Udaipur and the Palace

I really appreciate the flow of this trip. Everything seemed to show itself at just the right time and place. Devi Garh had provided us the perfect digs to recover from Varanasi. So, even though most of us were beginning to feel the call of home, we were ready for some new adventures when we boarded the bus for the one hour ride through the countryside to Udaipur and the waiting Leela Palace.

The countryside is hilly, sizable hillocks that could be classified as mountains in some locales. The land is rocky with a variety of vegetation. It is agricultural as well, so we wound through the fields of green growing ?, lush with the spatterings of robes on a stick (scarecrows) dancing in the breeze. The two lane road was fairly void of traffic and people, so a rural experience was delightful, reminding me of what I think Greece will be like when some day I visit her. Even saw a few herds of goats, being shepherded by two women in bright robes along the road. Interestingly, there are no billboards on the biway, rather, entire houses are painted as an advertisement, like Vodophone, and India Oil, and Coca Cola. Curious....and stucco walls are actually partitioned off to include local advertisements, reminding me of the outfield wall of the semi-pro baseball stadium in San Luis Obispo, or in countless other American towns...can you say homesick?

It was the first place, since high up in Ananda, where we saw consistent blue sky, void of smoke and pollution. The spattering of whispy clouds gave no clue that the monsoons are starting to enter the consciousness of the locals. It was a lovely ride. I made a game out of watching the trucks that passed on the right. In India, the trucks that carry stuff are all gaily painted and decorated with spiritual paraphanalia. Every front is different...some have the eyes of Shiva on them...some the backwards swatiskas (a traditional ancient symbol in these parts)...some even sport ribbons on the mirrors...most have an altar of some sort on the dashboard. Remember how I reported that spirituality was a way of life here...the truckers definitely had that going...and with the way they drove here, I can understand calling in some heavier, mightier support... down the twisting mountain road we traced our steps back to the road from the airport, this time turning right and heading for Udaipur.

As we touched the outskirts of the city we caught our first glimpse of the marble industry's presence...a large, visible showground of the stone of many colors. Turning onto the street of the marble quarry, we entered a lengthy display of business after business peddling marble. They were of all sizes and shapes, the stores that is. Right next to an acre-sized business, there was the mom and pop marble store, offering all of 5 pieces. It was amazing as there must have been a hundred different ones over a five mile stretch. Thinking back to the Devi Gahr palace that was all marble, I can bet they got a good price when they built the thing. The marble business slowly gave way to the smaller shops that supported the lives of the people and then we were into the city of Udaipur. The now familiar din of moving vehicles and horns demanding passage now flooded our rural reverie. Winding through the city scene of shops, storekeepers, patrons, beggars, dogs, cows, motorcycles, cars, sadhus, we made our way to a lake, fairly large and picturesque. The bus dropped us off at a small walkway that descended down to a canopied dock. Our guide informed us that a boat would be there momentarily. I must say it felt so good to be around the water. Looking out over the sizable scene revealed some large buildings rising right out of Lake Pichola, as it was named. The whole panorama was  framed by the beautiful Aravoli Mountains in the distance. There was a smooth, peaceful vibration about the whole picture before us. Looking out over the water we could see the water taxi approaching, with the uniformed driver and attendant readying the boat for docking.

The people of India are a beautiful people, attractive faces, dark skin and hair, and a, generally joyful, honoring demeanor. Sure these men worked at the hotel, but i have been at some pretty nice places where the help did not give much attention to the guests. Here there was an overflow of nice...and sometimes, its nice to be niced up, if you know what I mean, especially after the flow of all we have been through. The dashing burgundy uniforms, the white turbans, and the finely manicured facial hair gave the smiles and slight nod of the head an accentuated pleasantry. Off we went across the water, towards the Leela, which had yet to reveal itself. Passing three different sizable hotels of varying grandeur, we turned toward another glistening structure looming out of the water before us...my oh my!

Now, I have been in some mighty fine hotels in my time, and I have even stayed in the Motel 6 in Needles, California...let's just say I have had a wide variety of experience. The Leela opened just last year. It is a part of a chain of  luxury hotels throughout India. They have done their homework. From the dock upon which we landed, it was obvious this was a place to behold and experience. Wide eyed and mouth agape, I crossed through the metal detector into an open area when the harmonium and tabla duo kicked in their song of greeting. Thus far we had grown accustomed to each hotel's personal touch greeting, from a line of servants giving malas, to rose petals from above, to fanfare, to a chant with beads and a kiss on the cheek...all unique, and all letting us know that we were welcome and that they were glad we had chosen the place...bit different than most other places I have stayed in, including that Motel 6.

It was a stroke of gemius to give us this kind of a place in which to spend the last three days of our India sojourn. It was the perfect place from which to sit in the beautiful room or on the balcony overlooking the lake or in any of the on site special nooks inside and outside, and reflect on all that had come and gone since landing in India on December 20th. The best for last...

Our wing had a man assigned to it to make sure our every need was met. Ashish was his name, and with a small crew he did just that. Everytime I opened the door, no matter the hour, he appeared with a smile and a desire to do something for me. He would even stroll with me to the elevator to make sure the button was pushed...now I am a do it myself guy...but, you know, sometimes it is great to be doted upon, even if it is for a good recommendation at the end.

