dreamdancer13

Winter Solstice Outing

Fri, 26 Dec 2008 21:14:43 GMT

Cascade Head, OR Coast: 12.21.08

Enclosed in our fire-stoked corner room sauna,
we gaze out at the roiling churn of waves dashing against
the smooth worn dark stone below our windowed glaze.
It is winter solstice, a turning of the tide, a swapping of sides,
the outside storms spawning that which we hold inside too tight to spill forth
which serve such sweet releasing, even if they are but a flimsy thought
tried on for the last time, its britches stretching and popping
as the fabric of its belief no longer fits our larger-seeing eyes,
cosmic in our vision we see oursleves holding the breadth of the world,
the breath of our mother filling us every time we open our heart and lungs to feel her.

She is there, unwavering in the fruitful support of her strong supple wings,
magically diaphanous in their sublime strength & amorphous resilience,
they enfold us like the rain-sparkled branches within a tight grove
of ocean-borne evergreens we wandered innocently upon,
which held the wayfaring strangers gently in its hearthful grasp
as we sought shelter from the storm.
Feeling forth for the little folk as we brushed past the ferns and lichen-laced
sentinels of the coastal wood, we sang songs to the crashing waves far below
while watching the elk graze in the meadowed hollow of the massive headland
on which we all found ourselves, sharing this idyllic picturesque setting
in the midst of a full-on winter tempest brought us home to the extremes
we inhabit as blessed members of this paradoxical plane.
Dancing, skipping & singing did we delight in the bubble of warmth, youthful vigor
& rain-clearanced calm we called in to protect and comfortify
ourselves with envisioned intent before leaving the car
long before in the midst of a seismically strung maelstrom.
At light's nearing end, our confidence, surrender and trust
were most evident as we ran headlong down
the mountainside through slickety winding muddy trails,
between and betwixt stoic elder groves
and dark brooding giants of the sacred council's glen.
Seeing bare enough to fly gracefully & swiftly over the rocks and roots of the serpentine
path in the waning light of dusk on a stormy winter night, the longest night no less,
the two playful young guardians glided and glistened through the glades
as if they knew exactly where each obstacle arose and abided,
as if each turn, rise and fall were the cellular array of their own aural quilt,
a patchwork of chills, spills and gratitude thrills to summon forth the bounty
of untold splendor and limitless possibility in the cold aeons to come,
for they held and spoke of such wonders of the wood and the world
for the good of all whose soulful call the tidal currents that did rise and fall
did invoke in their shrill blustery sing-song squall.

In the epiphanous symmetrical unfolding of the day did we arrive back home to ourselves
in the nick of time to feel into the love of our freedom to love,
and to write what the bright sweetness inside longs to whisper to the flowering world
of our mischievously anointed humble worship, a grandiose dove,
while the dreaming dawn of a new year rounds the coastal altar mound to be unfurled . . . .

Outgrowing birth patterns . . .

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 21:59:06 GMT

I have been incredibly sad these last few days, and I feel ashamed of it because I imagine my life appears so blessed and full from outside that who am I to gripe? I know that admitting this shame feels silly, and that merely adds to the shame. In short, I feel I am wasting my life and am neglecting simply going for it because I want to know exacty what it is I should be going for. Yes, I'm writitng a book, and that is wondrous and huge and rewardingly impeccable to feel I am truly standing in my truth when I am working on it and fulfilling my purpose for being here, at least one of them. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm coasting and waiting to be shown what it is exactly I should full apply myself to, and this waiting has gone on interminably to where I now feel almost terrified of the "outside world" and my ambition feels almost atrophied. Some Capricorn I turned out to be -- I'm a rebel to the point of even rebelling against my own sign.
But the dissatisfaction and self-loathing arising out of this is becoming ever more pronounced and nauseating to face. I know it is my spirit crying out to me with ever greater urging to take a stand for what inspires me and would bring me fulfillment, contentment and joy, but sometimes my spirit's calling is so full and bright, I feel numb and overwhelmed to the point of paralysis to try and meet its needs and embody the glory I know my soul signed up for in coming here.

Yesterday I was gathered amongst so many near and dear friends and my new precious lover, and I felt this deep immovable sadness at feeling I don't measure up to them for if asked what I am doing with my life, I imagine feeling shame at how little I can offer in response. I almost felt udeserving of the beauty all around me, as if I didn't measure up and was unworthy. And I felt so insufferably tired which allowed my bully-oriented thoughts to rally against me full force so that I might surrender and turn to its monkey-minded advice for more support and encourage this self-loathing cyclically hopeless whirlpool indefinitely. Hell if I ever knew one.
I'm tired of whining about the same old thing and I want to just jump in and say yes, as Ruba suggested, to all of it, unknowing of what it looks like, alesson I am receiving more and more often, for I know that when you commit to a shift the universe will open doors that were once not even known to exist to support you -- if you are committed.
I feel the intensity of knowing we have the power to co-create our reality, and I have long shyed from that intensity, allowing it to seem ever more insurmountable the longer I have given my power away to it. But as a friend said yesterday, when we look into another's eyes, unflinching, meeting, open and unconditional in the awe-invoking vastness of that moment, that is when we can see our power reflected back at us and meet that power and the fear it rustles forth in a powerfully held container of intimacy. That is the chance to claim it with the impeccable softness that such an intimate exchange asks of its participants. I have no trouble making eye contact and appreciate the vulnerability it evokes and honor that in my holding of the space between myself and whomever I'm sharing such connection with. Yet when I see the seeming void that awaits my decision to claim my truth, my dream, my desire, fully and without bargaining or compromise, I almost feel paralyzed like a child in a nightmare.
I feel this Buddhist-oriented part of me that knows there is nothing to be done, nothing to be achieved, and that things are unfolding as they will in the blossomng dance of the cosmos. But this is becoming ever more of a copout to action and the dis-ease I feel inside me grows like a throbbing guttural deafening scream that terrifies me by its strength and demand for action. Yes, I do feel inspired by it, but it feels so powerful and so long neglected that to merely jump on board its energetic tide feels almost entirely incongruent to my present state of being. But then that's just me arguing and making myself small and feigning rebellious indiffference out of fear . . . or some such oceanically large bullshit.
So then I want to run with reckless gleeful abandon in the spontaneous pretend that anything can happen in my attempted convincing that I'm not in control because I don't want that much responsibility. It's the same old song and dance of wanting someone to come in and rescue me because that was how I was born, starving and strangled by the umbilical cord, unwilling and unable to emerge tilll hands reached in and untangled and unwound me. I know this pattern well, and I'm ready to stop letting it be my crutch for inaction or procrastination. I'm ready to be reborn into claiming my own freedom and pulling off my own choking limiting bonds.
Far too much valuable time has been spent waiting for someone to show me the answer or point the way or remind me of what I'm capable of, neglecting my own internal guidance which aches to be heard. Now is the time to trust, and to pull in the oars and float with the flow of life -- stepping up to steer but no longer trying to row against the tide to gain a futile sense of achievement or my own worth, abandoning that old school belief that the harder one works the more one will feel having achieved something. Nor do I want to wait any longer on the banks for an invitation to join the juicy surging flow of life. I want to jump in, and I want to feel like I can ask for help and no longer allow myself to disappear on the sidelines because I can handle it all myself and I don't want to lie that everything is fine because I don't want to go into it or be seen and I don't want to admit that I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing and that I'm wasting time waiting for an answer and I just want to scream and cry because I just have too much lifeforce and passion to be playing this outdated boring game.

whew!

Backflips to Freedom ~

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 18:14:13 GMT

So much to say from this one, but for now I want to share a powerfully youthful moment I had the other day at a swimming hole with some beautiful people I'd just met at a music festival in California. The weather was seriously hot so a bunch of us went to escape the festival chaos and chill multilaterally in a cool river that was blissfully accessible but a 10 minute drive from the fest. While there, I said yes to a desire I had and felt worthy of experiencing. But it involved facing fear and impulsive uncertainties which weighed against my youthful desire for an edge of newfound experience and spontaneous thrill.
The group of us were attending the High Sierra Music Festival in Quincy, CA, where once again the threat of a steadily growing forest fire loomed a few ridges south of us. It seemed the element of fire was keen on staying with me for a while longer. 2 of the 4 days the wind brought the smoke of it upon us in a ubiquitous haze that stung our eyes and made us cough. The setting was glorious though as 4 stages of music alternatively played some of the best ass-kicking music you could ever hope to throw down to.
And the camp of people who welcomed me into their midst after being invited to join in by a friend I'd made 18 months before was super sweet and nurturing. My new temporary tent community of revellers passionately embodied the fire energy that followed me around the state reminding me of what wanted to burn down and off me and what wanted to ingite and take flight like the ashes of the Phoenix. Fire of connection creation connections dancing alongside wilderness destruction sparking looming infrastructure transformation permutated and balanced each other as compatible hosts for individual catharsis.
Anyway, back to the swimming hole. While there I saw a young man doing backflips off a rock ledge into the water 10 feet below. I felt such a definitive urge to try it, it was almost irresistible. It felt like the little boy in me needed to experience that, while the older man in me was pretty anxious and scared to try it. Precious was the dance of their meeting in a place of committing to face fears that had usually paralyzed or left me ineffectively prostrate, feeling safe but essentially dissatisfied. I was determined not to back down and I called upon how youthfully alive I felt in my core with the fullness of summer to follow through with my wild-haired inclination.
The fear came on strong as I walked up to the ledge and put my back to the drop behind me, which suddenly loomed fathoms deep in the unknown of what lay behind me, out of sight, awaiting my leap of faith. I'd never done a backflip before, ot even off a diving board, but somehow this has been my style. If I'm gonna go for something exciting and new, It's usually done when there's the chance for a dramatic way of crossing the threshold -- and this was no exception. The simple fear of launching backwards into the unknown was nearly paralyzing. I too easily and clearly could envision myself bailing and turning and just jumping into the water below, brushing off my desire as frivolous, recklessly unimportant and not worth injuring myself for. But that was just too damn easy --I'm through with the easy way out that I'd regret long after. And there was just a yes inside me that demanded to be heard oh so fucking bad.
I desired to take a stand for the confidence that I knew I could do this. I would not back down and surrender to my fears as I had done so many times in my life, for whatever pain I might inflict upon myself by hitting the water wrong seemed insurmountable to the dismalness of once again backing down and leaving that which longed to feel free and alive in that moment unfulfilled. Unh-uh. Not on this watch. Not no more.
Perhaps it very likely was a dramatic staving off of the feeling that I'm getting too old for stunts like this, but more likely it was simply my desire to feel alive. To recharge my soul fire in that. On a deep level I stood at a threshold of facing my fear and stepping it up to take a risk, a leap of faith, and above all to youthfully take a spontaneous stand for newfound joy in the liberation of going for it and ignoring those antiquated crotchety wrinkled voices urging me to take the easy way out and that there was nothing to prove. Yes, nothing to prove, but a whole lot to live.

So I counted to 3 in my head and committed to jumping off at 3 -- notgiving myself too much time to think myself out of it but enough time to prepare. On 3 I went. Most ungracefully at best as I had a bodily misgiving at the last minute that caused me to go back sideways so I could see where I was going, not having fully committed to the unknown, wanting to see where I was headed, and this made me awkwardly slap the wate rat astrnage angle, but I was fine and only more inspired to heed the mistake, so I quickly scrambled back up to the ledge and went again. It took 3 flips to get it and then I did one more to cinch the deal.
The fact that the 1 year anniversary of being jumped by 4 young men in Brazil had just passed nicely corroborated my claim to freedom at that moment, for that's how it truly felt. Yes it may very well have been seen as foolishly boyish, reckless and stupid, but despite any easy outwardly opinionable appearances, it was a deeply poignant moment of me truly saying yes!, "fuck yeah!", and stepping up to face my fear and in so doing, coming out bigger in my claim to joy, trust and unbridled inner expression as I vibrated youthfully in my passionate embrace of freedom by jumping in backwards.

Being a man

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 19:59:23 GMT

I feel both inspired and intimidated by some of my male friends who seem to embody being a man so well, so naturally. It's inspring because I know them and love them and am learning from them as they are from me, and I am committed to having more of such positive role models and "dancers" to engage this dance of growth and expansion that we call life amongst. It's intimidating because I sometimes feel I'm navigating the realm of what it means to be a man with tender stuttering steps. I explore tentatively, and then with fiery abandon when I'm tired of holding back, jump into what it means to love, authentically, passionately, unconditionally, opening to what I can allow in as fully as possible, free of all the antiquated trappings I have accrued from insecure beliefs and doubts of my own worth within community, within the world, when I have tried to remain safe in the cozy familiar of being tiny, alone and unseen. In trying to extricate myself from such previous self-imposed constrictions and addictions to feeling small, I sometimes lash out with reckless abandon, even when my intentions and communications are as masterfully aligned with as much honor, consciousness and integrity as I can possibly offer those concerned by my actions.
It is such a gigantic dance, this honoring of my heart that has a logic that logic knows not of, and which sometimes feels huge enough to hold all the pain of the world inside, but which holds so much passion and fire that can burn a tad uncontrollably at times, and maybe I'm left to clean up some charred remnants in the process, a cleanup I'm committed to avoiding for I much prefer to leave behind petals of validation, acknowledgment and camaraderie in my wake instead of the ashes of disregard, imbalance and haste. Finding the real juice is in returning to center, to honor those in my sphere as best I can, meaning what I say, honoring what I feel, wanting to hold as much conscious compassion and respect for others but not wanting to surrender it for myself in believing others needs should come before mine so that maybe I'll be loved, no longer subscribing to be an automatic caretaker in oreder to be acknowledged or feeling I've some past due or burden to make amends for. Trying to find the balance, between expanding and contracting, the exhale and the inhale, the fulfillment of desire and the grace of retreat and decline, wanting to feel all of it for what it is, no matter how much it hurts.

Wow. I feel a tsunami of thoughts arising and surging on this, and I feel such gratitude for the aspirations to awareness I see unfolding all around me in my growing and intimately weave-woven community, but I also feel fear at the open staged setting I see occurring around arenas of the heart, trust and truth that feel very sacred to me and which quiver in inclinations to shrink and contract under a more public scrutiny. I also feel anger and rebellion on a soul level to stand for what my heart burns for, and in the pain and fear of potentially and sensingly being portrayed as someone I strive not to be, that rebellious streak can lash out in the frustration of feeling both terrified of others trying to make manifest my worst fears of being unwanted or unloved, as well as ecstatic in the embracing of it in chaotic freefall by being reckless in love. But I don't want to be reckless for my heart and spirit and everything in between has had enough of that pretension and pretending that it doesn't matter. Old identities are shriveling and sloughing off me with constant regularity right now, and in forging a new one I can feel content with throughout my entire being, who I am is constantly being called into question and I'm really trying to navigate that rediscovery and reintegration with the utmost of grace.

But I'm also committing to facing fear as much as I can, for it's never as big as it once seemed when you turn to look at what it's all about and can recognize what it has to offer. And apparently, I still have a lot of fear around stepping up and being the man I came here to be in this world.

And I am in love . . .

Why I Dance . . . a poem

Wed, 16 Jan 2008 22:12:30 GMT

As the morning bell chimes somewhere in the periphery
a gathering is summoned, a calling from the stillness deep inside
that longs for release, expression and communal revelry.

The magic of music, so oft overlooked in its ubiquitous day to day presence
is suddenly transformed in the holding of sacred space
when our entire being is perhaps jilted,
even if but for a precious nanosecond,
into the fully embodied realization of our limitless fire bouncing
sturdily and surely against our physical frames with chaotic glee
amidst the friction of inspired tension
as we embrace our surrender.

Following in the footsteps of ancestors long past but whose vital example
aches to resonate in the continuing lucidity of our reverberating souls,
we all join together in the dance, a flash in the pan,
a cosmic awakening that is invoked as only the dance can.
Who feels it, knows it,
whoever breathes it, holds it.

Unbridled passion, expressed in sensuous safety
with no certain measure of unchecked enthusiasm,
the sweat pours out, our hearts heaving gloriously big and wide,
while the music does infinitely hold us in its unfurling bosom,
pulsing and channeling through us,
conjuring forth the stagnation that soon cannot hide
and which gets expelled thru sheer vital vibration.

Perhaps we scream in ecstasy at the chance to share in this chaos,
this stillness, this birthright of dancing the dance that is solely our own
and which gloriously never needs defending or explanation,
but which cannot be separated from the resonant entrainment
reborn in screams and tears of unrestrainable gratitude all around and through us
~like a giant flowing silk sari that wraps itself around our corporeal form
that as we break free of our conditioning,
sheds and slips off us in an explosion
of dancing fireflies that alights uncontrollably forth from our core
to remind us that in finding our earthen joy, our magma fire
and our liquid tempest of desperate tears, the world will mirror our truths
and hold us in rhythmical delight as our spirits push the edge of what was known,

and the antiquated restraint that was forged in darkness
becomes its newfound potential as
an unchecked bounty of life
as we dance our essence back to its blissful home.

In the dream that is the dance,
we are all players in the dream of Source,
allowing the limitless perfection of itself to experience the intrigue of limitation through us,
and so we choose to come together and dance
so that we may again return
to that which we already are . . . limitless joy, abundance and perfection.

Here's to invoking the poetry of our becoming into being,
and dancing the dream into its awakening . . . .

Happy Holidays!

Tue, 25 Dec 2007 15:40:16 GMT

To all of you still plugged in, I wish you many winter heartfelt holiday blessings.

love
Chris

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 21:39:56 GMT

I am in love. Feels really good to feel my giddy heart quiver.

Thu, 06 Dec 2007 20:52:10 GMT

I was genuinely touched by many in my ecstatic dance community who came up to express their appreciation for the words I shared from my journey on the sacred circle dance email while I was traveling the last six months. I only shared myself on this email about three times or so, and so was heartfully impacted that so many remembered my offerings and their appreciation of them, as few as they were.
I had a powerful realization around this recently, for while on my sojourn, I made my blog available on the internet for practically anyone to read, for I had the intention of being transparent and open to being seen by any and all. 'Here I am, this is me, nothing to hide' guided many a way for me.
However, I realize now I did not post much at all of my posts with my beloved dance community, those I considered closest to me, because of issues of self-worth and believing I would be taking up valuable space on the email posts that could be served otherwise. So, it turns out I was making myself openly seeable, but only to the world at large and not by those I supposedly had the biggest heart~connection to.
However, being the Gemini rising that I am, I am able to immediately jump over to the other side and see with absolute clarity that not posting my site so openly was my way of honoring myself and respecting my own boundaries, as well as those of my community by not assuming they wanted me posted so vividly on their emails.
This is all relatively interesting and there's a lot there for me to look at, but I know my sense of worth has shifted since, and now I am trying to fully embrace and claim how proud I am of myself for the journey i just undertook, for it was a rite (and right) of passage and the crossing of a threshold and no small matter in the course of my evolution.

Now that I'm back, I see that I censor myself less, which allows me the potential to have a richer sense of humor. Just yesterday i was aying goodbye to a dear friend and in the pause we shared as we lingered in the energy of goodbye, I felt the energy of a kiss with such acuity that I barely hesitated and leaned over and we softly kissed. We are simply good friends, who at one time dated briefly, but such history is irrelevant to the beauty of simply having felt into an energy that was clearly felt by both of us and I simply engaged and honored its presence it without question or doubt. There is such beauty to be had in the uncensored expression of showing love. Gratitude abounds for my friend who knew it as we felt it. No apologies, no explanations, just love and honor and spontaneous whimsical youthful life.

Moving to the other extreme now, to be fair, I struggle with many things going on here in the US, but one issue in particular really stings my open heart. The thick underlying fear that pervades nearly everything and everyone here is so rampant that I find myself trying to stay consciously abreast and afloat upon it so as not to lose my newfound passion, breadth and lucid calm in this dismal suffocatory tide. On my journey, I realized just how conscious and pro-active so many in the world are about helping one another and how inspiringly beautiful that was to be around such people. And now I am realizing just how backwards and off-track so many Americans are in their little material-snatching bubbles of greed, fear, suspicion and denial. I know, such old topics, but ever growing worse it seems. Now that the pioneering exploratory charitable nature of my random international companions is gone, I am increasingly and sensitively compelled to surround myself with those to mirror such qualities of inspirational action in my own being. It's all so rich, but so important to distinguish between the energies that expand and those that retreat within which to abandon into glorious immersion and blissful resonance.

. . . . stabilizing re~entry . . .*

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 22:47:40 GMT

My reentry back home has been incredibly full and rich and discombobulating. Not knowing who I am as reflected in the eyes of those I know I love, I find myself so easily and embraceably full of gratitude to see, hold and hug them all again, letting my disconcertment dissolve into my unknowable center within their embrace. Discovering such bliss in the unknowing immersion in their welcome. Riding the wave of opening and contracting as my energies yield, merge and retreat to incorporate this newness of juiciness flowing at me from my community, I fumble into it ecstatically, knowing my home holds me even if I don't quite recognize it.

I am aware of not wanting to fall into old habits and lose my worldly amorphous identity, which is really no identity at all, both the concern and the bliss coming on at once. Falling into old patterns almost feels like sliding backwards down a slope of rocks and scree, down to the person I once was but who I allowed to die a shamanic death somewhere along the way. To allow myself to fall there unleashes fears that I would nullify the climb I made up to that point. But I also grant that the most graceful path is the one made without trying to paddle upstream, but one where the oars are brought in and the culminating flow of what we have come to desire is embraced as we let it take us downstream with ease and relish.

I am also trying to be careful not to say too much about my journey, to keep the stories to an absolute minimum. I sense that if I were to say too much, I might leak the energy of my journey here and there, and the juiciness of my traveled essence will begin to evaporate.
My one day guru in India, as I like to call him, said not to speak of what I get out of meditation to others, for that will dissipate its essence. I feel the same about sharing my experiences now that I'm back home. My concern is that they will be solidified and concretized as I say them, and that I may also solidly concretize myself as those statements of what I experienced and who I am as a result, and I do now want that. I feel amorphous, vast, and full of breadth, depth, juice and possibility, and I want to preserve that and let that flow out unhindred or compartmentalized by too many stories or verdicts of what my sojourn was for me. My form and essence feel [eacefully content in this flowing place and words seem too rigid to encompass it. They seem more suited to encapsulation and I am not ready to be enclosed in any shape or form whatsoever. My need for freedom of being and exploring what has been shaped and reborn so as to most authentically integrate it requires as absolute a separation from labels and particulars as is possible.

In my flow, I feel especially susceptible to entrainment and arrangement by energies, words and concepts, knowing that the spoken word is continually gathering greater power towards being made manifest in the world. So if I declare some truth or realization or possibility about myself, I'm afraid I may have just limited myself to that and closed myself off to the limitlessness of the unspoken. This is the vastness I feel and am trying to convey, whether or not you understand this is of a whole separate nature. If I make such a statement and that is how I'm then seen, the reflection I might henceforward receive could very well begin holding me accountable to who I may have proclaimed to be in a moment of illusory conviction. This is not what I want for I am still changing so much as the journey unfolds for me in this still molting stage of its unfolding. I do not want to become the energies I encounter and vulnerably desire to engage with if they tend to move toward shaping me into their expectations and conclusions based on my words.
I want to be vigilant about maintaining my own mystery, most of all to myself, for limiting myself is the biggest danger of all. So as few spoken words as possible do I wish to share just now, but photos, exploratory writings and hugs are all up for grabs.

This expansive breath I am embodying deserves better than a conversion into randomly occurring concepts and notions of who my brain thinks I may or may not be at this moment. I am undefinable by words or thought right now, and I wish to allow this to continue, allowing my identity to be in the flow of what is, with no separation or dichotomous discrepancy to be had.

Unfortunately, many friends want to know exactly this -- how it changed me, what were the places that changed me or touched me the deepest, what were my spiritual epiphanies, etc, etc. It all seems so trite to discuss or summarize in a few words, but I do want to share. I really do. I would like to simply smile in response to all my beloved's questions and inquiries, but usually more is expected. Finding the balance in it all, that is the shape my reentry is being molded from.

*****
Attending an ecstatic dance class yesterday was huge, with a surge of so many friends and smiling faces to reacquaint with. It was overwhelming and I had to find a balance of honoring my need for space and letting myself be immersed in the tide of love and feeling of being welcomed back. A dance in itself. So beautiful, the challenge. Though I am beginning to feel a deep sadness under the surface around what to do now. Yes, I still am going to write my book, but I feel overwhelmed and still very tired.

I'm finally licking this cough, turns out it was much deeper than just a simple virus. I think I picked up some energy sucking entities in India that were draining me, and the cough kept getting activated by simply talking as if I had a spasm in my diaphragm. My good friend gave me a Craniosacral session which helped immeasurably -- so grateful for my healer friends that I get to do trades with! So I'm much better now, but my insides still ache from having been chaotically coughed about for two weeks now.
Another of my priorities is the need to take a walk in the woods, but I've also have been enjoying visiting with friends bit by bit, and reconnecting with those I haven't shared with in quite a long time.

