Quick Musings, Some of Which are Quite Outdated

13/7/12

Nearly every single faucet in Phey Gompa tells me to ‘Smile.’ This really is a wonderfully uplifting reminder, particularly when violently evacuating one’s bowels. I am not being sarcastic (well, a little bit), but it really does lift my spirits whenever I go to the toilet for a pee or a poo, and am reminded to smile.

Every morning, like clockwork, roughly half-an-hour before 10 a.m., based on quite a strong feeling in my bowels, I find myself reasonably compelled to go to the bathroom. And surely enough, every morning for the last few days, I have taken a poo at nearly the exact same time. I suspect it might have something to do with the various pills I have been taking for the allergic reaction and infection that developed in my right hand thanks to a very nasty bug bite and muscle fatigue.

Only after the fact, have I realized that the antibiotic I was prescribed for the infection inside my right hand is Amoxycillin, a derivative of penicillin. I used to be allergic to Amoxycillin, penicillin in general, as the first and, until now, only time I had been given Amoxycillin was as a child. I vaguely remember being given it for the stomach flu, but this would not make much since as the stomach flu is a virus, or so I am led to believe, as antibiotics do not work against viruses. Anyway, several hours after taking the first dose of Amoxycillin, which I remember being a foul tasting pink liquid—though less chalky than Pepto-Bismol—I found myself doing a lot of scratching all over my body. And soon enough, my mother noticed I had developed a great number of red blotches, all of which I found to be quite itchy. We rushed to the doctor’s office, or maybe it was the hospital as it was the evening and the doctor’s was likely closed; they declared I was allergic to penicillin and all its lovely derivatives, and that was the end of that. I’m pretty sure I was able to get a new toy out of the whole ordeal, so all in all, not so terrible an experience. Now, however, it seems that I have outgrown my penicillin allergy, as for the last five days I have been taking two tablets of Augmentin 625 Duo daily, of which one tablet is, according to the box, “Amoxycillin Trihydrate IP equivalent to Amoxycillin 500 mg [&] Potassium Clavulanate IP (as Potassium Clavulanate Diluted IP) equivalent to Clavulanic Acid 125 mg.” Therefore I have been taking a gram (that’s 1000 mg for those of you unfamiliar with the metric system) of Amoxycillin on a daily basis with no side-effects, at least that I know of, on top of 250 mg of Clavulanic Acid, the effects or purpose of which I haven’t the slightest clue. No itchy red blotches, no evening trips to the hospital, no new toy. Things sure have changed since I was five years-old.

30/7/12

Back on Amoxycillin following the motorcycle accident, this time with no obvious gastrointestinal side effects; I’m pretty sure it dries out my skin though.

There are so many attractive blond girls…why are they here?

My mind is in the gutter. Or rather, my mind is the gutter.

4/8/12

The Israeli children, blond-haired and blue-eyed, are among the least Jewish-looking children I have ever seen. What is strange though, is this is only true of girls. The male Israeli children are for the most part, unremarkable in their Aryan qualities, but by Moses, the little Israeli girls look as though they could be in 1930’s Germany’s Mickey Mouse Club.

I can quite safely say, without exaggerating in the least, tourists now completely outnumber the Ladakhis, at least in the more frequented parts of Leh. The tourist demographics have shifted as well, with White people now far outnumbering Indians. This does not sit well with me, and it is now easy to see why traditional Ladakhi culture is disappearing as fast as it is. With each successive season, a new tsunami of tourists washes away ever more of the Ladakh with which I first fell in love. It is a very real fear of mine that before this decade is through, the soul of Leh will have died, replaced by or rather subsumed by materialism and hollow Western tourist culture. This once fertile oasis of unique culture and religion thus rendered a soulless backpackers and tourist ghetto, Nubra and Zanskar soon to follow. Fuck Lonely Planet, they may mean well, but the effect of guide books on Nepal and India (and elsewhere I am sure) has been to stifle the dynamic nature of life; transplanting the cage of order, constancy, and control that dominates life in the West onto life in the East…and strangling it in the process. A life lived according to a schedule is not lived at all. As people become more and more reliant upon the order of things, upon schedules and reminders and SIRI, they lose the ability to respond spontaneously to difficult situations, to remain calm in turbulence, and to appreciate life as it unfolds, regardless of whether or not in conforms to our best laid plans. Life is full of river crossings where there are no bridges, something learned quite readily here through personal experience. You either get your feet wet, or you don’t cross. In the West, we build up so many layers of insulation between us and the world we inhabit in a vain and misguided attempt to escape the pain of life. But in doing so, in subscribing to a life solely of comfort we lose our connection to the world, we become numb to existence and fail to appreciate the dynamic nature of being. Any real reward demands struggle and sacrifice, the sort of experiences which touch and uplift the soul cannot be ordered with a few clicks on Amazon.com. A golden cage is still a cage.