Aaah...relax and enjoy...great bathroom, shower and sunken tub....comfy beds, except they have those sheet comfortor combos that do not really accomodate the person like me who gets too hot and only needs a sheet...bitch and moan...assortment of chocolates and a supply of bottled Himalayan water...music on in the background, internet, dinner in an hour...lay back and let go...when suddenly I hear a loud voice from outside the open balcony window, speaking in Arabic...it is the Islamic Call to Prayer, happens five times a day and goes for about 5 minutes each time. Cool, but why is he on a PA system at distortion volume? Later we find out that there is some struggle with the volume amongst the Hindu population...said it was a special privilege because they were a minority...despite all that it was beautiful...another act of devotion to an ongoing way of life.

After dinner we witness a solo dancer with a small combo of harmonium, tabla, and sitar performing in a beautiful open aired black and white, geometrically adorned stage area. The music was classic and the dance was hot...it's all in the hips and the eyes. Half way through, most of the party leaves, but Debra and I stay. I am recording the music and half thinking the dancer keeps looking at me...a brief fantasy and then the woman finishes her dance...she motions in my direction...but it is for Debra...she had acknowledged her and now was being invited to share the last dance. The music kicks in and there they go...Debra does a great job keeping up...hips going in all directions...the music pulses...and the diminutive crowd of four go wild...sweet moment of culture and inclusion...

I check out the stage the following morning and it has become a fountain, water flowing from the center pulsing circles out to bubble over the sides...nice design...pigeons drink and dance to faint strains of last night's music...I grab my recorder and record the ambiance...7 minutes will make a great background for something later on...lovely, and meditative too!

It's on to the boat and to the waiting bus for a ride to the city palace...for the shopping bug has swept through the group...last minute presents for self and others. We hop off the bus early because some in the party remember the back way into the palace shopping area...or so they thought. Narrow street, single file, near misses, frustration, words exchanged, turn around, walk back to where the bus let us off, ask directions, find that the bus was headed there...sigh...walk...walk...up the long hill to the palace entrance...tickets....not going in, just shopping...tickets...OK...scarves, rugs, clothing...nothing, yet...out the palace gate into the city streets...instant change of energy and shops....there's a place where we got that statue...down some stairs....that's not it...hey...back here....turn around and head down the stairs around the curve into an doorway that leads to a doorway that opens to a courtyard with statuary that leads to another door...yeah, this is it...wall to wall scarves and shawls...cashmire, pashmira, silk, cheap...take your pick...wow...10 men helping...try this...this...good quality...this...better quality...the piles grow...opened stashes of scarves litter the floor...overload...breathe...how much...what's the rule, again?...start with 60% and work back up...but we all are buying...better deal...rupies or dollars?...how does this look?....not my color but it will work with______...40 minutes, 6 scarves: 3 pashmira, 3 silk...no cashmire $200 US each...pashmira feels pretty good....done...get me out of here...onto the street...people and pushing and begging and beeping and smoking and noise...sigh....thoughts return to Leela and the room....walk back...2 miles to the boat...past the camel rides and the pairs of men parked on the motorcycles and the sugar cane crushing vendors and the samosa carts and the cows and the mothers with babies...with that soft voice and the sad eyes and the hand out...street still lifes...one after the other.

Somewhere back while overnighting in Delhi we were scheduled to go out for an Indian food cooking class...we were wiped out and thus, cancelled...well, here in Udaipur, we get another chance and we set off for that adventure in the late afternoon, arriving at a home an hour later. This home was a part of a compound that housed 25 people, mostly employees of the family that was presenting the class and the meal. The man, his wife, and their son are all world class cooks. He, having been the right hand man to the king, is a treasure trove of stories about life in that lane. She, a quiet woman, does most of the cooking demonstration. Of course, she teaches us to make samosas...cool and tasty. A beautiful blend of spice and flavor that makes maximum use of the taste buds. And then, white chicken...now when we said that, you know what we meant, breast meat, not the thighs, back and legs...problem in translation...she takes it to mean WHITE chicken...so out comes this exotic sauce that is...you guessed it, white...put into a pressure cooker with a bunch of bony chicken parts...ha!...it ended up tasting very good at the meal a little later. After the demonstration, we retired to the main feast room where 12 dishes were laid out, having been prepped and prepared since earlier that morning. Truth is, the food was magnificent, made with love and knowledge and hand picked ingredients. All the dishes tasted unique and blended well together. And some were outrageously good...some stuffed eggplant and another chicken dish....mmmm...delightful evening for all. What a treat. I still won't be eating Indian food for awhile, but when I do, I will think of this family and the love that infused those dreamy dishes...

Now for some reason I am reminded of our first guide in Udaipur, good looking man with a manageble accent. All the guides wear casual jackets, just a size too small, colorful shirts with a scarf. Their hair is usually reflective of some George Michael video...hinting towards mullet. The style is everywhere on the men of means...amusing...the minute he got on the bus he started talking about the people he had been a guide for...and it moved to a talk about a famous wedding and then onto his wedding. He had been betrothed by family decision to wed a young woman he had never met. They were allowed chaparoned visits of limited time to get to know one another. Both shy, their time together was pretty quiet...but the wedding came as planned. Everyone that knows the families are invited....the guest list can easily range in the hundreds and even, the thousands. These are lavish 4 day affairs where all participate. It is, as he said, one big Bollywood video. Now there is an image....what is curious though, is that we found out later via the internet that there is a crises in India where a growing number of the female babies are being aborted because of the concern over the eventual cost of the dowry and the wedding feast...one can imagine a 4 day food orgy for a thousand would require a bundle of cash...Las Vegas can be a very attractive alternative...by the way, 16 years later, the couple is  still together.