Today I go to see my mom, a joyous grounding into my blood, my relation, my family, my lifelong friend and companion. To ground in the desert with her, this will be good. So much love, so much gratitude, so much endless possisbility, joy and magic, may it never stop . . .

full circle *

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 18:57:30 GMT

Portland, Oregon, USA
Home. Safe and sound and shiveringly adjusting to suddenly being thrown into winter after the balmy pollution shroud of India. But after a 21 hour flight from start to finish, when I got off that last plane and caught the unmistakable scent of evergreens on the brisk breeze that seemed to blow right through my bones as I walked across the tarmac to the terminal, I knew I was home. In that smell of firs and pine, I knew I had arrived; physically anyway. Psychologically and energetically, it might take a little time.

After having arranged to come home earlier than originally planned from my journey so I could see Ozzy rock Portland old-school style, among other reasons, I found myself too wiped out to attend. Ozzy's like Keith Richard's though, I think he'll be around longer than anyone could imagine.
I was too tired to attend partly because I still have a lingering cough that seems determined to stay with me as my lasting travel companion, and which has drained me through sheer tenacity. Below that, I feel a deep melancholy under the surface level splash of gratification for having made it home. The melancholy seems attributable to many things, most of them the result of old mind patterns that I thought I'd worked through and left behind but which seemed to have coincidingly popped up along with my familiar surroundings. I question if I changed at all from my journey, and then feel a complete lack of attachment to whether I have or not, along with the understanding that I could never honestly tell how much I've changed or not, being that I'm always with myself, but these are just more of the same humdrum chasing tail thoughts that offer nothing but self-questioning time-death.

I feel a mild anxiety that says I should jump right in and reintegrate into my community and my city in a radical way, but I'm still very tired and I know I need to just ground here before I can truly do anything worthwhile.

Thoughts of failure and disconnection assail me regularly. Notions of having wasted so much time and so much money, and for what? All these are running rampant in my overtired brain that seems bent on self-criticism for fuel. Now that I've stopped moving, the demons of my mind seem all the more apparent, and so the process of self-discovery and improvement continues in earnest, if I can only remember to be light on myself most of all. That is the biggest challenge for me sometimes.

It is good to be home, but even better is the ability to be still now. To integrate this. Me. The need to dance the new me out of its hibernatory chrysalis into the butterfly that longs to fly. Finding my stillpoint within ecstatic motion and release, that is where it's at for me. And to savour, as modestly as I can, any touch that might come my way, for I feel quite touch deprived at the moment and welcome any and all hugs unconditionally as my new fix.

Random trickles . . .
Reintegration continues to be a subtle but pervasive struggle. I attended my first dance yesterday, my usual back to back classes that was my Sunday morning ritual before I left. It was so great to be tackled by a few cherished friends as I was stretching unobtrusively in the corner, but had a moment when I wanted to flee because the energy and the proximal meshing of bodies was too overwhelming to merge into. But then I managed to have a deep one on one dance with a familar someone and that grounded me further home into center so that I could more easily handle the touch that came flitting this way and that around me. The entire experience was still overwhelming, but it was a beautiful start and reconnection with my community. And a good chance to sweat more of this still lingering cough out of my lungs.

I forgot to mention that when I was flying home on the leg from Delhi to Hong Kong, I saw Everest!!!! I glanced up out of my window and lo and behold, there were the Himalayas shining exquisitely brightly on the horizon atop the ocean of clouds that shrouded the northern Indian plateau. And I have seen enough photos of the big one to recognize its shape, besides the fact that it and another peak right next to it, Mt. Makalu, completely dominated the heights. And I just knew it was Everest. It was a very cool sendoff to see the highest point on the planet as I was just settling into a nice long meditation on the finer points and highs of homecoming.
Just east of Everest is Mt. Makalu, which is only the fifth highest peak in the world, but standing seemingly alongside one another from my plane quite a bit south, they were majestically huge together.

I keep dreaming of India. In fact, I think India has figured in my dreams for the past ten days solid. Usually, I am with someone and we're usually in a slum, but I'm content to behold the meagerness of the environment along with the wonder that so many know this as their home. And that such acceptance is never far away in the limitless attunement and capacity the human has to adapt, acclimate and surrender to. But the fact that India has played such a cornerstone in my dreamworld makes me think that it represents an archetype of my psyche with many depths to plumb.
India rather feels like a microcosm of my entire journey, along with the resonances, realizations and riveting reflections of its impact that I'm sure will ripple forth through my expanding being for sonme time to come.

Khajuraho to New Delhi

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 17:53:32 GMT

I had asked my community back home to send healing thoughts my way, both being practically assertive to access the potential energy of many of my healer, bodywork-oriented and therapy-centered friends, as well as to feel less alone in the throes of sickness by feeling felt into by them. I gratefully felt it arrive and offered up my deep gratitude. I still have a lingering nasty cough, but the time between outbursts is expanding, and my energy is back and overall I feel my vitality returning with all its inherently beautiful colors and saturations. Negotiating India with no energy is tough times.

But my appetite is still minimal. It's 9:30 at night now, and I've only eaten some eggs, toast, mango juice and some masala chai for breakfast, and then a guava one of my new friends from Khajuraho picked off his friend's tree and gave me about 4 hours ago. Yes, I'm a little hungry, but just a little, and it feels right to starve this sucker out on a strong intuitive level.

So much is happening on both my outer and inner landscape over here, I can barely write it down quick enough; and yes, maybe I shouldn't be, just absorbing and living it, but I'm a writer, and try as I wouldn't want to, I cannot deny it. Writing is my favorite passion right now.

Oh yes, the blasting of fireworks outside reminds me . . .Happy Divali!!!! It's like India's New year's, Christmas and 4th of July rolled in one. But it is their official New Year. They buy lots of things because if they're homes contain new items indicative of material prosperity, it's a good omen for the year. Somewhat sadly, for me, I see it as a bit of a con on the poor to get them to spend their meager earnings on shiny things in the hopes that they will reap kindly later. But my cynicism is truly minimal, for I see the joy in their faces and the excitement with which they purchase such harbingers of hope. So in this regard, today feels like Christmas in India.

And in hearing that worn old shoe of a cynical voice inside me, I see how little power it holds on me these days, making me very happy, for truly these are a people very intimately and proudly involved in their traditions and beliefs, though they would be superstitious seeming to a western mind. Acts such as putting "special" dark eye mascara around their little ones eyes to ward off the evil eye, for instance. To me they look like little Keith Richards wanna-be's with tiny turbans. It's very cute and pathetically sad to me at once, and the overall amazing spectacle of life here never fails to amaze. It's a technicolor fantasyland dreamwoven multicast pictureshow production of phantasmagorical proportions. Then there is the blowing up of things throughout the night, from the tiniest pops to serious explosions, as kids armed with a vast array of firecrackers they continuously shoot off as their parents proudly watch from doorways. This is the fourth of July aspect of Divali, whose timed coinciding with my sensitizing head cold is truly a drag.

I love these people for all their differences, for they are so different in so many ways. The more I talk with people, the more fascinating it becomes. I feel my sense of people right now is pretty oiled and keen. I met two nice men while in Khajuraho, Baba and Tasreef . I had to weed them out from the other 100 male candidates who wanted to be my best friend and invite me here there and everywhere, the most popular invitation being to come spend the evening with their respective families celebrating Divali by attending a homespun puja, or ceremony of exchange. Last night, I was out in a tiny village outside of town with T. who works on a farm and spends much of his time teaching kids with his friend at a school they are starting up with the donations of a young man from Portland, Oregon. Unh-huh.
When he first told me, I was like, "Sure bro." But he showed me a letter and wire transfer slips and yeah, this young man from Portland has helped him start up this school and so they painted his name on the wall at the school to commemorate his contribution. I was inspired to hear that he was teaching English and Indian history and culture to Sudra children, those of the lower caste, while his friend and only co-colleague taught math and science. He asked if I would contribute, which I was going to do upon seeing the school and meeting the kids.

I still struggled with whether he was trying to con me or not. It's so not about the money anymore, but just deciphering between the authentic well-meaning men and those saying all the right things who then slide right in when the door is opened a crack and show their true colors. But my two friends held their own and truly made attempts to connect and show and teach me things I otherwise might not have realized, without the proverbial meter running as rupees stacked up behind their eyes. Tasreef did ask if I would like to contribute to his school, as I knew he would, but to his credit only after having driven me out to see it on the outer outskirts of town and offering me dinner and a drink of some ghastly moonshine-like drink, I was more than happy to contribute. I gave what to him seemed incredibly generous but to me was a sensible amount of change for an American to voluntarily part with. When I gave it to him, I let him know that I wanted that money to go to the kids, and he looked me deeply and said he would. I believed him.
I'm not sure if I'm going to send him western unions like his other Portland friend --pretty amazing coincidence really, when you think about it -- but I'm not totally closed either. I was grateful to meet the kids he teaches. When you're done reading, come on by and I'll show you a photo or two of their angelic faces. Sweet kids. It might cost you a hug or two to see 'em is all.

Another guy, kind of borderline energetically, invited me to a puja at his place last night for Divali, for last night was the night, though the celebration continues for three more days. But since I was out on the farm, I missed our rendezvous time. Funny to think of, but their were probably at least five guys waiting for me at my hostel about sunset to take me to their homes for pujas. One of the typical things guys would ask me on the street was where I'm staying. I'd tell them the Zen Hotel (not) and as I kept going past the shop they usually wanted me to stray into, "Just to look, no buy.", they would say "see you at your hotel at six" or something close to thereabouts without my having ever agreed I would join them. So I probably had a throng of followers awaiting my exit at sundown and who were long gone by the time I got back in pretty late -- though the streets were still filled with bangs, cheers and smoke. I was happy to hustle it out of town at daybreak. Well, almost. That was the plan anyway, but the inconsistent hotel staff failed to tell me that buses were not running on account of Divali for two days and so I had to find another way to get to Jhansi, about a 4 hour drive west, where my train to Agra awaitd me.
I was upset, but too excited at feeling pretty good for the first time in 4 days to get too yucked out. And then my good good friend Baba, a university student from some town I don't remember the name of, came to the rescue. He saw me and snatched me up and dropped me off at a good place to get a good breakfast while he took off around town in search of cars who had come from Jhansi with passengers who generally returned passengerless and who would charge half of the usual staggering fee of 2000 rupees for a lift. He returned and said he'd found one who actually had to come back to Khajuraho that night at 8 to get more folks, so he wasn't planning on leaving town but staying around and enjoying the dancing processions going on, so he would charge me 1500. Better than 2000, but an ouchful more than the 150 rupees a bus ride would have cost. But after remembering the bus ride from Satna to Khajuraho, I didn't mind at all. I was just grateful to know Baba, whose integrity I knew to be impeccable straightaway. I made a valiant effort to reward him and he refused and was very thankful that I wanted to know what I could do for him. I really hope he comes to the states so I can treat that man with the style he deserves. I really do.

When I have the chance to kick back on a train, I welcome the stream of consciousness writing that seems to come so fluidly to me on trains, which I cherish the activity of. When the day comes to polish this all off as my final version, maybe I should take a train ride across Canada. Awww jeez . . . there I go. Not even off the jet and I'm planning my next trip. Must stop, must . . . moving on.
So I luckily had a BIG piece of paper for once to write my thoughts down upon, instead of the meager scraps I fill edges and spaces between with until it's just a plain godawful mess to contend with later. A great big piece of paper to download my impressions of this great big country. It made the train ride that much smoother.

Writing from a train ~~

So amazing really what India has brought home to me on so many levels. For one, there is such a diverse array of belief systems based on religion, particular deities, superstitions, regions, dialects, spices, castes, privilege, honor, resignation and yes, karma. I have talked about karma to death at this point, but I hadn't fully appreciated just how influential it was to me until I had a dream about karma in the midst of my sickness which was very interesting, ********

Truly India is a gigantic poem waiting to be plunged into and experienced on so many rich and aromatic and spicy levels. My writing of it barely scrapes the dust off the eyelash of its playdoll, but I'm willing to go deep, and that is why I am here.
I know I have talked not so inspiringly of some of its finer and cruder points, but it is a must see country for each and every one who can come. It's just that it's a tough place to go alone. Being here with another makes it substantially easier. You are not swarmed upon as much when you are two or more, and if you are a woman alone, well, that takes more energy than I have at present to cope with. But I did meet a very lovely British woman tonight on the train whom I will visit the Taj with tomorrow, and she has been traveling for seven months alone, going westbound as most world travelers seem to, except me. I relish being the outsider! She confided to me that India was the first place where she really missed home. Like me, it was her last stop before home. Yes, ending on the extreme is where it's at!!!
Thankfully, she got on after I had finished my channeling of words, otherwise she very well might have distracted me before I wrote these words. Her name's Hannah, but all in all, I'm not feeling very romantic as my cold still holds a talon or two on me, and my flourish is assuredly stifled.

In the diversity that India holds with such auspicious chaos and vital calamity, it has been the perfect assemblage point for all the representative diversity I have experienced the world over. That has been a most magical aspect of my time here, and of my experience of the world as I have seen it these last six months: the amazing diversity of culture, religion, music, dance, food, spirituality and life of people all over this one particular planet. One world that just holds so so much. Richness exponentially infinified. It's so amazing to experience that in a six month trek, so to say I am truly blessed sounds so damn trite, but I am.
And when you see the regularity with which those who can barely help themselves give freely to the old and decrepit, it touches the softness in you proper. And when you give to the lion-haired craze of tangle-haired children with the brightest smiles you ever saw, everyone who sees it beams back at the smile that just widened in your heart.
People look out for each other here, and in a country of a billion people, that says a lot about their character. I'm so glad I stayed long enough to receive that.
As I sit on a train, noting this and that down the railways of my mind, we pause briefly and pull out of a tiny station surrounded by a smattering of humble shacks, lean-tos while huts of dung, hay, mud and corrugated tin are spread on an arid and erosion-sculpted stretch of immeasurable land. Did I mention India is big? It teems outwards endlessly with the gigantic mileage necessary to host its gargantuan populace. And at this station, I see a community that lives by the tracks, and in fitting with the full spectrum of experiences to vantage here, I now shift to one of the more disturbing things I have seen here.
I saw people sprawled and lain out in such a way as to indicate they had simply collapsed from exhaustion or were hit by a train and left there, just like the dogs I saw on two different days in Kenya -- but those were clearly dead. As for the people at the station, and in many places I have seen throughout this country, it was harder to tell. Be it because of how filthy they were, where they had decided to rest (one man choosing the median of a very busy road at night), the flop-landing pose of their forms, or their occasional near-skeletal composure, this is what I find disturbing, being quite unsure if they are alive or not.
The shock comes to me in how I could never bear to let myself get to the point where I could just haphazardly sprawl out on a patch of dirt, trash, sidewalk, or worse, and know that that was how it was -- unless I was dead, which some of the bodies I saw could very well have been.

The distance I feel from the kind of existence where one finds oneself immersed in the most uncompromising of situations stuns my softer side, unlike in the states where you get just the teeniest taste or waft of poverty before its swallowed up by neon shopping malls and motion picture posters. Here in India, it just doesn't relent in showing you what poverty is. But the stun I feel is one of energetic overtones and overtures, not the paralysis kind. For as sure as I sit here now, I pledge to devote myself more to the easing of other's suffering, anywhere, anyhow. And be damned the thoughts that I cannot help or save everyone and that it's a lost cause, for yes these thoughts are as common as the colors in my sight, but they are not going to cloud my vision to do the thing I know is right. Still, putting logic and math to energy and intent is like water to oil, and the two shall never wholly meet, nor know or appreciate one another, and so tenacity must be mustered.

Back to seemingly dead things, I must mention all of the dogs. I have seen dogs I wished I could have euthanized right then and there, the poor things so hell-bent, fucked up, shorn to the bone and lain to waste it was a wonder they could still walk. I frequently fall back on the fact I read once that dogs have a very high tolerance for pain, and they clearly don't question their lot in life. But I have seen the saddest specimens here by far. But who am I to choose their fate, or t stop it?

To the Hindus, animals are lower than the untouchable caste, the sudras, and their beliefs naturally steer their actions. Often I see owners whipping their herd, be it cow, oxen, sheep or goat, though usually the cow is hardly ever hit or treated with the slightest malevolence. They clearly have the lay of the land to do what they wish with, tying up traffic randomly many times. I wonder what the penalty for driving into a cow is? I'll have to ask.

But animals are not the only ones I have seen regularly hit. I have seen children slapped by mothers over what seems the most trivial of matters -- like picking up salt off the table at a restaurant. So I can only imagine the abuse that occurs in the privacy of their homes, where maybe the men beat their wives, to vent their anger at being beaten down by the system, the wives who beat their children to vent their lot in life, and the children who beat their flocks to vent theirs too. This is speculation of course, but I'd wager it is pretty accurate as a fairly common dynamic in areas of poverty. That and the fact that I have seen it on several occasions.
I could never live here, or so I believe right now. It's simply not a place I find to be compatible with my spirit's sense of ease, no matter how loftily inspiring the temples and ancient sites and ceremonies and devoted ritualism of the people are. The noise pollution alone plays a big role in my conviction to never inhabit this country. It's that bad.
I laugh now when I think of how distraught I was by the car horns in Alexandria, Egypt, because India is SO much worse. And yet, I'm fairly used to it. Amazing how far one can come, and adapt, in a relatively short time. One of the wonders of the human condition.
When they honk here, it's never just a toot or quick burst. They just plant themselves on it like a frog on a lilypad and hang, making sure everyone knows they are coming. They use the horn nearly every time they pass either people or animals who are on the side of the road, which in India of course happens all the time. It's like there is this national paranoia that beings on the side of the road might just jump out into the street at any random moment, or that they are hard of hearing, and so they need to be reminded that a vehicle is coming. And so the sound of horns for that reason alone is incessant. Given the massive percentage of people per capita here, I am sure there have been many times when people or animals have done just that, and wandered into the streets without looking, but to honk at every single being you pass on the road as a preventative just seems an over the top affirmation that they have no idea nor concern about what noise pollution is.

But add to that their blatant impatience at having to sit or pause for even a second because people are other vehicles are in front of them, when they again will just lay it on with blaring urgency, even when everyone in front of them is at a standstill. It's enough to make you nuts, but of course, the people are used to it. And when you have to hear it from motorcycles coming down tiny side streets when you are trying to shop and the sound is intensified by such close quarters, it's enough to make you want to scream to override it. And all this blaring deafeningly expressed impatience seems so incongruent and nearly hypocritical to me when seen against their passive guruesque composure at their endless array of mosques, shrines and altars.
But they will not honk at the cows, I noticed; or at least very rarely. Another sign of proof of just how sacred these animals are to the Hindus.
I did finally found out just why the cows are so sacred. Because they can cook things with their dung! Of course. The cycle of life, death and recycled fuel, the cosmic wheel of divine oneness, all rolled up into one sacred steaming heap of dung.

One day left!

New Delhi, India:
Yes, tomorrow is my last full day abroad and the 179th day I will have been away from my northwest tribe, making my journey eligibly known as 'Around the World in 180 Days', but that's far too quaint a title and too similar to that other fictional tale, which I have never read.

This cold I got, I am assuming while in Varanasi, is one nasty bugger. My energy has been gratefully restored, and during the day I do start to feel almost brand new, but then when it's time to retire or I lean back or lie down, Whammo! A coughing fit will explode out of nowhere and rock my world. My body will be convulsing in heaving and viscerally devastating tremors that leave my ribs spastic and achey, while I suck in calming heaps of soothing breath and left helpless to ride the earthquake of savage violence when it inflicts itself upon my weakening state, which feels gaunter and more frail cough by cough. Such a strange feeling to feel fine all day, with an occasional cough, but no indication of the tumult that lies down inside, waiting for me to get to my restful place at day's end to unleash a sudden fit of attacks that leaves me weak and begging for a fresh breath. It seems to be a pernicious invader I seem to have adopted from breathing in some bad particulates in a most unclean place.
So then I think of Varanasi, the assumed pickup point of this bug, where I stayed at a place that was right next to the most fully functional ghat, or open-aired crematorium on the Ganges, and this does not paint a pretty picture of its origins, but it does remind me of a favorite lil' ditty:

". . . same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea,
all we do, crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see,
Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind."

I remember, on the overnight train to Varanasi, waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of hoarse, wet, heaving coughing and sneezing all around me in the unsleeping sleeper car and feeling like I was in a hospital, not a train. I heard countless people with very bad coughs like mine, both locals and visitors alike. Scary to think what living here full time earns you on your respiratory salary.

***
I'm still on the malaria pills and the other night I went without dinner, having little appetite, and the pill had a profoundly trippy effect on me. It kept me half awake with vivid recollections of conversations with people I'd met in India and people I would probably see back home very soon running endlessly in my head. These memories and envisionings were set amongst wandering angelhair tendrils of organic matter exploding outwards in vibrant Indian spice-colored shades of hot pink and the vibrant red color of spit seen all over the Indian ground from the ***** many of the men chew and release back to the earth with nauseating frequency. But the conversations were so real and vivid, and yet plausible as if I was really being told things I could never quite imagine, that they had a quality to them as if I was looking into the White Wizard's crystal ball and seeing my future.

I was vastly frustrated that true sleep was eluding me completely but the conversations and visuals were surely entertaining in the interim. So, with three hours of sleep to sustain me, I went out to meet up with Hannah, an English girl from Cornwall who's attending university back in England. I enjoyed hearing how she spoke and trying on her expressions and exchanging some for mine.
I'm a chameleon at heart, always trying on other's language, rhythm and even color, if I could. Interesting that I traveled briefly with two different groups of people in India, and they were both English, but of course I meet people from everywhere. Of course, because that's where I've been, right? Everywhere.
Me and Hannah met up at the Taj Mahal, an attraction that at first, like other big namers on tourist's checklist, I was merely content to see and felt no big thrill in anticipation of, having found long ago that my favorite moments come when I'm furthest from the big tourist meccas and sightseeing stops. But a day or two before arriving in Agra, I found myself pretty excited about seeing it while on a train thta was actually called the Taj Express.
"Don't you know we're riding on the Taj Mahal Express", I believe, is a line from the Crosby, Stills and Nash song that didn't make it to the final cut.

The Taj Mahal is set up so you can only see the top of it's domes as you enter the complex, but I purposely avoided looking at her fragmentary glimpses, wanting to wait until I saw that infamous view, the full frontal one, which is the first and best glimpse of it that you get. And with the rose colored tint of morning gleaming off her marble and graceful curves . . . wow. It is astoundingly beautiful.

I'd heard that it's much bigger than you think it will be, but I thought it was about exactly as big as I had pictured, which is still a good size. It is a mirror image view from all four sides, and it's marble gleam is dazzling to behold, while the details on it are small and intricate. There is a "little Taj" nearby, from which it drew its inspiration, which actually has much more detail embellished in its carvings and paintings, but it's not the Taj, which commands the vista of sky held in its magnificence. A wonder of architecture made in 17 years to the wife of the king who died giving birth to her 14th child. Later, this same king was imprisoned by his son, the last Mughal ruler, who was kind enough to give his father a cell with a view of the Taj and resting place of his wife.

I think this journey definitely cured me of something, something rather big actually. This being a partial restlessness of my heart to go forth, embrace and unite with the horizon and all it stands for, such as the lands afar, with all her people, cultures, sights, sounds and tastes all so different and perfectly available for filling the ever growing pie of my world experience. The other side of the road, plain and simple, was what always drew me and seemed to overshadow all else. That where I am not. That was the problem with that kind of a worldly desire, because wherever you go, there you are, so if you are craving to be always be elsewhere, then you necessarily deny wherever you find yourself. This is certain to render such a pastime to incessant discontent.
This restlessness in me still exists, because my heart will always be restless to discover what's bigger and brighter to match its unending vitality of desire, to envelop in the shine of my gratitude that which I seek and find to resonate with me. That is what makes me me.

But my need for search has been stilled by its own contented discovery and reimmersion to the ever-discoverable within my own much deeper and more adventurous terrain, fragrant with the heartier spice of my own inner landscape. Now my love, my passion, my fire, and my cultivated new ambition, which has been impotently nagging me these past few years, are on the people, places and dreams I have come to know and love as my home in Oregon. In Portland, the city of roses. I have a newfound portal of appreciation for these readily available experiences that are fresh and presently manifest to me and which I don't see waning soon. I even welcome their rediscovery within a framework of disorientation to the potential alien familiarity of home as I return to tidal ripples of the strange and unrecognizably imagined with the encountered distances that have invariably grown apart from who I was in their own natural ways. But the reflection I will receive in these coming days will probably be some of the best of my entire journey because that's when I might get a glimpse into the direction this trip has taken me. And the pulse and quiver which has tenderized into my being and which has marinated the surface of my spirit I can now feel into with vivid contrast to my old stomping grounds of identity and habituation. Then maybe I will gain a glimpse into the essence of who I am that I ws once too busy to notice shimmering when I looked into the calm pool of my previously 'normal' life.

I am so joyous to have returned to myself, that lone wolf figure standing on the darkened shore, looking to the approaching storm clouds as one of his antiquated passions that kept him safe and apart where, distracted by the chaos, he would step away to join hands with that eternal musical fledgling, the grounded one. Practical and cathartic when it suits him, not because the last song inspired its unleashing, an artist in rhythm to the deeper harmonic, always keeping to the now and ever optimistic, all full of light and the thrill of where to instill it. Together we will sit at the sumptuous banquet with an overflowing cornucopia that is the reawakened and glistening gratitude of my spirit, copious and content to have returned to the new calm that is me, no longer looking overseas for the newest thrill, knowing the real thrill of reward and challenge is under my brow and infused in my breath.

