The In Between Lands

November 26th, 2013

After a long break, I finally put some serious mileage on the bike during my ride form Kathmandu to Darjeeling. The 600km or so journey took three afternoons, with moderate time in the saddle each day. In retrospect I wish I had gone more slowly, and had taken more breaks. However, a mounting head-cold both hurried me along, and dampened my spirits. It was hard to muster sufficient motivation to take pause and reflect on the world around me.

More and more I'm coming to appreciate the places which seem unappreciable. In much of the developing world, the small cities which lie between major destinations are, more often than not, predominantly rubble and squalor. They are a nexus of modernity. Creation and destruction are simultaneously on display. Newly affordable motorbikes skirt by ox-carts and cycle-rickshaws on congested thoroughfares. Facades and large additions are added to existing structures in a slapdash manner. Nearby buildings - which don't appear all that old - are already starting to crumble.

To me, these places are demonstrative of the power and of the human spirit. The frenetic energy of a hive suffuses the streets, and people make raw and gritty attempt at progress. There is order in the chaos, too. Food markets go in one place, transportation hubs in another. Agglomerating the more modern stores seems to be the norm. Cell-phone outlets and electronic stores are found near motorbike vendors and so-called department stores, which sell "modern apparel". It looks exactly like Main Street, USA, provided someone detonated an atom bomb nearby. The people are well poised, and certainly kind to strangers. However, the incomprehensible level of inequity in world is plain to see.    

I would estimate that most of the people in such places are not living in severe poverty, defined by the WHO as subsisting on $1.25 or less per day - a terrifying fate that defines the reality of 1,000,000,000 people on this planet. Judging by the level of development - roads, clean water, electricity, education, and several small businesses - as well as the cost of one meal in an eatery (anywhere from 25 cents to $1, depending on the portion) I'm fairly certain that most of the residents in these "in-between-lands" have several dollars a day on which to get by. The difference may sound trifling, even comical, but empirically speaking that small difference enables a considerable increase in well-being and opportunity. Life is still hard, and knowledge of the world at large is breathtakingly constrained, but compared to the unlucky masses of people born into severe poverty, the daily agonies of life are considerably reduced.

Nevertheless, I couldn't help but acknowledge and despair at all the drudgery and ignorance I was witnessing. Looking back, I think the mounting cold was bringing forth my inner cynic. For days I could think of little else besides the endless toil, and a perpetually uncomfortable life I saw. All along the western section of Nepal's Mahindra-Highway, an never-ending stream of people plied the roadside. On bicycles, on foot, stuffed in or on-top of crowded busses, human-beings and their cargo traipsed along the road. Countless other labored in the adjacent fields. I've been witness to scenes like this on countless occasions. I don't know why I couldn't get away from thinking about the mind-boggling drudgery of it all. Perhaps it was cynicism; perhaps it is realism couched in cynical terms.    

However, there were bastions of hope. As always, peoples attitude towards me were the most encouraging. Regardless of circumstance, people are generally kind. I feel like an ass travelling on the bike I have. It's huge; unlike anything most people have ever seen. It's loaded to the hilt with luggage and accessories, which necessarily makes my arrival an ostentatious affair. I enjoy an irony of privilege, I suppose. I don't care about motorcycles at all, yet that's all people see when I come along, and I don't blame them. Rather than despise my excess, most seem to truly delight in the oversized motorcycle. They usually ask several questions about it, which invariably includes questions about what it cost. I'm asked what I paid for it several times a day, if not a dozen. I basically understand why they're curious about how much it cost, and so I'm candid. In Nepal, due to a sky-high import tax on vehicles, many people balk at how cheap the bike was.

"Six Lak's (approximately 6,000 USD)! In Nepal, a bike like this costs much more. The tax! Very high."

Needless to say, that has not been the normal reaction. In most countries, spending $6,000 on a motorcycle is bewildering - end of story. Concepts like value, depreciation, and utility simply don't exist.

Aside from being graciously - even ceremoniously - received, I consistently see cause for hope in the younger generations. With increasingly regularity, I see glimpses of what looks to be an emerging, better informed, set of global values. While I'm wary of cultural relativism, I do think a global set of morals and ethics - that is independent from culture - will become necessary in a globalized world. Unfortunately, moral and ethical values seem inextricably entwined with culture at the moment, but unknotting that issue is a whole other topic.

At any rate, during my first night on the road in an wholly forgettable city, I sat down for dinner at a shanty-style eatery. I was joined by the usual cadre of the curious. Two precocious teens on my right ran the standard questions by me - "which country you from?", "are you married?", "how many people in your family?", and so on. A sloppy drunk sat down to my left, and aggressively vied for attention. He repeated an incoherent stream of guttural noises, but always ending in an emphatic and happy cry of "Democracy!". After which he'd smile, and we'd enthusiastically shake hands, presumably to celebrate democracy.

The host offered to remove the drunk, with a bit of reluctance in his eyes. I appreciated the offer, but told him not to bother. Everywhere that lacks a long standing drinking culture, the decision of whether or not to drink has a binary outcome. You either drink like an alcoholic, or else you're a teetotaler. Eventually the drunk calmed down. He gained enough composure to sit quietly, and respectfully drool on himself. I was able to direct my attention to the inquisitive teens.

We talked about the elections which had just taken place. The Democratic party had won in a landslide, gaining a majority of seats in the Nepali congress, all while reducing the former Communist supermajority to a minority party. The fourteen year-old seemed keen on the implications of this election. It was his hope that democratic management would increase the rate of development in every district.

"With development comes education, and with education comes freedom." He said.

Unfortunately, that's not a direct quote. What he said was far more eloquent and profound. Whatever he said truly rung my bell, and I wish I had written it down.

"Wow, and you think democracy can bring individual freedom to Nepal?" I asked, still flabbergasted.

"I hope so." He replied.

"Uh, Democracy!" Jabbered the drunk.

The following day I set out for the border town of Mechinagar. Following a full night of sustained attacks from mosquitoes and allergens, I was running on almost no sleep. A sore throat and other symptoms of an impending cold began to appear. I stopped for lunch in a random town; the motorcycle drawing in the usual crowd. I placed an order for food, and soon after I sat down a woman began to chat me up.