On our last day in India, we decided one more trip to town to visit the Shiva temple and buy some last minute trinkets was in order. And one in the party was looking for some of the hand painted deity prints popular during the 1930's. He had had some luck the day before, but his appetite was still there for more. 7 of us went, and this time instead of the boat ride, we snuck out the back gate and caught several of the putt-putts, the quasi motorized rickshaws, to take us down the winding back streets to the shops....50 rupees each...such a deal. wheeeee....wheeeee...wheeee....all the way to the city square. The temple was there with its towering white structure adorned with intricate carvings of Hanuman and Shiva and others...eventually we would partake, but for now, let's get shopping. Some deity stickers look great on the suitcase or as gifts to 20 year old daughters...check...a colorful cloth will be great for setting singing bowls on during workshops ...check...that prayer wheel would be useful as a tool for workshop participants...but, geez, so many to choose gfrom....look at this silver one with the inlay...high quality, says the vendor...high quality made from yak bone...very powerful...thousand rupees...six hundred...nine hundred...six fifty...750...7...sold...high quality...I get this...

We find our way to a shop down a street because it was supposed to have the prints...and boy, does it. So, for the next hour plus, we watch a delightful, knowledgeable shopkeeper bring out the treasures. And where only one of the party was interested before, suddenly the parade of painted product stirs the interest of others...they are beautiful, but I find that I am not interested..so, I wander and look at the jaguar hide chair with the paw arms on it...the intricate ivory carvings of familiar Hindu Deities...the Bollywood antique movie posters...the endless sea of statuary...the many things that look great in the store but will be, "what was I thinking?!", when one gets home...so I take pictures and eventually find my way outside to watch the river of people flow by. Foreigners and locals all with a place to go...brought together in this moment for this rendevous in time...for what purpose? we all showed up and now are free to go about our lives, one less requirement. A cow saunters through, narrowly missed by an aggressive youth on the motorcycle...beep, beep...the cow pays no attention... A man on a flat board moves by, legs cut off at the hip, now with flat boards on his hands to act as accelerators and brakes as he navigates the moguled street...the remarkable dance of humanity in its, oh, so many flavors...click, click, click goes the Canon...memories burned into the Sdisk...into the brain...stories of a life opened up...surely not in Kansas anymore...one more reminder of a choice made long ago...I think I will incarnate in California...I am moved by this technicolor exposure to life unknown before...many are so moved that they drop everything and come back to live...that is not me..the Pacific Ocean at the end of the day waiting with open arms to cradle the sun to sleep...now that is the life I resonate with...thank you, India...strains of Alanis Morrisette slip out of some container in my grey matter...

A trip up the steep stairs past the hopeful glances of the photo-op minded Holy Men Sadhus and into the temple...an intricately adorned display of devotion and delight...a sense feast for the eyes. Devotees in stocking and bare feet in various degrees of homage and prostration give a soundtrack to the scene. I am moved by people showing up...no hesitation...no self consciousness...letting their version of spirit speak and display spontaneously. My mind drifts, as I circle the temple, to my own practice, my stuttering connections to the inner and outer God, sometimes sandwiched between my current stack of projects...note to self, integrate, grasshopper, there must be room for spirit...

The putt-putt beckons as my last look at these littered streets that have expanded my being now fade into the din of dust and horn...it is time to go home and see how India will color my moments in the familiar. I smile and strains of the Buddhist hymn at Bhoudhanath swell...Om Mane Padme Hum...and the credits of gratitude begin to roll. Fare thee well...

The Body Adjusts and Refuge in Devi Ghar

The body is so resilient and adaptable. When the immune system is tended and nurtured then most challenges will be dealt with in the manner of the design. But travel creates stress...and stress taxes the immune system. That's when stuff can happen. The stress of travel comes in the form of changes in routine, changes in time zones and sleep patterns, changes in eating, exposure to new people and regional energies, excess expenditures of energy, experiencing new energies, emotional issues from schedules to stimulation by the sights and sounds of the area visited...on and on it goes.

I rarely get any sickness, and when I do, I look to how I have not taken care of my basic nurturing needs. I have had some temporary challenges on this long Indian adventure. The first was learning how to use the water. Bottled water is what travelers use. I did brush my teeth with tap water in the hotel on the first day before I was reminded. But it was the spicy Indian food that took its toll first. The digestive system is very sensitive. Now, I like spice and flavor...but everything had something in it that was not my normal diet. Needless to say the rumblings came quickly. But it was just a day's worth and nothing that compromised me. I have to say that the places where we stayed all had good food with options... and I trusted their kitchens and staff.

I was adjusting well until we came to Varanasi. This, like so many Indian cities, is a smokey city. But the smoke here has the added element of the crematoriums. When we first took to the streets on New Year's Eve there were millions of people afoot. The dust was visible and palpable. Within the first hour I noticed some throat irritation. I brought along emergencyC and a really good multivitamin so my system was maintaining. But when you throw in the emotional and spiritual elements of Varanasi, the system has trouble keeping up. It was mild at first and really did not kick in until we left and arrived in Delhi for an overnight before our two days at Devi Ghar.

I was fine through dinner and even when we danced the Zorba the Greek thing down the halls of the Imperial, all was just fine. But when I got back to the room I noticed an intensification of post nasal drip. Within an hour it had reached the lower throat and the throat chakra with a strong burn. An hour later it was effecting the lungs. Now I have had what I call cleanses before, but this moved so fast. It kind of told me that there was an energetic cleansing of deeper levels occuring. Needless to say, it was intense. Visions of spending the rest of my trip in bed appeared...stop it! Antibiotics to the rescue. The seasoned traveler carries whet is needed to meet the unexpected...and some potent antibiotics are a necessity. Except that I do not use them or even think of them, so I had none...enter room mate..and a 10 tab dose of CPro...of course, I will take them. Plop, plop, fizz fizz...

