massage it, telling me that for only 10 Rs (about 25 cents) he would give me a head and shoulders massage. In automatic mode, I told him politely but firmly, "no" I wasn't interested. As he disappeared down the steps into the crowd that had gathered for an Indian music and dance performance I began to think about the persistent pains I've had in my neck, upper back and lower back for the past couple of months. I began to think that perhaps in this instance I had been too rash.

So when he came back up the steps I did not immediately avert my gaze and he started in again saying it would only be 10 Rs, not 50 Rs or 100 Rs.

So finally, I said, "ok."

He took me over to the edge of the steps and had me sit cross-legged as he started massaging my head. Now one of the things I know how to do pretty well is fully accept a massage without inhibitions. So except for trying to keep my eye on my pack, i immediately began to relax and let him do his work.

And it turns out he did very good work. He had very strong hands and knew how to use them. Pretty soon I was laying on my stomach as he upped the ante to a full body massage. It was all great and he was truly an expert. Later he described himself as a, "master" and I would have to agree. I was enjoying it all but there was one point when I felt a drop of something on my earlobe. I was hoping it was a bit of his sweat but did I mention that when he came back up the steps he had a mouth full of chew? All I could do was laugh at the prospect.

After he had finished with my back he had me turn over. The massage itself was probably one of the best I've ever had, certainly the most vigorous as he combined massage with chiropractic procedures to get as much of me unstuck as anyone could in the 45 minutes he blessed me with his talents. But aside from the massage, I found it darn near incredible to realize I was laying on the steps of the main Ghat in Varanasi, next to the Holy Ganges, listening to beautiful Indian music and gazing up at the moon as I was melting into this old man's hands. Of course it is true than no moment of our lives can be duplicated but in this case that realization was particularly easy to grasp.

And for 500 Rs, it was still a bargain (talk about up-selling!).

Sometimes you gotta say, "yes!"

Re: Delhi, Diwali, the Taj and Beyond

Mark Ji:

your life sounds charmed. and the Koi baat nahin is a magic mantra
indeed. Thank you so much for just letting me know that you did not
intend to write about David and me, but just about the work we do
here. Thank you for also not being pissed at me for thinking that you
would write, but I feel I can be honest with you, because you are a
very real human being.

It has been fun hanging out with Helena and Jimmy in Udaipur. Helena
and I are continuing to visualize what a festival on feminine
spirituality would be like...........

One of the ideas David gave this morning was a by line to the title
(not yet decided)
as - Leveraging Feminine Power to Green and Save the World
I think I will cut "power" out of the byline and put Feminine energy
instead.............what do you think?

All is good other wise.................. more soon I am being invited
to some beer and dinner making.

love and warm regards,
Rita

On 11/11/10, Mark Phillips <mrppy@fix.net> wrote:
> Delhi, Diwali, the Taj and Beyond
>
>
> Rita and I traveled to Delhi for the Diwali festival which was an experience
> I'll not soon forget. They do fireworks on a grand scale where the only
> measure of success is the degree of excess. Along with Rita's sister, Joya,
> niece, Blanka and nephew, Nishu (whose names are correct if my memory serves
> me, which is unlikely) we went to 3 parties over 2 evenings each ending just
> before sunrise. I met some interesting folks but because I stayed up so
> late I was pretty wasted on the following days as this schedule does not
> particularly agree with my delicate constitution.
>
> It took half a day, but I finally got a train ticket to Agra and after a
> very nice final evening with Rita and Joya, I bid them adieu and headed off
> on my own again.
>
> The train ride to Agra was highlighted by meeting Gunjan, a young woman who
> was taking her son, Anan (means "peace") to a boarding school in Gwalior.
> She seemed very nice and we chatted for a bit. Some time later, after I had
> taken residence in the upper bunk, she looked up at me from her seat below
> and tells me that I have missed my stop in Agra! On the one hand, after
> getting on the wrong bus in Udaipur it is entirely possible that I could
> have missed my stop in Agra, but on the other hand, she and her son were
> both laughing as she explained that she did not want to wake me when the
> train stopped in Agra. My mind was spinning as I tried to figure out if
> they were kidding or not. I'm sure my confusion showed, particularly when
> Gunjan said, "Mark, what about koi bat nahin? You have failed miserably."
> By this time the other woman in our sector and another guy were hanging
> around, all laughing, and I was finally told that I was the target of a Big
> Tease. When done correctly I think teasing is a highly refined form of
> love... And this WAS done correctly so I ended up laughing about it with
> them after I was initiated into the club. I was amazed that someone I had
> just met would take a chance with an act that could easily backfire. I was
> really quite touched by the gesture.
>
> I hooked up with a taxi driver at the Agra train station who took me to a
> hotel I had booked online. After freshening up a bit, he took me to a
> viewpoint he said would provide a stunning view of the Taj Mahal at sunset.
>
> Or at least he tried. Several minutes into the trip he muttered something
> that sounded a lot like, "shit! traffic!!" as we hit the most colossal
> traffic clusterf**k I've ever experienced. It was at a roundabout and so
> many cars, scooters, bicycles, rickshaws, tok toks and busses had coagulated
> there that the entire system was clogged and no longer functional. Several
> guys had taken it upon themselves to try and get vehicles moved enough that
> a bus could maneuver itself through the intersection. Yelling and waving of
> hands were the tools they used and after some time they managed to get the
> bus through which helped a bit but not nearly enough. I saw other tourists
> trapped in the same chaos and we were all laughing about it. It was so
> absurd there was really nothing else to do.
>
> Finally my driver admitted defeat and (somehow) managed to turn around and
> flee the scene. We finally got to our destination, long after sunset.
>
> The next day I got to the Taj as soon as it opened (6:30 am) so I could see
> it at sunrise. During the security check they discovered a 6 inch tripod I
> had for my camera and told me that this was not allowed. In utter amazement
> and a Kafkaesque sense of disbelief, I was told I would have to exit the
> entrance queue and take my FO (Forbidden Object) to the lockers. It turns
> out that these lockers are not conveniently located anywhere near the
> entrance gate I was trying to breach, but ¼ mile away. As I trudged I
> noticed that my demeanor had deteriorated significantly so I began to chant
> my mantra (everyone now…), "koi bat nahin, koi bat nahin….. When I got back
> to the line the security guy tried to make me get back in at the end of it
> but I simply refused. Marching myself straight on to the front I boldly
> ducked under the railing so I could be searched again.
>
> This time I was successful and I entered the large grounds that contain the
> Taj Mahal. Many authors and poets have tried unsuccessfully to describe its
> beauty so I'll just leave it at "sublime".
>
> As I left the grounds, I realized I was exiting through a different gate
> than the one I had entered (typical for me). I spoke to the security guard
> there and after showing him the card for my motel he told me I needed to
> exit West gate (I was at the South gate). So I turned around to re-enter
> which required going through security again. Even though I had just come
> from inside (and thus successfully passed security) and had taken only a
> step beyond the exit, the guard determined that I and my daypack would have
> to be searched again. I was really more amused than anything at what seemed
> to me to be an absurd degree of security, but this changed considerably when
> he discovered 2 more FOs (a Swiss army knife and a head lamp). So now I was
> prohibited from entering the grounds and easily finding my way to the proper
> gate from the inside, and instead had to exit and walk around the
> considerable perimeter. This took some time and again my attitude took a
> dump. It was only exacerbated when, arriving at the West gate I discovered
> to my dismay that it was the third, and final, gate that I needed, the now
> quite elusive East gate. In all it took about an hour to get out.
>
> These are not the only frustrations I've encountered but as anyone who has
> traveled India will tell you, it is to be expected. But somehow I have
> survived them and now find myself in Khajuraho for 3 days away from big
> cities. This will hopefully prepare me for Varanasi and then it is on to
> Bodh Gaya and a 10 day silent meditation.
>
>

Delhi, Diwali, the Taj and Beyond

Delhi, Diwali, the Taj and Beyond

Rita and I traveled to Delhi for the Diwali festival which was an experience I'll not soon forget. They do fireworks on a grand scale where the only measure of success is the degree of excess. Along with Rita's sister, Joya, niece, Blanka and nephew, Nishu (whose names are correct if my memory serves me, which is unlikely) we went to 3 parties over 2 evenings each ending just before sunrise. I met some interesting folks but because I stayed up so late I was pretty wasted on the following days as this schedule does not particularly agree with my delicate constitution.

