Road Trip to Jacmel

Road Trip to Jacmel

 

The trip to Jacmel started around 1pm on Sat., 15-Jan.  Aside from some R&R, we were going to erect a 40+' geodesic dome for a school.  We would make the 2 hour trip in the North Carolina school bus that was loaded with tools and donated to help GrassRoots United get off the ground.  All the seats have been removed so it is just a large mobile container that we filled with 20 people, their gear and lots of beer and other alcoholic wherewithal.

 

From the moment we left the compound, this was a party.  The mostly 20-something crew, unrestrained by anything, partied like they do in the beer commercials.  I'm reminded of a Doonesbury cartoon where he's describing such a scene where everyone is having more fun than YOU ever have.  I felt somewhat consoled by that cartoon knowing I wasn't the only one who felt I had missed the bus.  But this time I was on that bus and we found that promised land and lived that dream.  Someone had thought to bring a fairly high-powered battery operated radio that they used to play their i-pod.  The music was techno and/or gangster rap and was mostly unintelligible to me but the rest of the crowd knew all the words and sang and danced along heartily.

 

Add to this the response of the bus to the twists, turns, bumps and potholes in the road and you have a madcap scene that is impossible to describe, you had to be there.  At one point I was shooting a video of the scene in the bus when Sam hit the brakes.  I went ass-over-teakettle, landing on my head with my right arm outstretched, holding the camera up and away from harm's way.  I have uploaded this clip to my flickr account (http://www.flickr.com/photos/52559215@N07/) for your viewing pleasure.

 

The 2 hour trip turned into something like 3 ½ hours, probably because we had to stop periodically to buy beer or to pee it out.  Along the way we partied like there was no tomorrow (there isn't) as we traveled over the mountains to Jacmel with views and vistas that were astonishing.  As the title of Paul Farmer's book, "Mountains Beyond Mountains" implies, the rugged, tropical and, at least on our journey, fog encrusted landscape was breathtaking and beyond description.

 

Eventually we made it to our destination, an eco-resort operated by some Haitian friends of GrassRoots United.  An acre or 2 that abuts a rocky coastline not unlike that found north of the S.F. bay area.  We had land available to pitch our tents and a pavilion to hang out in.  The Haitian help cooked our meals and otherwise took very good care of us.  Being about ¼ century older than anyone else, I opted out around 10:30 pm.  When I got up the next morning I learned that some of the youngsters had stayed up until 3:30 am.  I was glad I hadn't and that I felt great, though amazingly they did not look too much the worse for wear.

 

Sunday was to be a day off for us and some opted to go to a nearby beach where they could hang out, drink beers or whatever, eat lobster and swim in the bathtub temperature water.

 

That did not sound bad, even idyllic but reasonably predictable.  Instead, I opted to join the more hearty souls who would hike a couple of hours up a steep trail to basin bleu, a series of 3 pools that were described as otherworldly beautiful.  The fact that it would require some climbing along with the assistance of ropes only added to what would surely be an adventure.

 

Along the way we passed some "blanchs", the Haitian term for whites, along the road.  We thought they might need a ride so Sam turned the bus around and went back to see if we could offer them one.  In another of what I no longer consider unusual coincidences, Sam knew one of the guys who came up to his driver side window and gave him a hug.  Sam asked where they were going and, continuing the coincidence, his friend said, "basin bleu."  Sam said that's where we were going and to hop in.  I was standing in the entrance to the bus so I stepped out to let them in as I heard what I first thought was a scream of excitement from their group that they had managed to hook up so exquisitely.

 

Instead, the scream I heard was of the other type.  As I stepped around the front of the bus I saw a woman from their group on the street, convulsing.  In a nano-second the mood changed from one of elation to something on the other end of the scale.  I soon learned that she had been hit by a "moto", someone on a motorcycle.  She was twitching in what I thought might have been some sort of death throe.  A crowd of Haitians immediately gathered around her as her friends tried to comfort her.  One of them was clearly in shock herself, twitching uncontrollably.