By morning I had turned the corner and, though I had a meaty cough, the sore throat was gone and things were softening...aaaah...But from that point on, someone in the group, at some time, had something. Let's just say that the challenges/stressors were catching up.

Onto the Lake Region of Udaipur to a secluded old palace on a hill overlooking a small support village. This place was just what was needed for us all. The lake region provided some energetic elements that were appreciated right away. There was water and there were mountains. These combined to create a topography pleasing to the eye and an energy that was soothing and revitalizing. It was the perfect prescription for intensity of Varanasi. And we all took advantage of the care offered in the marbled rooms with views that cleansed any left over vibrations. Arrival day was just acclimating and moving in...creating personal space. Drinks and dinner and reflection on the trip thus far brought us back to a good mood that accompanied us to sleep. The following day was the lost day when each is left to their own process of reflection and rest and task. It helped so much...I wandered the grounds and took a bunch of pictures as this place had so many angles and doors and walls and views and fountains and shadows and stairs...still life heaven. Later that day we had a ball shooting a spontaneous video of Americans at play. Look for it online down the road. There really wasn't even much interest going into the village. We just wanted to play like royalty and spend time behind the walls recuperating and gathering energy. It was easy to simply find a seat with a view and watch the rural world go by...

And, by the way, there was a noticeable absence of motorcycles and horns and hustle and annoyance. That is one of the things that made this place so peaceful and nurturing. The body's adaptability makes it hard to know the impact of something until it is gone. The motorcycles and horns and near misses were beyond annoying...and now, they were gone. Praise Allah!

This is a short entry. I am a day or so behind in my entries. We are actually on our last morning in India. I fly out tonight and will set foot in Newark 15 hours later. Then a short 6 hours to Los Angeles and my waiting car and I am back in what may be termed my "real world". I am interested to see how I shall be when I get behind the wheel. I have not used a cell phone in 20 days...more on this later.

I shall include pictures when I get home and can go through the thousands. I shall make one more entry regarding India itself when I talk about 3 days In Udaipur...probably be written during the flight home. Then I shall add a final entry about the re-entry into my home life in Cambria, California.

Let's just say that when we left the nurturing high walls of Devi Ghar, many of us had reached the realization that it was time to go home...but what we experienced as the bus pulled us up to the dock to go the the Leela Palace was completely unexpected.

Varanasi, the Oldest City

From the mountains to the plains where the Ganga G meanders through timeless switchbacks precipitated by the gravity and flow of waters swollen from the monsoons and melting ice packs in the Himalayas, we descend. Hoping to catch sight, on this clearer day, of the jagged peaks that touch the feet of Vishnu, we board the plane for Varanasi on this New Year’s Eve Day. I reflect on how, so many times on this very day, I would be leading the 4 AM Peace Ceremony at the Unity Church in San Luis Obispo, California. Singing songs about the unification of peoples and the tending of the inner garden to create an open-hearted footprint of love wherever we go, these ceremonies reminded us for a period of time that we could be different in this world. Well, here I am on the eve of 2012, actually in the arms of the world in a way I had never even anticipated. Through the annoyance of serious security and a slow moving process in the airports, I intend to keep my inner place of peace. Pushing the river, even for Americans, is a fruitless process.

The plane takes off and I am ready with camera for the parade of the peaks. It soon becomes obvious, however, that we are not paralleling them back to Delhi, but, rather, heading in the opposite direction toward the oldest city in the world, Varanasi....damn, it is hard to corral my disappointment. But, being the peacemaker today, I breathe into the moment and remember, “Peace will fill the world when we finally understand, that only from within can it be spread throughout the land, every single person living peace in what we do, only then will our dream come true...”. For now, I retain my gentle flow...and the spires fade into the distance.

Now, Varanasi is a fabled city, oozing with history and mystery and intrigue. To say it is an old city does not honor its lineage. Surely, in 13,000 years things have been rebuilt. But, I will say that there are some that look the part and, if these walls could speak, there would be a storytelling that would transcend generations without any repetition. We landed at the newly built silver hued airport and went through a meticulous security and customs process again. After so many of these, there is no longer any trepidation, just acceptance that it will take time. The Mystic India rep walked us to the waiting bus for the 45 minute ride into the waiting one-of-a-kind experience that was looming in the diminishing light.

A fine hotel afforded us the safety and separation from the 2.5 million people who were sure to be out on this day of ringing in the new. After a quick refresh, we were introduced to our guide, Dr. Shailesh Tripathi, a smokey voiced Brahman priest who was well educated in anthropology and history and the mystic arts. He proved to be entertaining, knowledgeable, colorful, and connected...he knew everyone on the streets and got things done by a quick call. We were in good hands. He had stories and knew how to use them...and he had a laugh that was just like The Count in Sesame Street, only deeper and washed with a hundred thousand cigarettes...Tom Waits-like, if you know what I mean.

We hopped in two cars and headed down the street, increasingly awash with the flood of revelers. Now i have never seen the locusts when they swarm...but there was something about this ever-flowing sea of humanity that was mind-numbing, incessant overwhelming, just too much... The descending darkness added to the mystery and the growing level of adventure. Down the streets we move, the deep throated voice of Shailesh greeting the locals, a hushed conversation off to the side...an arrangement and then a one minute dissertation on the building to the left...through the increasingly animated streets we passed building after building and beggar after beggar and vendor after vendor and tourist after tourist and sadhu after sadhu....moving at a pace set by the oscillating congestion of the animated mass...toward the river...