It took half a day, but I finally got a train ticket to Agra and after a very nice final evening with Rita and Joya, I bid them adieu and headed off on my own again.

The train ride to Agra was highlighted by meeting Gunjan, a young woman who was taking her son, Anan (means "peace") to a boarding school in Gwalior. She seemed very nice and we chatted for a bit. Some time later, after I had taken residence in the upper bunk, she looked up at me from her seat below and tells me that I have missed my stop in Agra! On the one hand, after getting on the wrong bus in Udaipur it is entirely possible that I could have missed my stop in Agra, but on the other hand, she and her son were both laughing as she explained that she did not want to wake me when the train stopped in Agra. My mind was spinning as I tried to figure out if they were kidding or not. I'm sure my confusion showed, particularly when Gunjan said, "Mark, what about koi bat nahin? You have failed miserably." By this time the other woman in our sector and another guy were hanging around, all laughing, and I was finally told that I was the target of a Big Tease. When done correctly I think teasing is a highly refined form of love... And this WAS done correctly so I ended up laughing about it with them after I was initiated into the club. I was amazed that someone I had just met would take a chance with an act that could easily backfire. I was really quite touched by the gesture.

I hooked up with a taxi driver at the Agra train station who took me to a hotel I had booked online. After freshening up a bit, he took me to a viewpoint he said would provide a stunning view of the Taj Mahal at sunset.

Or at least he tried. Several minutes into the trip he muttered something that sounded a lot like, "shit! traffic!!" as we hit the most colossal traffic clusterf**k I've ever experienced. It was at a roundabout and so many cars, scooters, bicycles, rickshaws, tok toks and busses had coagulated there that the entire system was clogged and no longer functional. Several guys had taken it upon themselves to try and get vehicles moved enough that a bus could maneuver itself through the intersection. Yelling and waving of hands were the tools they used and after some time they managed to get the bus through which helped a bit but not nearly enough. I saw other tourists trapped in the same chaos and we were all laughing about it. It was so absurd there was really nothing else to do.

Finally my driver admitted defeat and (somehow) managed to turn around and flee the scene. We finally got to our destination, long after sunset.

The next day I got to the Taj as soon as it opened (6:30 am) so I could see it at sunrise. During the security check they discovered a 6 inch tripod I had for my camera and told me that this was not allowed. In utter amazement and a Kafkaesque sense of disbelief, I was told I would have to exit the entrance queue and take my FO (Forbidden Object) to the lockers. It turns out that these lockers are not conveniently located anywhere near the entrance gate I was trying to breach, but ¼ mile away. As I trudged I noticed that my demeanor had deteriorated significantly so I began to chant my mantra (everyone now…), "koi bat nahin, koi bat nahin….. When I got back to the line the security guy tried to make me get back in at the end of it but I simply refused. Marching myself straight on to the front I boldly ducked under the railing so I could be searched again.

This time I was successful and I entered the large grounds that contain the Taj Mahal. Many authors and poets have tried unsuccessfully to describe its beauty so I'll just leave it at "sublime".

As I left the grounds, I realized I was exiting through a different gate than the one I had entered (typical for me). I spoke to the security guard there and after showing him the card for my motel he told me I needed to exit West gate (I was at the South gate). So I turned around to re-enter which required going through security again. Even though I had just come from inside (and thus successfully passed security) and had taken only a step beyond the exit, the guard determined that I and my daypack would have to be searched again. I was really more amused than anything at what seemed to me to be an absurd degree of security, but this changed considerably when he discovered 2 more FOs (a Swiss army knife and a head lamp). So now I was prohibited from entering the grounds and easily finding my way to the proper gate from the inside, and instead had to exit and walk around the considerable perimeter. This took some time and again my attitude took a dump. It was only exacerbated when, arriving at the West gate I discovered to my dismay that it was the third, and final, gate that I needed, the now quite elusive East gate. In all it took about an hour to get out.

These are not the only frustrations I've encountered but as anyone who has traveled India will tell you, it is to be expected. But somehow I have survived them and now find myself in Khajuraho for 3 days away from big cities. This will hopefully prepare me for Varanasi and then it is on to Bodh Gaya and a 10 day silent meditation.

Onward

Onward

By the time I returned to Udaipur from Jaisalmer, it was clear to me that even though the temples, museums and forts are amazing and stupendous, traveling from one to the next does not appear to be my cup of tea. Or at least I have sipped enough of this potent tea to be pretty saturated at this point. So the plan I had when I left Udaipur, to come back for no more than a day before heading east to see as many places as possible before the Nov. 16th start of my 10-day silent meditation in Bodh Gaya, required modification.

What that modification would be became apparent when Rita said her sister wanted her to return to Delhi for the Diwali celebration. Along with the Lawyer I met on the plane from Delhi to Udaipur, Rita wanted me to talk to her niece's boyfriend about the possibility of building straw-bale homes. I had thought it would be a good idea for Rita to join me in these discussions, particularly if they come to the point of talking about working for pay (as both of these projects might) since she could help to negotiate these matters much better than I. It might also provide for a bit of revenue for Rita which she could sorely use to support her social activism. Her and David's story is a long and interesting one that I hope to get back to at another time.

We had talked about doing this when I traveled to Delhi before flying home at the end of November but this way she does not have to make a special trip. And I would be able to spend a few more days with locals doing whatever comes up, instead of suffering through another marvelous temple.

I'm hoping that after a few days in Delhi, I'll be able to enjoy Agra and the Taj Mahal.

Because it is Diwali, getting a train to Delhi is not possible so Rita is buying the bus tickets now. Rita has turned into a good friend and it will be fun to have someone to chat with during the 14 hour trip.

Ali, Manu and Me

Ali, Manu and Me

My trip to Jaisalmer was delayed while I spent a day in bed recovering from my second relapse after the cold I had in Pakistan. Another low-grade fever with body aches. I was worried enough about it that I went and had my blood tested to make sure I didn't have something really nasty. I didn't so after mostly recovering I got on the bus Tuesday night that would take me to Jodhpur Wednesday morning. Then I would transfer to another bus that would take me to Jaisalmer.

Or so I thought.

When I got out of the bus Wednesday morning, I found myself in Jaipur, further from Jaisalmer than when I started.

Of course all I could do was laugh and wonder how I could get on the wrong bus. I think I now understand, but the details are not worth relating now. But I'll add it to my upcoming book, "1001 Ways to Get Lost without really Trying."