Given the context, I was quite taken aback. She looked vaguely modern, opting to wear practical, western-style attire which made her look frumpish. She was not old by any means, but certainly past the typical marrying age. Although coy, I wasn't under any impression that she was being flirtatious. Such an idea is patently absurd given the culture. The fact that she initiated conversation with me was astounding enough - a first, in fact. Compared to the men, who are bold and questioning - almost invasive - the women are completely standoffish towards initiating interactions with western men, especially in the more provincial regions. 

I got the mind that she was simply curious and unafraid. Her English was a bit broken, but I gathered that she had a degree in agriculture, and did some work for a company that sold mushrooms. She had two sons, but noted:

"We are also trying the women who work thing." She said, vaguely proud.

I asked her about the elections, and she seemed very pleased with the outcome.

"I'm also on a committee. Part of the community. We try to... ugh, my English... We try to help. Development."  She finally said, losing neither composure, nor an unassuming nature.

After that, she took off. It was a short exchange, the most profound aspects of which were revealed only in the subtleties.

As I pressed onward, the cold began to wear on me. I did what I could to keep the calorie and water intake high, which seemed to work. I decided to spend the night in Mechinagar, as opposed to passing through customs, and pressing onward to Darjeeling. I got going late the following day, and with a head full of decongestants made my way into the mountains around Darjeeling just before nightfall.

It was far colder than I expected, and the sun set a full hour earlier than it had in Kathmandu. I was worn out when I arrived, and slipped into the first decent hotel I could find. They offered me a great rate, and so I took the room. For $15 a night, it's not a world-class hotel, but everything is new, and nice-looking. The room is spacious, the shower is hot, the room-service is prompt and cheap, and the bed is large and relatively dust free. When I arrived I was cold to the bone, and feeling lousy. All I wanted was a great place to warm up, grab a good meal, and recoup for a few days.

All the way from Kathmandu to Darjeeling my subconscious was subtly pushing thoughts into my awareness. Everywhere I looked I kept thinking "My God, this all looks so... uncomfortable!"

Cynical. Realist. Ought. Is. Guilt. Fate. Pessimist. Optimist.

I do not yet know what to make of what I've seen in my life. For the time being, I'm simply grateful to be able to pick and choose where to lay my head for the night.

I'm currently parked inside the hotel lobby. Only in India.

Finally Moving

November 21st, 2013

Since arriving in Nepal I feel like I've spent an unconscionable amount of time piddling around - reading in cafe's, writing in my journal, staring at blank pages, and, worst of all, getting mindlessly lost in the depths of the Internet with all its intriguing distractions. To be honest, the majority of my "lost time" was sucked into that bottomless pit of shiny data.

That is why I'm happy to be travelling tomorrow. My Indian visa now in hand, and my onward route draws itself. On December 13th I'm scheduled to meet my friend Girish approximately 1100km due east of where I now sit. Girish will be flying into Guwahati, Assam, India for two weeks of vacation, and adventure. I leave Kathmandu tomorrow morning and head for the eastern border town of Mechinagar, which may take a couple days to reach. From there it's a short trip to Darjeeling, a famous and splendid hill-station in West Bengal, India. I imagine I'll drink some tea, read my book, and be off to Gangtok, capital of Sikkim, in short order.

I'm especially excited to see Gangtok. Similar to Kathmandu, Gangtok lies at the foothills of the Himalayas, only further east. To the north is Tibet, to the east, Bhutan. Though ethnically Sino-Tibetan, the people in Gangtok have their own indigenous culture, and language. From what I hear, the surrounds are very similar to neighboring Bhutan - a country still largely walled off to western tourists. Indian and Nepali residents may tour the Bhutan to their liking, but westerners must be in an organized tour group, and must pay for the $200 per-day for the visa. What I'm hoping for, and what my research indicates, is that the scenery and people surrounding Gangtok are nearly the same as one would find in Bhutan; pricey bragging rights excepted.

Afterwards I ride to Assam, and pick up Girish. He's got it pretty much figured out from there. I pursued the itinerary he sent me, and recall something about Nagaland, Megalaya, disputed territory, necessary permits, reformed cannibals, and so on. It sounds like it's going to be a fantastic trip.       

I've been in the dreaded Thamel awaiting my visa far too long now. Three whole nights! Tomorrow I'm free.

I Got Some Splaining to Do...

November 15, 2013

The recent black out on this blog has been due to several factors, some legitimate - others not so much. I have not been involved in any motorcycle accident, nor I have not been kidnapped as an infidel, and have I gone renegade - defecting in order to defend a fledgling peoples noble cause, although sometimes I wish I could do that. I was, however, on a covert mission. I returned home in secrecy to attend the wedding of two close friends. For five splendid autumn weeks I got to be with friends and family. It was a beautiful trip which I have written about elsewhere, but more on that later.

Ten days ago I returned to Nepal, opting again to stay in Bhaktapur rather than Kathmandu. I'm quite taken by the city of Bhaktapur. I imagine that when people dream of Kathmandu the images they conjure in their minds-eye are more in line with the reality of Bhaktapur than the chaos of Kathmandu.

Bhaktapur is a cloistered city. Multi-story tenements form a gridded maze of narrow alleyways and broad thoroughfares. The overall palette of the city has an ochre bias, especially in sunlight. The buildings and streets are brick, and have varying shades of red depending on their age. Woodwork on the buildings is extensive and ornate. All windows frames and shutters are stained some flavor of brown, and are fashioned in traditional Newari style. The aesthetic is both ancient and quaint, much the residents.

The primary draws for tourists are the cultural relics that surround Bhaktapur's Durbar - meaning 'Royal' or 'Palace' - Square. The various temples and kingly residences of the bygone regal era are well preserved and substantial. The main square provides ample space for the throngs of tourists on day trips from Kathmandu. Although tourism related businesses dominate these areas of interest, Bhaktapur remains a functioning Nepali city independent of tourism.