Varanasi is a city that serves a purpose beyond trade and history. It is where people come to die. Knowing their days are numbered they come here to surrender to the holiest dance....cremation and the eventual reunion with the Ganga...and to this end the city channels its energies...the obvious and the elephant in the room...it drips with the frequencies of pathways done, stories laid down, memories traded for blissful knowings,  last dances for an infinite stream of souls who took one more ride on the wheel...hopefully their last.

The streets are a Virgo’s paradise...visceral, earthy, physical, in the bones...life lived in the mud, life you can eat and hear and penetrate...all of the body processes on display...it is the panorama of humanity, peering out from dark side streets, looking down for one last glance of the flesh from the houses that hold the one in Hospice care..eager for the journey but still clinging to the slipping fingers of life...smoke fills the air...it is the campfires set up in the streets, it is the warming flames of a shopkeeper’s food, it is the remnants of lives in the body dense, giving up the ghost and riding through the streets and mingling with the senses of family and stranger...one last time before the dimensional shift

Tonight, we do not seek death, but rather, life...a Buddhist ceremony at the aati that is widely more extravagant than what we saw in Rishikesh. Dr. Shailesh ushers us to awaiting balcony overlooking the entire festivies. Throngs on the steps...seven platforms with altars facing the river...seven chakra colored light canopies stretch down the intersection point of land and river...an increasing number of boats on the Ganges facing the ceremony, each holding the maximum number of devotees and revelers...a combo of voice, harmonium, and tabla work the vibration of the crowd. Seven young men, priest apprentices take the platforms in final preparation. In the river you can see the bathers already washing away the past and cleansing themselves for whatever life may bring...trusting in a practice that gives, at best, mixed results (if seen through the “civilized” eye)...a practice that is an outward exclamation of devotion and belief.

Now, I have seen devotees, religious individuals who believe wholeheartedly in their version of life’s earthly dance...who intercept anyone willing to listen to why their version of The Path is the most desirable...I have seen some level of commitment to the spiritual life...I am a hodge podge collection of the best of what I have heard and felt and resonated with...a new age guy who really does intend to practice what he preaches and move through moments with a heart that loves and eyes that witness magnificence...but in my best moments I have not touched the level of undying dedication to the beliefs and practices of what I have witnessed here. The religious/spiritual are not practices, they are the life of the people here...as familiar and routine and breaking bread and breathing...intricately woven into the culture and lives of those who incarnated here. And because of this immersion, they participate fully and without hesitation in the process...there is no checkin one another out, there is no self judgment, this is simply what they must do...and I am humbled by what I see...easily reflecting on my sputtering practices that so easily give way to something with greater promise...people here do not look for the easy way out...they walk through the mud of life and do what they must do to survive and reach an inner and outer place that rewards such devotion...and my Virgo self loves this...

The ceremony and pageantry swirls on as the monks perform their rituals for the people via movement, mudra, incense, fire, chant, rhythm and music. Seven monks in a choreography that is both well rehearsed and spontaneous feeding the spirits, hearts and minds of the pilgrims for over an hour. From the balcony we watch, swaying rhythmically to the ceremony we feel but do not completely understand. In a flash it is over. We descend onto the ghat and begin to walk among the revelers who are most definitely in the spirit. Just down the walk we come upon a holy man in a cage like altar, selling prayers and string blessings. We each purchase one from him and as we are leaving a man from the local news comes up for an interview with the Americans...Sonia obliges, and as I wander back, he asks for another...oh why not...bright light, makeshift mic and a videocam from at least 20 U.S. years ago and I am asked about our presence here...what I thought of the experience...and other such late night news stuff...fun...famous in the streets of Varanasi

The walk back to the waiting cars is intensified by the hundreds who had been at the aarti. Half carried by the throng, we wind our way through narrow passageways to the main street, hounded constantly by three vendors, one a 9 year old boy who is so smooth. They learn early here the fine art of selling. They look and listen for openings...answer just one question and they scoot in for more...it takes about 3 minutes of no before they even start to loose interest. The dance is part of the territory, The whole thing reminds me of the county fair back home...Saturday night just after the rodeo finished and the throngs were released to the walkways and the beer garden...festivities of a new year...hinting of an early morning transformation that each step brought us closer to...

In bed by nine for the 5:30 AM rising, I am awoken at midnight to the sound of explosions. Startled, I stumble to the window to see the sky lit up by bursts of light and sound...we are in an area that has seen conflict over the years, and with the visible presence of soldiers I easily move first in that direction...but then the realization that it was new year’s eve sinks in...so I watch the familiar festivities...for over an hour it continues...2.5 million bottle rockets, sparklers, m80s, snakes, twirlers...that’s how I remember it...back to bed, I leave the shades open to let the bursts of light lull me back to sleep...2012...yes it is finally here...thoughts return to Mt Shasta, California in 1987 when I heard the call for the ushering in of the great 25 year cycle that started with the Harmonic Convergence...we are there...explosions...the great doorway is about to open wide...the distant thud and whoof of celebration fades into my growing delta state...the great cleansing is upon us...