So I got an auto-rickshaw to a nearby hotel that would keep my bag while I toured the city waiting for my 5:30 pm bus that would deposit me in Jaisalmer some 13 hours later. The most interesting site I visited was an Observatory built in 1728. I found the math and geometry interesting and enlightening. I was profoundly impressed by the intelligence of its design. They have the world's most accurate sundial with a resolution of 2 seconds!

The bus to Jaisalmer was another with "sleeper" bunks. These are 1 or 2 wide bunks with small sliding glass doors one can crawl into and, if you're under 5' 9", stretch out completely.

The good news is that I'm only 5" 7", the bad news is that the term "sleeper" is a euphemism,

Only the most unflappable could possibly sleep on these rambling beasts as they bump and grind their way along pothole strewn Indian roads. Then there is the sea of kids talking, laughing and squealing just outside the glass doors.

And if anyone would dare to find a bit of sleep within that milieu, there is the custom of honking to quickly bring one back to semi-consciousness. Whenever a vehicle wants to pass another, there is a long series of honks that are necessary to warn the over driver of one's approach. And after, there is another ceremony that must be performed, perhaps thanking the Gods that all is well. Now I must say that the horns themselves are quite whimsical with their musical riffs, but it is still necessary that they be quite loud to perform their intended function.

still, I arrived in Jaisalmer more or less in tact and after getting a hotel room, a nap and a shower, I was ready to plan my next move.

I met Manu, the owner or at least the manager of the hotel who offered to help me arrange my camel tour. after some discussion of the many possibilities (in India everything is possible) I decided to leave later in the afternoon for an overnight trip, returning the next afternoon. I haggled just a bit on the price and we decided on 5000 Rs (about $120). this would include taxi to and from the site, with all food and cooking and my own camel. while I was willing to go with someone else, Manu was not able to work this out so I would go alone.

after determining the cost, I told Manu that I could pay in us $$ if that would be ok. so he added up the cost of the hotel room (400 Rs/$9) the safari and a few other things and converted this total into dollars (at 43 Rs per $). since I only had $100 bills, he would owe me some change which I figured would be 1390 Rs. so I gave him his dollars, he gave me my rupees and I thought we were done.

but an hour or so later he came up to me and handed me 1000 Rs, telling me a mistake had been made. when he showed me the paper on which we had made the calculations, I realized that 8-6 equals 2, not 1 (my math is usually better than that, my only defense is that I had not slept properly for 2 nights). I was a bit astonished, not only by my inability to make simple calculations, but also by Manu's honesty. I complemented him profusely on this and he just smiled and asked rhetorically what good would it be to spend the money if he could no longer consider himself an honest man. by itself, this is only (perhaps) mildly interesting. but from this small gesture on Manu's part, an important deal would later be consummated.

on the way to the safari starting point we came upon a parasailing operation. a few guys with a jeep and a parachute offered 5 minute rides for 500 Rs. a few minutes later I was hooked up in the harness and sailing 50 feet above the desert floor, looking down on a surprisingly small jeep and out on a fantastic panoramic view. the taxi driver used my video camera to try and capture the event, but I have not seen the results yet.

a few minutes later I met Ali, the young camel driver who would take me into the desert for the night. his English was surprisingly good so he was easy to talk to. Ali confided to me his dream of someday owning his own camel. I asked how much that would cost and he said 25,000 Rs (about $600). it occurred to me that it would be within my ability to grant his wish but I let the thought pass as organically as it had arisen.

We traveled to some nice dunes well before sunset and settled in. Me on my carpet with my camera ready as Ali started making chai and preparing dinner. after the hustle and bustle of several busy Indian cities, it was amazingly peaceful and quite to be in the desert. the sunset was beautiful and I hope some of the pictures I took will do it some justice.

Ali and I talked of many things including a healthy dose of religion/spirituality. as with the folks in Pakistan, talk on this subject comes quite easily and naturally to the people of India. in all cases folks agree that it is most important to lead a good life even if they remain poor.

Just before dinner and just before sunset, a friend of Ali's from a village that was surprisingly nearby came over and offered to sell me something to drink. Something COLD to drink and one of the options was a BEER! I had anticipated that I would not drink anything while I was in India prior to my retreat in Bodh Gaya but an opportunity like this may never occur again so I said, "sure!"

Sunset, dinner and beer were all great (though my stomach has had a bit of a problem with Indian food). Before the moon came up the stars came out in massive numbers. Later we each retired to our blankets to sleep on the sand. it was not quite as romantic as I would have liked as the sand is still pretty hard and it gets quite cold and windy during the evening.

Still, morning came and found me in good spirits.

Sunrise was beautiful but only revealed itself briefly between the morning clouds.

After a bit of chai, we saddled up and were back on the path again.

Between more chatting, I experimented with various methods of riding a camel. by this time I had developed an advanced case of camel-butt and found it to be of glorious relief to sit side-saddle as Ali often did (though Ali disapproved, thinking I might fall as others before me had done).

While stationary, I tried "camel-surfing" as Ali handled the photography. Unfortunately I never got the chance to try this while moving, which would have elevated it from a photo-op to a real sport.

We came upon a wonderful oasis, just like in the cartoons I used to watch. Out of nowhere, a beautiful lake with trees materialized and this is where we stopped for lunch. Mercifully, this would be the end of the journey by camel as Ali used his cell phone (that he used throughout the trip) to call for the taxi that would take me back to town.

I was joined in the taxi by Daniel and Elaine, 2 folks from Sweden who had just finished their own safari. I had to laugh as Daniel and I, sitting on opposing benches in the back, both leaned heavily to the side, each nursing our own case of camel-butt. They had been on a 2-day safari, and I could only guess at how much worse their case was than my own.

When I got back to the hotel, there was only one thing left for me to do before heading back to Udaipur.

I bought a camel.

With Manu's administrative help, I loaned Ali the $600 it would take for him to buy his camel. He will do his best to pay this interest-free loan back over the next 3-5 years. Manu will keep the money in a bank and if it gets paid back we'll find someone else who needs a camel and make them the same offer.

It seemed like the least I could do.

Laxmi

Laxmi

I've endured a lot of difficulties with computers, the internet and accessing my e-mail. After a particularly difficult session in which I spent well over an hour just trying to print out the plane ticket that will get me to Delhi for my flight home I was finally saved by a couple of locals who took pity on me. Afterwards I told them I wanted to find a place to eat and they suggested a restaurant that was nearby.

All I had to do was go down the street we were on, take the first left and go until I found the place. Now I've known for most of my life that I have an uncanny ability to get lost while following the most simple directions, but even I was surprised when the street where I was to find the restaurant became narrower, darker and eventually came to a dead end at lake Pinhole without yielding my destination.

So, a bit incredulous that I had set a new standard for how quickly I could get lost, I turned around and headed back.

On the way a guy (whose name I later learned was Prakash) said, "Hello". Now that I've been wearing western clothing this happens to me a lot. When I'm in the market it is often a prelude to a sales pitch of some sort but in this case I felt reasonably certain it was just Indian friendliness. I responded with, "hello" and a brief conversation ensued. "Where are you from?" "America" "how long are you in India" etc. but at one point Prakash asked me a question I had not heard before, "can you read English?" A bit perplexed I said, "of course." Then he asked if I could read a letter he had received as he invited me into his house.

