Travels with Mayonnaise

On my recent flight from Kathmandu to Delhi, I met a 60-something Polish man in the adjacent seat. He spoke little English but we exchanged pleasantries as we settled in for the short journey. When the in-flight meal was served, he pulled a one-liter screw-top plastic package out of one of his many vest pockets. Curious, I looked a little closer. He looked at me, and said matter-of-factly, “It’s mayonnaise,” almost puzzled as to why I wasn’t carrying my own package. After dispensing a copious quantity on his meal, he offered it to me with a generous grin. I declined politely, as I find mayonnaise repulsive, and  flavored my own meal with tiny packages of salt and pepper like the rest of the passengers. As he returned the mayo to his vest, I was suddenly intrigued, and soon after slightly fearful, as to what ELSE could possibly be in those pockets. Other condiments? A porkchop? Oysters? Fake passports? Scented candles? A kitten?

Perhaps unfairly, I finally decided that a man who travels with a liter of mayonnaise on his person is not to be trusted and I kept to myself for the rest of the flight.

Movember in Banaras

Several steps outside the door of the Banaras airport, a youthful bright-smiled taxi driver with a neatly cropped mustache caught my attention and called from several meters away, “Sir, your beard is very good. You want taxi?” seemingly equating my own bushy mustache with the need for transportation. As my colleague had already secured a driver, I declined politely and walked to our vehicle, smiling at my first interaction in India.

Commentary on my facial hair became a theme during the five days in Banaras. Strangers on the street stopped to give compliments, or sometimes just silently look me up and down and give an approving nod. On one occasion, a gentleman shouted from across the street, “Hello sir, you have great mustache where you from ?” “The United States” I replied. “Oh yes, America, Obama big time!” he shouted back, grinning widely. During a dawn walk along the ghats, while wearing my hair down, three different young men stopped me to talk about my curly locks and appearance. The first compared me to Mangal Pandey, an Indian freedom fighter from the 19th century; the second likened me to a movie star Aamir Khan, who once portrayed Pandey in a film; and the third remarked that I looked like Mahishasura (see image) of Hindu mythology, the asura (devil) who battles and is finally killed by the goddess Durga.

Durga slays the mustachioed devil

All this attention added to the peculiar, chaotic and spiritual energy of Banaras, and for a few days served to feed my ego, which in hindsight, felt rather ironic in this holiest of Indian cities, filled with Hindu traditions, trident-bearing sadhus, and seekers of moksha, the release from our worldly attachments, self-identity, and the endless cycle of samsara.


you are the Canyon

you are the Canyon
dark and hushed in the starry night
you are the Pine
still and rooted in the rocky soil
you are the Hawk
silent and hovering above
you are the mother Fox
darting and foraging in the dark

you are the Canyon
in all the sun’s blessed light
you are the early Blossom
tender and fragile, afraid of the full bloom
you are the yonder Ridge
beckoning all to ascend
you are the mother Bear
awakening from the den

you are the Canyon
reflected in every sacred nook
you are the Smoke
enveloping the forest
you are behind the Window
revealing only a glimpse
you are the mother Child
basking in untouchable beauty

 

Driving home…

red silvery flash
across the canyon highway
what’s on your mind Fox?

Awakening

Seasonal change often rekindles my interest in haiku, tuning me in once again to the earth’s rhythms, as well as my own. The recent, long sunshine-filled days, wind-rushed evenings, and signals of spring have prompted a few new verses, which I share below:

on the equinox
release with the moonlit wind
oh! how the pines shake

eager for the rush
of a thousand springtimes past
how the canyon howls

chimes ring too softly
betwixt the savage, whipping pines
auguring the bloom

Top 100 Memories of 2010

In the last quarter of 2009, most of my plans focused on a more stationary life. I moved all my possessions to Boulder, started a job in the Dragons office, started house-hunting, made new friends, and thought 2010 would find me settling a bit. By the 2010 New Year, those plans were sidetracked as I was invited to instruct a 13-week course in SE Asia, an offer I could not refuse.  The decision sparked my busiest year of travel yet, granting me countless new experiences, even more new friends, opportunities to learn from other instructors and connect with bright young students, and perhaps most importantly, a great deal of self-exploration. After two long journeys along the Mekong (one northbound and one southbound) an exceptional summer of laughter and outdoor fun in Boulder, two newly-visited countries (China, Mexico), and connections with family and old friends in between, I had a rather brilliant year of fun, adventure and learning. As 2010 comes to a close, many of my thoughts are similar to a year ago, though this time they are a bit more concrete. Soon I will return to Boulder, an admin job in the office (which I enjoy greatly), and a place that feels like home.