On the bus after coffee and toast, moving through a light rain toward the Ganges through deserted pre dawn streets. It is sharp contrast to the hoopla and the human mass last night. We are back at the site of the aarti celebration last night and, already, many are lined up and in process of moving to the bathing areas to immerse the year in the river and let her purifying waters reactivate the desired possibilities in their lives...a clean slate, like the etchasketch shaking, or the drawing pad where you lift up the top piece to erase the drawing...everyone needs a new beginning but here it is a way of life. The men undress to their underwear and immerse themselves in the swirling january water. Women go in fully clothed and then change when they come out. At regular intervals along the waterfront, priests offer blessings...karmic cleanses filled with mantras and blessings and chants and mudras and intentions and questions and color...we are pulled into one man’s process...he speaks over our heads and has us repeat mantras hard to understand...something about Ganga and karma..we parrot and feel a light energy...he asks us to write names of families in the book he will bless for a month...I feel done and attempt to get up...he pulls me back with words about karma...he starts to tell what his service is worth...he makes comments about the power of karma...and what it is worth to give him such and such...the beautiful ceremony gets fuzzy...money is exchanged and the spell is broken

Shailesh gathers us and takes us to the river to a boat with a small oarsman who proves that appearances are deceiving. On back of the boat, sitting on the roof of a storage area are a sitar player and a tabla player, poised to orchestrate our foggy and rainy  sojourn. They, although smiling, did not look happy for their instruments, already moist. Still, they begin, and the music adds a cinematic ambiance to the scene unfolding before us. The murky pre dawn Ganga G is evocative, a stirring scene for all the senses. Acrid smoke of burnings of the night rides the currents in the air...one can taste the memories of those just released from the physical realm. Boats filled with people from many cultures appear out of the foggy shroud...the eye is pulled and the camera lens follows...splashes of color in the backdrop of goodbye and fare thee well. Vignettes pepper the shoreline...we, as passersby, have no way of grasping the relevance to the players before us...but we feel it...and the music and cries and laughter milk our hearts to open to rich and varied, unending flow of life in this earthly domain. Everything is personal here...it is the intersection of oneness and separation...you cannot witness this and not be moved up and over and beyond your own walls of comfort...this is into the valley of death, reaching into the belly of the beast, ripping out your own misperceptions and fears to cast them adrift upon the incessant haunting pleadings of the water...release and be free...release and be free, little one...boats of pilgrims, tourists, monks, vendors bump into one another...the mighty little men maneuver their craft with the skill of too many rides on the river...we are just feet away from a boatload of Burmese...they have the hats...and none of us can avoid eye contact and its momentary mind meld that integrates and unites us in this precious experience. Humbling is not a word that describes...it is a shared connection that brings us back to square one...we are human and share that bond more than we have ever allowed...

Dr Shailesh takes the cue and begins chanting his mantra...a whirling dervish of sound riding the frequency of purpose delivered in that bluesy un-cola man voice...we are swept into this moment...a man who has been silent joins in as they harmonize the melodies unfamiliar to the western ear...hitting all those in between the scale notes that break down resistance and topple inner patterns to leave us open and willing...a young woman has been silent this whole time riding just behind the musicians...her purple dress now colors the moment as she moves in position with a basket of smaller offering baskets....each is lit and passed around to the eight of us...we take the ritual seriously and cover the basket with our own shortcomings and mistakes and energies ready to go. It is time for the testament, the movement of will, the act that shows the etheric energies around us that we are serious in our choosing to place ourselves here at this time. We each move forth as the chant continues and intensifies...repeat after me...words as sound spoken...God knows their meaning...we are in full trust mode and surrender to the unrepeatable call of now and one by one release the flaming baskets into the Ganga G. These boats of all the shit we held precious just float away into the darkness, into the past, sinking without pomp into the energetic soup of yesterday.

With the last miniboat launched the music stops and the silence drops around us like that uh-oh feeling. We are each left with ourself, in a moment pregnant with possibility, like the still point between the inhale and the exhalation of breath, this moment gives birth to the future...each is asked to intend...it is a most fertile time to seed the down the road...the sound of the oars in the water is all we can hear.

Until it arises out of the mist...that unmistakable chant of Krishna Das singing his breakthrough favorite, Om Nama Shivaya...it increases in volume as if laid upon our senses by the very Gods themselves...but no, the sound begins to focus from a man in a boat with his child heading towards us. In the front of the seating area he has a black shrouded old CRT monitor showing a video of life along the river in Varanasi...with the Krisha Das soundtrack...how can you not buy a copy...resourceful, comical, just the kind of non-sequitor this place brings to the altar of awareness

There are over 50 ghats, or ceremony areas, along the Ganga waterfront in this section of Varanasi. Between them are two crematoriums that have been in constant action for a very long time. Now my mother was cremated 3 years ago and the result was brought to my brother and I in a bag and a box. Here it is a public process that is as old as life itself in this region. I will not dishonor it by attempting to explain it but I will pass on impressions. Basically, in this expanse by the shore, the body is brought and placed on the wood, already having been dressed and addressed with prayer. More wood is placed on top of the body and the burning begins.  It takes a sizable amount of wood to help reach the temperature need to disintegrate the body. multiple fires burn. Next to them are the raking of the ashes, a ritual done every morning to gather those of the previous burnings. Ashes are typically taken and released into the Ganges. It is such a common experience here that there is no energy about it. The religious practices allow the people to have comfort and trust in the flow. There is a well organized industry here along the water that supports this...I feel it and resonate with it as it diminishes the mystery and prevents the confusion and manipulation that surrounds the death industry in the West...it is flowing and natural here.

We head back toward our disembarking point at the scene of the second crematorium. On the way simply drink in the experience. The musicians have all but given up accompanying the rain...but I am afforded a chance to noodle with the sitar. It is a seductive instrument, but three minutes do not allow mastery...thankfully the player takes it and puts into its case...out of the rain’s touch. As the morning’s light lifts the veil we begin to make out all that is around this area of the river, all the buildings, the many people who live along the shore, the riverbank on the other side..it is a place of mysterious beauty and relevant tradition. 