The temples are still revered by locals,  who are predominantly Hindu. They are visited by the faithful every day. The most devout make beguilingly noisy prostrations, which somehow involves discordant bell ringing and mantra chanting. This mysterious practice is reserved for the pre-dawn hours, usually just outside my window. The combination of jet-lag and these wonderful ceremonies had me up and out early each of my first few days in Bhaktapur. Locals begin to trickle out of their home early, and completely fill the streets by 5:30. A steady stream of tourists begins to arrive about four hours later.

The back alleys of Bhaktapur are as charming as they are confounding. Many of them lead to dead ends - often people's doorsteps, or public courtyards. On several occasions I've walked confidently past a group of chatting locals down a blind alley, returning seconds later with a sheepish grin, wearing the invisible yet universal sign that reads: 'Tourist'. Not that I can ever hide the obvious. White skin, curly hair, and a backpack pretty much tell the story. These hidden streets are considerably more ramshackle than the main squares, but no less appealing. They are bursting with life, authentic Nepali life.

Kathmandu, by contrast, is a teeming and rapidly modernizing metropolis. Traditional garb is on the way out. Broken concrete replaces the weathered brick roads one experiences in Bhaktapur. Although the structures in Kathmandu's Durbar Square are more massive, they're less special for it. The open areas are jam-packed with tourists, and the touts which harangue them non-stop.

In summation, Bhaktapur tends to make me wonder what Seven Years In Tibet would look like if set in an ancient Hindu mountain town. Kathmandu, by contrast, tends to make me wonder how the dystopian landscape in Blade Runner might have been portrayed if Stanley Kubrick had spent a year living in Thamel - Kathmandu's main backpacker haunt.

Needless to say, I'm happy to be back in Bhaktapur. However, there is no place like home, and after five weeks of comfort it was hard to leave. However, I flew there and back on the wings of goodness. I hadn't planned to return home until my trip was complete - which may have meant spending several consecutive years away from home. I think it is good for the soul to experience such a complete disconnect. Not to escape, but to gain a wider perspective on ones total journey through life. You can't find home until you've lost it; and you can't find surrender until you let go.

Once commonplace, such trips are almost impossible nowadays. A trip across America just 100 years ago required considerably more bravado and uncertainty than a trip to Inner Mongolia would today. I think the mass of humanity has benefited tremendously from the radical interconnectivity of nations and people, but we have lost something too. I get a sense that, particularly in the most developed nations, and particularly amongst the younger generations, there is too much psychological security. We have inured ourselves against facing an inherently insecure existence - the acknowledgement and acceptance of which makes each moment so precious.     

Nevertheless I did return home for a while. It was an act of kindness which brought me back. Back in July I officially declined an invitation to the wedding of two close friends. Thankfully two other good friends, who had heard that I would not be in attendance, collaborated to wake me up to the true purpose of my trip: happiness. In August I was able to Skype with one of them.

"You're part of our group. Everyone is going to be at the wedding, and it wouldn't be the same without you. We'd be more than happy to fly you out."

I was, and still am, moved by that offer, which I gratefully accepted.

"I'll figure out a way to make it work" I said almost immediately, more as a reaction to the emotional sentiment surrounding the offer than a calculated decision of trip logistics. However, my friend was prescient.

"Take some time to think about it first. I respect what you're doing, and I know that you're in to your travels. But, the offer is there."

That statement gave me pause; a reason to reflect on what I was doing. The days after the offer to return home was laid on the table were filled with inner conflict. There is such a thing as being "in" a trip. Events glide smoothly along unobstructed rails of total freedom. Everything is novel. There are no problems. Things just happen. Did I really want to leave that behind?

In the end, the magnanimity of the situation won out. Financial considerations aside, that someone would even think to pluck me from the Himalayan hilltops, let alone take action to ensure that it happens, overwhelmed me. I happily capitulated, and was homeward bound the following month. To have a bit of fun we kept it a secret, which is why I didn't blog about it. I've no clue why I didn't write while I was home. It was a highlight of the year. The prevailing attitude during my five weeks stateside was unbridled positivity; not such much from me but from everyone that surrounded me. Note: surround yourself with positive people.

Even the weather cooperated. The skies were often sunny and clear, the conditions seasonal and temperate, and the foliage stunning. I haven't glimpsed a New England style fall in years. The motorcycle which I left in storage - an aesthetically pleasing Triumph Bonneville - started up with no complaints. For five weeks it provided a zippy and convenient way to get around town. 

The wedding itself was spectacular. I was reminded of power of ceremony; how it heightens an experience. So also was I reminded of the power of symbolism; how it makes things more than real. And, I was reminded by the power of unity; of two people becoming one relationship, two families becoming a continuous unit, and entire communities of friends and family coming together to sanctify the whole ordeal. Generally speaking, I'm a curmudgeonly cynic when it comes to weddings. I get worried that the intention of a wedding gets lost amidst the fanfare of having a wedding. They're too perfect, and it drives me nuts. That said, I reversed of more than a few of my opinions concerning weddings during my trip home.   

I haven't posted anything sooner because, during the return trip to Nepal, I mindlessly left a newly purchased laptop somewhere in Dubai International Airport. It's gone; stuck somewhere in the past. So it goes. Of course, there were the normal frustrations that come from making such mistakes, but it provided me an opportunity to put some theory into practice. It's easy to follow the logic of maintaining a calm temperament when things "go wrong". Does anything ever go wrong besides in one's own head? Meditation has taught me some handy tricks to tidy up my inner world. But, as with most things under the purview of emotional self-regulation, it's easier said than done.

One week later and I have acquired a suitable replacement here in Nepal - no small feat if you've ever travelled in the developing world. Writing this entry has dealt frustration its final blow. Perspective is everything. Catharsis is always helpful.  

 

Although I had a tough time leaving home, I'm glad to be travelling again. For now, it is where I belong. I've got some adventures planned. I'll be riding around Kathmandu valley all week as I await an Indian visa. I've got plans to link back up with my friend Girish, with whom I did some adventuring through Ladakh, Leh, and Kashmir. If all goes as planned, we'll be journeying into the less explored regions of NE India in December. After that, I'll head to Calcutta, and then southern India.