I am tempted to delete this nice-sounding but suffocatingly boring soliloquy of mine, but it feels important to lay out positive goals and reinforced big-picture humanitarian and self-appreciating lines of intent as I prepare to arrive home to my familiar demons of habit awaiting my return. I'm no saint, and I know I can distract easy and so in writing this down, I want it to be a linguistic rudder to drop down and guide me and hold me steady as I shift into the next dramatically different phase. I am intimately connected with so many of the words that come through me and so I want to commit to being accountable to those I have written from my heart.

My brief Guru

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 05:08:21 GMT

So while in Varanasi at the Shanti Guest House, I signed up for a two-hour yoga/meditation session. I had wanted to go to Rishikesh north of Delhi for at least five days to go sit in an ashram and learn some yoga and meditation techniques at the source of the Ganges where the water is nice and clean. But quickly I saw I would not have time to go there as just moving about this country sucks up time like a vacuum, so when I saw that they offered such at my place on the rooftop overlooking the smoking ghats of Varanasi, I figured it was a fitting foray to be looking inward to my inner light while the burning of death ensued below.

So I signed up, thinking it was a class, but I was the only attendee. The usual guy was away so his father came in his stead. At first, I was like, "Man. I could have been doing other things with my time for the next two hours. " I thought this because his nature seemed inconducive to whatever it is I thought I was supposed to be getting. But, happily, I let this go almost instantaneously and surrendered to whatever was there to be had during my two hour solo sesssion with this man. **********INSERT HIS NAME**************

First he told me of the endless benefits of yoga and meditation for whatever ails you, many of which I knew but humbly accepted as he continued. Then he told me of the three primary techniques for doing meditation. I was struggling with the manner in which he conveyed his knowledge, until at some point I simply accepted that we were from such different places in the world with irreconcilably different approaches to how we interacted with others and that attachment to these differences would interfere with whatever I might attain from him. This realization and shift all happened in a matter of moments, for I knew I was there with him for reasons other than a critique of our cultural contrasts.
Then we moved to Hatha yoga asanas. He would show me the posture or movement and then have me do it, not moving on until I had done it correctly, crying out "Success!" He was a very sweet man and I grew to like him immeasurably rather quickly, and it seemed he had a fondness for me as well. He had began with a seeming wall of distance, the 'I am the teacher, you are the pupil' chip on his shoulder, but as he saw my eager willingness and limber attempts at whatever he showed he, we seemed to stand on a more equal footing with every asana.
He would refer to himself as my guru, but there was little hierarchical posturing in it. instead it felt more like an endearing validation of a brief but powerful and symbolic relationship between us.
At two hours end we finished as a man who was the massage therapist for the guest house entered and asked if I might want a shiatsu massage. The timing seems right so I said sure.

It was a very rough and intense massage, which reminded me of something that a man from New Zealand told me about being in Rishikesh. Many westerners who come to India for yoga and meditation teaching are disappointed because there is a disconnect between guru and student simply by virtue of their respectively different extremes of upbringing and cultural alignment, and so their method of teaching or massage may be considered rough and out of alignment with the gentleness many westerners mistakeningly associate India to.

It was after this intense massage that I got sick and soon entered an ensuing haze that held me fast for the next week or so. It certainly brought up toxins and emotional crepitus I'd accumulatred up to that point that needed to be released, only it took my body on a discombobulating whirlwind to cope with it.

Sick in Khajuraho.
So I have been sick for three days now after having gotten some bronchial bug in Varanasi. Last night was a really tough one for me. After struggling to just get out of bed with nearly no energy and very little appetite, I managed to get out to see the western temples of Khajuraho, known for their provocative tantric carvings. But really, the exciting tantric carvings are a minimal part of the entire complex. Yet the carvings on all eight of the temples were exquisitely amazing. I was far too depleted in every way to get excited about them anyway, and the fact that the sun yesterday was ferocious didn't help.
Crazy that it's almost winter here! It certainly doesn't seem like it -- this country is so far removed from anywhere else that even the seasons are all askew. It feels unbearably hot, but being sick has rendered me intensely sensitive to it.
Khajuraho originally had 84 temples, but the Mughals came and destroyed all but 22 of them. The Mughals apparently destroyed lots of sacred places in India.
Afterwards, I was invited to go exploring with my new friend Baba, a young man on break from university who is a refreshing break from the same old dialogue that nearly everyone else wants to have. He is very intelligent and kind and we had some great talks the night we met. He has a motorbike and was going to show me the old village nearby where the caste system is evidently quite apparent, and then the temples to the east as well as some treehouses that are outside of town. But after walking for two hours, I had nothing left and so I told him that hopefully the next day I'd feel better. Pretty depressing really, to have so little energy.
I went back and tried to nap but my runny nose and constant coughs kept that from happening.
Later, I ate some food just to give myself some energy, but I wasn't hungry in the slightest and so I was not into the food at all. Also, I've found that when I take my Malarone pill for malaria on an empty stomach, it gives me a heartburn type of feeling, so I wanted to avoid that as well.
I tried to walk around and explore the town and take in the fact that it was the night before their largest festival in India, Devali, but after about fifteen minutes, I had to return to my room. Not quite sure why I had to dream up getting this sick during the biggest party in India, but that's how it is. One thing to say for my forced slowing down, it has given me a chance to go even deeper and really reflect on everything I have done and what will come, which is exacty what I wanted to do here. Maybe I dreamed up this cold to force some down time on myself, to have to kick back and relax and reflect. I hadn't pictured having such a meditative state being forced upon me, but maybe that's exactly what I needed.
In this space, one thing I have seen quite clearly is just how much fear I have about so many things. About being conned, manipulated, stranded, missing a bus or train, not finding shelter during this holiday chaos, and the epitome of fears, that I will miss my flight home and that there will not be another one for quite a long while, or that I'll never find my way home again.
I also reflected on the fact that I feel so out of place here, a feeling that lessens as the days go by, but overall I essentially feel very much out of sorts from my surroundings -- and maybe that's the cold affecting my perceptions. Undoubtedly. But another fear is that I will feel just as out of place when I go home. And this is okay, because I will be home, or at least I hope it will still feel that way.

And then the hell of last night ensued. I spent the entire night brutally hacking and coughing. Even though I had cough drops, they were barely slowing the onslaught of this little nastiness I seem to have. I felt like I was being beaten mercilessly from the inside out, and today I feel like I have minor whiplash from the intensity my neck endured as I would double up in pain as my body was wracked with these incessant outbursts that left me feeling limp and frayed to the core. I gave myself reiki to my throat and chest, which seemed to help some, but it was challenging when the coughs just wouldn't stop.
At some point though, close to dawn, I finally got some sleep, and when I awoke, my sheets and pillow were soaked from sweat. Yes, my body was very sore and my energy exasperatingly low, but I still felt much better.
This was a tough way to end my journey, but I'm open to the reasons that are never easily apparent.

Echoes

Sat, 03 Nov 2007 05:46:20 GMT

I discovered 2 days ago that my camera setting was set for the lowest pixel quality. A good setting for being able to store more photos on my memory card, but lousy for enlarging any of those photos as the poorer quality will be highlighted. I was sad about this since I was unsure how long it had been set like this while I shot many treasurable images and cannot believe I never saw it. But also, last I checked, it was set on the highest quality so i had no reason to check it either. Some of the best photos I took of the entire journey were probably taken on that setting, those from Masai Mara.

I had little time to accept this before the very next day my camera went and broke at the magnificent Ellora caves outside Aurangabad. Suddenly, the images I shot were darkened black except for a sliver of the image. I hoped it was just the screen blacking out, but it showed all my shots up until one as perfectly fine.

The saddest thing is that my camera died just 13 days away from the end. It was a warrior and made it through the toughest of times, but sadly, didn't quite cross the finish line with me. Luckily, I happened to fly to Delhi with my temporary traveling companions, an English couple from Cheshire, England who have been going westbound round the globe for 9 months and for whom India is also their last stop. So, back in a big city, I should be able to find a suitable replacement.

Yesterday was a most full day, visiting the Ellora caves which had Buddhist, Hindu and Jainist carvings in 33 different caves along with a giant temple carved entirely out of the mountainside. It was most incredible, and quite an opportunity to drop into surrender over not being able to photograph most of it, since my camera "blacked out" about 20 minutes after arriving there -- of course, the last shot I took on it was a beauty!
Our group made a quick stop at a fort, then we caught our plane to Mumbai and then onto Delhi, proceeding to have a dance or two with death en route, in true Indian style.

First, we landed in Mumbai smack in the middle of an electrical storm, which I noted would never happen in the US, with airline safety the national obsession. Then upon arriving safely in Delhi an hour late, our taxi driver took us on an insane ride to our hotel. At one point between laughing nervously at the sheer madness of it, we wondered aloud if he knew we were not actually in a video game but real life. But really, everyone drives crazy in India. For example, when they enter a road, they almost never stop or even slow down but just enter and expect that everyone will see them and part. Again, the roadways are like water, merging and flowing with their own methodical madness. But no accidents have I seen, just the final cleaning up of a dead body on Halloween day on the way back from the caves. We saw a crowd of men, a pair of worn shoes on the road in front of a bus, a man with a couple of potato bags he was finishing filling with matter, a stained sari laid down to soak up the blood, and a most unpleasant smell.

After the reckless drive to our place, the Hotel Relax it was appropriately called, we gave thanks for surviving another day in India. Just when you think you have seen or experienced it all here, something else comes along to up the ante. There's no getting used to this place. That's part of the beauty of it.
People here definitely have a different view of life and death than we do in the west. It's so intimately accepted, cherished, rampant and brashly flirted with as an everyday affair. Maybe it's just the ready acceptance of reincarnation present in Hindu, a get out-of-poverty free card. But it feels bigger than that. It could be the simple realization of death's imminent presence when surrounded by so many people living so meagerly on life's fragile edge, leading to an inspired whimsical dance in the face of it as a hopeful passage to other planes. But I'm just guessing.

At the airport, we watched on TV the coverage of the World Toilet Summit. We laughed but then it started to mention statistices that made a mockery of our mirth. 733 million Indians don't have access to basic sanitation, 63% of Indian households don't have a lavatory, and 1.8 million children die annually of diarrhea brought on by disease arising from bad hygiene. With so many people living here in such despicable conditions, death is hardly a flutter or roadswipe away. So our dancing with death at so many moments is simply how things go here.

So I was absent from Halloween in the states, but I was most present to the thinning of the veil between life and death over here, half an Earth turn away. All the experiences of the last few days have been a golden opportunity to realize just how fragile we are, and how in hours of desperate need, you feel closer to the one. These people are very close to the center of something that is all encompasing and unifying, that is undeniable. They are the meek who shall inherit the earth, they are survivors, and they are a blessing to behold.

I am moving on to Varanasi on the overnight train tomorrow, to the believed Hindu center of the universe, as well as an auspicious place to die since passing here guarantees Moksha, the freeing of oneself from the endless cycle of reincarnation. The city is also the crossroads of flesh and spirit, where an endless number of people on pilgrimages come to cleanse their sins away in the fecally saturated Ganges. Divine crossroads, thinning veils, timeless temples and rituals of old, burning bodies on giant ghats, with sacred sewage bathing in the mystic early morning, oh my.

Maybe I should burn my camera on one of the riverside pyres and send it to Hindu nirvana.

Took my chances on a big jet plane,
never let them tell you that they're all the same.
The sea was red and the sky was grey,
wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.
The mountains and the canyons started to tremble and shake
as the children of the sun began to awake.

Seems that the wrath of the Gods
Got a punch on the nose and it started to flow;
I think I might be sinking.
Throw me a line if I reach it in time
I'll meet you up there where the path
Runs straight and high.
- Led Zeppelin

So no sooner had I written a few days ago to glorify the good nature of the Indian people, I then had some encounters with their more scheming side. Seems this is the nature of humanity in many regards, for as soon as you put a person or people on a pedestal, the natural tendency is for them to fall. Truly this phenomenon has little to do with what people have done -- it's simply the nature of mind to prop and topple, in endless cycles of redundant musing. This seems a similar phenomenon to that of someone who declares they are now at peace or are enlightened in some regard and who, by the very act of their declaration, unleashes a series of tests or events to challenge this statement or belief. Whether this is a plot by the ego to resist its demotion by an awakening or the universe offering a challenge for them to reaffirm their new status by facing, is but worthy speculation to me.

So I am striving towards accepting all and everyone as they are, which is certainly not easy, but an encompassingly compassionate striving to have nonetheless.
I realized that many Indians will tell you what they think you want to hear, but then afterwards you get the full bill, so to speak, even when you have been discussed as the 'guest of honor'. Or they will speak flawlessly proper English, up until it's time to discuss the bill and suddenly they miss quite a few beats of understanding. Nearly comical.
This occurred when I was checking out of the Hotel Relax in Delhi before my train to Varanasi yesterday. The woman at the counter had seemed on top of her game as she juggled tour arrangements and all sorts of information for all who came to inquire, but when it came time to pay, she suddenly confused me with the English couple I had arrived with two nights before in the taxi ride from hell from the airport. I noticed it when she wanted me to sign out in their column and seemed to want me to pay her for a double room and the entire airport pickup fee.
It was nearly absurd for me to have to explain to her that I was not the embodiment of a married english couple and that just because I had arrived with them did not mean we were together and that I only had a single room. She seemed absolutely confused and the argument was going nowhere as the time of my train's departure approached, so I surrendered and shrugged it off as just another white man's tax. Getting cheated out of rupees is little bother, but as they say, it's the principal!!! Us wazungus, or white people in Swahili, get a little tired of the rampant racism here as far as costs go.

For example, to see the famed Ellora caves outside Aurangabad, locals are charged 5 rupees while non-locals, aka. white people, are charged 500. And when the three of us arrived in our prepaid taxi at Aurangabad airport, the men at the gate jumped up when we approached to argue our having to pay a parking fee. We laughingly explained that we were not parking but being dropped off, and as we argued, several cars with locals drove past and unloaded without the slightest notice or care of the men trying to extract money from us. So we compromised and decided to get out and walk with our packs the thirty yards to the terminal, thereby disabling their argument to charge white people for entering the airport in a vehicle. They looked dumbfounded and we could amusingly see them trying to come up with something to say, but they could not.

***
The Heart of the Rose meditation:
In the car on the way to Ajanta Caves, our driver had gathered some pink and red roses and lain them on the dashboard. When I saw them, I remembered a meditation from a book I just read about holding a rose and looking into its center and simply holding space for thoughts to come and ebb outward like the petals of the rose, letting the flower hold space for you to go deeper into its fragrant purity as a mirror of your own. The point is to surrender all thought to it.
As I did this, I heard my mind instantly speak up to tell me that meditation was a boring waste of time, and so I had a more conscious thought that the quickness of my mind to react to it must mean there must be something worth looking at there; but that was just another thought all the same.
Then the next volley came that these were interesting thoughts I was having, and I should write them down.
But I saw the strong attachment I've developed for writing so lucratively of my experience, an attachment that feels mildly obsessive. So I plan to hold greater space for refuge from this inclination in the days to come. But my writing has come to be so many things for me on this trip, so while it was good to recognize my attachment to it, I also see its worth as a catalyst for awareness, experiential integration, and as an infallible companion to have had on my journey. What prompts me to regularly put words down of my experience is my need to feel I have produced something of worth during my voyage.
Whether or not I have is yet to be decided, but I do know that the fire, air, earth, water, ether and sandy grit of my spirit and flesh have been infused into my expressions and passages so thoroughly, that whatever else happens, I know I am here in these words. Welcome to me.

***
Just arrived in Varanasi this morning after a grueling 18 hour train ride from New Delhi. I had bought a sleeping car seat, but I still had to share a corner of it with my fellow riders who got on and off at regular intervals during the lengthy journey. I had a bumpy, tumbling, dirty, jostling hell of a ride here, but I am happily etching it in as another notch in my everything that this adventure has entailed.
There's just so many people here that you adapt to sharing space pretty quickly, or you go insane missing your creature comforts, trying to recreate what is no longer available. Take your pick.

I was told that in India, your karma looks you right in the face. I think this is another way of saying that a billion people, nearly all of whom who live in abject, rock-bottom poverty, will look you right in the face and be in your space at nearly every waking moment, wanting to know who you are. That is their truth.
And so you must surrender to new thresholds of what can be comfortable, and accept this as another face of the world that few ever see or can even comprehend, but one that I sincerely think it vitally worthwhile to experience at some point in one's "normal" life. A chance to reevaluate what is normal and taken for granted is one of the best gifts you can give yourself. Challenge your notions of what you have to be grateful for, because what is normal for bilions of other people is mind-blowing to realize.

But that's just a part of it. The entire paradigm-shifting, perception-staggering, somersault vertigo weightless dissemination of all you know of yourself and the wolrd is here, awaiting your decision to either open to it, or flee.
Of course, there are multitudes of miniscule increments of fleeing . . . and opening. It's all about tipping the scales the right way with gentle and compassionate shoves.

***
There are no trash bins here or scheduled rubbish pick-ups, and everywhere you see people defecating and peeing all over the place. The open setting is just one giant toilet, landfill and junkyard rolled into one. Garbage collection consists of the elderly sweeping up what the countless cows, and dogs aren't eating and burning it in smoldering piles of smoky nastiness in side alleys.
Filth is the utter and ubiquitous truth. This is life in India. And the shattering nature it holds for you to reclaim your sense of self is what renders it divine, if you look at it right.
The issue of karma is magically multifaceted. Possibly one of the biggest aspects of it to recognize is that when there are so many with so little looking you square in the soul, acknowledging that you are just as alien to them as they are to you, you are then in a position to truly allow yourself to be seen for all that you are.
Seen, to a degree many of us may never have experienced before, since, or ever.
What really sets off many of the intricacies of my character is the fact that these are people who I imagine are generally very kind and curious in an open-hearted and well-intended manner, but I feel the urgent clarity and sheer contrast from me when its all snugly woven into their absolute need for help in any way possible, their human insistence necessitating a need to rise above their complete lack. Fear, mistrust and suspicion arise easily in my helpless alienation from their place versus mine, no matter how much I try to surrender and yield to their state of being. I alternately solemnly and playfully wrestle with these shadow guardians as I move to empathize and allow myself to feel welcome here while still maintaining an ever-present, all-abiding compliment of caution.
Rolling blackouts and allotted times for water access and usage are among the order of the day, while ghats are built and soon all aflame to cremate some 400 bodies a day by the river's edge, a din of flowing unnamable filth and decay which also serves as the sacred holy washing area for this entire city's population. The river also serves her followers with the many reminders of belief and salvation that abide in her, along with all the endless heapings of filth in all its many forms, spills, frills, and affects of aroma that are hers to carry away into the omnipotently cleansing horizon which she onward flows towards. For she is the mighty and eternal Ganga, the holiest river in the wolrd -- if the invested hope and faith of so many since the dawns of time is any testament.
Oh yes, dear India, surely the place to come to practice the art of surrender in oneself. In noneself.

The poverty here seems in large part a result of too many people per unit space, sharing and scurrying for the powdery crumbs of a curry-sifting and otherwise preoccupied government machine with its sights set on being a new world power to deal and negotiate with; its eyes looking up and out much more than in. But as I roam the country and see the destitution and remoteness at every turn, feeling heartache for the scarcity so many share as well as a fear of getting stranded here with no way to get home, I deeply inquire to an emptiness that speaks of Godliness. The level of nothing which is all that hundreds of millions have makes me feel closer to the divine in all its empty and ineffably persistent nature, and I am left to wonder what their particular blessings are and how they are received. Are they the same blessings that I might attain? Is there an equitable balance in such forms? Or does the simple act of faith and hope that one intentionally holds level the playing field unconditionally and unequivocally?

*****
The powers that be
that force us to live like we do,
bring me to my knees
when I see what they've done to you.
But I'll die as I stand ghere today,
knowing that deep in my heart
they'll fall to ruin one day
for making us part.

--Back On the Chain Gang, The Pretenders

Overhead the albatross
Hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
An echo of a distant time
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine.

And no one called us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's.
Something stirs and something tries
Starts to climb toward the light.

Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me.
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand
The best I can.

And no one called us to the land
And no one crosses there alive.
No one speaks and no one tries
No one flies around the sun....

Almost everyday you fall
Upon my waking eyes,
Inviting and inciting me
To rise.
And through the window in the wall
Come streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning.

And no one sings me lullabyes
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky....

--Echoes by Pink Floyd

holding kindness . . .

Tue, 30 Oct 2007 14:01:25 GMT

I now sit in the lobby of a hotel in Aurangabad, awaiting other tourists to come back from their cave tour and check out so I might get into my room, as yet unavailable though I have been here for 5 hours. I asked for a discount for my inconvenience and they said they would not charge me tax. I frowned acceptingly. I then tried to take a nap on the lobby sofa, for I desperately needed one but also to make a statement of 'Yes, here I am, still waiting for my room'. Of course, only when I had reached the deepest sleep did the receptionist awaken me to tell me I could not sleep there.
The Indians can be really sweet dear people, and absolutely unaccommodating as well.

From the book I bought on the streets of Mumbai for a pittance, I just read:

"...the traveler fell into a long-desired, long-awaited reverie; cleansed by memories of innocence, he succumbed to optimism and dared to believe himself at home in the world."

-- Orhan Pamuk, Snow

This line touched me as I sifted in and out of the lure of wakeful meditation upon the kindnesses and not as much that I have offered those I came into contact with throughout my days here. I have been curt, blunt and at times rude to those who have been overly inquirous to my place in their country, my name, or whether I needed their services, advice or company. After having been approached by countless members of the billion-plus inhabitants of this, the third-largest country in the world, to be randomly grabbed and plucked and singled out as surely the money tree they have waited for with incessant regularity, my patience and acceptance has been strained to what I sadly regard as too soon a brink.
I have offered many kindnesses as well, but I have yet to be able to hold such openness which I might lose myself in in the incoming surge and swath of receiving that seems to demand of me an endless entreaty.

After having spent so much time alone on the road, even the countless divergence of cultures and national norms has hardly prepared me for the humanity that washes over me here at every outing. The mass of people here makes any excursion more time-consuming, exhausting and staggeringly daunting than anywhere else I have ever known. Encountering the endless push-pulling throngs to dodge and weave through, only to emerge from the soulful stew to face the inevitables who affix themselves in your path to gawk, inquire and smile as to who you are and where are you going at every chance is a constant endeavor. But it's also the utmost opportunity to practice surrendering to the ineffable oneness of our shared humanity.

I am striving to be kind as much as possible, for I know in so doing, my feeling at home in India will be more assured. This in itself is a realization to be revered in the traveler's mind, since India is completely opposite from my home, both globally as well as in terms of human culture, functioning capacity and density; not to mention aromatically. Feeling at home might then hopefully open the space for me to energetically merge and blend in just a bit more. A subtle degree of merger is all I ask. Just enough not to feel like such a service-oriented charitable grab-bag question magnet.

I am seeing a glimpse of deepening though. In this cornucopia of corporeal flesh and spirit, and hope and survival there is a love. I see it by the river's edge where those who come to wash their linens and body and hair are joined by those who come to squat and defecate alongside them, accepted as easily as the night following the day. A marginless community, a tapestry of all the everythings of life rolled into one unhidden and unpretentious open-faced transparent veil. I see this as love in a way I have never known before.

A vast sea of immeasurable love that is beyond cosmically beautiful, and the shreds and tepid tapestry of ashes and sacred cow droppings detracts from it none. The foreignness of my entire experience here is such that my awareness is being stretched and spanned to see this and so much more I feel will come, while my courtesy, spontaneous reconciliation and surrender of attention to personal space is slower to catch up. But I love myself with all my faults and protective tendencies and that is my best hope for transcending them.
I know I can never fully embrace the filth, noise, smell and fear of feeling overrun by this human tide that really feels more like a tsunami, at least certainly not in the month I am here, but I venture to guess that baby steps are most welcome on the stairway to salvation.

balance in Bombay

Mon, 29 Oct 2007 07:10:52 GMT

I think my heart feels more open to the poverty that is everywhere here than it did in Africa, but I'm not entirely sure. It could be the fact that the Indians both seem more effeminate and vulnerable than Africans do. The people of Kenya and Tanzania seemed to possess a greater resiliency and indominability of spirit than I sense here; or rather, it is simply of a different sort altogether, for surely there is no weakness of spirit here. I see the Indian people strong and consistent in their spiritual focus, with their habitual connection to religious dogma and the worship of icons, deities and sacred appointings a fervent one. I wonder if the vulnerability I sense in them is inexorably woven into their faith as a unanimous sheltering in security, protection and a trust in the divine. As a people, I see them as stunningly beautiful in their vulnerability.

I have to present a slight disclaimer here, for I by no means am proposing any truths, answers or cut and dry sweeping conjectures here, I am merely philosophizing and hypothesizing in trying to come to grips with the massivity of this culture that has engulfed and swallowed me whole into its midst in the past 36 hours.

I wandered the streets tonight, past the stalls grinding up sugar cane and lime juice, chopping coconuts for access to the juice within, and all manner of steaming Indian foods given out in cones of paper that the customers dip their fingers into and wolf down. Cows fill the streets they lie in, never to be honked or frowned at, the sidewalks slowly fill with people on their blankets and pillows, side by side, chatting smilingly, my heart saddened and thrilled at once at their alternatingly easy smiles and despairingly broken expressions. Goats, rats and dogs scurry and sprawl in the randomness of fully occupied space in this city of special souls.