Below, in no particular order, are 100 of my brightest moments in 2010, a year I won’t soon (ever?) forget. I extend my appreciation to all of you who made it so, a year rich with experience, growth, joy, laughter, tears, movement, tranquility, and love…

1. Walking in to the Yi village in Yunnan province in late spring, in the snow, with all the rhododendrons blooming, being greeted by a warm community, a fire, hot tea, and endless plates of fry-bread and fried potatoes.

2. The end-of-Buddhist Lent festival in Luang Prabang, candle boats ablaze!

3. A few brief moments of perfection while crossing the Mekong from Ban Xieng Mene to Luang Prabang in the early morning.

4.  Fishing with Pop and Bill in Rocky Mountain National Park.

5   Folk festival in Lyons with Mom & Dad and friends.

6. Birthday in Austin at the Broken Spoke, learning to two-step with Maryann and Wyatt.

7.  Solo fly-fishing, cycling, and camping on the Poudre River over a beautiful July weekend.

8.  Nightime playground fun with Becca & Simon.

9. Afterwork volleyball at the North Boulder Rec Center.

10. Cycling ‘round Boulder all summer.

11. Snowboarding @ Mammoth in June with Chris, Simon, Luis P, Aaron, Francisco and Galleta.

12. The Mustache & Sidepone party in Palo Alto with Pesos, Mejillas, and new friends.

13. The massive, day-long food-buy in El Segundo before Dragons orientation with Abrie, Eva, Annie & Sarah, and the following drive up to Rock Creek.

14. Wine & Cheese evening at Dragons orientation.

15. Bluegrass @ Oskar Blues all summer.

16. Breakfast at Lucille’s with Mom and Pop.

17. Two 6-hr boat rides on the Mekong between Stung Treng and Kratie.

18. Connecting with my homestay parents in Ban Xieng Mene, learning more Lao.

19. My first Christmas at home in NC since 2004, and a brilliant White Xmas at that.

20. Setting off floating lanterns from a rooftop in Kunming.

21. First glimpse of the Mekong in Yingpan.

22. Reaching 13,000 ft summit in Laojunshan with the fall Dargons.

23.  A hilarious breakfast at Tom’s with Simon, Sarah, Eva, & Mary–kicking off a summer of laughter.

24. “Let them eat…”

25. Exploring the 7km cave in Khammouane, Laos by boat—otherworldly.

26. Being profiled on a Chinese TV dating show.

27. Beach volleyball and soccer with the park rangers in Nam Kading NPA.

28. Micheladas on the beach, Ricardo catching a big fish with only his hands and a knife, and then fresh ceviche on the pier.

29. How many games of 500?

30. Learning all about the Luang Namtha forest with Mr. Buakhet and Mr. Pong.

31. 17 flavors of Mooncakes & the Mid-autumn festival in Yingpan. Dinner with the I-team and floating lanterns hanging over the town’s night-sky.

32. The first morning after entering Cambodia and speaking Khmer again with locals at the Stung Treng market, and the warm feeling of “home”.

33. Sunset swimming, ultimate Frisbee, and bonfires on the Don Daeng beach.

34. Sitting at an old temple on the hill overlooking Shangri-la, pondering the news from my father, staring at the giant prayer wheel, and contemplating impermanence.