Why do so many (White) people who come here dress like hippies and bums? I truly do not understand it. No living being ever native to India has ever dressed like this…ever. There is no basis for it at all, no cultural precedent or antecedent. Is it that people (tourists) are so ignorant as to think this is a part of the traditional culture? Or is it that by dressing as hippies they are somehow convincing themselves that they have achieved some sort of materialistically endowed equanimity? Truly, I am at a loss. And the jorts! So many people in jorts! Here’s some advice, take it or leave it: if ever you find yourself wearing jorts whilst in India or Nepal, it is time you go home.

Tattoos are stupid; they are either an advertisement or a reminder, the epidermis being a terrible place for both. That’s just my personal opinion. Here are the only things, I think, permanently worth etching into one’s skin: “All life is suffering.” “Everything is impermanent.” “Go read a book.”

-Doug B.

Sacré Bleu, or The Tantric Approach to Unpleasant French Women

What follows is perhaps, almost certainly, the least pleasant interaction I have had with a human being, indeed any sentient being, whilst in Ladakh. And yet, as I have reflected on it since it happened this morning, I have thus come to realize this incidents value as a quite profound teaching as I attempt to walk the path of the Buddhas. It unfolded as I was going for kora, ritual circumambulation, around the Chokhang Vihara, also known as Gompa Soma (New Gompa), which is the main Buddhist gompa (monastery) and lhakhang (temple) in central Leh. To the best of my memory, this is how it unfolded.

I walk into the Chokhang, and as I begin my kora, I notice on older Caucasian woman, European by the looks of it, attempting to light up a cigarette. I can stomach and ignore tourists being loud, or rude, walking the wrong directions, wearing shorts and other revealing clothing, and most of the other disrespectful things they do while in Buddhist gompas and sacred sites, but not this. This was intransigence at its highest. The Ladakhis might be too nice to confront her, but I am not.

Doug: Excuse me, but you cannot smoke here.

Old French Woman:   [Looks up in annoyance]

D:        I don’t mean to be rude but…

OFB:   Go away [gives slight wave of hand, by which she clearly means ‘fuck off,’ and resumes attempting to light cigarette]

Realizing that this woman is far more determined to smoke her cigarette and disrespect this sacred place than I am to stop her, I continue with my kora and leave this foul soul to wallow in carcinogens and her even more noxious personality. Having finished my circumambulation of the Chokhang, I stand on some stone steps shaded by a few trees near the front of the main lhakhang, reciting some last few mantras of OM MANI PADME HUM (HRI), when the Old French Woman, walks up to me.

OFW:  You cannot talk to people like that.

I attempt to be conciliatory, and indulge her with an apology that she does not deserve.

D:        I am sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as rude, but I realize that I did.

OFW:  You cannot tell people what they can do.

D:        I know, but really, you cannot smoke here.

OFW:  [Clearly perturbed that I will not give up my admonishment] According to who, to you?!

D:        According to them…[I motion to the Ladakhis behind her and the literal writing on the wall behind them which states in big bold letters ‘YOU ARE SITTING IN A HOLY PLACE, DON'T USE ALCOHOL, TOBACCO IN ANY FORM’]…it’s actually written on the wall.

OFW:   [Boiling with anger] You’re from the States aren’t you?

D:        Yes.

With my affirmation, I have virtually no doubt as to the vitriol that is to follow.

OFW: You know you should just stay there, closed.

She pauses, so consumed by her spiteful emotions that she is clearly at a loss for words; unable to convey in English the disgust inside her that only knows the language of French as a vehicle.

OFW:  You truly are an unbelievable country!

Shaking her head in utter contempt and disgust, she turns around and walks away. Now I am at a loss for words, so taken aback by her odiousness. As she walks off towards the side exit, completely failing, as do so many other foreigners and Indians, to walk about the temple properly—in a clockwise manner, I manage to get in the last words, which are the only words (other than expletives) which suddenly pop into my mind.

D:        [Somewhat sarcastically] Have a nice day.