***
The sacred and profane merge easily here. The same here that is home to the largest slum in Asia, where the streets are filled with cow dung and the rich smell of Nag Champa incense, the latter always a serene scent for spirit to sigh to. The former not so much. The scents are a world of experience all their own. Occasionally I'll be hit by the guttural stench of no-one-need venture what, then the bright smell of flowers strung up on cars, shops and the random sidewalk altar devoted to a garlanded deity. Then there is the smell of marsala spice, like cardamom, that lingers more at night, when the pollution from cars has blown off some. And the fires those on the streets stoke to grill what have they for end of the day sustenance.

Many of the taxi drivers have little plastic Ganesh figures on their dashboards that shine in ongoing revolutions of rainbow colors. Ganesh is the favored god of new beginnings who grants the overcoming of obstacles. His presence is ubiquitously savored here.
After my third country where they drive on the left side, I am quite used to it now and think I might be thrown some when I go home to the opposite setup. But I think I'm going to be thrown by quite a bit more than driving patterns when I get back to the states. But that is then, and this is now.

Apparently, in much of southern Asia there are half-hour time zone increments. I met a man named Waseem last night whom I met through couchsurfing, who gave me good advice for how to explore the places I wish in this large country. He thought that the same time zone increments were universal across the globe. I said I did not think so, but maybe there's some underlying system of half-hour increments I do not know of.

I also met a young man named Blake who grew up outside San Francisco who moved here to start up a nutraceutical company with his dad, who runs things from the states. He had just left his laptop on a train a few days before and I felt for him when I saw how scattered his thinking and talk were after the stress of trying to rearrange his life according to what has become a major glitch to it. He was a great guy with many quick stories, like how he played little league with Tom Brady, who was pitcher of course way back when, and his sensing that he was destined for great athleticism, so not surprised at all when he won the Super Bowl some years later.
I always love talking with the locals, be they expats or native. It always grounds me to the space I temporarily inhabit all the more. And I need all the grounding here I can get.

I watched the sun drop into the Indian Ocean tonight, knowing it was simultaneously rising on the opposite side of the Earth, where home is. Feeling into that distance, feeling into that union of opposites, the oneness in separation. The separation in oneness from the things that lead you to and fro away from center into ideas of who you might be, but which always change with the scenery to display their fleeting lack of worth. I try holding my center while I'm asked continuously for change, or anything at all I wish to divulge of myself, such as where I'm from, where I'm going or what my religion is. All the while, frequent wide-eyed stares take me in. I want to give but want to protect myself as I am still fragile and new to this overwhelming new cultural interlude.
I found myself surrounded by a large group of young children tonight as dusk descended on the streets of Mumbai, pulling at me and excitedly begging me to take their photo for money. I wanted to help, but felt the discomfort at pulling out money from my pocket in the midst of their quick multiplicity of eager hands, so I declined nicely, and then a bit more forcefully as they continued to encircle me. I told myself I cannot help them all, but I do want to help and need to ascertain the right time for doing so. I am trying to be selective in my giving, as when I feel centered, calm and unpressured to do so and am present to the act of the offering. Not when I'm surrounded in the dark by so many quick needy hands, anxious about the exchange and the ease of being relieved of my trouser contents in a blink of an eye.
Their urgency at the prospect of free money is well-founded, but I want to be a donor of charitable intentions, not the victim.
Above all, I want to be clear to myself that I'm not just making miserly excuses to avoid being generous.
Walking the line in Bombay, my karma holding up a smudgy mirror at every turn. Feeling into my pocket for a cloth to clean it some, but not wanting to drop it in the dirty street.

. . . . . he floated back down cause he wanted to share,
those keys to the locks on the chains he saw everywhere.
But first he was stripped, and then he was stabbed
by faceless men,
. . . . he still stands.

And he still gives his love he just gives it away,
the love he receives is the love that is saved.
And sometimes is seen a strange spot in the sky,
a human being that was given to fly . . . .

--Eddie Vedder, Pearl Jam

The Coziness of Trains:

When I was out with Waseem the other night, he graciously called a couple of other couchsurfing hosts to see if they could host me. He is an 'ambassador' with the CS group in Mumbai, so making sure everyone who visits is content and enjoying their stay is what he does. He set me up with a new host so I could leave my relatively spendy Supreme Hotel, a three star setup with no towels or toilet paper. A typical Indian set-up, I'm assuming. I'm actually getting quite used to the bathroom scene, which does not mean I'm not going to be sooo grateful for the luxury of an American commode when I return. Africa prepared me for such accommodations, as well as the stares and proximity of people, but India's idea of shared space is of a whole other level of intimacy than one could ever fathom.
Like my experience on the train last night.
I had to catch a train to the northeast part of the city from the southwest where I had been staying onthe peninsula of Mumbai that sticks out into the Indian ocean. The price of a second class ticket to Chembur, the area where my new host Russell lives in a cozy place with his family alongside a golf course, was 7 rupees. First class was 78, which comes to about $2.
Yet, for the purpose of distilling shame around having given such a big tip to the hotel reservation people upon my dawn arrival in India, and trying to make amends, I am attempting to get by as sparsely as I can for awhile. Not necessarily for punishment but as encouragement to be more careful with my money and to feel more attuned to the Indian people by humbling my expenditures. But this is the smaller of my reasons. I primarily wanted the experience of riding second class on an Indian train. I had a feeling it would be a test of my comfort levels, but I really wanted to connect with and immerse myself in what life is like for the typical Indian, and so i chose the cheap seats, which meant sitting was hardly an option. It was intense.

Especially because I had my backpack with me. So it began with hopping on the train, hoping I was even on the right one, for though I had followed both my host's directions over the gravelly phone and a policeman's broken-english, half-mumbled reply to my inquiry of which train I needed, there was nothing official to confirm it. I was lucky that there was an actual map of the route, albeit withered and faded on the inside of the car, which was not available on my other two train rides of the night before. So I was able to soon see that, yes, I was on the correct one. First issue solved.
Of course, everyone was staring at me very intensely. I was the only non-native among them, and with my big bundle to boot, I'm sure I was an intriguing figure. I smiled around, half those I met responding with an easy big bright smile, the other almost too stunned by my presence to do anything but continue to stare blankly, sometimes harshly simply by the penetrability of their gaze.
I had placed myself close to the open door because when the train stops at a station, it is more of a pause of about five seconds, barely coming to a stop, while a pouring of men jump on and off as quickly as they can. So I wanted to make sure I had easy access to the exit. There actually is no door, just an open gap. I had waited till after 8:30 at night to take the train as per suggestion of my host due to the insane sea of jostling humanity you would encounter in the hours up till then. But when my train stopped, just a few men jumped off as quickly as possible to beat the replacing onslaught of men jumping on, pushing and filling up every nook and cranny, and then some. This was the mellow hour?
It was like a clown car, only opposite. The traincar was filled to capacity, but at every stop they just kept boarding, some hanging onto the hold and leaning out of the side of the train, then leaning in close when we passed a post or signal that whizzed by dangerously close. Life and death, so intimately close together. The line between them seems thinner here. Ironic that the sensation of so much life up close and personal spoke to me of the imminent presence of death.
Then a man stumbled through the crowd, stepping on both of my sandaled feet as he passed, lingering on my second foot for a bit until I pushed him along on his way. I grimaced from where his grimy shoe had firmly sat on my toes and regretted not having put my sneakers on for this little jaunt. He moved over towards the open maw that brought in a welcome breeze to soothe the stifling humidity and bodyheat all around. I will say that the Indians have almost no body odor compared to Africans, for which I was extremely grateful.
Then the man glanced back at me, an intense look warping his expression and immediately I could tell he was drunk. Then he began talking very crudely and harshly to me in Hindi, while gesturing dramatically in my face. I told him I did not understand him and he started talking in very rough English for a bit about this and that, but then he lapsed back into his tongue again and began getting more livid and big in his gesturing. The others standing around me either laughed at what he was saying or looked at me compassionately and indicated that he was just a drunk and a bit crazy and no real bother. But the man was becoming more intense and invasive so I kept nearly all of my attention on him as his energy kept building and a sense of the unpredictable loomed dramatically. Finally I began telling him that as I did not understand him, this was a very boring conversation and I was done and why didn't he just go and enjoy the view from the doorway. I was becoming exhausted by his belligerence.
Then he shifted and began telling me about his money problems. I tried to find sympathy but none came and I said, 'Yeah, you and everyone else brother.' He asked if I understood him now and I nodded yes and gave him a thumbs up indicating both my comprehension and as a gestural sigh in sensing that maybe his angry tirade had subsided. But then he changed gears and started up again by saying that I had a problem. Oh brother.

I was not scared of him per se, as he was very drunk and somewhat scrawny, but as I had my pack on and was completely surrounded by so many whose reactions could go any which way, I knew I was way out of my element, and the ground shooting by quickly a few feet away was not encouraging. I said I had no problem and offered a firm no-nonsense smile, trying to sound soothing though my adrenaline was rising fast. He alternated between letting it go to getting fired up in that despicable duplicitously drunken way for a while longer, but I sensed his fuel had waned and I gratefully rode it out. He started up for one final launch of what was jibberish to me, making many of the men laugh around me (the women have their own cars -- bet it was nice and peaceful there) and I sensed he was just going for laughs at my expense at that point, which was fine by me. Then his stop came and I couldn't help but offer a relieved and sarcastic "Goodbye. Nice talking to you, friend!" as he jumped off, bringing laughs from those around me.
Then they began assuring me that he was just crazy and that I had nothing to worry about. I smiled and nodded 'I know'. But then even more people got on and I got pushed further inside the train away from the doors. 'Was this ride ever going to end?'
Some asked me where I was headed and I told them and asked which side of the train my stop would exit on because the sides constantly changed. A young man told me which side to exit from and that was in two stops, which I knew from regularly glancing at the map overhead, but was grateful to receive since I knew he was being honest with me. Finally it came and I merged with a few other guys getting off and we shoved through the throng as one, launching ourselves off the train and into the wall of ever more people pushing to fill the train to the absolute brim. Travelling around India is like swimming through a literal sea of humanity, and feels nearly as exhausting as it sounds.
So I left that pond for the next human sea on the city streets and began looking for the coffee shop where I was to meet Russell. An older woman called out to me, just as a hundred others had called out to me that day, and so I ignored her, feeling done with any further conversation and just wanting to meet my host and breathe deep. A few minutes later, I found the coffee shop and relievedly sat. As I was a half hour late from the long queue for tickets back at the station, I wondered if he had already come and gone, so I began looking for a phone to call him. Then the same woman I had just ignored came in and said, "So, you are Chris. Yes?" I immediately remember that Russell had said that if he could not make it, he would arrange for someone else to meet me. Here she was. His mother.
I felt bad for having ignored her on the corner and apologized, explaining to her both my evening and how I had just wanted to find the coffee shop and that was all I could focus on at that point. I had meant no disrespect. She laughingly assured me no apology was necessary, took me across the street, bought me some spicy food to cool me off, which sounds funny but did the trick, and then some fresh watermelon juice with chunks of fruit that made me feel reborn.
And then we took an 'auto rickshaw' to his place, had some more delicious food, and I played with his beautiful children and then me and my host Russell played some chess. Then he set me up in the biggest bed while they slept on pads on the floor. I tried to insist that I should not have the big bed all to myself, but my insistence was waved away.
I was grateful I had made it through another immersion experience and had added to my confidence in negotiating further strange and unfamiliar terrain, a resource I am happy to build upon for the coming journey across this vast and exotic landscape.

Life and Death

An intimacy of life and death pervades here and yesterday was a measured dropping deeper into the web of it.
After a breakfast of some funky pasty wafers and milky chutney, my host asked if I liked lamb. I did. Then he asked if I preferred fresh or frozen. I said whatever he preferred. He insisted I choose so I said fresh and he concurred that this was his preference too. So I rode with Russell on the back of his motorbike to get some lamb for lunch. We went to a butchery where a pen of sheep awaiting death was in the back, while the butchers, cutters and carvers formed an assembly line, passing down the parts for specific tailoring for the customers at the front of the shop. Russell insisted I take some photos of the line. As I got closer to the back, I saw them bringing out a sheep from the pen and sadly knew what was to come. A heartbreakingly woeful bleating from the back confirmed the obvious.
Russell noticed too and asked the guys if I could go back to watch, and they eagerly told the customers to part so I could go back to see the killing up close and they gestured for me to take some photos too. I had mixed feelings about all of this and wasn't sure I wanted to see it, let alone photograph it.
But I did.
So back I went to witness the quick gruesome slaughter of three more sheep before my eyes. I blankly took some photos, though it felt wrong and irreverent to the sheep to do so. I imagined I felt like a photojournalist capturing violence on film and being unable to help the victims he was shooting. I felt helpless to help them and that sickened me as much as simply watching them being killed and haphazardly tossed in a bloody squirming pile on the floor. A tummy turner for sure. But I knew the only way to help them would be to buy them and then find someone to watch them and that their fate would surely still be the same.
Still, it was good to see the carnage of it, knowing it is what occurs behind the scenes of any butchery the world over, but which is largely kept out of sight and mind of the average consumer, especially in the whitewashed west. If it wasn't, I bet there would be a lot more vegetarians in the world. And the meat industry could never approve of that, and so the carefully packaged and sterilized presentation of our food is aesthetically offered to our hungry virgin eyes.
I resolved then and there to be more conscious of the meat I will continue to eat, but in lesser amounts for certain. Especially red meat, the image of the blood spraying all over the tile now embroiled in my brain for the time being.
I do not feel I am being hypocritical here in saying that watching those animals being killed made me feel sick and sorry all over but that I will not stop eating meat. I know that meat is very agreeable to my body, for I have tried to be a vegetarian before and didn't feel it could sustain me as well as I would like. But seeing that surely made an impact I will remember and integrate as best I can.
It was also good to see as another experience of the stark realism of life in India that I am eagerly soaking up on all fronts. Uncensored, uncleaned and unedited. Just the kind of experience I left the states to have.

I have to say, lunch was delicious.

Then I needed to catch my train to Nasikh, 180 kilometers northeast of Bombay, where I met up with the daughter of a friend named Mari, who is in India for a year as an exchange student. Yet another Portland connection rendezvous within the randomness of the world.
So Russell took me on the back of his motorbike to the station, going fast to make sure I caught the train. With my big rucksack on I held on tight for dear life, just as I had in Dar Es Salaam a few days before, where I had hoped that that would be my last hair-raising crazy, motorbike-ride through chaotic city streets of the journey. Little did I know I would get a rerun so soon, I noted as he was gunning his bike through trucks, buses, rickshaws and taxis to get me to the station. I had to yell at him to take it easy since I had my pack on. He is a dear man, but he laughed at my fear and yelled not to worry, so I bleakly said that it was a law of physics that with all the extra mass of my pack, he simply could not dodge and weave the same way through the traffic as dangerously as he was doing.

Yet, anytime you venture out onto the roads of India, it's a crapshoot of a chance any way you look at it, no matter what your mode of travel. But thankfully he eased off and we finally arrived at the station to another sigh of relief for my life lasting just a bit longer. Happiness is the journey, not the destination, right?
I felt so drained from my adrenals having worked overtime these past few days, that I was profoundly grateful to have nothing to do but sit on a train for three hours and chill. Oh, but I knew better. Trains are simply not places to just kick back and chill in India.
Suffice to say, when my train came and paused for 5 seconds to dump and refill its human tide, I had to grab onto an outside bar and wedge my way into the pulse and grind of men bit by bit until I was safe onboard.
This was just my first train en route to the passenger train from Mumbai to Nasikh, which was slightly more composed, but not by much.

***
India seems to simultaneously hold optimal space for one's inner reflection, as well as no space at all as life and people are in your face on a constant basis. This country is a forced meditation, the intensity of it pulling all manner of things to the surface for me. And the juiciest reflection stems from exactly this proximal barrage to my every sense, for in the perceptual and sensual overload I continually encounter, the innermost parts of my being are rising up, as they are shaken and stirred to the surface by the sheer brunt and outer saturation of my experience. Within this phenomenon I am seeing both the compassionate and the cruel sides of myself, light and dark, a sloshing soup of spirit resonantly dancing in chaos mode, alternatively struggling and embracing the existential cacophony occurring here at every turn. I am this. No stone left unturned, the all of me an expression waiting to be born. Never to apologize, never to explain . . . again.

The absolute in-your-face stark realism of life is here to assail you and ignite all your triggers and appreciative amenities of gratitude in one fell swoop. A mixed blessing to make certain no part of you is left out. Of course, it's easier to imagine what we want than what we need. This is one of those meeting points of flesh and spirit, usually more challenging than we give enough credit for. It is indeed a spiritual experience to be here, only not quite the one I had imagined, which is why it's perfect.

northward & inward

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 12:11:55 GMT

My last day In Nairobi, Kennedy and his cousin and I went to the Nairobi Archives that were established by Jomo Kenyatta, the man who helped Kenya gain its first independence. It was a great exhibit of artifacts of various tribes and regions in Kenya. It was really good to visit with Kennedy again, who is a lively, kind and heart-centered young man who reminds me a lot of how I used to be, with endless energy to back up his endless good intentions. As we left the exhibit, he decided to walk down the stairs on his hands. Well, more like reminds me of who I have strived to be on some levels, for I could never do that and would be thrilled to be able to.
Then I left for Tanzania by bus, having a little scare on the way while crossing the border from Kenya. I had to go and get my passport stamped at one station, and then pay $50 at a separate station across the border while my bus waited on the Kenya side. After having to wait quite a long time for them to process my money and give me back my passport with the visa, I went out to where I thought my bus would be on the Tanzanian side of the crossing, but I did not see it anywhere. I looked back at the Kenyan side and did not see it there either. As panic slowly crept up my spine so ickily, some of the young men gathered close to offer me blackmarket rates on currency exchange and all manner of services. I declined briskly, trying to mask my surging anxiety while solely concentrating on finding my bus and avoiding thinking about being stranded at the border with nothing but $30, my passport and the clothes on my back to get by.
I decided to go back to where I had last seen my bus, talking myself into remembering the nice conversation I had had with the woman from Nairobi and the young man from Uganda sitting next to me on the bus who would assuredly not let the driver leave me there. But reason held a slim stick against the obvious dismality of not seeing my bus anywhere. Finally, I caught a glimpse of it parked behind a semi off the main road. Sighing, I ran over and hopped on, sweating my anxiety out at another episode of panic overcome. Being the last aboard, we drove away and I expressed my gratitude that they didn't leave me. The woman said "We would never leave you." Yes. Thank you, but, TIA.
This is Africa, and reliability is of a whole other realm here that surrender and acceptance have a big share in coming to realistic terms with. Things break down and funk out regularly here. It's as if there's an energetic phenomenon here that leads to things going awry pretty often. It's a lesson in acceptance, surrender and a wonder at the contrasts with the rest of the world that exist here on so many planes.

The next two days, I will be on safari at Ngorongoro Crater and Lake Manyara in Tanzania's famed Serengetti. Ngorongoro is part of the Great Rift Valley which was formed by eriptions millions of years ago. Yet technically, Ngorongoro is not a crater, but a caldera. One that is fifty kilmoeters long and 90 kilometers deep. Yes, it is most impressive.

*****
As a result of this latest safari expedition, I am redesigning my attitude towards expectations, by bringing them into a more unified field of effectiveness. I used to have low expectations about entering new situations, one of the catchphrases of the old school way of thought. But I simultaneously found myself hoping for the best and brightest to come my way, for how could I desire anything less? This unique formula has given life to the phantasmagorical rollercoaster ride that my journey has been, all spectrums and extremes accounted for in my kaleidoscopic voyage that was conceptually navigated between what I wanted and what I considered possible to occur. Is this not exactly what an inconsistent forum of past-prescribed notions of limitational belief, conjoined with a newfound and empassioned acceptance of the limitless abundance of life could birth into my unfolding experience?
Having low expectations has long sounded the proper way to go forth in life, wherein you could never be disappointed if you expected little. But bit by bit and little by little, I started to appreciate affirming my ability to manifest a more bountiful reality on a more consistent basis. Tired of the old paradigm of feeling helpless to the whims of external reality and then molding myself to them as an afterthought, I began affirming my capacity to create and decide the reality I want to bring forth and live as an empowered and enlightened being who is open to discovering what he wants by choosing to believe it would happen. And really, if you want to live this life to the fullness your birthright deserves, why settle for less?
For if you go forth with little to no expectation, you are literally setting yourself up to be a reactionary to whatever the moment brings. Most unempowering to say the least. The trick is to expect great things, but to be unattached to whether or not they occur. Ahh yes, that is a dance worth attending.

So, after going into Lake Manyara and Ngorongoro Crater in northwest Tanzania with the near certainty that I would see the last two big animals left to see, the hyena and the leopard, guess who showed up? And a leopard sighting is a most lovely one indeed. This solidified a willingness to change my attitude. From this day forward, I am going to expect the best, with no attachment to the outcome, as best as I can. This in many ways feels synonymous with being open to all possibilities, and which seems a worthy goal to set my mental resources upon.
And as I have, these intentions have already begun in earnest within me and without, and now that their bent has been validated by such rare and privileged sightings, I am ready to hold to this cause with wholehearted poise as I go forth into the exotic ambience of India. That is my next and final stop on my voyage before returning home.

As this journey has progressed, I have also realized a shift taking place inside where I've become less concerned with all the amazingly cool things I have failed to try or experience that others I've met told me of doing in places I had visited. I would feel regret when they first told me of things I had the chance to experience but didn't, but then I stop. And then I just am. I relax in sensing that I am still alive and have my breath and have made it halfway round the world with an array of experience and the sensitivity to acknowledge and appreciate every single detail of all five months of it to the core of my soft warm being. I relinquish the old fixation upon the better and zanier I could have done or be doing along with the self-crucifixion of missed opportunities, and simply focus on the now of I. For I am my tried and true companion through so many trials and tribulations and I am my new best friend.
I am more content now to simply relish what I have done, but even more than this, I am discovering that my contentment is not dependent upon the experiences I have accrued. I realize that if I set up fulfillment as a thing to chase down, it will forever elude me, for that is the conceptual nature of a chase. I am not the summation of the best experiences one could imagine, and in this simple realization alone, this could very well be the greatest gift I have received on this journey.

I am singularly no longer as dependent upon the external world with all its fancy ribbons and flights of fancy to satisfy me or to be the cause of my happiness. True bliss moves from the inside out. I commit now to holding thoughts that shall be the roses to make of my world a fragrant bouquet.

****
While on safari at Lake Manyara, we passed another jeep with a woman excitedly telling us that we had just missed a leopard that had run into the brush. Rather than feel disappointed, my heart leapt at the opportunity to see a leopard, which is considered probably the luckiest sighting in Africa, besides the black Rhino.
As a sidenote, we saw a black Rhino the next day.

After the woman's excited declaration, my heart grew with the possibility of seeing such a magnificent creature. Then we turned a corner and there it was, laying in splintered sunlight, rolling to and fro on its back, stretching and mewling and being the cat it is at its core. But when it looked at us with those piercing steely eyes, me and the Swiss-Italian couple I shared safari with. Oh man. She looked right through me like no other creature ever has.
Pure wildness touched my core, stoking the primal fire inside me with heaping reconnections to the endless reserves of joy, instinct, magic and unbridled possibility that are available in every eager inhale of awe I have thrived upon these last few days.

Anticipated disappointment has lost its grip on my being, and miracles are the new order of the day. Call them luck, call it serendipity, but I found myself expecting to see the best that Africa could offer, and she has shared her bounty with me with limitless love.

Asante sana, I tell her. Deep thanks.

Yes, I did have the regret that I did not carry a telephoto lens with which I could have photographed those leopard eyes, but I trust in technological enhancement to beef up my distant images and more importantly, those eyes are surely emblazened in my psyche forever more. I trust they will be there to gaze and remind me of the purity of life untainted by doubt and feelings of inadequacy or fractured worth. In this newfound approach to life, I am recommitting myself to self-discovery; particularly, to what I excel at and what makes me happy. That will be my effort of focus and energy in the coming interim, indefinitely, and I am confident that greater love for myself and all things is inevitable in the process.

It is no accident that India is my next stop, and the perfect setting for a new dedication to self. It is an opportune time and place for a spiritual cleansing of the dust and debris of any inadequate self-love and disbelief in the abundance I can create and deserve to experience and share. I intend to begin setting this notion in earnest motion with fresh winds of change and prana that I shall blow forth and all through my ripe and raw dreams like a tempest across the Serengetti.

Africa has touched me, dear friends, and India will help me discover what that which was touched is. So let the dance begin.

I have mentioned my sleeplessness from the malaria pills, but there has been another development in relation to my new medical regimen. Freaky dreams that are incredibly vivid and surreal, so that when I awake I'm in a daze of whether I've even been dreaming or not, and this has led to a tricky time of returning to sleep after the sheer wallop of vivid imagery dancing in my head subsides.
Another symptom has been many varied and unpleasant toothaches the past few days. My molars were screaming at me at one point and I ate a meal or two grimacing in serious pain, the worried implications of a major dental problem out here in the African bush not helping. Especially after the old photo I saw at the Nairobi archives of a tribal "dentist" using his spear on the teeth of his patient. Assuredly, things have changed since then, but hopefully I will not have to give a first-hand account of how much.