And now the man who chanted along with Shailesh stands and begins to talk about raj yoga....and invites us to participate in a series of moves that will assure long life, clear high blood pressure...on and on he goes...wow...we do them and do feel rejuvenated...but we are wet and cold and any movement is a blessing. At the end he shows us his pamphlet and offers purchase...with all respect, and I do buy one...it echos of the traveling salesman of the old west...though I do not believe he was a fakir of any kind...I am bringing back the exercises and will incorporate them into workshops once I practice them enough.

As we approach the shore Dr Shailesh invites us to participate in a final ceremony. The local bathers immerse their whole bodies in the river to insure the release and cleanse. Westerners carry the germ and bacteria programming that seeds doubt and usually robs them of a holy experience. Perhaps, because so many westerners visit, a new lore has risen. If one takes the water of the Ganga in the right hand, and while the priest speaks the mantra, pours it onto the top of the head...the same release from the karmic wheel takes place...and so it is...released from karma...with no past or things to deal with...what to do?

Off the boat, back on shore, look out for that pile of....into the narrow passageway we slip..at the top of the stairs we are at the crematorium..who wants to go in?...hesitation...I do!...4 others as well. Down the steps to the fires and ash and tenders...given to a man who parrots an explanation in English of the entire process...our eyes search for evidence...just below the fire burns...see the head...see the head...the men shout out...as if they think that westerners are addicted to drama and the evening news syndrome...there it is, one of the party exclaims...again it is a humbling process that is naturally presented in an understandable flow...not offensive at all...

Up through the narrow corridor through the intensifying rain...rivulets streaming down from the canvas overhangs...dirty water...why did i wear this LL Bean white cotton shirt? and damn...what’s this?...the beautiful red mala necklace given at the arrival at the hotel is bleeding all over the inside of that very same shirt...sigh...I look like the walking dead......sigh...into a shop the Dr leads us...friend of his...cup of Chai tea...he puts in the secret blend made in his mothers kitchen...yummm...can you say warm sugar with cinnamon....still a welcome warmth...delightful...we are headed for the sacred buddhist temple of gold...but this is an area that is contested by Muslim as theirs...it has been classified a high security area...that means soldiers with guns...it means leave everything behind except for your money...you will be searched...and these guys are not kidding...so in single file we walk through the growing mass of devotees...one by one the soldiers explore our bodies...men on one side women on the other...it is invasive, yes, but understandable...I look and one of the women is having her breasts checked for contraband...I'm just sayin...

We are afforded  a brief glimpse of this golden temple...not allowed entrance...20 feet away the Muslim mosque spire competes for the skyline...it is an intense experience...completely devoted people to their form of expression...all rubbing shoulders in a confined space...we are done now...

Up and out and back to the main street we take our newly opened, karma free, rain soaked selves toward the waiting vehicle. There is a feeling about it all...it is personal...it is precious...I have just been through something that has knocked down old boundaries...made me larger in life...allowed me to be more connected to a frequency of the flow I did not know existed...I am vibrating at a new frequency and I like what I am feeling...I cough, and only now begin to feel the deep cutting pain of post nasal drip gone wild...an old pattern sounds the alarm...the new me goes, myeh...in the land between these places I enter the car to go back to hotel...breakfast and a shower and laundry...please, and by the way, I am now karma free...

Kathmandu, Nepal...Day Two

Kathmandu, Day Two

One learns quickly when taking to the streets what is necessary to smooth the journey and take conscious care of personal needs. Sure it is nice to be with a group and guide and retreat to the bus when all is said, seen, and done. But the incessant energetic demands of being in an unfamiliar situation moving through and with a sea of individuals with economic agendas are constant. I have noticed that what was startling the first day on the streets, what demanded my attention, has faded into a growing level of “seen that”. The inner need to find and maintain a center of balance manufactures quick adaptation to the environment. One’s sphere of sensitivity diminishes. Motorcycles, once so confrontive and annoying, are now tolerable. A pattern begins to unfold: they honk more to let passersby know they are behind them rather than an invasive, get out my way!

This is, in a sense, the major goal of the traveler: move through the reactionary misinterpretation phase to embrace local customs and ways of the region and town. There is a fine line between the ugly american and the one world citizen...coming from the U.S. I am certainly used to taking care of my needs and getting what I want when I want it. On a narrow street with hundreds living, selling, and buying, one develops patience and a flow, or one does not survive these journeys out from the hotel compound. Why travel, if there is not a willingness to learn and flow? There is a way to respectfully say no to the panhandler with word, tone, intention, body language, and pacing. Hone these and the journey becomes amusing.

We took the bus with our guide to one of the holiest stupas in greater Kathmandu in the morning. It was the beginning of a 5 day Buddhist celebration and we had come to the centerpoint: Boudhanath, the lord of wisdom, one of the primary places of pilgrimage for the practicing Buddhist. Typical stupas are a center spire, filled with sacred religious relics, so the word on the street is. Colorful Prayer flags flow out like spokes of the wheel from the top of the spire. Around the whitewashed spire, or part of it, are circular paths, where pilgrims circumnavigate a clockwise rotation at least three times. 

Today marked the first day of the pilgrimage. When we arrived there were hundreds already seated up on one of the stupas’ 3 circular levels. Monks were chanting over the PA system to the many in saffron and burgundy colored robes. Plain clothed pilgrims walked clockwise around the stupa, either parroting the chant, reciting or singing Om Mane Padme Hum. It was an inviting scene. The brilliant white stupa was colored with pink paint representations of the lotus flower along its crown. It was a feast for eyes and ears and heart. We ascended the staircase to the right of the small temple and entered the procession. One had to walk the edge of the stupa around all of the people sitting.It was about an 8 foot drop to the shop level. A bit of a challenge, but, truthfully, the more we surrendered the less we focused on anything but releasing old frequencies. The ceremony cycled through a cd playing the official “Om Mane Padme Hum” chant, the monks reciting sacred mantras and verse by heart, and the classic Tibetan monk multi toned low chant with the clanking cymbals and trumpet horns. Three cycles...tears...pageantry...witnessing something very sacred and deeply meaningful to so many. We exited to shop in the many, many stores encircling the base of the powerful sacred edifice.