The End

A Swan Song For a Dear Dog

My dog is dead, so is my beard. So it goes. On the other side of this Earth, I am not sure what to feel. My parents say she passed, with dignity and grace. Natural. Peaceful. I cannot, nor will I ask for more of the situation. A painless death, the last parting gift of this life to man's best friend. To my best friend. Now the tears begin. It probably doesn't help that I am listening to "Pathétique" by good ol' L.V. Beethoven or a slew of other songs from a playlist I've made called 'Everybody Hurts,' a la the song of the same name by R.E.M. Jessie, my dog, passed from this life, by reckoning of the Gregorian calender, last Thursday, Fourteen June, Two-Thousand and Twelve, of the Common Era. I did not find out until the evening of Saturday, Sixteen June, Two-Thousand and Twelve, of the Common Era. There are no ill feelings over the discrepancy. Here in what I like to call the 'Wild West,' by which I mean Ladakh, I am quite hard to get a hold of through any medium short of a physical conversation. There is not much more to say. My father has written a eulogy for Jessie, and in good old copycat fashion, so have I.

Here is my father's eulogy:

Jessie Bernstein has gone, we trust to a better place. Jessie was our dog. My dog. That “my” is a miracle. I was raised to fear dogs. Jessie changed all that.

Before I met Jessie, I thought that she would be our kids’ dog. I thought our loving children had guilted me into getting a “rescue” dog while I was away in NYC on lawyer business. So wrong. I loved her at first sight. She looked like Lassie. She was noble and gentle, kind and considerate, funny and sometimes (and endearingly) a little nuts.

Jessie was our good shepherd. Literally. She loved to herd us. Indeed, when Terese came home from out-patient surgery, Jessie climbed the stairs and the bed, and watched over Terese in Jessie’s familiar lioness stance. Terese and Jessie always had the bond of mother and child, but on that day, Jessie was the mother. She healed Terese that day. And on all days, through hugs, laughter, and frolic, she healed our kids.

She healed me too. In so many ways, my (incomplete) journey from fear to wellness began with Jessie. Now, I smile at every dog I see.

Thank you, Jessie. Rest easy. Rebekah and Doug will be Mom’s good shepherds now. You taught them well about unconditional love, as you taught me.

Jessie, you live in our hearts now and forever.

Amen.

Love, Dad

Here is my own, I have tried my best to make it an ecumenical, rather than Buddhist diatribe:

Death is not an end, nor has it ever been.

Just as the sun vanishes below the horizon, to illumine the world still in darkness,
Death is not the end of life, but its rekindling elsewhere.

That light, be it the sun or the departed soul of one most dear, is not gone.
It has merely disappeared from view, below the horizon, where the warmth of its radiance shall stir life anew.

Though coldest darkness may fill the void left in our hearts, such darkness always yields to purifying light.
This purifying light, the pulse of all life, the unbridled luminosity of the soul, is the gift of creation to all beings.

Though life is transformed, it is never extinguished.


Death is not the end, nor has it ever been.

Just as the setting of every sun portends a new sunrise,
The passing of this life, augurs the beginning of the next.

As we are consumed by sadness, it may seem that we are cursed,
Forever more, estranged from the light of our dearly departed; but this is not the case.

Death is not the end, nor has it ever been.

Be it in this life or the next, the familiar glow of those thought forever lost, shall be known once more.
In this reunion, as sure as the rising and setting of the sun, a chorus of souls rejoined, will resound.
In their luminous symphony, tears of sadness shall give way to tears of unbridled light;
The sun itself, if only for an instant, yielding in humility to such resplendence.

 Death is not the end, nor will it ever be.

To Jessie: We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
-Doug B.

Musings from the Land of High Passes

What follows are the highly disjointed, and quite possibly incomprehensible musings of a boy (technically a man) from the wealthy suburbs of Washington D.C., thrust into the high altitude paradise of Ladakh, the Land of High Passes. The properly composed, eloquent stories from trek that are going to win me a book deal will have to wait. Rest assured, they are coming on strong, like a bowel movement in the middle of a snowfield at 4800 meters. Let the ramblings commence!