Soon after my gums began to hurt and my jaw muscles were throbbing and I realized that I needed to do some intraoral massage on myself or I was going to really have a tough time even eating anymore. To top it off, I had a very unsettling dream about green seaweed growing inside my mouth which I awoke feeling rather disturbed by. Even more disturbing was the memory that whiole in the dream, upon discovering this I considered cutting and eating them because I was feeling dietarily deprived of greens at the time. Unsettling at best.

So I engaged in the art of massaging deep inside my mouth and throat to reach the origin points of my jaw muscles, a most intense and unpleasant business, but after groaning through that for a few minutes, I noticed a significant improvement. Praises be for such training as I have received.

*****
Now I am in Arusha, staying with a lovely woman named Sarah and her family from Portland, Oregon, of all places, whom I briefly met through another dear sweet friend before leaving. Sarah lives here with her two beautiful children and her husband is currently visiting. It has been wonderful to be welcomed into their home and lives and to feel the connection with my village so far away through them here in Africa. It has been a much needed time of recuperation and check-in with all the various aches of physical wear and tear on my body, mind and spirit that have been accrued. It is also a time of great conversations and absorbing the amazing spirit and courage of this woman to live here for a year with her two children and face the upped ante of danger that definitely exists here. White people are told not to get out of their cars while driving in the city, even if in an accident, but to drive straight to the police station and report it there. As I said, different rules here. This is the recommended protocol because there is the possibility of a mob forming instantaneously around the scene wherein all manner of mishap could easily arise. There is also the scam of a bicycle rider hitting your car and intentionally falling down to get you to get out of your vehicle to rob you, or worse.

Sarah works part time for a volunteer group helping children, and as with most volunteer organizations in Africa, they are desperate for all the help they can get. They are overextended and trying to juggle as many causes as they can. Sadly, I might not get to visit there with her as the battery on her car did not start the day we were to go. This was followed by her not having any more minutes left on her phone, and then finding an acacia thorn in her tire to boot. Such things are the order of the day down here in Africa. A certified testing ground for the patience of the heartiest soul, which in turn naturally produces and calls to the heartiest of souls.

Sarah and her visiting husband and kids are just back from a week's vacation in Zanzibar, a place I had hoped to visit, but have decided to skip. Besides the fact that it would be rushed and inconvenient to go there, it is another romantic hideaway that I have no interest in visiting alone, no matter how wonderful the beach is. I would rather spend some extra time with others I feel safe and comfortable to be with as I am weary of so much time and mileage going it alone.
And after the complete perfection of seeing all the animals there are to see in this part of Africa, all that is left to fulfill my modest desires for the moment is a glimpse of Kilimanjaro. It is the highest mountain in Africa and the highest free-standing mountain in the world -- meaning it is not attached to another peak or range but stands alone, a solitary monolith of greatness. She is a symbol of my present aspiration, except for the fact that I have had enough of being solitary.
So tomorrow we are going to drive out to see "Kili', which rises to a modest height of 5896 meters. That's 19,456.8 feet. I feel her calling me to witness her, and Sarah and I will both go to sleep dreaming of it being clear enough to see it even though it's windy tonight and this could mean a thick cloudcover. Again, I am retraining myself to expect that which I wish to occur, but without attachment.

******
Life in Arusha.
You have to prepay for minutes on cellphones here, and I on countless occasions I have seen people talking on their phones and getting cut off as their 'units' expire. It literally seems hardly anyone is able to say goodbye on the phone, the act of being cut off is so commonplace. It is that comically typical.
On a sadder note, Arusha just had its first stoplight installed, but because many of the drivers and pedestrians here have not ventured out to the cities, they were unfamiliar with such a device and literally, on the first day of its functioning, a young man on his bicycle saw the intersection was clear and rode through only to get killed by a car coming the other way. Very sad.

Apparently it does not help that there is a red arrow that gets illuminated on the new stoplight, for many people think that it is telling them they can go that way and the color is insignificant. The accepted chaos of the streets has a rhythm that the stipulation of the stoplight simply adds an imposed fatalism too. At the risk of a sweeping generalization, I think this notion applies to much of how it can go when the developed world brings its tools of order into this land that has its own rules and means. People are more angry than grateful about not being informed as to how the light works before it was installed. So much for progress. I'm not saying things are hopeless, certainly not. There are so many passionate groups and people doing the most amazing things to implement a better way of life here on so many fronts. But it's just the simple truth that things run under a different set of rules here.

I think the local authoritites are working to inform people about the stoplight so there are less fatalities, but things move along slowly here, and certainly not in any linear sort of fashion. And this is in no small part to the apparent sheer laziness of men running things here. This was told to me by Sarah as a local woman confided frustratingly to her that they are indeed lazy here. But there is a beautiful childlike simplicity to their attitudes about work. A regular expression is 'pole', which means sorry. It is said whenever someone is seen working, meaning "Sorry for your work." I see men sitting around all day long on the side of the road or in front of hotels and butcheries, highly inactive but for poeple watching. The latter establishment is frequently contained within a building which is adorned with imaginatively provocative signs, such as the one I saw yesterday proclaiming 'Young Boys Butchery.' Yikes!

In contrast, the women are typically seen with their hands full, a big basket filled to the brim balanced perfectly on their heads, and a baby slung on their back. As with Egypt, the glaring inequality of gender saddens me deeply, but it is of a whole other sort here from that seen amongst the Nile region. It is a bit more subdued here in Africa.
In Egypt I would see men in white loose-fitting shirts and slacks while the women were made to wear thick black burkas with only their eyes showing. I would imagine the uproar I might cause if I was to pull the scarves and hoods off their faces and encourage them to open up to the sunlight outside and the light of freedom inside, but the women themselves might stand alongside the men to condemn me the same for such foreign intrusion. So I leave well enough alone and let my imagination glide on, content wthout needing to be provocative. For the time being.

I would guess at how hot they were under the Egyptian sun, and wonder if they felt utter humiliation at the attitudes of good versus evil and mastery and subjugation surely being expressed in their obligatory attire. I would move through such scenes, my heart on my sleeve, trying to send love where it could be felt. Holding my disgust in restraint, hoping the flame of it can be used to ignite loftier results in their due time.

*******
a sort of poem ~

Alternating rivalries in juggernauts of thought,
switching empowerments with every pothole on the neglected African highway.
Poverty cling and isolation sting, before grace begins to sing its unsteady whisper
as a cloudburst of sunset acacia tree silhouette invites sweet soulful poetic fling.
'Tis but the threshold between spirit and matter that spans the shade
alongside my every footfall's resonant ripple upon the ripening plain,
calling me incessantly to merge with the coming rains to moisten and enrich
any remnant dry husks of my ambition into a green verdant valley
of impeccable desire and luscious unprecedented soar
that is nothing but the simplicity
of seeing everything snug in its proper place,
I ache to break the mold
so that limitlessness may join the frantic race.

******
I was hesitant to tell anyone of my now confirmed early return, daydreams of walking into my community one ordinary november day to say a casual hello of return being of self-enclosed charm. I think this is but a retreat to an old manner of being wherein I would involve an element of surprise to make my return seem more worthwhile and special to those infinite others I used to imagine hardly noticing me otherwise. Now I simply offer all my love and gratitude to the faces I will again meet and welcome without reservation and with complete openhearted saturation in the circle of connection again made manifest as an abundant harvest of endless returns, insights and cherishings of growth and discovery laid bare.
But stale secrets of gimmickry to overshadow doubt of my worth have long ebbed out to sea and I no longer have a need to fish them out as reusable refuse of the antiquated sort. So I am undeniably thrilled to soon again be on my home soil, and I feel the rejoicing inside at the recuperation such happy returns will hold for my unconditional embracing as I quiver silently in the glorious grasp of home. I imagine it will be a shock to return to my familiar, for familiar it will no longer be, and that is the wonder that awaits the ever present heart of my joy . . .

***
Mumbai, India; aka. Bombay.

After a fitting final day in Africa spent hanging on for dear life to the back of a motorbike as my Chinese/Australian couchsurfer friend drove me around Dar Es Salaam under the wickedly hot coastal sun, I left for Mumbai, India. For the second time in a row, I flew into a new country at the fairly unpleasant hour of 4:30 am. Too late to justify paying for a room and too early to go anywhere else, so I anticipated a hopeful nap at the airport before heading off into the bustle of humanity that is India with a little bit of my wits about me.

But it turned out better than I had hoped. I dropped into Mumbai with an hour's sleep under my belt, the full moon shining murkily through the overly strained grime of the twilit sky, and the sunrise slowly creeping through the humid haze to reveal a scene furthest from any associations of home I have yet seen. A complete contrast of culture and collective humanity to that which was previously known opened before me, awaiting my immersion in its extremes before I return home to the other end of the spectrum on the other side of the globe in three weeks time. Fitting, this taste of opposite ends at the tail end of a long and varied journey. Something to make my homecoming even more surreal than how I presume it will be.

Arriving in this new culture, in a new city, in a new country, with a new currency with new ways and means, and completely exhausted, it was a definite challenge to keep my wits about me. I stopped at a hotel reservation booth and after some negotiating, they arranged to call a place and set it up so I could get a room right away, stay until the following day at the noon checkout and only have to pay for one night's stay, as well as getting a reduction on the "standard" rate. He called the place and as far as I could tell in my stupor, it was such a quick routine call, he hardly had to "negotiate" these things for me at all. Then he showed me in three different currencies how much he had saved me through cunning persuasion and then told me even more numerously that I should tip them well for arranging all that for me. I said I needed to get money from the ATM and he asked how much I would tip them. Having already heard like six times how I should tip them very well for their efforts, I decided to tell him that in my country, its improper to ask how much you will be tipped. He smiled and nodded in understanding. I knew full well I was not in my country, but in my lethargic state, my international courtesies were strained.

I got money from the ATM and could not get any change for the 500 rupee bills it gave me, so I just tipped him that, later realizing I had tipped plenty more than I had intended, but being India, it was only a slight loss to me since the exchange rate was absurdly in foreigner's favor. Ultimately, I was just grateful for the bed that awaited me. Yet, when I got to the hotel at 6:30 after an excessively long taxi ride through the eternal sprawl that is Bombay, they told me I had to wait until 8 to get a room. Bummed and having transcended exhaustion to new realms of delirium I lay down on the small loveseat in the lobby and promptly crashed into a fitful dreamless sleep until they woke me at 8 to let me into my room. My heavenly room, smelling of mothballs and an aircon that belted out supercharged cold air without any way of turning it down, just off, was a most welcome sight.

The taxi ride there was quite an experience. From the unprecedented array of people sleeping on the streets, to the massive numbers of early risers out selling their wares and foodstuffs at the merest break of dusky dawn, to the man barely out of death's way squatting on the side of the highway to take a dump, to the woman holding her hands in reverence to the firehouse as she passed it, to the opposing flows of traffic that merge and cross like two rivers coming together in a sudden splashy torrent, to the brightly colored saris, sarongs, tunics and gowns that buoyantly shone through the city's grimy gloom like beacons of salvation that attested to the pride of maintaining a pleasing aesthetic in the midst of such overpopulated chaos, soot and grunge. What is immediately affecting me deeply though is the utter poverty apparent in this amazing breadth of a megacity which already hits me on a more comprehensive level than what I felt in Africa regarding the meager appearances and imagined destitution of the people there.

After three hours more of sleep, I awoke, a little discombobulated because according to the clock, I had gained 3 1/2 hours since east Africa. That seemed a strange time change increment to me. Well, India is unique, so I wasn't all that surprised. And then, possibly because of so little sleep, or because of jetlag and feeling disoriented as to the proper time, whatever that was, I had a heavy sedentary feeling overcome me, almost as if paralyzed by fear. But it wasn't quite fear. It was mostly a sense of intense overwhelm and apprehension about going out to face Mumbai in the middle of the day, which seized me with notions of an imagined intensifying of the frenzy of activity I saw at dawn. So, I acknowledged it, and then headed out to see it. To join it. To be it.

malaria pills and elephants . . .

Thu, 18 Oct 2007 06:14:33 GMT

Into the looking glass~

So, about Francis Wambua Mutisya, one of his many names which seems a blend of his Catholic, tribal and family names. There are 42 different tribes in Kenya, each with its own language. But Swahili is the national language of Kenya, tanzania and Uganda and is the most widely spoken language in eastern and central Africa. This was enacted by Jomo Kenyatta, the first leader and liberator of Kenya, to coalesce a feeling of unity for the people and a facilitated ease of communication and camaraderie between all the various tribes. Swahili is a beautiful language to listen to and dabble in. I hear there are only about 100 words in it, but it seems like much more to me. Otherwise I feel I should have learned more of it than I already have. I've already developed usage with a precious few, such as la la salama, or sleep well, and wachi wata, which is good morning. Asante means thank you and Karibu is you're welcome or welcome here. And then my favorites are Hakuna Matata, which has many interpretations here, but is mostly known as it's all good or may it be for you, and then ni sawa, or it's okay. That one sounds so nice.

So, back to Francis. My first impression was that he was very likable, but it soon felt so in a persuasively conjured charmful way, like a salesman or politician. Truth was, that notion hit pretty close to home. Basically the entire time I was in his hands, I felt uneasy. I am sure a lot of it was had to do with having little chance to adapt to being in Africa, for I was thrust into its unique rural life with little support from my host. He told me straight off that Kenyans do not say please or excuse me, they just tell you to do something, which is true. But there are nice ways to tell someone to do something, like sit down. And his way was not very nice. He was a caustic, tempermental and rough-edged man, so I felt ordered about, which triggered all of my anti-authoritarian inclinations. But I had to surrender to him and his guidance as we made our way out to the village, hopping from mutatas to buses with all my gear in tow. I had little choice but to bow to his brash candor. It was a good lesson in humility for me . . . I suppose.
And it was not the best time to visit him since he is so gung-ho on politics now as they near national elections, and so he was busy meeting up with groups of people, organizing town meetings and promoting his brother for a regional position, as well as his own intense opinions, judging by the insistence of his tone on a regular basis. He did fill me in on quite a bit about Kenyan politics with regular interjections along with his caveats that I could never understand, being that I was an outsider. I welcomed such assumptions about my naivete with a brittle smile and fervently tried to take in as much as I could to both understand his world as much as to prove him wrong about my level of understanding. Yet throughout this diatribe, I was grateful for any offering of inclusion he threw my way.
I explained the difference between understanding and being emotionally involved, but he never listened much. His favorite words were 'Now listen to me.' A phrase I came to detest quickly, for it carried his patriarchal and patronizing energy along with it more and more.

The longer I was around him, the less I wanted to be around his aggressive nature, which seemed to increase the more I sensed it was his nature. But I did appreciate both his and the Kenyans passion for political change, a passion which would erupt malevolently during the election fiasco that was to come six weeks later and which I gratefully was absent for.
One of the irritating things he had me do was sit down amongst a group of men a couple of times while he proceeded to talk politics with them in either Swahili or his regional dialect, so I was left in the dark for a couple for long periods. This first happened immediately after arriving in his village and dropping my stuff off in the unkempt room he had for me, though I was grateful for the mosquito net he'd provided. I was exhausted from the long trek out to his remote village and then made to sit and feel unincluded, I tried to stifle my resentment and accept that hosting someone in Africa means a whole other thing than elsewhere in terms making the guest feel welcome and involved. Which, during this seemingly interminable chat, I did not at all. After Francis introduced me and I shook everyone's hand, my involvement ended. So I finally got up and excused myself and walked for a while watching the sunset and soon had a giggling gaggle of children around me asking me questions; namely, "How are you?" and "What's your name?" They hardly know what 'how are you' means, as my response hardly m,attered aside from the thrill for them to hear me actually talk. Their words seemed more a knee-jerk thing to say to a wazungu like me. Wazungu means white person or European in Swahili. And the rare, "Where are you from?" from an older one.

They say "How are you?" and then as you are responding, they quickly say "Fine." Sometimes they just say "Fine" instead of hello. And in spite of being asked this over and over again, I never tired of being asked that by nearly every one of ther hundreeds of children I came upon.

And then as it was getting dark and the village had no electricity and there was no moon, I saw I was close to where I would be staying and so I made my way back, feeling a little unsafe at my new surroundings with the quickly approaching darkness. Being quite close to the equator, just south of it to be precise, it gets dark rather quickly.

So I went inside the dark house and lay down in my room alone with my unease at being there and a growing resignation that something did not feel quite right about how things were unfolding for me. But with well-practiced and cultivated faith-oriented consolations in the providence(?) of my path, I accepted this place as the latest step of my walk.
After an hour or so, he came in and chided me for leaving him, that he feared for me getting lost and that he was regretting inviting me here. Holding back my opinion that the feeling was mutual, I explained that I felt left out and had been hinting that I wanted to be included by leaving, but that I openly accepted the different social graces and translations of things down here. But mostly I explained, I was exhausted and wanted some time to myself to adapt to my new situation and to soothe from the stressful ride out there.

He told me that he did not want to talk English with the men because many of them could hardly speak it and would be embarrassingly afraid that I would laugh at them for trying and failing. This made me sad and I quickly assured him that gratitude and liveliness at engaging them would be my only return of expression. But there was a sense of not believing him.
He invited me out to the living room, the only room with light, for dinner that his brother's charming wife had cooked and so we ate and I felt much better.
The next day he said he regretted not being able to take me all about the area to show me the multitude of projects he was involved in, such as helping widows, bringing electricity and internet to the village to educate the women and children, to bring assistance for the medical outpost where people had to wait for hours to get their medicine, etc, etc. It all sounded great. Too great, in fact. I chided myself for feeling jaded but it seemed out of sync with what I could sense of his character so far and I wondered if he was simply saying what he thought I wanted to hear.
But to his credit he asked one of his young "assistants", Timothy, to take me around and show me the outlying villages that all made up the general local township. I really liked Timothy, although he had such a soothing voice, that combined with the intense african sun, his voluminous accounts of all that was going on locally and nationally put me into a drowsy lull that I had to continually shake off.

He took me to the school I have already mentioned, and as we left, every child inside the classrooms came to the windows and yelled and waved and asked me to take their photo. I gladly obliged. The older men are not as keen on having their photo taken, not so much for any belief in soul-stripping like some tribes but simply from a feeling of invasion and confusion. But some I asked and they accepted. I have amassed many great photos of these people and for the first time in my journey, I have more photos of the people than of their land and sky.
Then we went to the medical clinic where the bitterness of the multitudes of women sitting with their babies in the sun came through in their hard gazes at me. It was a real intense practice of holding my heart open and sending them love through my smile, for it was not returned except by one woman that seemed to smile in mockery more than friendship. Timothy then brought me inside and asked if I could meet the administration of the clinic who were having a meeting. I was caught off guard by this and replied that I did not want to interrupt, but they were immediately overjoyed to welcome me and were honored at my visit to their clinic and asked me about my visit. The one woman in the group was the only one who did not smile at me or welcome me with a "Karibu!", but as I explained my interest in their cause and the other humanitarin efforts going on that interested me, she slowly warmed to me and said good bye with a great big smile as I departed. Seeing that shift in her as I revealed who I was and witnessing her let her guard down was so purifying for me.

When we got back, Francis was attending a town meeting in a grove of trees with some regional leaders, both political and military, which are largely synonymous in Africa, albeit with different uniforms. So Timothy and I sat to the side and listened for a while until it ended, happy to take a break in the shade for the sun was relentlessly brutal at this point.

***
Later that day, we were to be met by a friend with a car to go to a "magic place" with a giant rock on top of the tallest hill in the area for a view and to connect in with the spirit of the place. I was excited for this. But as the sun was still strong, we went with a bunch of his regular entourage of friends and consorts into a "hotel" for a drink and a bite. Hotel in the outlying areas means coffeeshop or tavern, with no rooms to stay in, generally.

A man named Jonathan was there from the night before and he began to ask me things in pefect English and I glanced at Francis to see if he had anything to note about the apparent discrepancy from his estimation of his friends English usage to me, but he was vehemently arguing and yelling politics with the others. Francis then asked if I wanted chicken or goat for lunch.
I really was not hungry at all, despite only having a slice of white bread with margarine and a cup of thickly sugared tea for breakfast; the standard faire for a Kenyan local breakfast, with an occasional piece or two of chapati.
I said goat, being curious since I never had it before. So after about an hour of waiting and sitting, again with very little in the way of conversation offered to me as they had all begun drinking soda and beer and arguing and laughing amongst themselves. I wanted to interject but never saw a good time to do so without being rude. Finally the goat came. Chewy with lots of little pebble-bones that I kept biting painfully on, but satisfying nonetheless as an act I could engage in with my company.

One of the men had just retired as chief of a local police precinct and was celebrating by getting very drunk and slapping those around him hard on their backs. I was very glad I was not next to him as I saw young Timothy hold back a grimace when he got slapped every now and then when the man would make some kind of point, as near as I could tell. We finished and more drinks were ordered.
Finally I asked Francis if we were going to go the hilltop as it was getting late. He looked at me like he had never seen me before and then after a pause, replied that he had called his friend and he would be coming with a car to get them at any moment but in Africa, people follow their own time and so we would just wait. I wanted to say he'd not made any calls for quite awhile, but held my tongue, feeling dejected and frustrated at feeling stuck in this place yet again.

So I got up and walked about some more, but quickly tired of being stared at by everyone and tried to head off into a field. But I was easily intercepted by some young men who were friendly, but despite having been ignored at the hotel, I just wanted to be alone and to possibly cry for I was feeling quite unwelcome and out of place there. So I made quick talk with them and headed back to the hotel to where they were just finishing their drinks and this time I pressed Francis that I would like to do more on my only full day there than sit in a bar, and what of all the things he had earlier been so regretful to only have one and a half days with to show me. I was to go back to Nairobi the next day since he had booked me on a safari for the following day that left early in the morning, and I had already arranged to met my other couchsurfing host Ken the next day. Oh so gratefully.
So we finally got up and left and stood by the road for awhile, and then Francis seemed to put on some airs about being disappointed in his friend and he simply told me to follow him down a dirt road, along with a few of the guys. I was feeling pretty unwelcome and curious as to why I had been invited here when it seemed I was an inconvenience for my host, when he even noticed I was there. My sense of solitude was extreme, despite being with a group of men in a lively community of farmers, and my sense of vulnerability peaked. I proceeded to drop into some deep dark fears at this point. Like with the market in Rosetta, Egypt, I boarded the bleak train of thought that if something were to happen to me here, I would just disappear and no one would know what happened to me. Yes, I had contacted Francis though Couchsurfing, but he could say I never came, and so my fears unravelled their tale of woe which I tried to wind up and put away as I walked along, trying to focus on the growing clouds and the big picture comfort of weather patterns to the east to ease my mind and the rising tide of sadness inside me.
When the fears come on strong, they can talk away any obvious logic of my assured safety, yet I kept on strolling with them, curious as to where we were headed as much as simply being witness to the fears inside me that were having a heyday in my head. I tried to maintain a semblance of distance from them in order to breathe into my fears and to not suffocate in them and do something rash, unless it had to be done on the reality surface of things. I called in light and love and protection and checked in with my intuition as best I could, which my fears were clouding up pretty good, but I trusted enough to keep on. Yet my fears were being well fed on the constant chatter of my comrades in their mother tongue, leaving me ignorant of their discussions and susceptible to my excitable thoughts. I asked where we were going and was told that he wanted to show me more of the village.

As we reached the end of the road, a young man in the group ran ahead and I imagined in a distant yet powerfully present way that he could be warning my potential ambushers to be ready for me.
As I write this now, it all sounds so absurd, but that's because now I am here, and safe. But at the time, it did not seem that far off the mark, given that my gut had been growing quite perturbed at the way things had been going ever since arriving there with my host, whom I trusted less with every passing moment. During this walk, I had tried to rally myself from the grip of my boundless fear and check in if I was releasing some deep dark racist inclinations inside myself that wanted to be fully expressed so I could surrender them for good. Or was I really in danger? Despite my constant and soulful consoling, I could feel my adrenaline rise as we made our way further down this rural road.

But as we came upon a clearing at road's end, we were suddenly met by a lively and beautiful and seemingly angelic group of women in beautifully colored attire singing and dancing. Each and every one of them welcomed me with a slap handshake and "Karibu!" I was choked up by feeling ashamed of my fear and the absolute precious beauty of feeling welcomed there in such a way that I had not been nearly anywhere my entire journey, and in such serious contrast to what Francis had offered me so far. I was dropdead stunned. And happily free of fear.

I was still residually sad for having approached such open-hearted kindness with such dread and imagined atrocity, but I know my fears have their place in keeping me safe. So rather than banish them outright, I simply put them back in the closet, having met them in a more intimate way than I had for some time and so now I felt more centered about their proper place.
Yet, now I see that my intuition was definitely sensing character traits of my host that, though thye were absent of physical implications of danger, still contained their own schemes of unpleasantness.
After the dancing had subsided, Francis explained that he was going to talk with the women to empower them about voting. I saw the sly way he had woven such a beautiful ritualistic welcome for me into his own agenda of promoting his own politics, yet again. I had to hand it to him, he was a smooth operator. But I could not complain, having been so touched by my welcome.
So I sat and watched the women who sat on the ground, while the other men and I were made to sit on chairs. I was tempted to go and sit with the women, but did not want to upset the ways by which they lived, in spite of my internal protests to the contrary. I was still a bit too rattled by my fears and outright vulnerability to go taking stands of a social nature there.