35. Seeing Iron & Wine (with Calexico) with Sherriff and Trigger, later meeting Sam Beam at the Driskill.

36. Countless hours of bus-rides through Yunnan, Laos, and Cambodia.

37. Dancing round the fire with the fine Yi community of Yangyuchang.

38. A brilliant trek through Tiger Leaping gorge with Stew, Allana, and the Spring Mekong-ers.

39.  A century ride around the temples of Angkor.

40. Beng Mealea in the early morning. Still as impressive as ever, even on my 7th visit.

41. Seeing the Cambodian Living Arts rehearsals (dance students, and Master Kong Nay). Never fails to fill me with joy.

42. Lao New Year in Ban Xieng Mene—a 3-day waterfight.

43. A Dodger game with Matt in the bleachers.

44. The bioluminescence on Koh Rong Samloem.

45.  Hiking up Bear Peak with Maryann and Shannon.

46.  A winter celebration in Four-Mile Canyon, staying up to the wee hours with Andrew, Matt, and Kylie playing old records.

47.  Cookie & the Cupcakes.

48.  Euchre, Anis, and a long, late-night discussion of relationships, family and life with Aaron.

49.  The many bowls of noodles in China. Especially the knife-cut and hand-pulled ones.

50. Learning to make papaya salad with my homestay family in BXM.

51. Playing bocce with Gabe and half-dozen drunk Lao teenagers.

52. Breakfast at our Tibetan homestay—flat bread, yak cheese, and countless cups of yak butter tea ‘round the stove.

53. Staying up with Stew and homestay father in Yangyuchang, roasting potatoes in the fire, and telling stories.

54. The day hike up to the 12,000 ridge through the blooming rhododendrons, and the view of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain.

55. Decompressing from the spring Mekong course in a small, mountain cowboy-town near Veracruz.

56. Winter day-hikes in the Flatirons.

57. Sunset above Kep with Allana and a kind French woman.

58. Prek Pdao, Cambodia. Chatting with Mara’s family and cruising around the village on motorbike.

59. 1-on-1 conversations with students…too many to list individually, but thank you Mekong 2010-ers. You made my year special, lively, and memorable.

60. The island wedding on Koh Preah—and the adolescent boys who couldn’t stop dancing.

61. Bacii ceremonies in Ban Xieng Mene.

62. Sitting riverside with Mara in Stung Treng, and talking about relationships.

63. Trekking up to the Hmong village, their splendid hospitality, and a surreal dawn storm the next morning.

64. Trekking around the blue lagoons, caves, forests, and rice fields of Khammouane Province.

65.  Making boat paddles by hand with Lao villagers, then racing (and capsizing!) along the river in the freshly painted boats.

66.  A visit to the Plain of Jars, and learning about MAG’s work to clear UXO in Laos.

67.  Lao New Year lunch with my homestay family, then riding out to a waterfall with the father, and a savage tropical storm that came out of nowhere and stranded us briefly under a roof that nearly blew off.

68.  Waking early to make sticky rice with my homestay mother, then going to the Wat to give alms.

69. Entering China for the first time, and the stark contrast to Laos/Cambodia.

70. Eating family-style in Yunnan with a big group, especially when Stew ordered. A cornucopia of dishes, all distinct and delicious, and a belly that seemingly never got full (or didn’t want to get full anyway).

71. The excitement about Yak yogurt in Zhongdian.

72. Sitting in a shallow Mekong rapid, eating tamarind, and talking about the possibilities of afterlife.

73. A night at the hot springs, sleeping under the stars, waking to frost on the sleeping bag.

74. A group of Dragons mulling over Karina’s unstartable Previa, then towing it, then Japhy slacklining on the tow strap.

75. “Eva, it’s the last night of the program, the Hot Phone is not going to ring. No, I’m not knocking on wood”…(Less than an hour later)…RING RING!

76. An afternoon solo at Lake Agnes, fishing and reading on the rocks.

77. Walking round Don Daeng in late afternoon light—what a special place.

78. Leo Kotke & Sam Bush at the Denver Botanical Gardens with Matt, Kylie, and Shannon. Perfect summer night.

79. Mushroom Hotpot and a night at the spa in Kunming!

80. The traffic jam on the way to Shaxi, and the kind old woman who shared tea, pears, and walnuts with us.

81. The opening ceremony of the Fall Mekong program in Shaxi…especially the candle-lit walk through the old town.

82. Sidewalk dance party outside the electronics shop while waiting for the bus.

83. The relief that came with the success of my father’s surgery, and hearing he was working and fishing again.

84. Learning to cook a few dishes in a Chinese restaurant kitchen.

85. Super scary but memorable…a student collapsing mid-trek at 13,000 ft, and the ensuing evac by 4WD to get him to a hospital 3 hours away.