When I was in Ghana I was invited into the home of a couple of young boys to meet their mother and was immediately accosted for my money. I escaped after loosing only a few dollars but it taught me a lesson about staying out in the public. And because I was already a bit spooked by being well down a dimly lit nearly deserted street, there was a voice in my head that said, "Watch it!" when Prakash invited me into his home. But it was not a loud voice and my gut seemed to think it was ok, so I followed him inside.

Once inside I was introduced to another guy, Laxmi. Laxmi has cerebral palsy, a result of a bad reaction to a polio vaccine when he was a young child. If he was ever bitter about this unfortunate turn of events, he has long gotten over it. He is perhaps the sweetest guy I've ever met as well as one of the happiest. It was a letter someone had sent to Laxmi that Prakash had wanted me to read.

A guy from Spain who had met Laxmi while traveling in Udaipur had written to tell Laxmi of how much he had enjoyed meeting him and how his life had gone upon his return to Spain.

When I finished reading the letter we all started talking and the atmosphere continued to grow more friendly and comfortable. I learned that Prakash was the cook for the king of Udaipur (I hadn't known Udaipur even had a king). Apparently this lofty and strategic position is not rewarded with an adequate salary as Prakash shares Laxmi's apartment and cooks for him in return. I also became more enthralled with Laxmi. Besides his good nature and good humor, he was really a very wise man. We talked about what does and does not make one a happy person and other matters of the spirit and heart.

Eventually the conversation got around to me and what I've been up to. I started into my building-load-bearing-straw-bale-homes-in-Pakistan spiel when I pulled out a picture that showed what I was talking about.

Laxmi looked at the picture for a moment and then looked up and said, "Do you know David?" Stunned, I responded that I DID know a David Kubiac. Then he asked, "and Rita?" At this point an elephant could have materialized in the room and I would not have been any more astonished.

"Yes!" I replied, "I DO know Rita" as I wondered if this was not a revamped version of "Candid Camera."

Laxmi explained that he was very good friends with David and Rita. Rita had told him that an American was coming to Udaipur after spending a month in Pakistan building straw homes and that we should meet. Rita, too, had told me of a special friend she had wanted me to meet and I was waiting for her to return from Delhi to arrange the introduction.

As it dawned on the 3 of us that out of a city of ½ million we had managed to bump into each other quite by "accident" it became difficult to keep our jaws off the floor.

Apparently the universe could not wait for Rita's return so it arranged the meeting on its own terms.

Laxmi and I agreed that we would not divulge the details of our meeting until we could both be with her to appreciate her response.

That did not happen until a couple of days after she got home. Finally she said she had this friend of hers she wanted me to meet. She warned me that he had cerebral palsy and that he got around by doing a sort of crab-walk/crawl. When we went to pick up Laxmi she introduced us. It was all Laxmi and could do to keep from laughing out loud as we each said, "nice to meet you." Whenever Rita's gaze was diverted we would share a secret grin as we anticipated our telling of the story.

That happened about an hour later. She, too, had a problem keeping her jaw off the floor. As she realized how well we had pretended to not know each other when she "introduced" us all she could do was laugh and say, "you guys are SO bad!"

And then we all laughed, long and deeply.

Equipment Malfunction

Equipment Malfunction

In March I had a multi-day procedure scheduled at Stanford hospital to correct a heart arrhythmia. This required some logistics effort, including getting someone who could pick me up from the hospital on the first day and take me back to my hotel as I would be recovering from anesthesia. The obvious solution, to call a cab, was not allowed (for reasons that were never really made clear).

In February I met carol at a news conference in San Francisco for architects and engineers for 9/11 truth. I discovered that she lived in Palo Alto and even though I had just met her I decided that it would not be too outrageous to ask her if she would be willing to provide the taxi service I needed.

Those of you who know carol can easily predict her response. Of course she would be willing to do this for me.

The day before the procedure I drove to Paso Robles and got on the train (as I would also not be able to drive myself home after the entire procedure was completed). The next day I walked over to Stanford hospital and was waiting for the 1st of several appointments when I got a call on my cell phone form one of the nurses saying that due to an equipment malfunction the procedure would have to be cancelled and rescheduled for 2 months later. I had a brief moment of "oh why me, lord?" but I quickly let go of that, realizing that stuff happens and I've grown weary of being miserable when things do not go "my way."

When I called carol to tell her she was off the hook she suggested that as long as I was in the area for the rest of the day anyway, we might as well go for a walk.

To make a long story a bit shorter, a result of this unplanned walk was that carol and I became good friends.

So, starting from the top, here is the short story of what has happened since.

Because of an equipment malfunction, my appointment was cancelled.

Because my appointment was cancelled, I became good friends with carol.

Because I became good friends with carol, I was part of a retreat that followed the "understanding deep politics" conference in Santa Cruz.

Because I went to this retreat, I met several interesting people including David Kubiak who invited me to stay in Udaipur when I went to India.

Because I went to Udaipur I met Rita, David's wife, mar Kabra, Laxmi, Kusum and others.

Because of the people I have met in Udaipur, there are 3 possibilities for me to return to build load-bearing straw bale homes in India.

And who knows how much more fruit will be produced by an equipment malfunction at Stanford….

Well Managed

Well Managed

I spoke to Aruneshwar Gupta, a lawyer from Delhi, on the flight to Udaipur. He had seen the book I was reading, "Web of Debt" by Ellen Brown and asked me what I thought. I told him I was dumbfounded by how utterly corrupt the entire world's financial systems were. He had a jovial nature about him and he chuckled when he replied in his thick indian accent, "they are not corrupt, mark, they are well-managed."

Of course, from the perspective of the rothschilds, the rockefellers and the handful of others who call the shots, he is absolutely correct. And since it was beginning to make me too serious and too upset, it was good that he could get me to laugh about it.

He was very interested in the straw bale housing project I had been working on in pakistan. He invited me to look him up when I get to delhi and made a suggestion about building some straw bale homes in India. It would certainly be worth talking about.

Other than that, the flight to Udaipur was uneventful until I picked up my backpack at the luggage carousel. It was then that I realized that ½ of the belt that attaches around my hips was…gone. I was more than a bit surprised to find that the very thick, very wide and very tough piece of plastic that previously held it in place had been ripped apart. This is not something that a human, not even Arnold Schwarzenegger, could do. Clearly it got caught in some machinery and I won't be able to repair it until I can get a replacement part back home.

But Koi Bat Nahin, I still have my shoulder straps.

I arrived at Rita and David's house tues. (10/19) afternoon. They are both gone but I was met by their business associate, mr. kabra. Rita is in delhi and I hope to stay here until she returns on the 23rd. The place is spectacular, with a view of lake pichola from a rise just a bit out of town. It will be a very relaxing few days here and I find mr. kabra's company quite agreeable.

More First Impressions of India

More First Impressions of India

One thing I failed to mention in my haste to get some sleep last night was that while I was at the golden temple I was greatly impressed and soothed by the music that was broadcast throughout the area. I learned later (from, Shera Singh, my internet café owner/guru, that the music is called Kirtan and it is the recitation of the holy Sikh scriptures from the Sri Guru Granth Sahib (Sri = "Respect", Guru = "teacher", Granth = "Sea of Knowledge", Sahib = "beloved one"). It goes virtually non-stop for 19 hours a day, every day.