Francis introduced me in his own tongue, again I thought, a bit disrespectfully by actually mocking me by the tone of his voice at one point as he mimicked my complaining of earlier, which I felt I had done very little of considering the way I was being treated. But I swallowed it in the face of all these women who now looked at me with such tender expressions of opening.
So he told me to say some words and so I thanked them and expressed my honor at being there and made to feel so welcome so far away from my own home. They all beamed at me and when I concluded with "Asante," they all applauded me. It was really quite embarrassing, but pleasingly received nonetheless.

The meeting finally ended as some of the first rain of the season started falling, the clouds of earlier having grown closer and darker. The darkness came with it as the sun was going down and we retreated into a cousin's hut to wait until it passed. One of the women had come on strong to me in the hut, holding my hand to her breasts and saying she had no husband and did I like her? Francis was encouraging me but I was looking forward to leaving. She was very sweet but I kindly declined. The rain stopped and we walked home through the thick dark that swallowed us whole, though that time I had no fear to speak of. And so I strode, content that my fear had had its say earlier and would hopefully be content for a while without having to voice itself any further.

Later I saw Francis casually throw some garbage on the ground. I thought of reminding him that one of his many aspirations was to educate the people about environmental issues such as not planting any more euclayptus trees which suck up more than their fair share of groundwater, and the pollution that arises from negligence. But I refrained. On a sidenote, it is fitting that eucalyptus trees were planted by the colonists at the tail end of their reign in Africa, leaving this tree thta consumed more than its rightful share as a testamnet of inequality in their wake.
Reflecting on the littering, I knew he was limited by what he was used to as much as by the stranglehold of stagnancy upon positive change that the relentless grip of poverty in Africa holds. Not to mention the limited resources available to implement such change playing their role, as well as the fact that there was no garbage pickup this far out of Nairobi either. Still, simply recognizing the reality of the slowness of progress in such areas was acutely saddening.

Getting back to my host's true colors which he eventually displayed to me, it began when he asked for money up front for my safari to ensure me that all would be ready for me to depart to the Mara on the morning after next. This seemed reasonable, so I did, having to pay some in Egyptian pounds which they wouldn't change at the airport. Then he said I needed to pay him ahead of time for visiting a Maasai village, and when I said I would decide when I got there, he said I needed to pay him to arrange it first. My gut again told me this was a lie, but I obliged. Then he asked if I had a sleeping bag and replying in the negative, he said I needed to pay him to get that for me too. I felt repulsed by the manner in which he was rattling off all these costs I had to pay up front for with little negotiation or impression that he was representing me or even keen on me being fully informed.

Then he dropped me off to meet my next couchsurfing host in Nairobi and asked for a tip for all he had done for me, which was certainly not the couchsurfing way at all, besides the fact that I had already paid him for many things, but judging his living standards compared to mine, I felt content to offer him even more, albeit with a little grudge at his nearly demanding it. Then I went to meet Kennedy and his brothers for a one night stay

After staying with Kennedy and his two brothers in their 1 1/2 room apartment, which was a most welcome experience after the strange days with Francis, I arrived at the departure point and Francis was there to see me off. I actually felt dread at seeing him. He proceeded to validate it by asking for extra Kenyan schillings from me over all I had already paid because the Egyptian pound was currently at a poor rate of exchange, and he would try to get them changed on the black market for a better rate so he could pay me back when I returned from the safari. I protested at this point that I had already paid for the trip and should not have to pay any more. In hindsight, I wish I had told him to just give me my Egyptian currency back, but as the bus had arrived and we were being round up to leave -- he timed it so perfectly -- I grudgingly complied.

So I left to go on a two night stay at Maasai Mara, which was supremely magnificent and one of the absolute highlights of my journey, but the whole time I had a bad feeling about what Francis might try to pull. My fellow safari crew was a spanish woman, an english woman, a Bulgarian mother and son, and 2 dutchmen from Amsterdam, and our driver and cook. A great group.
I was the only one going back to Nairobi just two days later and I quickly felt like that was not what I wanted. I also had to pay again for the village visit directly to the Maasai personally, and it was half of what Francis had charged me. I was angry at this as well as his lying to me to have to pay him first with the explanation that he was an independent consultant so he could 'arrange' it. It was a thin argument that I fell for, being that I was trying to be a nice guy who believed in the best of him since he had hosted me.
I also received no sleeping bag and found I did not need one as the camping had a saggy bed with blankets already. Again, another lie from Mr. Information to get more money from me. I was starting to truly resent Francis by now. I also wanted to continue onto Lake Nkuru (Nguru) to the north with my group to see flamingos and white rhinos. So I talked with our driver and flawless guide Kaka, which means 'big brother' and which he embodied well, about my situation and how could I possibly use the money Francis owed me to extend my stay. As I disappointingly presumed, he said that since he was a distant operator, that was not possible. But I could easily extend my trip for a day and pay him and then we would call Francis to see about my cash. So that night we did, and Francis lost it on both of us on the phone. Basically the fact that I'd extended my trip without giving him more money made him outraged seemed to be the long and short of it, and he resented me telling him that he owed me money. After yelling at me and then threatening to get Kaka fired for interfering, I got very angry and yelled back at him and he told me to go ahead and do what I wanted because that's what "us Americans" do anyway, he ranted. Then he hung up.
Kaka kept assuring me it would all work out. Hakuna Mitata.

My very first African wildlife sighting.

Just after arriving in Masai Mara, I set up my tent for camping in the tent village that literally lay on the other side of the fence from the reserve; where the wild things are. After getting situated, I went behind my tent by some large bushes to take a leak and encountered my first African wildlife. A big black bee that was easily twice the size of the biggest bee I have ever seen in the states. So, I thought, "Great. I just got here and now I'm going to be attacked by a killer bee."
It was definitely perturbed and seemed bent on protecting its territory. So I backed off slowly and sent it as much love as I could muster while noting what an ugly dark menacing looking creature it was, about the size of my nose with a terrifically ominous buzz. But it flew off and I relished surviving my first wildlife encounter on the dark continent, the nickname seeming so apropo right then.

Another much scarier moment occurred later on that night. Being right on the edge of the park, there are no real walls or gates to speak of between the campground and where most of the animals roam, but for a prominent hedge. Yep. A slight wall of shrubbery was all there was to keep the wild beasties out. Really, it was exactly as I had hoped in order to experience Africa. So, that night I awoke, again with the need to relieve myself, and went behind my tent to the same spot, feeling confident that the bee was probably asleep. I returned to my tent and gazed up at the unparalleled wonder of the stars overhead in all their unfiltered glory, the span of the Milky Way clearly seen as a band of diffuse light running across the zenith of the sky. Then my eyes caught sight of a movement across the clearing. A dark form was slowly moving towards me. My intestines cringed and my heart sank and I stealthily crept quickly back inside my tent. But before zipping up, I poked my head back out to double check, my curiousity feeling ever the invincible one. I looked at the form as it neared and saw it was a man. Carrying a spear.

Ah yes, of course! It was the Masai warrior assigned to watch the campground who walks the grounds all night long. Part of their initiation as a warrior is killing a lion, so he had the experience of facing such a threat. Tried as I could, I could not imagine fending off such a creature with such a simple weapon as he had, but I also had no doubt of their capacities as hunters. And I had the utmost of respect and appreciation for him looking after our safety all night long. A noble job if there ever was one.

When we had visited the Masai village earlier, they showed us lion's teeth they had made into necklaces to wear and one insisted I should buy it, implying I had a connection with lions. I told him that lion was not my power animal, but maybe if he had a wolf's tooth, I might be interested. But mostly I did not want to support any unnecessary killing of lions to bring in tourist income. I am not sure how much their traditions have been changed by tourism, and the answers they gave seemed to be exactly what they thought we might want to hear, but I'm sure their way of life and how they present it has taken an inevitable inauthentic spin. A lion who has tasted human blood is probably not that different from a traditional villager who has clutched the tourist dollar and might change his ways to ensure getting more.

When I saw him walking towards me, I breathed a huge sigh of relief that it wasn't a lion in search of a midnight snack. I stepped back outside and chatted with him a bit, explaining my initial fear which he replied to by proclaiming his sleepless dedication to the nightwatch. I thanked him for his service and we looked at the stars together in silence. Then I retired to my tent, relishing the intensity of the unfamiliar measured in the astounding grace and timeless character of the roles woven throughout this richly textured tapestry of encountered characters, as I lay adrift under African skies.

I wrote a little something while on the vast savannah of Masai Mara about the elephants, for watching them touched me deeply in a nurturing and soul-stirringly timeless way.

My god, the elephants. Their slow captivating candor and patient plucking graze upon the land invokes a proud sense of them as benevolently chosen guardians who mind the ancient heritage of the land, as well as a deep complacency I feel at being amongst the largest land mammal on the planet. Watching the multitudes of wild animals coexisting peacefully and brutally on this vast savannah that time forgot and which has been socially functioning with such simplicity for so long, you lose yourself completely and the world of man dissolves into ether . . .
It is so beneficial to visit such a place outside of all cultures and man-made law, to witness the pure savage untamed brilliance of it all flowing according to survival of the fittest with all the agreements the animals abide by and don't argue with the longstanding absolute effectiveness of. Just a full acceptance of the plan, complete harmony in the order, the raw beauty of life seen in the unanalyzed and undeconstructed flow of predation according to the inherent hierarchy of size, demeanor and absolute necessity.
The enormity of it all stuns me breathless as I witness the poetically precise form and function amidst the camaraderie of all the animals sharing the land and being mindful of each other in their close proximity. Even as one may rise up and slaughter another, it is only in the name of survival or the occasional claim to territory. There is no killing for sport or pride. Nothing is wasted and no resources pillaged and plundered. There are no names of gods soaked in blood for validation.
Just nature's timeless rhythm in the graze of the herd, the gentle ripping from the earth of the shrubbery as the elephant pulls it up to feed, the gentle ripping of flesh from the carcass and the crackle of bones in the lion's gaping maw as it feeds, the sweet titter of vibrantly colored birds, and the sweet hum of the Mara, cooing like some ancient phoenix of the motherland, never to die . . .

I will never visit a zoo again.

So we went to Nguru yesterday, on the way getting stuck in the mud during a rainstorm and having to push our way out of it, only to be rewarded by the screaming cheers of schoolchildren watching us from the windows alongside the road. We egged them on, showing our excitement at having freed our vehicle. It was such a priceless African moment, witnessing their pure glee at our mishap become success. That made it worthwhile to change my trip right there.
We arrived in Nguru to stay at a nice hotel, a real one this time and a most welcome chnage from my saggy cot at the Mara. The next day we went to the lake and saw a gathering of flamingos which they say is the largest in the world, and seen as a vast sea of pink on the lake fringe, I'm inclined to believe it. The sound was incredibly indescribable.
There were also many other birds such as storks, fish eagles, african spoonbills, pelicans. I also saw a marmot-type cousin of the elephant called a rock hyrax. And a white rhino!!!! Also a male lion who had killed a giraffe, which is a very rare dietary preference for lions. Supposedly.
Our group had split at this point and we lost the dutch guys and the bulgarian family for a group of four other dutch microbiologists who were in Kenya to study water quality.

When I got back to Nairobi last night, I went to the tour office and told them about Francis. We called him and he proceeded to yell at me some more for having 'fucked' him because he had taken a taxi into town to meet me the day before.
I calmly told him we had tried to call him again the day before to say I would be going to Nguru, as he had told me to go ahead and do anyway the night before that, but his phone had been turned off. So I figured he might not even be there to pay me back if I went back at my expected time anyway. And so we also could not tell him I was going there and I decided this was my tour and I was going, the money he was clearly scamming from me surrendered. I had already envisioned that by my going to Nguru I took the risk of his complaining of not being able to meet me and another excuse to keep more money for himself would unfold.
Basically, as great as the safaris were, I could not fully enjoy them with thoughts of this guy now blatantly trying to screw me getting in the way.

I told him he owed me 6800 schillings for the village, the sleeping bag I never got and the extra money I gave him for backup to the Egyptian pounds. He then scoffed me saying I owed him money for the taxi he had to pay. I told him he was out of his freakin' mind if he thought I believed that a taxi ride cost as much as a day's safari and hotel and that he was a liar and a cheat. I said he had no place being a host for couchsurfers if he was doing it to cheat them out of their money in the name of showing them his community and all the charitable things he claimed to be doing, but which could never be accomplished with his heartless manner.

He told me he would not give me any money over his dead body and I could not scare him or ruin his name in the travel industry and he knew what travelers like me were all about and he would not let me cheat him. I started laughing out loud at him. I did not have to do anything to ruin his name, I said, he was doing a fine job of doing that on his own. And if he had such a poor view of travelers, what the hell was he doing welcoming them to his village if but for any other reasons than screwing them over because of his misaligned priorities of greed and deception?!
Oh yeah, we had a good row in the travel office. Finally the very nice man there offered to take over and I passed him the phone, resisting a final salutation to Francis. The man held the phone away from his ear for now he was clearly the one being yelled at, I was told after, about conspiring with me to screw him over. It was crazy at this point, for it was obvious the man at the agency was doing all he could to mend the situation as peacefully as possible.
After that, I amicably accepted that the money was not worth dealing with him ever again for, and his karma was so bent, I left him to it. So, I lost $100. Same as I last for supposedly kicking a door in Sarajevo, but so much more exciting and a worthy character study to boot, as well as a further lesson in avoiding the middleman, especially when it comes to booking tours. Now I know firsthand why they call it "Nairobbery".

So I've been taking Malarone pills daily now for over a week for malaria prevention. They were the brand recommended as having the least side effects, and are also the most expensive. But I feel their effects strongly nonetheless. This occurs primarily at night, for after usually being able to fall asleep relatively quickly, nearly every single night since I have been in Kenya, I've woken up in the middle of the night and stayed awake for usually a couple of hours, though I am so tired. There is this imperceptible and inaudible hum that keeps me hovering just above and out of reach of the lulling soothing surface of the sweet sea of sleep.

Then, I get the sensation of bugs crawling and landing on me in isolated places all over my body, but usually there aren't any bugs there when I look or reactively reach there to kill whatever may be there; malaria on the brain you know. And of course this contributes to my sleeplessness because these sensations mainly come at night.
Probably there is a mental factor of fear involved, but I have had a net over my bed to keep the bugs off and still I feel these subtle tingles all over when I know there's nothing there. It's intriguingly frustrating. I am definitely sleep-deprived and it's making me slightly loopy in the process, but that could just be my reality of being in Africa.
But I am happy to report that my constitution is downright rock-solid after so many diverging diets and dishes. Yesterday while I walked around Nairobi and booked my next safari in Tanzania to Ngorongoro Crater and Lake Manyara with a great couple I met from the states who were living the old american dream of good jobs and a cushy lifestyle and decided to bail and sell it all and hit the globe for 18 months and so who are now truly living the american dream, as I see it. We exchanged blogs so I'm happy to vicariously continue on my travels with them after I return home, which will be sooner than I had originally planned.
But, I bought some coconut milk, wondering if it would be like the coconut water I love so back in the states. No, it was milk. Heavy milk, but very sweet pure coconut milk. It was tasty, but it messed me up for a good three hours or so, and then when I started to feel a little dizzy and nauseous too, I wondered if I'd gotten malaria and all those little imaginary bugs had bitten through the nets and had given me malaria despite my daily regimen.
Our safari driver in the Mara even got malaria, conjuring my naive assumption that the natives were largely immune, leaving me to relaize that no one is safe from the big M. But I was all fine and dandy after a surprisingly decent veggie burger and I was thankful to again be back in my happy loopy place.

Kenya

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 15:15:28 GMT

Jambo!
Nakuru, Kenya:
Wow. Now that I've just had my first hot shower in a week, I'm ready to sit and share some of what a week I have had.

Upon arriving in Nairobi last Wed. at 4:30 am, I met up with my couchsurfing host, a guy who, well, there's lots to share about him. What a character he has turned out to be. But it started out well enough.
His brothers picked me up, and took me to a very small room on the outskirts of town where I stayed on the couch in the same room as my host's wife. One of three actually, since men are allowed up to five wives in Kenya, and his two kids. Right away I was swarmed by mosquitoes and even though I had remembered to start taking my malaria pills two days before, it was freaky. But they set up a net over me on the couch where I had the first of six restless nights in what I would usually consider squalid conditions but which is the norm for most Kenyans and which I am now used to after 4 nights; sort of. I never quite got the love for the dreadful visits to the bathroom pit.

Basically, I have only now arrived in Africa -- because frankly, even though Egypt is part of the same continent, it is not Africa. Not at all. So I jumped right in to the nitty gritty of it. The next day we caught a matatu out to Francis' home village. A matatu is a taxi/minivan that crams everyone in as tight as they can possibly fit. I sat with my big pack on my lap, crammed in with my knees pinned against a sharp metal edge right above the engine that seemed to be burning through my pants and when I finally had the chance to move to the outside seat, the guy slammed the door on my knee. Definitely one of the more unpleasant two hours of my life.

But we arrived in his little village that had no electricity except in his home, where it was limited to a crockpot thing, his tiny TV and one dim bulb in the livingroom, making him the wealthiest inhabitant by all outward appearances. No joke..

He showed me to my room in the back which had no power but thankfully a standard issue insect net over the bed to keep the malarial biting things away. I spent the next 2 days there visiting projects and schools in the area, all the while being stared at as the village freak because almost no foreigners come out here. Only the other foreign guests that Francis has brought in the past through couchsurfing or who have shown an interest in his community-based charity projects. He seems to love to host and show off some of his humanitarian projects, few of which I saw but heard explained at great length. He loved telling me all the wonderful work he is doing for the world. In short, the man likes to talk. Loudly.

Francis is apparently a very popular resident who is passionate and highly-charged political individual serving as the main campaign leader for his older and more soft-spoken brother running for regional rep of the local government. So along with his many charitable projects on the side, he seems a busy man. But he is also a conniving businessman and this is where I stand with him now as I booked my trip to Masai Mara through him since he is also a consultant for safari groups here in Kenya. My gut told me not to mix our relationships but I also felt I should give him the business since he was hosting me. But he actually ended up treating me more like a tourist paying for his services than as his invited guest.

Many of my fears were triggered at finding myself in the remote outskirts of the city right away with a man who, ever more corroboratively, I had the feeling I could not completely trust. But simply being in Nairobi was also unsettling. The foreignness of this country is staggering to me, and is a challenging adjustment to make, even after all the changes of cultures and peoples I have seen. It seemed to broadside me with the intensity of simply being here. Just the rawness of this country and the people, that I have seen and interacted with is an exercise of fascination with the sheer strength and stamina of their spirits, which leaves me in awe.

All of Kenya is very political now with the elections 2 months away, and Francis seems the most hotheaded of them all, speaking for him and his brother as well as the "toothless dog" of a president, as he calls him. He gave as an example the fact that a referendum was introduced a while back to overhaul Kenya's constitution to remove it from being an annex to England. Which is what it is, because in essence, Kenya is not independent. But before the amendment could be voted on, the current president apparently took a bribe from the queen mother herself and personally edited the referendum so that nothing changed.
Francis nearly always ends up yelling his points at some point on his endless tirade of a desire to debate politics with someone. The raising of his voice got very old very quickly, especially when he was yelling in the matatu going back to Nairobi with the other passengers. Again, not the brightest experience.

Then I visited another host named Kennedy. He and his two brothers are highly skilled career performance artists. Immediately after first meeting them, we went to the largest slum in Africa. As I said, I'm here to experience the nitty gritty baby. They got here to teach and inspire the kids to explore their abilities to do acrobatic tricks (acroyoga they call it). Such good teaching for them. I also visited a school there where a teacher and the principal showed me around. They were grateful for my visit and the chance to express their enthusiasm for the progress they have slowly made to expand and accommodate more kids. Great men. Big smiles. Massive spirits. I gratefully made a contribution there after not having given to many of the others on the street who had asked. I wanted to be choosy with my charity, making sure it was used effectively for those trying to make a positive difference and not for street kids to buy some glue and waste their brains away trying to forget about their upbringing as orphans in Africa.
****
I have now been in Masai Mara for the last 2 days. I can hardly find the adjectives to desribe how outrageously incredible this experience is. I am on a safari with six others from all over Europe, plus a driver and a cook. Our luck has been flawless as we got to see nearly every single animal of the wild that it's possible to see in Africa. For example, our safari began with seeing a lion couple together, a mating ritual which apparently only happens 7 days every four months. Nearly all of the animals we saw were up close and personal, from watching a lion consuming a zebra, to jackals chasing a cheetah away from its newest kill while the vultures swooped in when the jackals were running after the cheetah. I was stunned by the sounds of an elephant who trumpeted a deafening warning to a lion to back off from its young, to a female lion growling and clearing her throat with the most beautiful primal rumble of a roar you could possibly imagine.

Near the end of the day, a vervet monkey came tearing out of the trees at me to steal my banana peel that lay a foot away from me, bringing back an unsettling flashback of Bolivian monkey encounters. Ostriches. Grants and Thomsons gazelles, and elands, the biggest antelope of them all. Elephants. Hippos. Crocodiles. Giraffes. Wildebeasts. Zebras. Topis. Waterbucks. Warthogs. Lions. Cheetahs. A serval cat. Black-backed jackals. Black-faced vervet monkeys and baboons. Impalas. Endless antelope species, multitudes of amazingly multicolored birds, such as Hildebrandt's Starling, a helmeted guineafowl, red-billed oxpecker's, superb starlings(indeed), lilac-breasted and Eurasian rollers, a woodland kingfisher, a kori bustard, and a rare Black Rhino asleep in a thicket. To name a few. It was just supremely outstanding.

After such an epic day in the annals of my life with the animals, a deep melancholy overcame me back at camp. I believe it was partly the balancing of my energy after such a high, but more deeply, experiencing such greatness and wonder acutely reminded me of the similarly incomparable pleasance of my friends back home. So I retired to my tently solitude with a brew after a cold shower and listened to the Beatles to set pace with my meandering and emotionally deep tone.
****

The Kenyans are actually very friendly people and I'm tempted to believe it when they say they are the friendliest country in Africa, because I have heard stories along my merry way. But being here still has sparked some of my most primal fears which it feels really important to be feeling into right now in this part of my journey, in my life, and in the shadows that are mine which the dark continent reflects back at me so effortlessly.
Everything is so rich, overstimulating and full of edge, and I feel so overwhelmed with the depth of the experiences I have already had packed into my week here.

Africa. There is nothing quite like it. So far . . . .

fears come true . . .

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 20:09:48 GMT

I took my first malaria pill last night as I prepared to enter the caution zone. It is recommended that you begin taking malaria medication 2 to 3 days before entering a malarial region. I am going to catch the train to Cairo from Alex to catch a plane the same night to Nairobi. I am very excited to enter the dark continent proper. For though Egypt is a part of the African continent, it is not Africa.

Fear reared its ugly head when I could not find any bus or train schedules online and the lack of acquirable information strung my imagination along to questions of what if there were only a couple of trains to Cairo from Alex a day and I had already missed them? For then I would be stranded here, saturated in this edge of humanity for much longer than I want to.
I finally found the train schedule and picked a train that would give me a leisurely amount of time to get from the train to the airport. I will not see the pyramids this time, and any sadness that arises of that is brushed aside when I remember the throngs of vendors and pitching schemers that assemble, and practically live alongside the giant tourist mecca of Giza. Besides, been there, done that. And it was really good because I was with a group that buffered the onslaught greatly.
As I ride thr train across the timeless farmlands of the Nile delta north of Cairo, I relished the memories of having been to the pyramids and sacred temples along the Nile a few years before and I allowed my proximity to those majestic pillars of the earth to ignite and stir deep-seated notions of the sacred inside me as I commit myself to further passage.
And as the memories came, I remembered a passage I wrote during a particularly potent group invocation at the Temple of Horus, the falcon god of the sky, that last time I was in Egypt. I would like to share it with you here, for it was a quintessential impression made upon me of the magic of the Egyptian experience that was so different from what I had this time. My intention is to convey a well-rounded impression of what is capable to be realized and felt here as far as the myriad of impressions and deep-seated energies and historical implications present in this country. I called it The Great Return.

This piece is about an experience I had at the Temple Of Horus in particular, and about my calling to go to Egypt as a whole. I honored this calling by journeying with a group of diverse people with the unified intention of connecting to Egypt through various shamanic rites of passage held at sacred sites along the Nile River.
The Temple of Horus lies along the Nile in the village of Edfu and is dedicated to Horus, the god of the sky. Horus, or Heru, as he was known in ancient Egypt, was the son of Osiris. He was immaculately conceived through magic by Isis, who was the wife and sister of Osiris, after Osiris was murdered by his brother Set, or Seth. Horus avenged his father by conquering Set and came to represent heroism, higher consciousness and heir to the forces of Original Creation. Horus represents the savior and the messiah whose symbol is the falcon, symbolizing the higher mind that rises above to engage the human and divine together as one. Horus is associated with the 7th chakra and the pituitary gland and was married to Hathor, the goddess of love.