86. Walking into the Big Sheep Meadow after a strenuous ascent and a fun descent through bamboo forest and many stream crossings.

87. Bathing in the Mekong @ sunrise, sunset, midday, and by moonlight.

88.  Deep in the Lao jungle, a conversation about gratitude and respect with students.

89. Playing kataw in the afternoon in BXM.

90. The Ranch Summit in Austin, TX.

91.  A week of relaxed fun and great food with Pesos y Mejillas in Palo Alto.

92. Mountain biking in Nisene Marks…especially bombing the downhill.

93. Harvesting and threshing rice in the hot sun with Lao villagers and students.

94. The excitement of picking students up at the airport at the beginning of the program.

95. The bittersweet relief of watching them depart at the end.

96. Learning to speak a tiny bit of Mandarin, as well as improving (slightly) my Lao and Khmer

97. Learning some Aero Yoga.

98. Learning more about patience and compassion from Allana, humility and service from Mara, and organization and thoroughness from Cat.

99. Learning more about what I want the coming years, most notably community, family and less transient relationships.

100. Coming home to the US, with no (current) plans to travel in 2011, and how deliciously strange/strangely delicious that feels.

Life Along the Mekong Slideshow, Fall 2010

2010 Reflections coming soon, but until then please check out a  slideshow of my most recent journey through SE Asia with a fabulous group of Where There Be Dragons students…enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BV18zfwkuzg

Changing Cadence

I’ve written before about the slowing of time in Luang Prabang but I’ve yet to find an accurate description of the daily cadence here. In the village of Ban Xieng Mene, we do things once and it feels rhythmic, or perhaps routine for some. This morning I woke at five to help my host-mother prepare sticky rice, rinsing the grains after the night-soak and pouring them into the conical woven basket to steam over a wood fire in a clay pot. Somehow, the preparation, the sweet smell of the wood-smoke, the silky feel of the water full of rice-silt, the heft of the steaming-basket–all felt familiar, like I had done this dozens of times before.

We live in a tight community of homes that spill over into each other, with kids and dogs and roosters freely coming and going from once house to the next, all connected physically and socially by a central brick pathway. Step out the front door and you find yourself in someone else’s small earthen courtyard, or vendor stall. There are children everywhere. I’ve yet to walk down a single path without bumping into a pack of them, darting about the town with wide grins, balls and small tires for toys. Yesterday I caught a group of a half-dozen 7 year-olds sneaking a cigarette, though they didn’t much know what to do with it; they seemed more interested in the smoke coming from the lit end rather than the filter.

Yesterday six of us played kataw in the afternoon, a game similar to volleyball except using the feet, knees, thighs and head rather than hands, and played with a small ball made of woven cords of rattan or plastic. Barefoot in the dirt and bare-chested in the sultry air, the game is reminiscent of childhood summers, spent outside until darkness ended our amusement, long past calls to dinner or baths. Occasionally our flailing kicks send the ball down the embankment on the edge of the court, into a ravine filled with garbage and refuse, not far from the edge of the Mekong. We at first find it strange, unacceptable, even reprehensible, to discard so much rubbish, so close to the homes, so close to the river, and yet we are unable to provide any viable solutions either. Too soon we are immune to the sight, regard it as the way it is, and return to our fun.

In the evenings I eat dinner with my host-family, all seated on the tile floor around a raised serving tray containing fish stews, or bowls of delicious veggies, and the ever present jeo — sauces made from roasted tomatoes, or banana flower, or crab meat, or riverweed, each of them distinct, all of them delicious. The family always provides me a plate and a spoon and chopsticks, but I prefer to eat like them, collecting small handfuls of sticky rice from the bamboo basket and rolling it into small balls for dipping into the soup or the jeo. I make small talk in broken Lao, asking the names of the dishes, but the family mostly concentrates on their food, or the Thai soap operas on the television. One program in particular seems to draw attention every evening, a popular show called Papaya Salad, of which I can make little sense, but find myself singing the theme from time to time.