Unfortunately, as far as logistics go, things are getting complicated. Bangladesh is now out because of new restrictions on bringing in your own vehicle. India's legendary bureaucracy is tripping me up with rules, regulations, exceptions, and loads of paperwork. Currently, I plan to exit India into Pakistan in April, and continue through Central Asian countries towards Europe. I'll be mindful of the security situation there, which I fear may be changing for the worse. That said, I've heard nothing but glowing reviews from people who've recently ridden through Pakistan. This tends to confound people who watch the news, but that's a whole other story about the inaccuracies and biases which are necessary to run a profitable news outlet. The only data available to me suggests that riding a motorcycle in general is on the order of 100-1000 times more risky than travel in Pakistan, so my main priority remains safer riding. Unfortunately, the last few people I've talked to spoke of difficulties in obtaining the all important Pakistani visa. If I don't get that, then I'll be stuck, and I'm not sure what I'll do. So it goes.

Glad to be writing and travelling again!

Decrepitude

September 25, 2013

All things, good or bad, eventually come to an end. The driving force of the Universe is change. Every moment, every thought, every life, and every single one of our possessions will one day cease to be. Most heat-breaking of all, my twenties have ceased to be. Two days ago I turned thirty.

I spent my big ‘three-oh’ in a solitary mood. I was with my thoughts, and didn’t speak a word all day. I was at a meditation retreat, and talking was not allowed. I meditated for 11 hours every day, including my birthday. Over the course of the ten day retreat I lost track the days and nearly missed my own thirtieth birthday. Not that it would have mattered. To be at a Vipassana retreat is to observe change, and develop an understanding of the impermanent nature of all things. In fact, Vipassana retreat is probably the best way to spend birthdays which might otherwise cause an existential crisis.

Birthdays have never meant that much in our family. As a youngster it was a rule that my brother and I could have a large birthday party only once every four years. All other years we kept it simple. We could invite our respective best friend over to play and celebrate along with the family, and my mom would make the occasion as ceremonious as possible. I often helped with making the cake, and my mom would put out decorations. We’d open presents, sing Happy Birthday, and my brother and I gleefully accepted the challenge of making wishes come true. We walked around all day secure in the fact that it was our special day.

During our teenage years my parents increasingly hazy memories combined with adolescent apathy to turn birthdays into a transactional affair. My parents could never recall when our last “big birthday” was, and my brother and I were more interested in going out and getting hammered than in connecting with the family. We got a year older, collected a check, and significantly improved our case for why we could eternally blame our parents for turning us into fucked-up adults.

“A house by the ocean? Vacations in the Caribbean? College paid for in full? But, I would have traded it all for fond memories of my birthdays.” – My brother and I, forever.    

My mother was the doer of all things domestic, so naturally her birthday was habitually forgotten. She threatened to move her day of celebration from whenever it is to the 4^th of July so that we’d have an easier time remembering. She gave up on that project when she realized that men are chronically enfeebled when it comes to noticing things of import to woman, even when the hint is as subtle as the sky being on fire.

My father’s birthday comes just two days after mine (Oh, happy birthday Dad :-), and so it was easily remembered. I’m not sure what kind of celebration he expected to take place, but if I had to guess I bet he expected kingly accolades, with his royal subjects – that is, the rest of the family – parsing him around the clock for being such a good provider, which he was. But enthusiasm for birthdays in our family fell far short of that. He was also a very difficult person to shop for. With all the money he saved by skimping on our birthdays – a practice he called “budgeting” – he could already purchase everything he needed. He was no great receiver of gifts either. Upon opening a gift he would inspect it, and promptly inform the giver about where they went wrong. Valuable information, you know, for selecting the next present to get him.

Had I even a rudimentary understanding of compassion at the time I may have thought about the situation differently. We all knew he had grown up in a troubled household. An alcoholic mother, an icy father he saw only once a year, and on his own since his sister left for college when he was twelve. We might have surmised that he never received all that many gifts in his life, and perhaps he never learned what participating in family was all about. However, my brother and I were teenagers. Instead of “being the change we wanted to see”, as Gandhi would have advised, we preferred being angry and punching holes in the wall.

“Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the only person to get hurt.” - Buddha

Unlike my poor mother, all of my birthdays have been recognized by friends and family alike. Hence, they must all be counted (there is an upside to everything mom!). No matter how under-celebrated this most recent birthday was, I am forced to admit that I am indeed thirty. I’m not bemoaning this fact as a sign of being old. I’m fully aware that I still feel quite young because I am quite young. However, my twenties are done and over with. Gone forever.

Physical signs of ceaseless change in the universe appeared right on cue. I shaved my head a few months back, and was shocked to find undeniable evidence that I am beginning to go grey. From what I can see it’s only a few small patches so far, and it didn’t bother me much. However, as my hair grew back in I gradully noticed what appeared to be evidence of a receding hairline, and for some reason that was cause for great alarm.

I’m suspicious that what I saw as evidence of thinning hair was actually surprised paranoia about my nascent grey hairs. I can’t tell what’s going on up there now that my hair has grown back in more fully. What I do know, and what this most recent Vipassana retreat reminded me, is that it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I was reminded that, so long as I maintain a skillful Vipassana practice, it won’t matter to me whether or not I eventually go bald; or whether I’m rich or poor, a success or a failure, recognized or repudiated. It’s astonishing what diligent mind training can do. I won’t change the external reality, but it will change how it is interpreted.

I left this retreat feeling quite unknotted. I’ve witnessed how a considerable proportation of the things we worry about are constructed in the mind. We then live with the experience of problems we have created. The patent insanity of generating considerable angst over the unstoppable loss of non-functional hairs becomes clear. This past retreat was my sixth such ten day retreat. Every time I go, and every day I practice, I am able to deconstruct some of the problems in my mind, and I no longer experience them as problems in the external world.