Our group was allowed the privilege of visiting this magnificent Temple after sunset one fine evening wherein we had it to ourselves so we could engage in a sacred ceremony in a room of the temple generally referred to as the Holiest of Holies, the sanctuary where the divine meets the seeker, the crown of the Temple. After discussing the temple's cosmology, hieroglyphs, architecture and the intention behind it, we entered. The temple of Horus is one of the best preserved temples in Egypt and is believed to have been completed in 57 B.C., towards the end of a roughly 5,000 year dynasty. Yet, with much of Egyptian architecture, there is growing debate as to the true age of many monuments and temples there. The acceptance of certain ones being thousands of years older than was originally thought is becoming more commonplace.
There we invoked Horus and asked to be initiated with his strong positive masculine energy and sense of justice, for in avenging the death of his father, it was more to do with justice than revenge -- an energetic example in short supply in present world affairs and one our group refreshingly opened ourselves to receiving. Our intention was to open ourselves to such an influence so we might go forth and honor the calling of the hero within each one of us, to step up, show up and say Yes! to life with renewed commitment and passion. And so it is . .

As we approached the temple, a hot desert wind tinged with hints of jasmine and myrrh blew upon us, stirring the sanctity of our spirit into a wafting etheric vapor all around us, which trailed us like a smoking chalice of the celestial priestesshood, following us in a validating path of expansion into possibility. We entered the temple, grounding ourselves with every footfall upon the alabaster and granite aisles of this ancient architecture we were just beginning to resonate with on many simultaneous dimensions. Ethereal stardust sprinkled from our echoing footfalls, thick with the purpose of our intention there, to connect with the various elements and archetypes represented by the entire Egyptian pantheon, the neteru, all the gods and goddesses of the Egyptian people who were carved so eloquently along the walls and columns of this sacred place. Everyone in our group carried the acknowledgment that we had all most likely been to Egypt before in a previous age, for varying reasons adapted to one's own specific inclination. For one thing, if Egypt as a civilzation had thrived for approximately 5,000 years, at it's minimum, that is plenty of time for reincarnated souls to have their chance at Egyptian life. But for many of us as well, past life memories and visions were sprouting up regularly, invoked by the surroundings of this potent setting. The vitality of vibration in these stone structures, and within this ancient monument to heroism and higher being in particular, was still unimaginably vibrant and energetically potent. You could not help but wonder at the juicy forces such temples held soon after being erected with such reverent intention as a palace of worship to the gods in the first place. In sharing and tapping into that mythical reverence, we were there to reclaim what was rightfully ours: the journey to ourselves. The discovery of our own personal legend, if you will.

For myself, I came to be open, to feel more, to taste more, to know a life of mythic proportions in harmony with the cycles of nature and embrace it heroically. To tap into the unbridled forces of compassionand reverence within myself so that I might more extend these out to the world in my highest grace. To be of service to the world. To love infinitely. Humble desires for a young man.

Lights danced across the ancient stone, embracing the shadows woven into the carvings of hieroglyphs, divine figures and archaic symbols etched into the polished columns and towering walls. The whole divine assemblage was all around us, both in physically carved relief and in spiritually tingling sensations of electrical tingle and awe. Each member of the Egyptian pantheon represents an archetypal quality found in nature, in humans or the divine. Connecting with each god or goddess is a way to efficiently assimilate piece by piece, god by goddess, the larger mystery of the cosmos, and Egyptian cosmology as a whole. The Egyptian gods are so prolific, so engrained in our psyches, and in what Carl Jung called the "collective unconscious", that to reconnect with them feels like a homecoming on a level that memory knows not of, but which is nonetheless invariably potent. Horus seemed to be the god that resonated with me the most, stimulating the masculine sense of justice, heroism and aspiration that my spirit longed to be revitalized by.

Cavernous secret chambers and passageways led us deeper into the depths of long forgotten truths and unidentified memories of who we once were and who we were now: a merging into becoming. I felt drawn on an unspeakable soulful level to be an embodied bridge between heaven and earth, a conduit between formlessness and flesh, a generator between the divine and human, recharging the balance between them as a circuit of spirit fully illuminated within this sacred space. Yes. We were all this, and always would be. Nothing has the ability or desire to voice otherwise. We had only to remember. All of us had traveled many moons and many miles to assemble here in this land of mythical poignancy, each of us fulfilling visions and callings now made manifest. The gathering of the tribe had begun.

We arrived into the sanctuary each in our own time and fashion, some rooting into the mother and anchoring their beacon to lend their own power to this ancient stone colossus so that it might in turn hold space for our rite of evolution. Others simply went for holding the biggest and brightest that their physical frame could withstand. I found that the former was absolutely necessary in order to open to the higher frequencies so evident here. If I was not grounded enough into the earth, I felt I might float away. This sounds like it might feel lovely, but feeling grounded is so much more pleasant in my experience. Plus, the more grounded I was, the more energies of this place I could handle and sustain, and that was why I was there in the first place, to drink it up!
More specifically, I was there to open myself to the masculine energy that resided there, to empower my calling to take action in my life; to teach, to heal, to open, and to give of myself, unconditionally. To step into my role as a powerful man with modest intentions, to love and be loved. In short. I thought upon this as I explored a dark tunnel by myself while bats flitted and fluttered chaotically through the air close to my ear, celebrating their shadow dance while encouraging the same in me. I tend to take on the role of the loner, but I knew it was time to more fully embrace the masculine side of myself that longed to engage with the world more passionately and to risk being seen.

As we assembled and prepared for the ritual by creating a safe vessel of sacred space, we easily slipped into the awareness that we were bridging the gap between our ancestors and our descendants, from those who came long before to those who will shine our lovelight long after we have gone. But, most importantly to the here and now, we were connecting to those with whom we share, influence and inspire on a daily basis; our community, our contemporary tribe, awakening them to the unfolding dream that is more real than anyone could imagine. We knew that all who were meant to be with us, to witness our transformation and hold the space for or evolution as earthly beings of light, both seen and unseen, were there with us. They have always been with us now. Fusing the memory, spirit and intention of all our ancestors, we moved as one, loving like our life depends on it, because it does.
Vibrating electrically with gratitude, we stepped into the circle, infusing it with love and light by our very presence, evoking the sounds we had opened our lungs, hearts and mouths to in a transmission of shamanic breath.
The ritual began with toning and chanting, letting the sound come through us as a vessel for spirit to enter and saturate our being. I breathed deep into my heart, filling it with the energies of above and below until it was beyond any mere organ, but a supernova of emerald flame that burst forth from its safe cradle of bone and tissue. In complete collaboration, my heart and mind joined forces and became one interminable refuge of lifeforce energy. I was bathed in pure infinite love that I had at long last decided I was worth receiving, and in so doing it filled me beyond capacity.
Like a river of molten green fire it poured forth from my heart like the serpentine Nile river we had been following through this sacred land veiled in a timeless dream. I felt this flow envelop and saturate the planet with healing liquid fire that exponentially issued forth from my core. I felt my heart expand and ignite like nothing I have ever felt before, and as it erupted, I wanted to risk everything for love, to embody that vulnerability that was the most powerful feeling imaginable. Insignificance engulfing infinite possibility. Light dancing with darkness. Sorrow embracing bliss. I moved as one within the sweet void that was me, shed of all trappings but that of pure being. Nearly everyone celebrated the unification of their physical and spiritual selves, welcoming the rich dance of light and shadow within themselves that held them in an eternal balance within all realms of existence.
The cycle of everything blossoms with organic certainty and the time was ripe for the mythically divine to be embraced again within all of us. We now held an awareness of our potential for limitless inspiration to create a brand new manifest destiny upon the planet that would hold a much brighter significance than this term has previously known before. Fewer can deny anymore the quickening of vibration on this planet, the speeding up of time, or the gut-level sensation that it is continuously harder to settle for old patterns that no longer satisfy us as the global participants in an unprecedented evolutionary expansion of consciousness.
In our circle, benevolent recognitions of our roles rippled outward from us as fulfilled expressions of divine freewill, the true nature of all living spirit. This is to be expansive, to taste everything with a compassionate tongue, and to lick our lips with immeasurable gratitude at the enormity of the magic we have inherited as living spirits on this planet. We surrendered to the rhythms within us that night, more ancient than the drums we heard in our dreams, more timeless than the god and goddess energy coursing through our veins, until we felt more alive than life itself. We know we had heeded a call to be here and the appreciation being mirrored back at us by so many kindred spirits who had also joined this calling was an epiphany of complete preciousness.

In that space, I felt connected to the source of all that I am, a dance of light and shadow eternally embracing and wrestling itself, accepting and rejecting, embodying everything and nothing, inhabiting the poetic space between dream and discovery. I am the song and the silence, the dance and the stillness, the fullness and the emptiness, emptying into one another in endless ecstasy. I am all of it. I had come for my birthright, my initiation, and my return journey to this land of biblical empowerment and a spiritual certainty that my ego is having a harder time trying to talk me out of anymore. I am here to share in this with all who are open to fulfilling their unshakable desire to return to themselves and honor their inner knowing. To return home.

Present ***

Now I am southward bound, where the elephants and the wildebeasts play. Moving on, another race, another face, another region of unique people to hold me in a respective place.

I realized today that even the simple fact of typing my words onto a blog that is available for entirely anyone to view and read can evoke oodles of fear and paranoia for me. Like a tired old man in the hallway squawking languidly out of his drooping haggard unshaven mouth of the unsurety of his cane, so speaks my fear around the act of simply being seen. But that is part of the sway of the dance, the joy in the flow, the breath that says go, a current to ride like a salmon taking its howeward stride, its journey concluded upon a satiant tide, the wind to hold your sail against, and the edge to brush your brow unfenced upon every now and then. It comes down to knowing where you stand wherever it is you may land, losing your step and loosing your grip along the way within an intermittent fractal of time to set aloft in, minding the gap when you set forth your trip, only to resettle yourself into accurate entirety at journey's end.
This is how it can so gorgeously be done, a dance with the forces of all, always a breath away are those who hearken the call, as we enjoy the momentary loosening and lightening of fragile freefall, the baby's uninhibted bawl, the will to grow and never stall, so that in the flight where we fancy ourselves reborn at every dawn's light, we may design ourselves anew and amidst the daring of our dreams' first sight, before returning to home and self with all their earthly demands, the pillow and the cradle to hold the weightlessness of being in solid hands, and from there to give deep thanks in luxuriant inhales as confident mystery commands.

So it happened. I manifested my fears into being. Yuck.

I had a fear around getting stuck in Egypt and lo and behold, it happened. After staying close to my friend's place all day, meditating, stretching, biding my time, hoping he would come home soon so I could say goodbye to him, but also making sure I gave myself plenty of time to catch the train to Cairo and then the bus to the airport and so leaving before he came back, sorry to not say good bye face to face. Plenty of time to remember and make sure I had all my stuff.
And so it went and I arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, to grab a bite, read the dismal world news, and then as i head to check in, I saw my passport was gone. The flood of realization crashed down on me like a mental avalanche, and as I mentally tried to swim and stay afloat of it, I remembered that the cockroach bin of a hotel took it from me when I checked in but never gave it back and I forgot they had it.

Talk about a crappy moment. If I had remembered this today, I could have gone and picked it up, no problem. I had plenty of time to spare to swing by and get it before my train, but I plumb forgot. Yes indeed, the pipes of my memory were plumbed clean of any inclination to check that I had all my travel documents. Once I realized my situation at the airport, I felt so many things at once. I began to cry but stifled that because it drew too many people's attention and I was not in the mood to explain or to be asked for a tip for consoling me -- I do not exaggerate. The Egyptians have an ugly side of comng up to help you, only to dictate the size of their tip for this courtesy they provide. I dropped my bags and held my hands to my face, doing that thing I do when reality is coming on so strong that I need to close my eyes to it, sort of hoping I will wake up, sort of hoping a light will break through the quickly shrouding darkness, hoping a breath of fresh air will blow it all away. But really, just taking a timeout to gather my mental agility for the brunt of the task at hand and to silently cry with some semblance of unexposed privacy. I had been so ready to fly out of Egypt for Kenya, and now it seemed I was going nowhere.
The check-in man asked me what was wrong, so I quickly told him and his response of "It's okay" came out so automatically that my anger slipped out some in the loss of control I was feeling at that moment.
"No. It is not okay," I replied.
And then he gave a compassionate smile and softly said "Okay." Then he directed me to the airline office to begin dealing with it. "Shokran," I smiled, glancing at him to show my gratitude despite the muck I felt myself drowning in.
I began to imagine having to return to Alex to retrieve my passport, all of it laughably nauseating after having been so careful about giving myself plenty of time to catch my plane with ease, focusing on it to the point of cancelling out checking that I had all my important things with me, like my passport!
I began to mentally ridicule myself for being so absent minded when in my leisure I could have easily checked to make sure I had all my important documents.
I took soem deep breaths and immediately calmed to the point where I could begin to plan my next step. I realized that my friend Gamal could possibly pick up my passport and bring it with him to Cairo when he came in to work the next day, thereby saving me two trips on the train to Alex and back. I called him, asked him to go there, then called him back a half-hour later to check. He said that they would not give it to him, so I told Gamal to put the manager on so i could convince him to give him my passport, which they finally did after taking his ID as collateral. So many thanks for my friend Gamal.

Busying myself with all these things -- including reserving another flight, paying for the change fee, getting myself a room that would be a safe haven for my sorrow, and trying to reach my hosts in Nairobi to let them know I would be a day late -- allowed my nerves to be distracted and focused on achieving rather than blame and regret. The biggest challenge was to not crucify myself, knowing there was a lot on my plate to process so gentleness was most welcome, and then realizing that this extended down time in Egypt must have its merit, though was hard to fathom right then.

With the plan to meet Gamal in Cairo the next day all set up, things calmed and the sweetness of acceptance washed over me like mental silk, drowning out the chatter of my drama addict, whose leash I was happy to say had been shortened during this journey to a very large degree, thus restricting his domain of declarations of doom, drastically.

And who knows, maybe I would go see the pyramids after all!?

%$#^&*! I wish I could dance to some Nirvana or something like that right now. Well, my ipod awaits me in my room, must be some grunge thrash something or other in there somewhere to fulfill a resonance with my angsting soul.

the only white boy in town . . .

Sun, 07 Oct 2007 21:51:32 GMT

My faith in Lonely planet's advice is waning fast. First was the cockroach hotel recommendation, and then there was Rosetta, or Rasheed in arabic-english, where I went today. Mildly nightmarish at best was my experience there.
It is smaller and less crowded than Alex, so it was nice to be somewhere that felt more navigably negotiable, and which romantically sits on the western flank of the Nile. But the thrill ended there.
And I thought I was a novelty in Alexandria! I never saw another caucasian the entire time I was there, which wasn't terribly long, but the effect made an impact on me that at first was amusingly novel, but which then deteriorated quickly. As I wandered, the gist of my experience was confined to an insane amount of flies that buzzed around me nonstop, stares and giggles at the obvious contrast from my surroundings which I embodied and, again, the raucous taxi salutes bombarded me into one of my lighter imaginings of hell. Maybe the heat and humidity stir up exaggeration, but it was truly awful.
Every single taxi that went by, vacant or not, honked blaringly at me, to the point of it feeling like an all-out audio assault upon me. And in the tiny streets of Rosetta, the sound was wretchedly compounded. Half of them then paused with a big smile to ask if I needed a ride, my desire to return the smile was sorely lacking in light of having just been auditorily raped.
I just wanted with all my heart to be either invisible, a local wearing their galabaya and blending in, or at the very least, deaf. So I put on my ipod to muffle the noise, and began to laugh, for right away "Creep" by Radiohead came on with the yrics "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The music continues to infuse my world with its mysterious tinglings and coincidence, much to my delightful salvation.

I also had a moment of deep-seated fear as I walked through the midst of a bustling marketplace. Some of the men I passed were so genuinely surprised to lay eyes on me that the looks they gave seemed pure unbridled animosity at my presence there. Before I could breathe into the fear and bring it to a centered place, another thought quickly followed that if anyone did something unpleasant to me and I stood up to them, the marketplace could simply swallow me up and I would easily vanish amongst the throngs and hanging slabs of meat that festered pungently in the sun, never to be seen or heard from again. The pointed poignancy of this fear sent a shiver through my entire being and I quickened my pace, only relaxing when I came out into the open again where I made my way to the makeshift bus station to return to Alex.

No one ever came close to actually threatening me, but the primalcy of the fear I felt shook me to my core and couldn't be shrugged off as easily as some until I had just up and left. In fact, it was one of those fears that simply does not play by any rules or logic, and when it comes, it hits you broadside, and left psychologically reeling if you let it. And so such rulelessness invokes the rule that logic cannot be called upon to quell it. It merely becomes a matter of letting it fade in its own space and time. Acceptance and wonder. The order of the day.
I was aware that I could have tried harder to find the potential jewel of this little riverside town somewhere on some back street, but the overall impression of it was so loathsome that my desire to soak up my experience there was but a fleeting countdown to the undeniable urge to leave. Maybe I should have gotten a hint when Gamal told me he had never been there, even though it is only 25 kilometers from his home. So he couldn't talk me out of it.
Today was my last full day in Egypt, possibly forever. I know, I'm always the drama king. The exception for me is that I still have never seen Abu Simbel with its giant stone-carved guardians overlooking the Nile down in southern Egypt. So there is a good chance I will return for them someday.
I was almost tempted to take a taxi to the Nile's end in Rosetta, if I could manage to get past my insurmountable resistance to supporting their unified cause of noise pollution. But even my romantic inclinations to see her empty herself into the Mediterranean were absent and my sanity and desire for quiet led me to my one stop at an international hotel cafe for a lemonade. This was my breakfast and lunch today, appreciating that the Ramadan spirit fits the hunger-stifling mugginess.
Therefore, it is very possible my irritable impression was tainted by low-blood sugar, but I honestly doubt any food would have helped the deafening, fly-infested, incredulous staredown I encountered all that much. Ordering food in the midst of this seemed a lost cause at best, but it helped.
***
Apparently I oscillate almost continuously between the shiny light glory of life and all her creatures, and the dark tides of fear, alienation and detestment that hang out in the shadows. I feel very centered now and so the dance of bouncing between extremes is an easy dance to dabble in. But I imagine this literary fashion of mine must be dizzying what with the far-sighted disorientation of my vantage point versus yours. Outwardly apparent consistency has never been my strongpoint, but that's only because I try to trust that my foundation is a firmament of open-endedness. I merely need to rope in the tidal swells and ebbs of my beliefs as a means to dance life gracefully every now and then.
In Egypt I got feedback that I am unlike most Americans due to my interest in other cultures and their customs, emotions and histories. And I am interested. I reflected back that those of us called to travel are invariably curious about the many people and cultures all over this planet which we all share, for that is what I believe, and a traveler's mind is one I am sworn to uphold whether I am traveling or not.

But I see a small panel-side of this interest as just a prop to the idea of who I think I ought to be and how that ought to look. My awareness of it illustrates its separateness from who I am striving to be, which is based on an idea that another separate part of me imagines is correct. And on and on it goes. Trivial ego-based grandeur. The paltry considerings of a personality being slowly laid to waste by a constant barrage of newness and unfamiliarity. Exactly what I needed, even if it may not be all I want.
The more I try to figure out who I am from the outside in,the more separated I become from myself. More often, I choose to simply pull the oars in and let life lift me along its winding serpentine way.

It is possible I have simply overphilosophised all of it to death by this point, and my neuronal inquiries are quickly flashing and flown fading dandelion seeds from a flower that little Alice picked up and blew with childlike glee upon a dreamweaver breeze. Alive, perchance to dream upon the wonderful worlds they would fly over in an imagination gone wild.
In Egypt, close calls are a way of life. The anarchy of the traffic here is so consistently crazy that it almost involves a suspension of disbelief to see it unfolding. In trying to cross the streets, cars careen through the thick streets, tooting their horns as warning without hardly slowing as they shoot through the quickly forming gaps. I have already nearly been struck several times and actually had to pull my friend back from what seemed an inevitable swipe by a quickly passing car. And I have seen it from inside the taxis also, having been scared by how fast and rampant they drive to where I feel my stomach rise as they approach figures crossing the street ahead of us with such apparent disdain.
Yet there is an order to it all, most assuredly, wherein nobody seems to ever get hit or upset in the spurious syncopation and reckless symmetry of the street. It's an energetic entrainment, a symbiotic relationship, measured in a motion of untraceable harmony and untranslatable grace.
Surreptitious perspectives adapt themselves to my received perceptions alongside my regular adaptation to foreign tongues. The extent of change possible for me to surrender to and digest is so gigantically available and insistent on so many fronts of consciousness.
Maybe I should take a lesson from this delay of my departure, and take a break from my insistent urge to push on. And speaking of taking a break, there was a giant newspaper strike today by both the independent and major news agencies in Egypt. They were taking a stand for several journalists who were arrested for calling to light the shortcomings of their president, Hosni Mubarak. He is the 4th and current President of Egypt. His first term ran from October 14, 1981 and as of September 2005 is serving his fifth term in office. President Mubarak is not constitutionally barred from another term.
I am not quite sure, but it seems they were considering him "sick" by virtue of his impotence as a leader. One of the only newspapers to continue circulation today was the government-run edition, naturally.
Taking a stand against the man, that is the edge for which all edges must form a clan. There is so much going on in the world, I think I write to try my hand at integrating it, otherwise I might get swept away by trying to take it all in in great gulps of amazed befuddlement and fuse-blown incredulousness.
And maybe swept away is just the place to be.

Alexandria

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 11:38:43 GMT

Yassos from Naxos!

Whew! I feel a whirlwind of internal spin and magical residue all poofy in my soul. I feel I have so much to write, to express, to sift through these days, my pen can barely keep up. I realize I probably could never live in Europe. Well, maybe Belgium or Germany, but nowhere else. First off, there is the regularity of cigarette smoking to be dealt with. My lungs couldn't take it. I can barely deal just visiting, and Greece seems to be the worst in terms of the unanimity of smokers puffing down everywhere I go. The air is thick with it in Athens, even when I sit outside at the cafes. Maybe in the rural areas it's not as bad. I have even had to suppress and gingerly empathize with my body's tendency towards nausea when I smell cigarette smoke while eating, because it happens regularly.
The other issue of abstinence from ever considering Europe my home is the acceptable proximity of everyone to one another. Sure, the human condition is incredibly resilient as far as adapting to and accepting any situation in which it finds itself, but the regularity of being leaned against and infringed upon is tiresome to me at best, and at the worst of times it is utterly repulsive to my need for personal space.
Especially unnerving is when I am in line and every time the queue moves along, the person behind seemingly without fail bumps into me as they move forward, as if non-locals are believed more permeable and they are trying to go through me. Is it me that they like to touch this way? Or do they all ram into one another regularly in the 'queue'? (European for both lines and waiting) I just wish the infrequent sensations of touch I received at such times were more soothing, that's all.
Of course, I understand why this is the case here. Europeans are used to being on top of each other, in multiple ways. The proximity of their countries to one another, the minimal amount of space to hold such a rich abundance of peoples and culture, and simply the affectionate way that Europeans interact with one another all play a part. They touch one another so frequently here that the European continent almost feels like a fraternal order in many respects. It is a community for certain, and in so many apparent ways that I wish America could take heed from. It never fails to both make me happy for them, and sad for the touch deprivation we have at home in the states.
But while touch in all forms is the norm here, it is not what I'm used to. I would rather choose to never have to adapt to bodies bumping against me all day. I am a being that requires my own space, or at least this is what I have come to distinctly prefer. Itis what I'm used to, and it is what I choose -- these normally do not go hand in hand much for me these days. But I actually have gotten used to having a lot of space these past four months. It nurtures me. Space is one of my closest friends now.
In fact, that is the thing I will probably find the most overwhelming when I go home: the closeness of other friendly bodies around me; or I certainly hope so, for it is an overwhelm I look forward to.
I took my first substantial boatride, so besides riding in a pontoon, chopper, empty freight car, rig, lorry, or hitchhiking, I do believe I have now covered the prime modes of travel. I ferried it from Athens smoggy sprawl to the island of Naxos, the largest of the Cyclade Islands and centrally located within the greek island chain.
I was going to go to Hydra since it is closer to Athens and boasts no cars, but then I read it was the most barren and expensive island. Not the most appealing mix. So I opted for a 5 1/2 hour boat ride down here. Naxos has some good beaches for windsurfing and relatively rugged mountains for riding a moped around and through.

*****
But first, some random moments:

Guy on the ferry had a tee that read:
George Bush & Son, Family Butchers, est. 1989.
I smiled at him to show my appreciation.

I saw a Greek Catholic wake in a big fancy church while in Naxos. I listened to the songs from the crowded doorway for awhile, but I wasn't very moved beyond noting that it was my first attended ceremony around death. There was a sweet sort-of stuffiness to the whole procedure. I said my peace and then moved on.

I abhor simplified generalizations, but in many ways Greece seems a blend of Turkey and Italy. The rugged desert air of the Turks, woven into the motorcycle riding, muscularly toned, gigantic sunglass-wearing macheesmo of Italy infused into one cultural icon, seems something of what Greece is about.

And did I mention that my host Lena in Athens, who is awesome by the way, makes a mean spanakopita?!
She regularly invites like 4 or more couchsurfers to come stay with her in her cozy 2 bedroom apartment. See what I mean? They like being close here. I was invited by her to stay even though 4 more were coming in on sunday, but I needed to get out on the sea. I was very grateful for her offering to hold my extraneous stuff at her place in the interim while I go gallivanting around the Greek archipelago.
A funny thing happened. While on the boat down here, I had that Green Day song "Wake me up when September ends" stuck in my head. And when we docked in Naxos on sunday night, Sept. 30, at midnight, I had just awoke from a deep sleep. I realized the significance of that song later, having awoken at September's end, luckily just as I reached my destination. If I had kept sleeping, I would have kept going onot the next stop, wherever that was.