But when I got inside the Golden Temple, I was surprised to find that this was not some recording, it was a live, 4-piece band. The "drum" was a Tabla. There were 2 harmoniums and those guys were doing most of the singing. They were backed up by a stringed instrument played with a bow called a Srangi.

Today I went to the Durgiana Temple and where I ran into some drummers. They were playing and trying to entice folks to start dancing. Now when I was in Africa I decided from the outset that I might never get back there and I was not going to waste time and opportunity being shy about enjoying myself. So I never hesitated when they would invite me to get up and dance to THEIR drumming. In fact, after one such event, an African guy came up to me and said, "You…You number 1 African Dancer!" That was quite a compliment coming from an African.

So when the same opportunity arose today, I took the same course of action. When I did this in Africa the universal reaction from the crowd was utter delight and this was no different. In short order quite a crowd had gathered and even though I'm not particularly interested in being the center of attention, I don't hide from it either. Once again we all enjoyed ourselves immensely. Perhaps I'll become the best dancer on TWO continents!

I also learned something about Indian hospitality. While walking along a guy pedaling a rickshaw came along side of me and asked in English if there was anything he could do for me. I said no but he persisted. "Can I get you a gul?" he asked. "A gul? I asked back. "Yeah, can I get you a gul?" Finally I put it together and said, "No, I don't need a girl."

Gotta get up at 4:00 am to catch my plane to Udaipur tomorrow and I'm already up past my bed time. More later.

India

India

The "last lunch" with the guys went about as expected. They all said something, some of which Surkhab was kind enough to translate. Then I responded and only choked up for a moment. In the end words were not necessary. We all knew that something special had happened for all of us and I believe we were all very grateful for having been a part of it. I think we all hope that I can return, In Shalla.

The trip to the boarder was a bit brutal since the bus leaving Abbottabad left at 11 pm. I Got to Wagah about 7:30 am at which point we found out the crossing did not open until 9:30. Zamurad had done his job and if he left straight away he could catch the earlier bus back to Abbottabad. So with another little catch in my throat, I saw his cab pull away.

I wasn't there long before I heard the distinct sound of…English. I went up and said howdy to a couple from Germany who had been traveling for months by car through just about every place you could think of. We shared our impressions of Pakistan and found them to be identical. Wonderful place, wonderful people.

The boarder crossing was a bit strange. I must have stopped at 6 different places to show my passport and fill out one form or another. It took over an hour but I finally got into….

India.

There are many differences between India and Pakistan. First off, there are lots of people who want to get between me and some part of my money. They'll pick up my bag, without me asking them to or even wanting them to, and expect a tip afterwards. At first I was a bit resentful, particularly after my experience in Pakistan where I literally could not give folks money, even if they had done some act of hospitality to earn it. But then I got adjusted to what the exchange rate and what they were asking for, a few bucks, and I lightened up right away. I could also have bought a fifth of Jack Daniels or pretty much anything else in the duty free store. And of course, the women are out in full force again. I even saw some driving for heaven's sake. Along with their exposure are the accompanying ads with all the standard cutesy women with their cutesy smiles selling whatever is the order of the day. And I've also noticed my reaction to seeing more than just the eyes of women again (which had become quite attractive to me). A month of abstinence was not enough to change the way I respond to women, particularly those I deem good looking. But at least I'm a bit more aware of my objectification.

And then there's the driving. Here the horns are louder, and used much more frequently and with much more gusto than in Pakistan. To be fair, Amritsar is a bigger city than anywhere I was in Pakistan, except for a brief period this morning in Lahore. Still, I think the difference is probably more than just that.

The cab I got at the boarder pooped out about 4 km from the hotel. The guy said it was a bad coil, and he arranged for me to go the rest of the way in a rickshaw. That's a human powered 3-wheeled bicycle with a seat and cargo bay for the big sahib, that would be me, to sit. I probably broke some sort of rule when he got to a hill and had to stop pedaling and start pushing. I not only got out (which was expected) but also helped push (which probably was not).

The room is small but there's enough room for a bed and a chair, which is good enough for me. This one is actually a deluxe version because it has an attached bath. It doesn't have ac but it does have a swamp cooler and a fan, which for this time of year is fine. It costs about $13/night.

After freshening up with a lovely luke warm shower I was surprised to find that I felt good enough to go out into the street. My first order of business was to try and get my cell phone to work here (it needs a special chip). Turns out I need 2 passport sized photos, a copy of my passport and my visa and evidence of where I'm staying locally in order to get it activated. This is all done for security purposes which is the same reason given for why the hotel could not give me a local map.

So I went wondering and it all went well. I had a guy come up and offer me a rickshaw ride to wherever I was going but at the time I wasn't really going anywhere. But after he described some of the places he could take me, I decided that I might as well go on with him. His English was good enough that we could talk some, and he did know his way around. He took me to a museum (same sort of glorification of war that I've seen too much of in too many countries already) as well as a couple of temples. The last one was the Golden Temple, for which Amritsar is famous. As well it should be, it's pretty spectacular.

I spent 3 hours there before getting something to eat and coming to this internet café.

And now I really AM tired so this'll have to do for now.

Winding Down/Gearing Up

Winding Down/Gearing Up

Construction of the house continues. We've begun mixing and applying the earth plaster to the straw bales. Between the rough and 2nd coats the nylon netting is pulled up and attached to the top plates. This is a very important aspect of the system as it adds a lot of tensile strength to the plaster and is a critical component for earthquake resistance.

I encourage everyone to view the video of the shake test on the Paksbab.org home page. The first of 2 tests duplicates the energy and acceleration of the 1994 Northridge earthquake in Los Angeles. This 6.8 magnitude earthquake damaged 114,000 residential and commercial structures, took 72 lives and caused damage estimated at $25 Billion. The Paksbab structure, built from straw, shows no sign of collapsing and little damage as a result of this first test.

Then they upped the ante and tested the house at twice the energy of the Northridge earthquake. This time the house shakes violently and there is clear damage to the plaster. But when it was over, this remarkable little structure that could is still standing.

I have also been involved in a couple of "extra credit" projects. Surkhab attends the COMSATS Institute of Information Technology in Abbottabad as a Masters student in developmental studies. He arranged for me to speak at a seminar there last Monday (10/11) to a class of about 50 of his fellow students. I was to deliver a power point presentation on the Paksbab construction method, as well as any other issues important to developing nations that I might have a knowledge and interest in.

I had about 30 hours to prepare, and I used about half of them getting a presentation together, much of it from information Surkhab provided. 2/3rds of the talk was about the Paksbab construction method. Then I discussed several aspects of energy, both renewable and not, with a special slide titled, "Evil Energy Sources" in which I discussed the problems with nuclear energy. This was followed by a short discussion of a remarkable method of filtering water, even water contaminated by typhoid or cholera, using nothing more complicate than sand. Then a short discussion of biomass, ending with a description of how I make biodiesel at home.

I felt the talk went well and was well received. Afterwards a dozen of the professors invited Surkhab, Zamurad and I to the cafeteria for tea and cakes. The discussion continued to be lively and animated and I felt I made some more friends. The next day Surkhab confirmed that everyone enjoyed the talk and they even wanted me to address another class on environmental studies. Unfortunately, there is not enough time to do this before I leave.