Perhaps because it is the beginning of tourist season, this place is crawling with Indian tourists like my sleeping bag was crawling with bed bugs. Truly, and this is no exaggeration, there are more Indians here--from all over the subcontinent, not just nearby Jammu and Kashmir--than they are Ladakhis. They are quite easy to spot for two reasons. First off, Ladakh, though politically a part of India, is culturally, ethnically, linguistically, and geographically Tibetan. As such, native Ladakhis have the Asiatic and Mongoloid physical features characteristic of the Tibetan peoples so highly distinct from those of the Indic persuasion. Secondly, though I am tempted to describe the weather in Leh, Ladakh's capital city, as near perfect--right now it is about 15°C (about 60°F), sunny with scattered clouds, a light wind, and very low humidity (it's worth noting that as far as the weather goes here, today would be considered below average in pleasantness)--the Indians are bundled up head to toe, zipped up tight in puffy down jackets and dense parkas. Their necks are wrapped in thick woolen scarves and shawls, while most wear mittens and gloves suited for a snowy winter day. It's really quite funny. It only makes sense though that the ability to withstand inhuman heat and humidity, the average temperature in New Delhi right now is 45°C (113°F) without factoring in humidity, comes at the cost of being totally unable to survive in temperatures suited for human life. I get the sense among many Ladakhis, some being quite open about such feelings, that the Indian tourists are less than welcome; at least in private. I found much the same feeling to present among the Tibetans in Dharamsala. They find many of the Indians to be rowdy, disrespectful, and quite pushy. There is at least one accusation that I can attest to, and this is that many of the Indians have virtually zero respect for the environment or the animals here. They willfully discard their trash wherever they maybe, the same is true of many Western tourists. On the other hand, most of the Ladakhis I have met are quite conscientious when it comes to littering and always properly dispose of their trash; this is one of their main grievances against the Indians: they are destroying Ladakh's fragile ecosystem with rubbish. PETA may not approve of the way the Ladakhi's treat the street animals here, but the Indians terrorize them. They throw rocks at meandering donkeys and smack wooden stakes against the ground to scare off sleeping street dogs...

This brings me to my next point of reflection, street dogs. Wherever I go, I always seem to develop a strong connection with the street dogs. Maybe because they seem so kind and innocent and loyal...usually. In New Delhi, the street dogs are emaciated and dying. In Kathmandu the street dogs live short, brutal lives dominated by cacophonous fights that carry on from sundown to sunrise; but they still benefit from the kindness of the many Buddhists and religious pilgrims, particularly in Boudhanath, who often go out of their way to show them a little bit of love and feed them some scraps of meat. The same is true in Dharamsala. Perhaps this is because the Tibetans, among the first peoples to domesticate the dog, have such a strong and lengthy relationship with man's best friend, especially the sharp witted Lhasa Apso and the indomitable Tibetan Mastiff. The street dogs in Leh are a truly pitiful sight. Dirty, hungry, skittish, and absolutely terrified of humans. I am not sure why they are so frightened, but I have good reason to suspect it is because of the Indians who see the dogs as over-sized rodents, pests, and treat them as such. I'm sure the Ladakhi's are guilty as well, I just haven't seen any of them kick a dog yet.

The Frequency is Courage

-Doug B.

P.S. Go hug a dog.

The Misadventures Continue...

Namaste and Tashi Delek (Hello in Nepali and Tibetan, respectively) from Boudhanath, Kathmandu, Nepal. Where to begin, where to begin...I've only been here three days and yet there is so much to say and so much more to do. I suppose it's worth mentioning that on my flight to Kathmandu from Doha, Qatar I got upgraded to business class. I have only twice flown business class and on both occasions I was 'bumped up' from coach on a flight to Kathmandu. Business class on Qatar Airways is nice, really, really nice; it's even nicer when you don't pay for it.If that isn't nice, I don't what is.

Anyways, I have for more cogent things to say, or at least I think I do. It has only been five months since I was last skittering about the Kathmandu Valley, and yet, in those five short months, so much has changed. Then again, life seems to move so much faster here, and at the same time so much slower. Paradox? Let me explain. In the day to day (controlled) chaos of a bustling city like Kathmandu, so much comes crashing together, sometimes literally, right before your eyes. There is never just one thing to do, and nothing ever, ever goes according to plan. Even something as simple as going for kora, ritual circumambulation, around Boudhanath Stupa inevitably turns into an adventure as one discovers familiar faces, haggles with shopkeepers, encounters beggars, and somehow  always ends up having tea. It can be exhausting, the constant assault on the senses from which there is no respite save for the stiff mattress and sticky sheets that await back at one's guesthouse. Also showers, there is nothing like a cold shower on a hot day here in Kathmandu. Life starts to slow down in the shower, but not quite the same way as when it really slows down. What to I mean by 'when it really slows down?' I mean being totally absorbed in the moment, simply accepting and appreciating a singular instance of life as it unfolds. Truly according with things as they are, without disturbing the mind with anything else. No thoughts of past or future, no judgments, no machinations, no focusing on something else, no forced feelings. Just naturally being in the moment, like a lotus floating on the surface of a pond. Spontaneously beautiful, effortlessly harmonious. This usually happens, for me at least, when I hear the symphony of Tibetan horns and cymbals that invariably erupts from the monasteries around Boudha. In such a moments, a sort of unconditioned beauty, arises not from without, but within. Eventually, this beauty dissipates, but the beauty itself does not subside, rather it is one's perception of it that fades. Unfortunately, I have to get a move on, so this lackluster jumbling of thoughts will have to suffice for now.