In just ten days I’ve slipped into a rhythm that feels strange, but altogether pleasantly so. I wake before dawn, often go to bed before 9:00pm, take two cold bucket-showers per day, and try to enjoy the slow moments between our outings, lessons, and activities. I am not quite sure if rhythm is the right word actually, for it suggests a certain degree of fluctuation and stimulation. The feeling reminds me somewhat of ma (or “negative space”) in Japanese art, calligraphy, gardens and speech—the idea that what is not said or defined or revealed is equally as expressive, and a place of spiritual power.

Waking, and waking again.

Luang Prabang has this incredible power to slow time, or at the very least, slow my mind and entangle me in its leisurely rhythm. This morning I woke at five, called rather loudly by the roosters just outside the bedroom window, less loudly by the rain on the zinc roof, and soon after quietly by my host-mother preparing alms for offering at the local wat. After dressing quietly in the dark, I am given a silver-painted bowl filled with sticky rice and rice crackers, a woven silk scarf to hang over my shoulder, and an umbrella. With my host-father, I walk out to the brick path to find mothers and daughters of the village, all dressed in their best siin,  as well as fathers and young children and elders, all carrying similar bowls filled with alms. Together we walk quietly to Wat Xieng Mene in a light rain, careful to cover our bowls with the umbrellas, or the end of our scarves.

At the wat, the monks wait patiently until the villagers have gathered outside the main temple building, most of whom are squatting quietly beneath bright umbrellas and altogether unperturbed by the rain. Some of the men are allowed on the temple’s portico, along with the elder monks, who begin the morning’s prayer after the majority has settled. Even with a microphone, the prayer sounds muffled to me, unable to overpower the patter of the raindrops on the concrete or the distracted, playful young boys behind me. Solemn and versed, the elder monks finish the prayer quickly and begin a procession around the main temple, followed by the young novices, all carrying a silver urn. As the monks walk between two lines of villagers, each receives a small finger-full of sticky rice and small packets of crackers or wafers, until the urns are full and the young boys, directed by the elders, come with plastic baskets to collect the extra offering to distribute later. Those with leftovers find nuns seated in the wat courtyard, seated and smiling their betel nut-stained teeth, and fill up the nuns’ own silver urns. Offering bowls empty, we add a few ounces of water and are led in a final chant–our left hands raised in half-prayer, our right hands pouring a small stream from the bowl on to the ground,  we ask for happiness and lifelong compassion. The ritual is finished in less than thirty minutes and villagers return home without much ado, again walking quietly in the drizzle, perhaps eager for their own breakfast.

Some time later, I find myself in a pirogue crossing the Mekong, solo except for the driver, my host-father. The drizzle has mostly stopped and the fog is lifting quickly, revealing the surrounding hills, drenched in green and white wisps. Despite the obvious activity and life on its surface, the river seems almost silent. There is the noise of a small motor behind me, but somehow the sound blends into the flow of the river, indistinguishable from any other. For the briefest of moments, I have one of those inexplicable experiences of intense joy, unattached to any memory, or person, or activity. The sensation is too real to be a dream, and yet the experience is fantastical enough to make me question if I am awake. I turn my head in all directions, nearly absorbed in the scene, but I am cognizant enough to see the approaching bank. Feeling the fleeting moment slipping away, my mind begins devising some reason to cross the river again. Enviously, I think of Hesse’s Siddartha near the end of the tale, forever crossing the river as a ferryman, and wonder if I could stop time.

 

Yunnan Haiku

stone clouds hover low
still, yet for the prayer wheel
spinning solemn light

rising from cobbles
a yak bellow drifts across
the stone-covered rooves

with smokesticks in hand
thrice times around the buddha
breathing compassion

elders climb the slope
from the golden-terraced fields
life along mekong

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