 

As a one-time volunteer fireman, I tried to think of what I could offer.  She was clearly still breathing and her heart was still beating so aside from keeping her immobile, I could not think of anything I could do.  Along with some others from the bus who by now had disembarked, we joined hands and tried to keep the onlookers at bay.

 

I'm sure I was not the only one who was trying to figure out what to do next when, in another of those coincidences that have become quite common, a "doctors without boarders" jeep pulled up and a doctor, or at least an emt, got out with her medical equipment and took charge.  Knowing that keeping her immobile until an assessment of her condition had been done is one of the mainstays of emergency treatment, I was surprised that within a few minutes they had her up and walking to the back of the jeep.  I found out later that she was conscious, talking and probably did not have any broken bones.  I also found out later that she had walked into the street without looking and that the driver of the moto had sustained some road rash when he came off his bike in the collision.  It could have been much worse as apparently one of her friends had tried to pull her back, avoiding a full-scale collision.  Someone mentioned the idea of calling the police but fortunately that did not happen.  If the police had shown up they would have arrested the moto driver and, regardless as to his culpability, he would have spent many years in prison for running into a white person.

 

After a half hour or so, we got on our way again, but substantially subdued.  When we checked the time we decided that it was too late to continue to basin bleu and headed instead for the beach.

 

You know life is good when plan B is to spend several hours on a tropical beach drinking rum and coke, eating lobster and swimming in water warm as a bath.

 

But before we got there, we had one more indescribable event that had to be traversed.  For the first time in 2 years, carnival would be celebrated in Haiti.  This is a celebration that begins in January and concludes several weeks later on Mardi Gras or fat Tues.  Christians begin lent the next day (ash Wednesday) and for 40 days cannot eat meat.  So carnival represents the last chance to cut loose.

 

And the way the Haitians cut loose is to dress up, sometimes in drag, put on masks and take to the streets to sing, dance and otherwise carry on.  But the most striking aspect of the scene are the black men who cover their bodies with (are you ready?)… motor oil.  Glistening, they prance down the street, gesticulating wildly and shouting, their white teeth in stark contrast to their shinny jet black skin.  While it would seem to an outsider like me that copious amounts of alcohol would need to be involved, I'm told that a more accurate description would be to say that they are possessed in some voodoo-like way.

 

Our local guide was Aaron, a blanch who lives in the place where we were staying, has been in Haiti for about 6 months working on various projects including some art therapy, speaks pretty good Creole, has a Haitian girlfriend and knows at least something about the customs.  He calls a carnival event a, 'rah-rah" and we ran into one on the way to the beach.  There was no way around it so we pulled the bus up towards it on a side street and watched the scene.

 

Not knowing any better, I got out and with my camera in hand went towards the main street to record the madcap scene.  I was having a great time until one of the celebrants, completely covered in motor oil, noticed me and came my way.  He was smiling exuberantly and with his arms outstretched he advanced my way as I realized I was in danger of being slimed.  The last thing I wanted was to get hugged by this gooey mess so I backed off, managing to limit the contact to a single high five that took 20 minutes to clean up after I retreated to the bus.

 

Slowly the bus advanced to the main drag and we became the center of attention for many of the celebrants.  One guy was walking along side the bus yelling F*** this, F*** that and open the F***ing door.  Of course we didn't but all the windows were open and for a bit I was concerned that one might try and climb through one.  I glanced at Aaron and he didn't seem worried so I figured everything was cool.  Even so, some of the motor oil that everyone near us seemed to be covered in made its way through the windows and onto most of our clothes and us.  Then some of the Haitians climbed on the hood of the bus so that Sam could barely see where he was driving.  Another reached in the driver's window and began pulling on the air horn.  To say it was crazy seems so inadequate but that's about the best I can do.  When it was time for us to exit the scene, Aaron said something to the "boys on the hood" and they immediately jumped off to let our now partially blackened bus proceed on its merry way.

 

The rest of the day at the beach was pretty tame after all of that.  But it was also quite lovely.  The water was exquisite and the beer was cold.

First Report from Haiti

First Report from Haiti

 

Because I was pretty busy during the month I was home after going to Pakistan and India, I didn't really have time to form any expectations regarding what I would find in Haiti.  Good thing, because I never would have guessed that I would find myself in a place like this.