It was here that what was first a significant tragedy played out...I have been traveling with a Disney stuffed Tigger this whole trip and he has been a playful and constant companion, showing up in all the places we do and demanding his picture be taken. In fact, the Where in the World is Tigger? blog will launch in a day or so. Now, Tigger, being orange and white and a tiger, has been increasingly late in getting back from some of the Buddhist experiences we have had. And, after we had shopped, visiting so many stores and exchanging rupees, we headed for the bus. I asked the keeper of the Tigger for that day to let me get a shot of him on the drive through the streets to our next destination, some ancient temples in a town out in the countryside. To my shock, she indicated Tigger , along with the special sacred incense, were missing. We were already down the hill, and because the traffic in Kathmandu is so intense and hazardous we could not turn around. The gravity of the loss fell over us in a collective gasp....

He has been such a trooper, showing up with enthusiasm and confidence and delight and, when we were tired, his bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, aways gave us a second wind. But, Tigger is gone...for good. The realization soon became obvious...Tigger has come home, and whether he has found his way into the hip pocket of a monk, or into the delighted hands of a Tibetan child, or is sitting unnoticed, for now, in some shop of rugs, sacred cloth, malas, jewelry, or whatever...he is exactly where he belongs. It is plain to see that Tigger has a higher destiny. We have been honored to have walked this journey with him.

But we think there is something bigger happening here. Tigger simply loves to travel and take his very special brand of fun, fun, fun, fun, fun to all he meets. So, I am sending out a call. If you happen to spot Tigger along the highways and byways and towns and countries of this incredible world, please take a picture of him and post in on the blog, Where in the World is Tigger?. My heart, and my inner little boy would deeply appreciate it...Tigger, fare thee well...and yes, you are...the Only One!

Stopped for pizza at Fire and Ice on the way to Bhaktapar. The thin crust pizza was a welcome change to 13 days of Indian food...delicious though it is...too much of a good thing needs a break...the mood of the pizza feast was somewhat subdued...I would drift in and out of my travels with him...when the letters TGR showed up in pizza crust on my plate we knew it was time to go. We hoisted one for T-I-double G-rrr and hopped the bus...half expecting/hoping him to appear from out of a bag or under a seat...but, no, he was on the road to find out...

Now, Bhakatapur is a very ancient Nepalese Hindi/Buddhist city filled with magnificent temples and squares and shops. The tallest temple in Nepal was there...kinda like hiking from the field to the the last row in Texas Stadium...late afternoon delightful shadows pulled the eyes and heart and seduced the camera into multiple shots...all the while the guide told us details that disappeared with the next scene...they are in there somewhere, the collective experience that will appear holographically down the trail. Mysterious side streets serpentine from the center square...two young boys play a spirited game of badmitten on the raised platform across from the temple to heaven...motorcycles puncture the senses of everyone... they buzz by for no reason whatsoever...annoyance and maybe, tolerance...stop it!!!

Along the way I stop and pick out some brightly colored cloth to use in my sound work. The singing bowl store with the planet tuned bowls is closed...darn...something for everyone...a newspaper toting man sends a shrill announcement over and over as he walks through the streets...throaty voice altered until it could carry a long long way...disturbing patrons to buy just to quite him...

We have started to fade...just too much...our senses had been fabricating walls all day, and it looks like they had set the last stone and sealed the enclosure...hotel...please...now. The drive back afforded us with some rare clear views of the Himalayas towering over the closest range of smaller mountains surrounding the Kathmandu valley. Breathtaking...glistening white jagged peaks piercing the sky in an endless reach toward the All That is. It is hard to look away once one has seen them...the yearning to drink them in, to trace their edges...to stand at their apex and kiss the sky...to feel what it is like to look down upon life’s meanderings...the top of the world...right before our eyes..soul stirring and the hands reach out like an infant who wants to possess their beauty...photos...must...take...photos...get out the telephoto lens...quick ...we are descending into the city...the peaks shrink...traffic jam...hundreds of cars jammed to get rationed gasoline...thank you, God...look around...aaaaah...there they are...click, click...the clouds dance off the highest peak like smoke in the wind...Oh...My...God...

Hotel...exhausted...tired of the in house restaurant and not willing to enter the outside vibration again...we settle for the pub...a round of Everest Beers...how appropriate...the fire burns... spicy chicken wings call...we sit in the quasi circle of eight...hoisting our 22 oz beers to this magnificent life altering experience we seized by the heart today...clink, and as  the chicken satays join the festivities, we look into the dancing orange flames and remember...through our own being we remember and wish him well...listen...listen...yes, I hear it too...that song

The most wonderful thing about Tiggers

Is Tiggers are wonderful things

Their tops are made of the rubber

Their bottoms are made of the springs

They bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy

Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun

But the most wonderful thing about Tiggers is

Iiiiiiiiiim the Only One

Varanasi, the oldest city in the world, the city of cremation begins to infiltrate our vibration...the letting go is upon us. The New year is grabbing us by the throat, and shaking our past like a poodle with a stuffed animal...we are falling apart...piece by piece...and our precious inner child self is saying, “hhhoooo hhhooooo”. ...and me, I’m crying as I write this...thanks Tigger for your beautiful blessing...