I’ve had some really great experiences at my Vipassana retreats, and one of them has been temporary freedom from all worry. For fleeting moments I could drop it all. I could have died right then and there, free from all fear of annihilation – happy, content, overflowing with love for all that has been; love for everyone I ever met, and those I have not. Overflowing with compassion for people who get angry, sad, nihilistic, anxious, or fearful; compassion for all the needless suffering in this world, and compassionate understanding that suffering is inextricably tied into temporal existence. But also, I’ve developed an understanding that with some kind of mind training there might be a way out of such suffering.     

These kinds of experiences have all been temporary, but they can give one direction in life. I have experienced the knowledge that I don’t need to attain anything in life. A great surge of fear washed over me when that experience was over. Could I really just let go, and live a life that impressed nobody? Was a really free to stop caring about what others think? Did I really need more than is necessary? Is it possible, without being brash, foolhardy, or arrogant, to let go of everything, including the deep seeded fear of certain annihilation? A veritable heaven on earth seemed to be the reward, but the metaphorical pearly gates open slowly, and only with effort.    

I’ve been sorting out these kinds of issues since I quit poker two years ago, with varying speeds of progress. Finding the right balance of ideas is challenging. I don’t intend to run away and meditate forever. I think I could help more people if I didn’t do that. However I’ve noticed that, during this past year in particular, I’ve been hesitant to take bold steps towards dedicating myself to either lots of meditation, or helping others directly. I’m still fraught with all kind of pointless worry from time to time. My mind waders endlessly, and has trouble deriving conclusions from conflicting information. I have my insights from meditation on one hand, and my own personal wants and desires on the other. I think the insights are gradually gaining ground, but I don’t for sure.

I’ve imagined scenarios that might strike a balance between my spiritual insight, and life in the modern world. However, a good meditator has the benefit of observing his own insane fantasy’s from time to time. Underneath every desire to start this big organization, or that big charity, are my private highlight reels of being recognized, praised, financially successful, and generally looked up to for being such a great guy. Perhaps this is just one way the mind motivates itself to right action, but I have my doubts. Such a desire to help – while good at some level – clearly has its roots in selfishness. The aim of most spiritual traditions is transcending the Self, not reinforcing it.   

Some of my friends asked in e-mails how I felt about being thirty. The more I think about it, the less I have to say. Thirty is thirty; forty will be forty, and eventually I will cease to be anything at all. So it goes. Change will come, has come, and will continue to come. Being that I’m helpless to stop it, I think I’m going to go with it.

There are, I think, better and worse ways to enjoy temporal existence, and I’m starting to learn how to dance in accord with the rhythm of time. You can have things, but you can’t hold on to them forever. Best not to be attached. You can want things, but the bucket of desire is bottomless. Best to develop an understanding of what is truly necessary. You can enjoy things, but these experiences are also impermanent. Best to dance with equal grace, compassion, and love for each passing moment.    

To Nepal.

September 14th, 2013

I left Delhi in the early morning about a week ago today, heading for Nepal. I was ahead of the morning traffic for most of my way out of the sprawling metropolis, but in India great masses of humanity are everywhere. The roads are never truly empty. I had no map, but the GPS on my phone provided a decent back-up. Mostly, I played attention to the major way-points, and stopped to ask people whenever I lost my way.

The bike and I are more of a spectacle outside the major cities. Despite the fact that India is a heavily touristed country, the majority of people have never seen a foreigner in the flesh. I had forgotten that crowds will most assuredly gather wherever I come to a stop. Like water bursting forth from a tiny crack in a dam, there is an inflection point where a few curious onlookers quickly becomes a crowd. At one refueling stop, I got some tools out to make a simple adjustment to the chain. I looked up only to notice that I had been encircled by nearly twenty people who had stopped to gaze at me, and the bike. I let loose a flurry of greetings and smiles, climbed back on the bike, and went on my way.

I reached the sleepy border town of Mahendranagar just before nightfall. I expected a battle with customs, but it was one of the easiest border situations I have ever experienced. The Indian official knew exactly what to do with my Carnet de Passage. The motorcycle was temporarily exported from India, and then temporarily imported into Nepal with 20 minutes. I purchased my visa on arrival for Nepal, and I was in.

Exhausted, I called it a night in Mahendranagar, and slept until nearly ten the next morning. I had splurged for a decent room with air-conditioning, and milked my stay until the last possible moment. I didn’t get riding until almost 1pm, but I was in no rush. I rode along what is probably the best road in Nepal, a lightly trafficked stretch which lies in the planes of Western Nepal.

It was nearing the end of the rainy season and the rice fields were twinkling emerald. The foothills of the Himalayan range were visible to the north, but the were small, green peaks were obscured by the haze of the planes. As the sun descended behind me the light improved, and nearing sunset the planes looked like an electric green fire. Not since Indonesia had I seen such beautiful rice fields.

In the late afternoon I met a middle aged Bengali man, Sujoy, man riding a 100cc bike from Leh, India, across Nepal, through Bhutan, and onwards to Arunachal Pradesh, India before returning to his home in Calcutta. In my eyes he was the greater spectacle, and probably the greater adventurer of the two of us. His trip would span just 70 days, which is a brisk pace considering the distance he is covering. We rode together for the last hour of daylight, me on a massive 750cc bike, Sujoy on the tiny 100cc engine that could. We were capped by the top speed of his bike, 60 Kph (just under 40 mph), but I wanted to stick with him. This man clearly had some things to teach me.

We split accommodation in a random Nepali town. Broken streets, dusty air, dimly-lit shops, power lines hanging everywhere – the standard for urbanizing zones in the developing world. Unsurprisingly, Sujoy and I share the same basic philosophy that all vagabonds: things won’t make me happy, simplicity is the way to go, personal freedom is hugely important, responsibility to others must be addressed; eventually. That’s the basic scaffolding, anyhow.