 

I was met at the Port Au Prince (pap) airport by Sarah, a volunteer with Grass Roots United (gru).  I'm unclear on all of the details, but gru is an organization that does various relief work including cholera prevention certification programs, providing supplies for orphanages and distributing medical supplies.  They also facilitate the work of other organizations by providing a base and some infrastructure from which to work.  For $15/day I get a place to pitch my tent and 3 meals a day, except Sunday.

 

Arriving at the gru base we were let in the metal gate by the Haitian security guard.  Inside the walled site are 3-4 acres containing a wide assortment of infrastructure.  There is one large masonry building, surrounded by a couple of dozen tents as well as several alternative structures.  These include an earth ship house (tires filled and covered with concrete), a geodesic dome made from plastic pipe and covered with fabric, an underground "bunker" being dug our by Aaron, affectionately known as cave man and the straw bale building that Martin Hammer, architect from Berkeley, Andy Mueller an expert straw bale builder from western Mass and I are working on.  There are several metal cargo containers, some of which serve as additional office space and one (my favorite) that is packed with tools and hardware.  Unlike in Pakistan, we do have power tools as well as the electricity to run them.  When the power goes down, as it often does, they have a generator we can use.

 

There are, on average, about 2 dozen people here, most range in age from early 20's to mid 30's.  They are an eclectic bunch, a cast of interesting characters.  Most have been to Haiti before, and many have done relief work in other countries as well.  They are all very friendly and at night we go to the "hole in the wall"  (literally a hole in the cinder block wall at the back of the property that allows access to a neighbor) where we can purchase beer, cokes, rum and fruit drinks.  Beer is probably the biggest seller and most nights many bottles will find their way onto the back porch table where we tend to congregate.

 

The effort to build the first straw bale structure in Haiti goes back to shortly after the Jan. 12^th earthquake when Martin began organizing for its creation.  He and Andy have each made several trips down here to find the materials and labor that would be necessary.  Tina Therrien joined them for 3 weeks in December to help with the interior plaster.  When I first laid eyes on it, the walls were up, the wood trusses were in place covered with metal roofing and the interior walls had already received their first coat of earth plaster.  If you would like to know more about how they got to this point, you can read Andy's blog at:

 

http://tikaypay.wordpress.com/

 

Or Tina Therrien's at:

 

http://haitistrawbale.wordpress.com/

 

Apparently THEY can post pictures on their blogs, something I have yet to figure out with mine.  I hope to get some of my pictures posted on my flickr account soon:

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/52559215@N07/

 

For the past week I've started working around 7:30, by which time it is already beginning to warm up.  It's not long before I've worked up a pretty good sweat, even if the work I'm doing is light.  For me, dealing with the heat is a bit of a problem, even though it is probably only in the 80's.  Aside from sweating, it tends to sap my strength and, if I'm not mindful, my attitude.  But when I feel the urge to whine or get frustrated, I just repeat my mantra that I learned in Pakistan (koi bat nahin, no problem) and so far that has worked.

 

Martin has joined us now and he spends most of his time doing design work and meeting with people and groups that might help to generate the next project.  So for the most part I've been working with Andy, which is a real pleasure.  Andy has been building straw bale homes for 10 years and probably knows as much about them as anyone, probably more.  It's a shame he will be leaving in a few days, as I'm sure I could learn a lot from him.  But I would not be surprised if we manage to hook up again some day, perhaps on another project in Haiti.

 

With the excellent help we get from our 2 hired Haitians (Jean Louis and Annio) we now have the exterior plaster up and I've started to do some work on the interior ceilings, part of which will be natural bamboo.  We'll have to wait weeks for the first coat of plaster to dry before we can apply the final coat.

 

Today is Jan. 12^th, the one-year anniversary of the earthquake that took the lives of perhaps 300,000 people.  Folks here are subdued and work around here has slowed to a trickle (which is why I'm finally able to get this first post off).  Many of us will be going into town to view the ceremonies there.