The Frequency is Courage,

- Doug B.

P.S. My mobile # in Nepal is 011+977+9803212187. If you send me an entertaining text message, I'll buy you something nice.

You Could Call This a Prayer, or a Poem, or Both

If in this precious human life…

I may accomplish but one deed…

That if only for an instant…

Frees another being from the fires of suffering…

Then this precious human life…

Will not have been in vain.

How much more so…

Should I rejoice…

If I may work for the benefit of others…

With all of my existence.

In darkest darkness…

Shines a ray of light.

In coldest coldness…

Burns a warming fire.

None are so lost…

As to never be found.

So long as all life continues…

May I light the darkness.

So long as all life continues…

May I warm the cold.

So long as all life continues…

May I find the lost.

May I work for the benefit of all sentient beings…

So that tears of sorrow…

Are never again shed.

May I work for the benefit of all sentient beings…

So that cries of pain…

Are never again wailed.

May I work for the benefit of all sentient beings…

So that thoughts of despair…

Are never again felt.

May all beings…

Expiate the debt of past actions…

And forever wander…

In the bliss of Awakening.

The Frequency is Courage,

-Doug B.

P.S. Happy Victory in Europe Day, also known as the end of the last war that was ever worth fighting.

I'm Going Back!

This'll be short and sweet, like me.

In simplest terms, I am addicted. Not to a substance or activity or a person. What I am addicted to is more ephemeral, but if I had to describe that addiction using nouns, it is an addiction best defined in terms of place and culture. That place is where the Indian subcontinent is violently crashing into the Eurasian landmass, buckling the Earth's crust and sending it, like our dreams, ever skyward. In layman's terms, that place is the Himalayan region and its related environs (the Tibetan plateau, Bhutan, Ladakh, Darjeeling and Sikkim, Arunachal Pradesh, Himachal Pradesh, etc., etc.). That culture is more difficult to define. Eclipsing even the great Himalayas with their deep valleys, towering 8,000 meter peaks, clear glacial lakes, dark swift rivers, vast and empty deserts, cramped hill towns, placid summits, and violent avalanches is the ever more dynamic force of culture. Through the backdrop of this vast cultural milieu, itself arrayed along the mighty vistas of the Himalayas and Karakorams, the Dhauladar, Ladakh, Pir Panjal, and Zanskar ranges, and the Kunlun and Tian Shan mountains, flows a common current. That current is Buddhism, specifically Tibetan Buddhism (while convenient, the term Tibetan Buddhism is both misleading and a gross oversimplification of the various kinds of religious practices, Buddhist or otherwise, found amongst adherents of 'Tibetan Buddhism'; given that this is not a scholarly paper, the kind I should be working on right now, I'll just shut up).

So much for this being short or sweet. Disregard all the previous hot air and understand the following, I am addicted to very tall mountains and Tibetan Buddhism. What does that mean exactly? Well, it means that for lack of a better transition, I am going back...a fact you probably deduced from this post's title. I am going back to Ladakh; the most glorious place on this planet Earth, the place where it all got started, where I discovered Buddhism and myself and a greater purpose in this precious human life. I am spending the summer volunteering, teacher English at the Students Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh (SECMOL) and at a nearby Buddhist monastery. I have never been so excited to work and get paid absolutely nothing (from a very limited monetary standpoint) in all my life. Before I head to Ladakh at the beginning of June, I am stopping off in Kathmandu for a week to see familiar faces, embrace dear friends, and drink chang (pronounced chaw + ng)! Depending on how the universe aligns, and whether or not my dog passes from this life into the next, I may also make it to Tibet, the Land of Snows. This however, is still very much a dream on the horizon, a dream that with time, will either dissolve or materialize. I'll keep you posted.

सब्बे सत्ता सुखि होन्तु (Sabbe Sattā Sukhi Hontu - May All Beings Be Happy)

- Doug B.

P.S. My dog is old and has led a full life, so don't be sad about that.