Then on Tues. (10/12), Zamurad, Haddi and I drove to the village of Garhi Habbullah Khan, a few hours north. Lying along the Kunhar River, this town was affected by the floods but because it is up in the mountains, only the area near the river was damaged. We were met there by 2 locals, Aamir Ghiyyas and his partner, Sajjad. They are working with Engineers without Boarders (EWB) to build temporary, emergency shelters for some of those who lost their homes. They gave us a tour of the area and without them we would not have known how much damage was caused by the flooding. They brought us to a bluff above the river that reminded me of the northern California coast. While there were some damaged homes along the cliff area, it looked serene enough to the uneducated eye. But then Aamir told us that between the current cliff and the river there used to be more homes, and a road with shops on the other side. They are all gone now.

The homes these guys are trying to build are stick framed with a rock/mud mixture placed inside the framing. Corrugated metal is used for the roofing and sometimes for the walls, particularly when they could salvage it from the destroyed buildings.

The materials for these homes are being paid for by EWB. Aamir and Sajjad are doing their best to manage about 20 of these homes at 3 different locations but since the homes are essentially built by the owners, mistakes happen. Some of these Aamir and Sajjad were aware of, but we pointed out others that they had not noticed and ways of mitigating errors they had not considered. At the end of the day, they were grateful for our input.

I leave on Sat. and Surkhab said that all of the guys wanted to go with me to the boarder. I'm not certain how serious this offer was since it's an 8 hour trip. Each way! But the sentiment expressed by the guys choked me up for awhile. I will miss them, they've become dear friends. And it is clear the feeling is mutual. I often express the hope to them that I will be able to return to Pakistan, In Shalla.
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In the end it was decided that Zamurad and I will make the trip by ourselves. We will board a bus in Abbottabad Sat. night and arrive in Lahore sometime Sunday morning. Zamurad will then rent a car and take me to the boarder crossing at Wagah. From there I will make my way to my hotel, near the Golden Temple in Amritsar. I'll spend Sunday and Monday there, adjusting to my new life as a tourist. Then I'll fly to Udaipur on Tues. to stay at the home of someone I first met this spring in Santa Cruz just a few weeks after I learned I would be going to Pakistan and India (yes, it's an interesting world).

And thus will begin phase II of this remarkable journey.

Becoming a True Pakistani

Becoming a True Pakistani

With only a few days left before I leave my friends in Pakistan, and with several important subjects I'd like to write about, the Gods have determined that this is what I should write about now. I'm not in control of these forces, I can only submit to them.

But before I can discuss this issue, I need to provide a bit of background information.

For some time now it has been clear that native Pakistanis mistake me for one of their own. Being naturally sociable, they are always shaking my hand even though they do not know me. All I can do is say, "as-salāmu alaikum (peace be upon you). Often they respond with alaikum as-alām (and to you peace) and then go on to tell me about their brother, their kids or their camel. Of course I have no idea and have to confess that, "I only speak English" at which point they produce the most genuine smile, utter something or other that sounds quite pleasant, and move on.

I've been told on several occasions that the natives who live in Kaghan, about 100 miles north, look very much like me (light skinned for a Pakistani). Perhaps I'm descended from their community. I'd love to get up there and see my tribe but time does not allow.

With that out of the way I want to discuss something about Pakistani culture you will not read in any guide book.

Because I've focused on the positive aspects of living here with the Pakistanis, I have avoided some of the, shall we say, less glamorous customs. One such custom is the apparent need for Pakistani men to hack and spit. While I have not investigated the product of this ceremony with any great precision, I'm under the impression that it is not particularly remarkable. But the auditory cacophony that is the prelude to the actual expectorant is something to behold. It appears there are 3 stages, each standing on the shoulders of those that came before it. I am impressed by the vigor and creativity that the Pakistani men bring to the first 2 of these stages, though I have witnessed versions of these before.

But the 3rd stage is an art form all unto itself.

Coming from a depth that can only be attained by years of attention to detail, centuries of cultural training, eons of genetic selection and perhaps the proximity of camels, this final platform from which the raw material is expelled is of biblical proportions. I've considered how I might be able to write an onomatopoetically correct expression of the sound one encounters during this ritual, but I would have to attain a far deeper level of enlightenment just to be able to ascertain which letters to use.

On a side note, there is no English dictionary nearby and since my spelling has never been sterling my current objective is to get close enough that my spell checker can figure out what I am aiming for. So I was particularly proud of myself when I was able to reach that lofty goal with "onomatopoeia." Particularly since this is a word I have only used twice since I learned it about ½ century ago.

Anyway, this came up (yeah, I know) today when Haddi and I were sitting on a bench in the market area of Qulandarabad where I've been living and working, while we were waiting to be picked up by Surkhab and Zamurad so we could travel to an area that had been hit by the floods. While I am feeling much better, I still have some lingering issues from the cold I've been dealing with for the past week. And while I cannot hold a candle to what a true Pakistani is capable of, I did manage to produce a bit of auditory caCOUGHany myself (I've lost all self-respect at this point) producing what in other cultures would be considered an admirable effort, with a substantial result. At the same time, Haddi was immersed in his daily ritual as he sat beside me.

Knowing that I already appear to be Pakistani, even to the locals, I felt I had taken another large step towards becoming a true Pakistani, with Haddi hacking and spitting to the right while I was hacking and spitting to the left.

In fact, the image so amused me that a moment after we had both calmed down, I started to laugh so hard that I reconvened another mini-fit, this time solo.

Haddi looked at me and with no idea what I was laughing about, he started laughing too.

It was a great way to start the day.

On Women, On Freedom

On Women, On Freedom

Several folks have asked me about what it is like for women in Pakistan so I'll pass along what I've learned and what I've been told, primarily by Surkhab who has no hesitancy to discuss the matter.

It's amazing how sequestered they are. Walking around town they represent perhaps 2% of the population. Small girls play "normally" in public places with other girls and boys their same age but somewhere during their teen age years, the veil comes out, the face is covered and that is the last anyone but their husbands and family will see of them until they reach old age (perhaps 50).

And their husbands are not likely to see their face until the day of their marriage, which is arranged by the families.

To the western mind this seems quite strange and it would be easy to criticize their customs as archaic and chauvinistic. But let's look at this a bit more deeply.

Because women are not displayed as they are in western countries, there is a distinct lack of the time, energy and resources western cultures spend in pursuit of them. There are no alluring ads on the billboards, no stores with sexy clothing. It seems as though the sexual desires that so occupy the western mind are much less prevalent.

Perhaps as a result, divorce and rape are virtually unknown here. And while it is true that some women are physically abused by their husbands, it does not seem to be a significant problem. This might be different in the more fundamentalist regions of Pakistan, like the Swat valley area (where the fighting is) but I would caution anyone from jumping to any conclusions until they have reliable information on the matter.

And even though men rarely see women in public, that is not to say that women have no social life. They have, in fact, a rich social life as it is their responsibility to arrange marriage, birth and death ceremonies. They visit the sick and bring them food. They have their own circles and, if the reports I get from Surkhab are accurate, they are quite happy in this arrangement.

But it is also true that women cannot pursue careers like they can in the west. Other than being a "homemaker" (a noble profession) women can be school teachers and perhaps a few other things but you will never see a female doctor, lawyer, etc.

I asked Surkhab if he was aware of women from the west coming to Pakistan and adopting to their customs. He was only aware of one instance, and she adapted quite well and has come to enjoy her new lifestyle. He was not aware of any Pakistani women who have tried to adapt to western culture.