 

There may be some negative reaction to the continuing election drama here (as there has been recently), but if there is it appears that we will all be safe in our "gated community."  So please, don't anyone worry about me while I'm hear (are you listening mom?), regardless as to what sort of sensational news the us media may offer up for your consumption.

 

Finally, please consider making a donation to Builders Without Boarders, which is the umbrella organization which serves as the 501c for tax-deductible contributions.

 

http://www.builderswithoutborders.org/DONATE/INDEX.HTM

Many folks besides the ones I've mentioned have contributed countless hours and/or spent money out of their own pocket to get the project this far but we cannot finish this up without support from folks like you.  Please mention "Haiti Straw Bale Project" when you make your contribution so the funds will be directed our way.  I'd also like to thank the folks who have already done this, your help is greatly appreciated.

Back in the USA, on my way to Haiti

Back in the USA, on my way to Haiti

 

My brief stay in the us has been characterized by contrasts.  From the crowded, chaotic and "just barely getting by" scene in India to Christmas in America, the culture shock was severe.

 

Because I was visiting family during the holidays, I was subjected to the latest offering from the TV Gods.  Those purveyors of the most base and perverted material known to man have a new message for America.  Torture is ok.  On more than one program (sorry, I don't remember their names) a cop of one sort or another beats the hell out of his suspect to force a confession.  The preponderance of this technique, now treated in a "wink-wink, nod-nod" fashion, seems clearly designed to obtain america's acquiescence when it comes to the real thing.  After all, we have to protect ourselves from the terrorists, even if we have to abandon everything this country was supposed to stand for in the process.

 

And, of course, it works.  Private Bradley Manning who is rumored to have been the source for the wikileaks state department cables is held in solitary confinement, not even allowed to exercise, though he has not been charged with a crime.  Because I have such brief, intermittent and shallow exposure to what our media promulgates, I may be wrong here, but it does not seem as though there is the outpouring of disgust that such behavior would elicit in a conscious society.

 

On a less dramatic front, without really trying I managed to loose 15 pounds while touring India.  I suspect it was partly due to the lack of immediate gustatory gratification along with being very active and interested in what I was doing.  But back in the us, particularly during the holidays when everyone had extra goodies out, I found the temptation to needlessly indulge in caloric intake irresistible.  I suspect I've gained most of the weight back.

 

So now it is on to Haiti.  I was not planning on going there so soon after my Pakistan/India experience but the opportunity presented itself and I could not refuse.  I will be working on the first straw bale building in Haiti.  This has been a project of Builders without Boarders (http://www.builderswithoutborders.org/), headed up by Martin Hammer, a Berkeley architect.  The building's walls and roof are up and I will probably be doing some plaster work, along with other carpentry tasks.

 

This will be nothing like my experience in Pakistan.  There will be no crew there with 5 years of experience.  I will not be treated like a king with all my needs considered and supplied.  I will be expected to work much more as this is not meant to be just a training exercise.  Many of the details required to construct this straw bale building have not been addressed yet so there will be considerable flying by the seat of one's pants involved, I suspect.

 

And that is fine with me.  If anything, by experience in Pakistan was too much under control, too easy.  There was little I could add in terms of improvements to their process.  It will be interesting to have problems that need solutions.  I look forward to being challenged and am hopeful that I will be able to contribute in a meaningful way.

 

I am also going to Haiti prepared to do a water filtration project.  I've obtained a water test kit from Robert Metcalf of Cal State, Sacramento that can detect e. coli and other viruses in the water supply.  Humphrey Blackburn of Blue Future Filters (http://www.bluefuturefilters.com/) will help me determine if a slow sand filter would be appropriate and if so I hope to construct one.  They are amazingly simple, just a container filled with gravel and sand and flooded with water.  A biological layer forms at the sand/water interface (called the "Schmutzdecke") which is responsible for removing up to 99.99% of all bacteria, viruses, Giardia, Cryptosporidium, and parasites through predation.  Along with a long retention time, this simple device will make water contaminated with cholera or typhoid safe.

 

Lots of challenges ahead, along with lots of opportunities.

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!"