It was truly inspiring to share some time with Sujoy. He proved to me what I probably knew at the outset of this trip, but didn’t acknowledge due to fear of the unknown. I didn’t need a big bike to do this trip; I hardly needed anything at all. I didn’t need all the complications I created over paperwork, costs, getting parts, etc. I think I would prefer a smaller, simpler bike too. Of course, I’ve let go of this because there is no use regretting the past. And, at the end of each day, I’m quite happy with my bike. It wasn’t all that expensive. It is a complicated piece of machinery, but that is somewhat off-set by its reliability (finger crossed). It is cumbersome to maneuver in some situations, but it saves me from disaster in others. I think my overarching point is that anyone have these kinds of adventures, and that makes me glad.

Sujoy and I got an early start, and we were both headed towards Pokhara. The plan was for me to go ahead and find a place to stay, and he’d meet me the following day. We had 400km to cover. The road was decent, but the mountains would probably slow Sujoy to a crawl. I sped to the major way-point of Butwal, and made for Pokhara, slaloming around curves all day. I was comfortably sipping a beer in the garden of my hotel when Sujoy called. He had made it to Pokhara in one day, which shocked us both. It was his best day as far as distance covered, and time on the bike were concerned. 

He rested a day in Pokhara before taking off for Kathmandu. I followed a few days later, and am currently in Bhaktapur – a town near Kathmandu, but is far more beautiful. I thought I had visited Bhaktapur on my 2010 trip to Nepal, but clearly I was mistaken. Bhaktapur is stunning. There is a relatively outrageous entry fee for the privelage of entering the city-center. Much to my surprise at least some of that money (about $10 per ticket) actually goes to keeping Bhaktapur clean and beautiful, which is the antithesis of Kathmandu’s’ backpacker enclave, Thamel.

The garbage has been thoroughly picked up, the streets are swept daily, and most building are either fully restored or conform to some agreed upon, aesthetically pleasing architecture. Garish signage might be considered a problem, however, when compared to similar tourist hubs in the developing world, I don’t even have to ask a local to know that signage is regulated, and as under control as they can make it.

Central Bhaktapur is the ancient part of the city, and it’s still beautiful and functional. There are early morning markets, and local residents everywhere. Everything in Bhaktapur is a bit pricier than in Thamel, but for the aesthetics and pleasure of strolling through the red rick labyrinth, I’d say its well worth it.

After only two days in Bhaktapur, I'm off again. I won't be going far, or doing much when I get to my destination. I'm scheduled to attend another 10-day Vipassana retreat, and I leave for the center in just a few minutes. I've done several of these retreats, which are famous for the fact that they are silent. For me, that's virtually a non-issue, but it seems to be tantamount to outrageous for most people I talk to. Personally, I can be heavily introverted, and might go 10 days without uttering more than a few words while I'm traveling. This is not to say the courses are easy, but rather to say that trying to meditate for 11 hours a day is the hard part. Not speaking is a comparative blessing. 

I've got the normal jitters, but I am still looking forward to the retreat. They are very strong experiences, which can lead to beautiful insights about morality, ethics, and how to behave in this strange world in which we live. To exist itself is strange enough. What is self-awareness, and does it mean anything to be self-aware? What is that sense of 'I' we all have in our heads? My guess: 'we' are a story the brain tells the mind. What that means: I don't have a clue. Somehow that compels me to be kind. Life is confusing. Life is hard.   

And then there is the practical world in which we live; an interconnected web of geopolitical groups of humans, cultural values, and interdependent economies. How did this world arise, and how do we live in it? Here, I also don't have much of a clue. However, with regard to the philosophical and the practical, inward searching and reasoning has lead me to feel that I will be okay. I have the benefit of always having a humbling perspective close at hand. How many human beings did I pass on my way from New Delhi to Bhaktapur who are leading lives I find difficult to even contemplate, much less accept as my own? One million? Ten million? I don't know, but I see humble hero's every day. 

Notes #1 - Spiti

September 10, 2013

While I was in Spiti Valley the electricity was out, and I was unable to cobble together ideas using a keyboard, which I now prefer to actual writing. Occasionally, I would scribble down random thoughts in a passport size notebook which I keep in my back pocket when I travel. These tiny notebooks are usually reserved for making to-do lists which never get done. Alternatively I use them to collect peoples contact information, which I later realize is illegible either because they have horrible handwriting, I have horrible hand writing, or the ink has run. The notebooks, which ride around all day mere millimeters from my rear-end, routinely get soaked in ass-sweat.     

About a year ago I came up with a grandiose plan which would more fully realize the potential of these notebooks which I obsessively cart around every trip. I had the idea of writing down a small synopsis of each passing day, and assigning it a score of on a scale of one to ten. The scale would be arbitrary; a generic barometer of how “good”, or “successful” each day had been, all things considered. Eventually, I would chart each day using some meaningful schema, and see if I could detect any correlation between either high or low scoring days, and my account of that day. I could even do some hard statistical analysis if I wanted. That project survived intact for about ten days. Almost a month had passed before I realized that I had abandoned the project.

Next, I decided I would write down thoughts and observations I found amusing during the day. The idea was to capture the little things that I love about travel, but had begun to register in my consciousness. At some point it just becomes normal to see livestock roaming in the streets, to go out to dinner for $1, to have a maniacal tuk-tuk driver, or to see a raucous group of people strolling down the street dressed like circus performers, for no apparent reason. That idea is now a year old, and it managed to last almost two weeks before I forgot about its existence. I recall thinking that I had memorialized some good moments which might have otherwise escaped my notice. However, in due time, I lost the notebook, and can’t recall a single thing I had written there.

I resurrected this procedure for capturing the seemingly mundane while in Spiti Valley. From the start, the projected morphed into something other than I expected. I had ample free time, and notable things don’t happen all of the time when traveling. Instead, it became a place to put down whatever crazy thought came to mind while riding; a place to record sound bites from my mind.

I didn’t return to my mini-journal every day, but I did get some things down which I might have otherwise forgotten. In an attempt to make a permanent home for these snippets from my stream of consciousness, I am officially transferring them to a place where I probably won’t lose them: here.

August 16 – 30^th, 2013. Spiti Valley.

The kid at our home stay in Tashigon, population 24, has a facebook account. Wish I had said: ‘W-T-F?’