I can only add that there is a serenity to this place that is markedly different from the us. There are no screaming kids tugging at their parents demanding this or that new toy or candy. The kids are very respectful of their parents, or any adult, and comply with whatever is asked immediately and without any fuss. Whatever else you might be inclined to say about Pakistani society, the evidence to me seems clear that it works well for them.

And now a few words about freedom. As you know, "they" (in the present case "they" are the entire Muslim world) hate us because of our freedom. While this is a phrase that has oozed from the mouths of many politicians, I have yet to see the reaction such a statement deserves (uproarious laughter and supreme contempt for any idiot who would utter such a statement and resentment of the stupidity of the audience such a statement would infer).

The ironic part is that in ordinary, daily affairs, the Pakistani people have far MORE freedom than we do in the us. Take driving for instance. Even in the bustling city of Abbottabad, there are no stop signs and no stop lights. There are no lines on the road indicating when it is legal to pass or not, in fact there are no lines on the road at all. Passing often results in 3 vehicles abreast on a road built for only 2. 3 and even 4 people ride on a motor scooter and none of them with helmets. People can make a u-turn whenever they find it convenient (or more precisely, possible) and talk on their cell phones while doing so.

And without the preemptive laws to try and make driving hazard free that we are subject to in the us, the system works just fine. I have not seen an accident yet, nor have I seen anyone get upset at anyone else's driving. People here are treated like and behave as responsible adults. Everyone is allowed to do whatever works.

Another area of freedom that is available to Pakistanis and not to us is the freedom to build a shelter that suits a family's needs and resources. While it is somewhat different in the cities, in the rural areas (which constitutes the vast majority of the country) there are no building codes and no building permits are required. Because of the material poverty prevalent in this country, this results in housing that some might deem "ramshackle". I find it far more interesting and less insulting than the ticky-tacky-all-the-same housing common in the us, but that's just my personal aesthetic.

Some folks can only afford to build the most humble of shelters. Salvaged sticks of wood with a mud roof, corrugated metal if they're lucky. But they have a place they can call home where they are protected from the worst of the elements and are not subject to the harassment of police or building officials telling them to, "move on" (to where is not specified). Those slightly less poor, or more fortunate as in the recipients of the free housing provided by Paksbab, are able to build sensible, environmentally sane housing such as the straw bale homes I've been working on. Homes such as these, which are very affordable, energy efficient, earthquake resistant and built with a carbon footprint a small fraction of that incurred by "standard" housing are either illegal or prohibitively difficult to build in most areas of the us. And because the homes these folks build are appropriate to their needs and resources, they are not burdened by a 30 year mortgage and forced to work at a job they hate so they can avoid having to sleep in the streets.

So tell me. Who really has more freedom?

Slipping on the Clay Slip

Slipping on the Clay Slip

The insulation for the ceiling consists of straw coated in what they call a "clay slip." The first step in making the clay slip is to dig a hole (maybe 6' x 6' x 2'), line it with a plastic tarp, put several wheel barrows of clay rich subsoil and fill with water. After mixing vigorously, some of the clay will become suspended in the water and when it reaches its saturation point, you have a clay slip.

They then sprinkle this liquid mud liberally on the loose straw, coating it to reduce the fire hazard. Ordinarily they let this pile of wet straw sit for several days, allowing it to dry out considerably. The drying process makes the straw lighter and much easier to deal with.

But because I need to see all aspects of this construction technique before I leave in 11 days, the guys had to alter their normal procedure. Just after wetting the straw, they began to toss it up into the attic space and spread it around.

While this WAS quite messy, it was also a lot of fun (think Woodstock). At one point I was stationed on the ridge, catching the balls of wet straw that Mohammed (who has quite an arm) was tossing to me. One of his tosses went a bit astray, and while stretching for it I slipped and slid part way down the truss I was standing astride. I was not hurt (much) and came up laughing with my now universally expected, "kui bot nahin" but Surkhab was less amused. I'm sure he would suffer not only in this world but also in the next were anything to happen to me so he told me to get down (at least from the ridge).

Since I had accomplished what I needed to up there, I complied without protest and all is well.

The roof purlins have all been placed and the cgi (corrugated galvanized iron) roofing will go on tomorrow.

More on Pakistani Hospitality

More on Pakistani Hospitality

I wasn't going to mention that I've come down with a cold (who cares…...so what) but with the interconnectedness of everything. I guess I'll have to.

As I've mentioned before Pakistan hospitality is really outrageous. Each day when Rustam stops by to pick me up for the ¼ mile walk to the job, he insists (and I mean INSISTS) on carrying my day pack. I've long since given up trying to argue with him. This is typical. When we break for tea, one of the guys will make sure I have the best seat available. Often they'll bring a chair just for me while everyone else sits on a bale of straw. I'm not used to this, and to be honest it makes me a bit uncomfortable. But clearly this is what they want so who am I to be some kinda prima donna and refuse.

So the other day I came down with a cold. A Pakistani cold is indistinguishable from an American cold. They both start out as a tickle or slight pain in the throat and migrate their way down into the lungs over the next few days. And they both are accompanied by some degree of body aches (above and beyond the aches someone of my advanced years has to endure daily).

It has been impossible to hide the fact that I have a cold from the guys as my energy level and overall demeanor have deteriorated noticeably. Several times I've been asked if I want to go to the doctor and I let them know in no uncertain terms across the language divide that I do NOT want to go to the doctor.

Anyway, after I got home this afternoon (Wed. 10/6) I pantomimed to Walli that I was going to take a, "shower." As I mentioned in an earlier post, "shower" consists of pouring multiple pitchers of room temperature water over my head. It's a bit cold at first, but not a problem once you get started. But Walli protested. He pantomimed back at me that since I have a cold, taking a shower like that would not be good. He insisted (there's that word again) on heating up enough water to make the shower a much warmer affair.

I briefly thought about refusing his offer, but knowing that if I were back home I would like nothing better than to sink into a hot bath (even though I don't have one) and not wanting to disappoint my comrade (and cook), I said ok.

I've now just returned from that experience, and it was divine. Just what the doctor would have ordered had I gone to one.

The Great Crash and The Great Uprising

The Great Crash and The Great Uprising

Hi everyone and sorry you haven't heard from me in awhile. In fact, depending on how long it took for you to figure out there was a problem and check out the blog, you may have thought I'd dropped off the edge of the earth completely.

Actually, I was only out of commission for a few days. After acting up ever since I left California, my computer finally decided to die altogether. I am now using a borrowed computer but I have lost my address book and all my contact info that was in it. This includes the list of folks who were receiving my blogs via e-mail. For the time being, all I can do is add entries into the blog and hope you all can figure it out on your end.

I'm working with Russ back home to try and resurrect my old address book, but for the time being I will only be able to add folks to my new list if they send me an e-mail so I have their address.

If I thought it would do any good, I suppose I would consider getting upset about this but I'm pretty sure it wouldn't. Besides, I don't want to be like that guy in, "Caddy Shack". This guy was a businessman of some sort and he was playing a round of golf with his friends. Every shot this guy made turned out great, including the one he hit into the woods that bounced out and landed right next to the cup. He was having a ball. On the 18th hole he was on the green ready to sink a short putt for the game of his life. His putt ringed the cup but didn't fall in, ending up an inch or 2 away. He holds up both hands, one with his putter, and screams, "God Damn it!" By this time it had started to rain and he is immediately, and quite appropriately, struck by lightening and killed.