Haven’t showered in four days. For a contemporary person, a clean soul is inversely proportional to a clean body.

When cows ruminate, they chew cud. When people ruminate, they chew ideas. Either way, it should be done with the Zen-like poise of our ungulate friends.

The surest path to riches is contentment without. Attainable and boundless, such an ability continually purchases happiness where ever one goes.

[A friend] once told me that walking in the rain actually gets you less drenched than running through the rain. I just rode my motorcycle briskly through a storm and concluded that [my friend] is an idiot.

The people in Spiti lead such arduous lives, but have a kind and gentle way about them. Note to self: always be kind, no matter how hard things get.

At the apparent level, other people and external circumstances occasionally upset me. In the final analysis, I only ever upset myself.  

Camping is awesome. 

Back to Civilization…

September 1st, 2013

About a week ago I made my way out of the isolated Spiti Valley and rode quickly back to New Delhi. Due to problems with the hydroelectric power station in Spiti, the entire valley was without electricity during my two week visit. It had been without power for over a month before I arrived. I suspect the power is still off. I’d wager that its either because some inconsiderate person refused to bribe the right people into fixing the problem, or that, in order to turn the power back on, the bureaucracy needs the proper paperwork to be printed locally, Xeroxed, and stamped in octuplicate – which they can’t do until the power is turned back on.

Regardless, I didn’t need much electricity when I was there. I had made my way to Spiti from Leh – with my Australian friend Tarin as passenger – nearly three weeks ago. We camped a bunch, both on the way to, and while in Spiti Valley. We had batteries for our headlamps, food and gas for the stove, and the bike carried our gear. We were a fairly self-sufficient, mobile unit of tourism. 

Getting into the valley was a bit of a challenge. Abnormal rains caused landslides which blocked the main road in. Tarin and I took the less traveled route, which was not in good shape either. Some parts of the roads were washed out, but the bike preformed like a champion and managed to get us to Kaza, the capital of Spiti, without too many complications.  

Spiti Valley is quite similar to Leh, although the tourism industry is 15-20 years less developed. Most people in Spiti Valley lead simple lives, and survive by farming peas and barley. Shepard’s graze yaks, goats, sheep, and donkeys to make ends meet as well. Despite the hardships of such a lifestyle, the people of Spiti were some of the kindest people I have ever met in all my travels.

The primary language was commonly referred to by the locals as “Spiti Language”, and I was told it was very similar to Tibetan, the border of which is only 150 km. away from Kaza. Most youths and twenty-somethings are proficient in English, particularly in and around Kaza. I found this even more impressive when I learned that the teaching of Hindi, the most common language in India, was only introduced into the schools of Spiti Valley in 1990. English was introduced at about the same time. Even the older locals have a knack for languages. I saw many people, who had to have been in their thirties when Hindi was first introduced to the area, have fluid conversations in Hindi with the handful of Indian nationals who were touring the valley. I was even more surprised to discover that some of the shepherds I came across – who looked positively ancient – knew a word or two of English, which is strange when you consider that they might not have even seen a foreigner until they were in their thirties or forties.

I enjoyed my simple and peaceful time in the stunningly beautiful valley, but decided to head back to New Deli when I learned that a fellow traveler – an Indian traveler named Anish, from Hyderabad – was heading back to Delhi at nearly the same time I was.       

We made the trip in record time, going from Kaza to Manali on day one, taking a full days rest there, and then we made a huge push for New Delhi the following day. That last day of riding was as exciting as it was brutal. I clocked almost 14 hours in the saddle, with a passenger and all of our gear in tow. Anish and I went from the pine-tree covered mountains of Manali, into the sweltering summer heat of New Delhi all in one long day. We passed herds of goats and sheep on the way out of Manali. Arriving in New Delhi, we were greeted by cows which meandered on the median, as well as two elephants which were parading alongside the expressway immediately outside of Delhi, probably on their way to wedding.       

With a 6am departure from Manali, I made it to New Delhi in time for dinner in with my friend Girish, who had hosted via couchsurfing.com back in June, and who also joined me for some adventuring when I rode up to Leh and Kashmir in early July. Over dinner with some of his friends, we exchanged stories about travel, thoughts on life, and I inhaled some much needed spicy Indian food followed, of course, by some sweets and tea.     

I had made a speedy transition from one kind of environment to another. From the unspoiled peace and simplicity of life in Kaza, to the hectic and ever-changing cityscape of modern New Delhi in just a few days. I had electricity again; Internet too. Urban life buzzed all around me.

A week ago today, I was camping on the outskirts of Comic, population 36, the highest city in Asia at an elevation of 4572 meters (about 15,000 ft.). The houses are ramshackle, yet picturesque. The air is fresh, and natural vistas stretched to the horizon. The people often wave and say hello visitors, as well as to each other. Currently, I’m back in New Delhi, population 16.5 million. The streets are cracked and broken; crowded by people walking at a brisk pace with their heads down, looking up only to dodge honking cars, sputtering tuk-tuks, erratic motorbikes, and traffic that sneaks up you from behind because its driving the wrong way.

The vibe in New Delhi, and I suppose any large city, is frenetic but alive. If you know how it works, its anything but overwhelming. Bustling city life is invigorating in a way that’s wholly different from places like Spiti. There is an order to the chaos here in New Delhi. However, there is chaos in the chaos too. The air is thick with pollution; homeless people and beggars sleep on the medians near busy intersections alongside their families.

I’m not sure either mode of living is better than the other. Life is extremely hard in Comic for some reasons; extremely difficult for some residents of New Delhi for other reasons. I was, however, struck by the implications of my return to “civilization”. If civility had anything to do with civilization, I think it could be argued that I was running away from civilization. However, according to Merriam and Webster, civility is merely an ancillary component of civilization. According to the dictionary, reaching a high level of “culture, science, industry, and government” is what primarily defines the word ‘civilization’.

The dictionary doesn’t define what a high level is, nor does it give any hints as to when levels of “culture, science, industry, and government” are sufficiently high. How much of these things is enough? Do we keep increasing science, industry, and government until homo-sapiens unequivocally Win The Planet, or go down trying? Does New York have more civilization than, say, Paris? I think these are then kinds of things philosophers are supposed to sort out.

Personally, I wonder if we have enough of these things already. I think I do. I think many people probably do; some realize it, and some don’t. I think much of the world could use more civilization. They don’t yet have access to its core components, but development is on the way. Places like Spiti remind me how fortunate I am to have enough of everything already. I don’t think there’s anything more that I truly need. In Spiti, I quite easily melted into a lack-nothing state of being. My existence was simple, and simplicity makes me feel whole.

That said, modern convinces – which are certainly complex – made my trip to Spiti both possible and more enjoyable. I’m no Luddite. I love technology. Fortunately, I know enough about technology that I avoid updating it like the plague. Very rarely are new devices, models, or versions worth the hassle. It takes serious awareness to be well informed, an enthusiast, yet remain hassle-free. My lifestyle helps me out with this to a large degree. I simply don’t have access to new gadgets, new websites, or new gossip. I wouldn’t have any use for these things anyhow. In places like Spiti, I forget such things even exists. How can one be bothered by something they don’t know exists?

I don’t think living life with my head in the sand is any solution to problems that come along with development. However, time away from advertising – from companies which advertise products, from peers which advertise themselves, from ones’ own mind which generates the familiar ad campaigns of ‘I, Me, Mine’ in response – can be life changing. Who and what are we? Where is the line which separates needs from wants? How, when, and in what ways does the pursuit of things we want, but may not need, make us happy, or unhappy?

It’s far easier to figure these things out when there is nobody around to supply the answers. And, I think it’s imperative that everyone thinks about these kinds of things. As the Harvard psychologist Dan Gilbert pointed out in one of his wonderful TED talks, humans have the unique ability to miswant things; that is, to want something which, unbeknownst to our conscious mind, make us unhappy. What a tremendously counterproductive use of time, effort, and resources! Are you miswanting anything? I sure hope not. I hope I’m not either.   

Yes, I used my beloved Kindle while in Spiti, and yes, thanks to my laptop I had access to thousands of books, and of course, because of my upbringing I could comprehend most of them. Additionally, I happily used my trusty motorbike to get around, and I even found a petrol pump in Kaza which supplied the fuel which makes it move. Modernity is unavoidable. Time, if it exists, has an both arrow and a preferred direction. Change is inevitable, such is the nature of things.  

Companies definitely exist, and they have to make a product if people will buy it. But, the things we have and use are not who and what we are. The products people need are only a tiny sub-set of the products people will buy. A lot of convincing gets done in order to make people buy a product or service. Companies have to convince us to want things more than we would otherwise. Not only is this state of affairs mostly unavoidable, it’s also completely fine if one learns how sort these things out for themselves.

In Spiti there was nothing to remind me that I was in need of anything else. I rarely felt any sense of lack while there. After being in New Delhi for a few days, my mind caught up with the pace of the city; the pace of modern, urban life. The world, and its environments, will do what they will do. For me, I find that it is important to understand how the surrounding environment affects my mind. Doing this is simply a matter of objective observation. I simply observe and note how the environment affects my mind. I observe how the external environment makes me feel. I note what kinds of thoughts arise because of the environment around. A moment of repose is critical. Only in such moments of pause do I truly understand how the environment is effecting me. Thought arise in response to the environment. In New Delhi my mind is more revved up. When I walk the streets, I want this thing or that thing – usually food. Upon closer inspection, I realize that such wants are likely miswants. Do I really need to eat three lunches? Probably not.

In this way I can more efficiently sort out my needs and wants. For example, I get momentarily excited when I see and smell a place serving a good Thali, or a sweet Ladoo, or hot chai, or cold Kulfi, or fresh-squeezed juice, or fried sugar covered in syrup, or… There is a lot of food in India. But, the same goes for gadgets and potential gifts I pass by. I get excited for a couple of moments. I note my excitement and impulses, but I try and keep walking. Eventually, the excitement fades. Over time, I enjoy the freedom of a light bag, few objects which need to be attend to, and a stomach which isn’t upset around the clock. In general, I find that I need surprisingly little. It has become less about impulse control, and more about recognizing impulses and desires for what they are: ephemeral.     

I enjoyed my time in Spiti immensely. It is a beautiful place. My life was cheap and simple, and the locals were exceedingly civil. Personally, I had enough culture, science, industry, and government to suit my needs. Every day was carefree. Tarin and I went where we pleased, and did what we enjoyed. Mostly, we took in the scenery, and basked in the freedom each day provided.

I have enjoyed being back in New Delhi, too. It’s been fun to reconnect with Girish, and it’s been nice to have electricity and Internet again. I got my laptop fixed, I download some new music, I emailed friends and family. However, I must admit that I wasted an unconscionable amount of time mindlessly browsing the Web. I was able to catch myself here and there. Sometimes I was able to refrain from researching which version of Linux I would theoretically install should my laptop break (Mint 15 with XFCE for sure). Occasionally, I was able to walk away from my mindless hunt for cheap laughs (blooper reels, memes, and the fail-blog are my nemesis). Sometimes I was stuck for hours before I woke up to what I was doing. Part of my growth has been realize what it feels like to be truly awake; to be intently aware of what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it.   

Coming back from Spiti, from Big Nature, from a summer in Ladakh, has been great. What I noticed most in my first few days back was how much the environment effected my mindset. I like New Delhi. I like cities and “the fast life” from time to time. In the past, I’ve noticed my tendency to become the effects of the environment which surrounded me. Hectic places made me hectic. Peaceful places made me peaceful. Social places made me more extroverted. Places of solitude made me a contented introvert. 

For the first time ever I think I’m finding a way to be what it is I want to be in any environment. I basically know how I work and what I truly want, and I think I can attain that in almost any environment. Being a happy person is an aspiration of mine; so is being a helpful person. I’m still looking for a way to combine to two, and I’m still sorting out what I am, what life is all about, and how to more positively engage with it. For me, being fully awake seems to be a good first step.