With all the blessings I've had on this trip, it would be very ungrateful of me were I to whine about this relatively minor inconvenience. Besides, I'm pretty certain it would not help, would make me some degree of miserable, and would also make it more likely I would be unkind to someone else.

So, "kui bot nahin."

Meanwhile, life continued. On Friday (10/1) I went for a hike with Haddi as it is the Muslim day off. We went up into the hills (pretty much any direction you go is up into the hills) and saw some more fantastic scenery. The highlight of this particular hike was watching a group of about 20 guys harvest the grass that they will store until winter for their livestock. Together they formed what looked like a giant, human mowing machine as they went up the steep hill they were on, cutting a swath perhaps 100 feet wide. As we watched form the hill across a narrow valley, the remarkable thing about this group was the sound of their banter. Clearly they were teasing each other and otherwise talking and laughing up a storm.

It was impossible to determine if they were playing while they were working or working while they were playing. Whatever, it was very sweet.

Another blessing has been my new heart (thank you Dr. Zei). After my procedure at Stanford in May I've been able to go on hikes like this and my heart has worked like it used to, like it's supposed to. Now, if there is something I can do about these 58 year old legs….

Saturday we built the door and window bucks as well as the trusses from wood that was only days earlier standing in a forest somewhere. Aside from being very heavy with all of the water it contained, most of the pieces were oozing with sap. It got everywhere and it was all I could do to keep it off of my camera. At one point I was trying to scrape it off my hands and using water in a futile effort to get the worst of it off when one of the guys came up to me with some weeds in his hand. At first I thought he wanted me to eat the stuff but then he started rubbing it between his hands. Soon I realized it was cutting through the sap, and doing an admirable job of it. Near to where the corn was growing, we went to harvest some more. There was plenty for our needs.

Ah, native knowledge.

The other difference in how I would do things back home is that these guys have no power tools. Each cut must be done by hand, with a saw that cuts on the pull stroke. By lunch I was not the only one exhausted. After lunch I developed a method of supporting the piece to be cut in a way I could use both hands to pull the saw, allowing my legs and back to get into the game. By the end of the day, all the guys were trying this method as it was considerably easier. This may turn out to be my biggest contribution to the project.

Sunday was another day for ceremony. This time we traveled several hours north to Battal. We were cutting the ribbon on 2 houses for folks who had been hit hard by either the earthquake or the fighting just north in the Swat valley. These guys WERE Taliban, but they were refugees from the fighting and could not have been sweeter. The actual fighting up there is promoted by agencies of various governments with their own agendas. This includes the governments of Pakistan, China, Iran and, of course, the usa (think CIA). They find the poorest of the poor who are the most desperate, offer them some small amount of pay, put a gun in their hands and tell them who to shoot.

And then our media gives these guys a label like, "the Taliban" and tries to make us believe that we need to be afraid and that we need to wage war for some noble cause. Everyone I talk to here about this "gets it" in a way that most folks back home do not. They understand that the people do not hate and do not want to wage war (including the reported animosity between the people of Pakistan and India). They understand that media = propaganda.

Yesterday (Monday, 10/4) was the coming up party for the house. After 8 days completing the foundation and getting all the bits ready it was time to start stacking straw bales. By noon the bales were all up, as well as the top plates. By the end of the day, the trusses were all up and only a bit of framing remained before we'll be ready to install the corrugated metal roofing. Of course it helps that we are not building a McMansion, but still the process goes quite rapidly.

There is a lot of engineering that has gone into this construction technique, and all phases must be complete before the structure attains its final form. At this point, the walls are quite flimsy. Bamboo is placed every 2 feet on the inside and outside and tied together, through the straw bale walls on every other course, to keep the walls upright. Later, after the walls have settled, the nylon netting will be pulled up and attached to the top plates. Once the earth plaster has been applied the walls will attain their final strength.

But not just strength. Like a tree in a windstorm, these walls and the entire system is designed to allow the structure to yield without breaking. Much flexibility is designed into the system. Today I learned that the bottom chord of the trusses is purposely made of 3 pieces (joined with metal plates) when it would be possible to use a single piece of wood. This allows the truss to flex some, which helps to dissipate energy in the event of an earthquake or large wind.

Bits and Pieces

Bits and Pieces

 

 

After getting all of the rock bags stacked, several layers of "soil/cement" must be applied to all sides while placing the nylon netting that will eventually be stretched over the outside to provide a flexible mesh for the earthen plaster to adhere to.  Soil/cement is a mixture of sand, cement, a dash of clay and water.  It is one of several mixtures that will be used in the construction of the house, each with its own recipe for its own purpose.  In this case, we are encasing the bags of rocks into an integral whole while anchoring the netting.

 

The process takes several days and, like all foundation work, seems long and tedious (at least to my western brain).  But it is, as they say, the foundation and one must realize its importance and give it its due.  The guys doing the work do not seem bothered by it in the way I would.  They are just as happy as always.

 

The nylon netting is new in my experience.  Several layers are used, each with its own objective.  Managing what could easily become a hopelessly tangled web takes some practice and patience, both of which these guys have in abundance.

 

 

 

Surkhab, Zamurad and I were parked in our van waiting for an appointment when a Pakistani woman walked by.  She was unusual because she was the first woman I'd seen that did not have her face covered by a veil.

 

Now I understand why the women here cover their faces.  This woman was stunningly beautiful.  If that's representative of what is behind those veils, then clearly they must be covered or none of the men would get anything done.

 

And many countries would be invading.

 

 

 

Haddi continues to crack me up.  He knows just enough English, and uses it in just the right places to make life interesting.  This evening he and some co-workers/friends came over after work (I'm rarely alone here) and while eating some unknown piece of citrus, he piped up with, "vitamin C" out of nowhere.  He's got a great smile, as does most everyone over here and along with his large nose and playful nature (both also ubiquitous), he reminds me of my grandfather, Bolla.  Bolla came over from the Italian part of Switzerland when he was 17 so he always had a strong accent.  He smoked these small, black and shriveled up cigars and whenever he would hug me he'd whisper in my ear, "you little shit."

 

 

 

Today (9/29) we drove up towards the mountains (some with snow on the peaks) to the Mansehra area to order some cgi (corrugated galvanized iron) and pick up a truckload of straw bales.  On the way back we got something to eat at a truck stop.  This is the kind of truck stop you would only see in america if you were very high on acid.  The trucks are amazing, all decorated with bits here, do-dads there.  Some have whirling fans of one sort or another and all have a very distinctive, and, continuing the theme, playful horn.

 

While we were eating I rearranged my legs and managed to bump the table a bit, spilling some of Zamurad's tea into his saucer.  I had a moment of discomfort and instinctively said, "Oh!  I'm sorry."  Without missing a beat, Surkhab gave me one of his angelic smiles and said, "no one will yell at you here, Mark."  I immediately knew this was true.  In the same way that Haddi just says "kui bat nahin" when something does not go quite "right" at work, folks here just don't have the same attitude about blame here.  There really is no chance that someone would yell at me for anything but the most egregious transgression.  We all had a great laugh thinking about how different it is in america.  Surkhab said it was good that I would be going to a 10-day retreat just before returning home so I could become calm and peaceful enough to withstand the culture shock.

 

And we all laughed again.