I was most grateful to discover some activities here to divulge myself in and to keep busy and distracted from my occasional youthful wonderings of intimacy, or the lack thereof, and the tinkerings of my imagination at lamentably being here without a sensuous partner like nearly everyone else who is here.
Speaking of which, only not quite, an older woman came onto me on the ferry here. Her, her hubby and daughter and I were sharing a table. But the man was gone most of the voyage somewhere. When it got windy after dusk, she and her little girl moved over to my side of the table away from the gusts, and though she never smiled at me, I sensed her staring at me as I read my book, a good Ian Rankin thriller lent to me by a Scottish friend. The plot is just decent so far, but the characters and wit are sucking me inexorably in.

Then the woman ever so subtly kept moving her chair and foot ever closer to me, until her foot was laying against my leg. I let it sit there for a bit, merely appreciating the feel of another's skin on mine, of which there has been little of late, but then quickly realizing I did not want to encourage her. So I subtly moved away, not wanting to seem rude but clearly uninterested. She moved closer again, so I glanced up at her, noting that she could have been the girl's grandmother, too much sun and too many fags (as they call 'em in Scotland) had added years to her complexion. Again she wasn't interested in returning my hint of a smile, which I kept to a mere courtesy but with no hint of any desire to play. But again her foot made its way towards me as if it had a mind of its own.
I reflected how in many of the places I have been this past month, women will not smile at you if you are a stranger, unless they are paid to. This obvious flirt of a woman was no different. No hint of a smile, but her foot said plenty while her daughter slept against her mother's arm, oblivious. I slowly moved even farther away and then the father came back, to my relief. I felt sad that the feeling wasn't mutual. But a moped and some windsurfing is just what the doctor ordered.
I rented a moped and cruised the island of Naxos. I had a flash of a vague memory of a friend's vision or tarot reading of some kind where I was told about my trip and there was an image of me riding a moped around a Mediterranean island. The memory came as I was riding, feeling like a possible link between someone's sight and the catching up of the event horizon through me. It was a cool feeling, along with the fact that I seem to have dropped into the vibe of island life with little hitch.
First I drove along the northern coast towards a town where an unfinished carving of Dionysus was. The wind was so strong that it nearly blew me offroad at times, thankfully blowing inland and way from the dropoffs to the sea. I arrived at a seaside village and got a table by the cove to have some lunch and a little wine. Then after visiting the very unfinished rough sketch of the statue -- funny what some places claim for their fame of a standout amongst all the other islands in the greek chain -- I rode over the mountain passes inland. I made quick but priceless contact with the elderly farming and ranching locals I passed, made all the more special because the entire communication was but a glance and a smile, summarized in subtlety. I was in no place to pause, for I wasgetting colder as the sun dropped and I found myself at a growing altitude, crossing the mountain pass in Naxos' center. But I also moved along quickly because I knew there was little chance they spoke English. Besides, sometimes smiles say so much, why spoil them by adding words? As David Byrne said, "Say something once, why say it again?"

Their beaming smiles, deep beautiful eyes and mischievous smirks, this is why I came to this island, I realized as they enfolded me riding past in my youthful exuberance at the open-aired freedom of my own wheels for a change. To experience the taste and feel of the non-mainland character, separate and true from any tourist influence or arrangement was so rewarding. I wish i could have savored it more, but only being in shorts and a tee-shirt, the chilly oncoming night bid me to hasten. My solitude was a perfect receptacle for the everyday magic of the subtle through which I swerved and sought.

There was the northern European woman with her mom, asking me for directions, me hesitating an answer long enough to look into the magnificent amber pools of her eyes; or maybe my immersion in them gave me cause for pause. Whose to say?
I listened to my newly downloaded Beatles and Radiohead selections on my headphones, singing out loud to the mountains around me, enjoying the alternative British music scene as I scour the Greek islandside with my longing soul searching eyes as I rode my new wheels of childlike reminiscence. I grew up with mopeds on Long Island, my first real rampages of boyhood freedom.
My inner child felt giddy at being able to ride again as I had in days of old, but the goosebumps gracing my limbs were more a product of the impending twilight chill, I suspect.
After plenty of time alone, my memories have many times been a reliable companion, arriving at the most indeterminate of moments with unceasing clarity. After sifting through many of them, some of the more infrequent ones from a more distant past have arisen these last few days. Like the time
I had an older Danish friend, as most of my friends were in school -- not Danish, just older -- and I had asked if he wanted to "play after school". He corrected me and said "You can come over and we'll hang out." I realized then that I had just taken a small step out of childhood and into boyhood.

Then there was the memory of the first time I heard Eleanor Rigby. How it touched my soul, awakening my sight to the melancholy depths that the human condition could reach, and the raw incomparable beauty of music to capture and express it so right.
Ahhh yes, discovering the magic that was the surplus glory of the Beatles as a boy. The largely understated measure of George's masterful pluckings and strummings, and the joy of what would become an inevitable prominence of music in my life. It was wonderful to remember it back when the stirrings of musical appreciation were still relatively new and fresh in their vibrancy.

Remembering further, to when my heart was in its first throes of love, and its first heartbreak, the tragedy of which seems laughable now but was so devastating then.
Further still, to one of my earliest memories, when I lived in a court on Long Island, New York, and still lived with both my parents, and when I went out at dusk, mesmerized by the multitudes of lightning bugs that filled the night, entranced by the magic of their abundant brilliance and in love with the mystery nature seemed to hold out for me.
We lived on a court because my mom knew I was a wanderer from the get-go, and so a court afforded her more time to react before I made it outside the perimeter. The memory of those summer nights of my childhood made me
so sad when I realized the undeniable decline and near absolute extinction of lightning bugs, or fireflies, as far as I can tell. Maybe their disappearance was one of the first indicators of environmental crisis coming down the road.

Maybe by journey's end, my memory will have reached the womb, and even back still, to when I long ago decided that sitting alone coveside at a quaint little cafe writing these very words on an isolated Greek island is where I would one day be.
And what before that? Could my memory rewind so far it would be like looking down a mirror with another mirror behind me, my image compounded and multiplied endlessly down the line of reflections until it resolves into a speck, a spot, a prism splinter of me?
A prism splinter of light, reflected through the ages to beyond . . . yes. I like that. Surely something to aspire to.
Surely. But why even try? Like everything else that is, a pinprick of light in the solar sea I already am and we already are.
I find myself face to face with the inner critic who believes I should end every entry with an epiphany . . . or two. Otherwise, why bother? it says.
And whether I feel I have or not, the grumbling grows. Yet, could this critic not be the flipside mask of my muse? Daring me to dream. My catalyst for creation? Methinks maybe . . .
I tried my hand at windsurfing today, a humbling experience to say the least. I had gone there yesterday and confided to the man that I had only gone twice before, the last time being two years before.
The wind has been aggressively strong and consistent here since I arrived. I already mentioned how it effortlessly pushed me on my moped with its gusts. The guy said I should have a lesson before going out, especially in this wind, but none were open until after I left two days later. Bummer.
But when I awoke today, I knew I had to have a go, lesson and wind, be shazammed. I like that better than "be damned'. Don't you? And to make sure I could go, I drizzled some syrupy topping on the presentation of my experience a wee bit since the previous guy was nowhere in sight. I signed up for an hour and coaxed just enough info from the girl working as I could without letting on that I was a total novice, for fear of them not even letting me try. I figured it would be best to avoid asking their opinion and to act like I knew what I was doing if I was to get any shot at windsurfing while in Greece.
The staff seemed a no-nonsense crew of Germans, so I figured why chance it? And take a chance.
I appreciate the German language more all the time, by the way. I think it sounds just lovely now. Maybe I am influenced by all the wonderful people I met in Germany that hearing it reminds me of? After I learn Spanish, German will be next on my list.
I knew they were serious about me taking a risk, but I paid the extra for equipment insurance, though there is really only the sail to worry about falling into and through, so I was good to go, and so I went.
I just had to try. Had to.
It was a very unpleasant beginning, being both extremely hard and painfully humbling with the wind to contend with along with my beginnership abilities. I went in to ask for a smaller sail after a little while, less surface for the wind to catch and struggle against, but the last one had just gone out.
Then I thought my board was wrong because the wind seemed to push the end up at times so I thought I needed a heavier one -- but really, I was just trying anything I could to have a go and hopefully get some more pointers in the process. That was when the girl who helped me flat out told me that it looked to her like I didn't know how to windsurf at all and that I should come back and take lessons. That stung to hear but she was right of course and I acknowledged as much. But I told her I couldn't make the lesson and so this was my only chance to try it and I was going to give it my best for an hour, no matter how bad I looked.
She just looked at me for a bit, then told me I needed to keep my arms outstretched and hold the sail for the wind to catch and steer for me first, letting it pull me up out of the water by itself. She said I was trying to sail too soon, that I had to let the wind direct me first, then drive.
So I did, and began shifting my muscling away from my upper body to my core for balance and leverage in getting the sail up, and then I actually caught some air! I had only a few brief runs, but just to feel my core holding up the sail and the wind pulling me along, feeling me and the sail as one and holding posture to meet and merge with the wind's raw strength, felt like an amazing balancing dance of strength in form. After all, absolute e-motion is the translation of the body from an absolute place into another, as Newton once said.
I was unifying my e-motion of desire to enable a complete change in my relationship to the elements, creating momentum and movement in my surrendered acceptance of them. That was it. Right there.
My hour ended and I considered buying another round, but being low on euros and rich in new aches and pains in my lower back, I acquiesced and admitted the wind was just too ass-kickingly strong to continue, but I vowed to go again when the conditions were gentler and more fun. After I actually managed to get up on my board in gale-force wind, the next time will be a cakewalk, as they say, somewhere.
But I realized something out there, and that is that I am so in love with the power of nature. And that is why I had to feel it and give it a go with a toy that can really allow you to feel the wind in its full glory. And for that thrill, hard as it was with my aching humbled pride at taking on a new sport, it was so worth giving it a humble try.
One thing oh so beautiful about being on an island, the island life puts you in touch with the elements. There is the salt in my hair and everywhere, the parched skin bake of the relentless sun, the cleansing air, the pervasive moisture and the drawing physical pull of the aridity with the blistering wind to rub it all in for good rhythmic measure.
And did I mention the sun? Whoo-aaa! The Mediterranean sun ain't no joke.

Childlike in the love of sport with the feel of the ocean and the wind-soaked salt spray washing and scrubbing my spirit clean.
To feel alive like a young man can
on an island in the sun,
it just fills me up.

Here is a quick summary of some of my latest dreams, which have been very vivid lately and intriguing, for usually I don't remember my dreams at all. In one, I dreamt I was in an earthquake. It was actually a pleasant experience, as I felt "danced" by it in a sweet powerful way. This was soon after my panic attack and seemed to fit the theme of a shaking up of things, both inside and out.

In Athens I had noticed the ground-hug of the buildings there and assumed it was becasue of earthquakes. There are no highrises to speak of, so the Acropolis is easy to spot on its perched outcrop. The potential for quakes was confirmed by my reading about the popular domed roofs on the isles, the ones you always see on the postcards painted blue and white, like everything else in Greece including the flag,for they are largely earthquake proof.

Then in another dream, I was in Greece and wandering through a labyrinth of alleys, nooks and crannies to find a place with a view, but it was more urgent than that. I needed to find a way out or get my bearings with a great deal of urgency, though the real reason for my search was eluding me. Then I awoke and as I sat remembering it, the Neil young song "Helpless" just up and popped into my head, starting with the lyrics "In my mind, I still need a place to go, all my changes were there . . . leave us helpless, helpless, helpless."
This fit the dream perfectly, for I felt bound to keep looking for a specific place, one with a view but probably an escape of some kind, and I never found it by the time I awoke. Bound to a search I knew not the specifics of, "leaves (me) helpless helpless helpless." And my inclination to always need a place to go, well, that's old news.

This triggered the memory of my experience with the Green Day song I had had two days before, and I realized there is something mesmerizing going on where my thoughts are tightly infused and woven with music that I know, and even have forgotten I knew. Songs which in turn both compliment and embellish my thoughts. The music is infusing my consciousness to the point that it seems an extension of it, providng its own insights in a more cryptic and rhythmic capacity. I feel i am almost becoming a receiver and transmitter of transcendence through ym widespread knowledge and awareness of an abundant selection of music. If only I could market this ability.
Whatever the case, I am digging the multifaceted wonder of music in my life beyond the profoundly simple joy it brings.
Music becoming thought, thought becoming music, lyrical impulse to divine meaning in all I am, and in all there is. Dancing to the discoveries of my mind, a cosmic antennae to the random frequency downloads of music and otherwordly perambulations embedded in my overflowing psyche of song and harmonic impulse.

Even though I highly admire the Grecian ferry company's choice of playing Fur Elise during the raising and lowering of the docking platform at portside, I was mischievous in exploiting a way to get a reduced fare with them.
I saw an easy way to save some capital, so I did.
I noticed while ferrying down to Naxos that they only took my ticket upon boarding, and whereupon we stopped at two islands en route to my destination, I figured you just get off when it's your stop and no one is the wiser as to which stop you paid for passage to.
So, considering the price of ferry passage back to Athens, which was a lot, I decided to pay only as far as the first stop, thereby saving myself like $40. Call it a test. I caught notice of an opportunity with a most minimal risk, and took a little chance. A very safe edge to play, for actually the names of the first destination and the harbor in Athens were so similar that I could have claimed to have asked for the latter but they misunderstood my "greek" and charged me for the former. It was an easy answer to an unlikely inquisition, and a needed ease to my budget along the way. Just a game really, when you get into the logistics and the relations of money and big business, so if I can dabble in the game some with no harm done for easy gain, sure. I'll play.

One of my favorite lines from a Radiohead sang goes, "permission makes you look pretty ugly."

################
Now I am in Alexandria, which is wickedly muggy. People honk their horns too much, everybody wants to give you a ride in their taxi, and they all ask you all the time if you will hire them by honking at you. I arrived here in the wee hours after an obscenely late flight from Athens was all I could find. There was some confusion for after paying the visa fee to enter Egypt, a police officer told me not to hire the taxis going into town as they would rip me off. he siad I should wait until daybreak to avoid this. Being extremely tired, compunded by being thrown yet again into a very new culture and whirlwind of strange scenarios and customs, I had no thoughts to question this advice, as bleak as the prospect of having to hang out at the airport for another few hours seemed. I resigned myself to snoozing on my pack away from the hustle and bustle. I prepared myself a place to sleep on a dirty rubble-strewn patch of concrete and lay down and shut my eyes . . . only to be awoken roughly by another policeman. He was flabbergasted.

"What are you doing?!" he yelled at me incredulously. I told him I was warned by one of his colleagues not to hire a taxi at this hour so i was waiting until daybreak when it was safe. He told me it was fra more dangerous for me to rest there in plain sight of all the ne-er do well (my words, not his) individuals lingering in the vicinity to swindle travelers. I was actually starting to wonder if him and his chum were not so far from being such types, since I could not seem to get a consistent answer. My sleeplessness lent a heightened air of mistrust to everyone I conferred with at this point.
He went on to say that he would make sure I got a ride into town with a dependable driver. I decided to trust him, for I really didn't want to stay there any longer and it seemed like he meant well. Sleep was also excessively demanding my attention at this point and my eyes felt heavier than a down sleeping bag dropped in a bog. So he got me a taxi and I was taken straight to my hotel, no problem. I felt such gratitude, in spite of discovering what a dump it was.
I had found it in the Lonely Planet guide under budget lodging, and when I enetered, there were cockroaches running down the halls. At that point, I hardly cared, so long as they stayed on the floor and off my bed.
Now I find myself writing again on the glowing box, relishing the cool air in here away from the dust and raucous din outside of the infamous library of Alexandria where I now sit. Well, sort of. It is rather the bastard child of the old library which was burned down a long time ago, but an impressive buidling all the same, and a haven from the sheer chaos of the city streets.
I have said goodbye to Europe, and I am now on the fringes of Africa, savoring my last breaths of the Mediterranean. I am making a pitstop here before dropping into the rural wonders of Kenya in a few days time. I will be staying with some villagers way out in the country. This is a much needed balance after all my city time, but which has been a welcome and chosen edge of concentrated humanity for me, a love-hate of relationship, vicious reflection and sobering noticings of the way people interact and flow en masse.
All my experiences could be broken down into countdowns of timelessness, unfolding contractions and expansive closures, the urge to find harmony within cacophony and similarity in the midst of that which is outstandingly foreign. Sheer chaos measured out in perfect rhyme, linked through all the seasons for no good reason, but simplicity and flow . . just like me.

I am finding the city of Alexandria to be unappealing to my tastes on all fronts. The sheer noise and garbage pollution and near-complete shambles of most of the city's infrastructure and buildings is thoroughly draining my aesthetic and sensitive sensibilities. I cannot walk down the street without being blared at by nearly every single taxi and minivan wanting to let me know they see me and do I want a ride? My ears want to cry, the sound is so intense. Times like these, it feels like a lonely planet indeed.

The people are very sweet when you talk one on one with them, but go near a tourist spot and everyone wants to be your tour guide and expects money for asking you you where you're from. (sigh) I would be so okay if I never heard that question again. Little did I know how much more saturated by it I would become later on.

I went to a fort perched at the gateway to Alex's main harbor and the security guards even followed me around and tried to bum change from me. I went and found a dark corner and meditated for a while in the cool quiet and reflected on how I came to be here and what this part of my journey means.

I came to Alexandria for what now seems a laughably silly notion. I had a strong inkling of having a past life here of some significance. At least that was my interpretation of the calling I had to come here. I am skipping the rest of Egypt as I already saw it two years ago with a group exploring all the spiritual and touristy places. An amazing trip that was, and I am sorely missing the remembered buffer I had of being in a group then. Yes it insulates and keeps you distant from the people, but in Egypt I think this is an okay thing in many respects.
There is an aggressiveness here where they feel the need to repeat themselves to you, louder each time, as if the harder they can pound their inquests into you, the more they believe you will finally give in.
I so don't operate that way. But maybe they find plenty who do and so they keep it up. The filth alone is tough to take. The smells, the random nastiness of raw garbage strewn about everywhere, the smoke pouring out of very vehicle, its wearing. Then I see some of the most down and out people with skin darkened by days upon days of filth with all manner of skin conditions from sun exposure and who knows what that make me cringe and my heart sore at the suffering of so many, and then I feel ashamed at my whine over the complete lack of hygienic support and nurturance I find here.

The noise is simply relentless. The air-horns seem to pierce the very fabric of my being, splitting my head open with their shrill blasts. Either they are incredibly impatient or they simply love to toot their horns nonstop. Probably both, because it is a constant.
I am staying in a low-budget hotel on the waterfront of the eastern harbor that was recommended by Lonely Planet as the best deal in town, but when I arrived at 3 am the other night and saw the giant cockroaches in the hallway, I had to question LP's research. But I soon realized, everything here is filthy, except for the luxury hotels, I imagine. But they are not in my room and my bed is actually pretty decent and the location is perfect. I have learned to surrender and accept what is on many levels of this journey, but here I truly find such abilities being tested to their limits.

Why don't I just leave? you are probably asking. Well, there are a couple of things I would like to see, knowing full well I will never return. And I am still open to discovering why my draw to come here was so strong. Maybe it wasn't to Alexandria exactly, but to an outlying area. I have talked to my couchsurfing host on the phone who works in Cairo during the week who will be here tomorrow to host me. I might see if he wants to go with me to Rosetta, a supposedly charming little town about an hour east where the Nile empties herself into the sea. I was supposed to stay with another guy here from CS who told me to call him when I arrived, which I did, only to find his number not in service and who is not responded to my emails at all since the first mention that I was welcome to stay with him.
Maybe something happened beyond his control, but this tainted my impression of Alexandria from the get-go, and it hasn't improved much since. Still, I am taking the time to go inward and reflect on the lessons I have culled from my journey so far. I am also taking this time to practice keeping my heart open despite the persistence of the locals to penetrate my space and head with their noise and questions and unceasing requests for money. This is not an easy place for a solitary traveler to be.
The other reason I have been slack about just hightailing it outta here is because I am trying to explore the edge this place holds for me. if I always run from discomfort, than I will not learn anything. But also, to be honest, the level of apparent chaos here is so pervading that I have a fear that if I go to some small out of the way village, I might get stuck there, so I unreasonably see myself staying to the city where I can make the most reliable beeline to the airport and fly away when it is time. So ludicrously silly, I know, and this fear is already fading fast since first realizing it,
but what can I say, this is me.
Inconsistently and overanalyzingly human, and at the core just striving to keep it simple, love it all unconditionally and be a better man.

I am so small I can barely be seen.
How can this great love be inside me?
Look at your eyes they are small,
but they see enormous things.
~Rumi

As a friend noted, it is ironic my whine about the closeness of Europeans a few days back. How quickly it all changes, for here there is a whorling sea of thick humanity whose saturation is beyond compare, but I am growing used to it quicker than I thought and I am finding my place in the stream.
And in the midst of such filth, noise and apparently insane disarray, I am touching into the extent of the blessings I have in this life to a depth I have yet to visit so far on this trip; at least not since acknowledging my bewildering luck in how unscathed I was in Brazil after such a close call with my street friends. Sometimes cacophony is just the place to find the crucible of absolute peace and serenity inside.
I thought I might be able to meet up in India with two Scottish guys I met through my visit to Edinburgh back in August. I was going to be there in November like them, but had to rearrange my flight due to a tour cancellation in South Africa. So in having to change my itinerary because of this, I realized I wanted to be home for Tahnksgiving to connect with friends. My original plan was to arrive home a mere three days before Christmas, and that did not seem as exciting as I had once thought -- if I ever did. Further, there was a very limited seat availability in mid-Novemeber from India to the U.S. so I had to leave earlier.
So as it stands, my friends will be arriving two days after I fly home, and so I will miss them.
I am sad about this as it would have been the first chance to do some cojourneying with some friends for an extended time, and India would have been a great place to explore as a group. But it seems I am meant go this entire journey alone. I think I may have manifested my original intention of this as a solitary journey a bit too strong, for now I am craving some companionship and it seems to be eluding me. And the old adage once again applies, to relish the jewel of companionship inside vs. out and to find the roots of contentment within myself to keep any notions of outside company in a healthy place as an appreciated gift but not a necessity. But a break from going it alone would have still been a most welcome change, as well as a chance to share the longing and embrace of the mystery with others.
It is what it is, and that is all. And so "I'll be what I am, a solitary man."

******
On a different note, a funny and embarrassing thing occurred with reference to Gamal, who had offered to host me, but when I called his number, I found it was not working. So I considered him negligent in giving me a bogus number, and so I kept inquiring with other couchsurfing hosts. As it turns out, another couchsurfer I had inquired about staying with had responded that he would be in Cairo working while I am here but that his friend Gamal would meet and possibly host me. The number of this Gamal was different so I called, assuming it was a different guy and that it was just a popular name here.
I just met him and he was talking about emails we exchanged and I was confused, thinking I had only talked to him once on the phone. So he turned on his computer and I saw it was the same guy! Turns out, he had not updated his phone number on his Couchsurfing profile, and had emailed me his new number with some info which I did not get for some reason, otherwise, I might have realized they were one and the same Gamal.
Anyway, when we realized what occurred and the confusion on both our parts was cleared, we laughed a lot. I don't think I can do adequate justice to describing the embarrassment and lightening humor I felt about this episode, for my last email to him to said I was disappointed in his unreliability, but now the confusion was cleared.

Anyways, it was a funny little incident and now I am staying with Gamal, and it feels a world altogether different to stay with him instead of alone:
this is my apparent theme of the day, solitude vs. companionship. Two sides of the same consciousness, spinning through the air. But who is the one who flicked it forth?
To seek the root of mind, to find the source of breath, to abandon it all and just simmer in heartful sigh. Such questions that know no answer, but to seek the seed of life, to dance it from you in ecstatic laughter and an emotionally brilliant cascade of joysorroweverything that comes betwixt and between. All of it, ripe for the plucking by the conscious seeker of the juice, the pit and the pulp and the privilege to taste it all.

Stay open and the shifts will show up like patterns in lace that aware attitudes can apply conscious craftsmanship to in its embroidered unfolding.

My newest friend Gamal invited me to Iftar tonight, and this time I was a little closer to following the Ramadan protocol of fasting between sunrise and sunset, but still not quite, for I had breakfast three hours after daybreak. But I did make it to Iftar right after sunset before eating again, so the silent gratitude of the shared feast with Gamal and his two friends was mutually shared and engorged in by all. I have actually eaten very little since arriving in Egypt. Besides being careful about what I eat, the muggy heat and humidity have depleted my appetite considerably, allowing me to lose some of the heft I put on from Scottish bangers and mash and Belgian pastries and beer.
As I sat eating a splendid meal of fish, tahini, greens, rice and water infused with dates, I realized that connecting with people is the best joy I can find right now in life. I have seen art, ruins, castles and shrines to last a lifetime these last four months, and now the jewel in the lotus for me is meeting and connecting with people.
Furthermore, now that my initial shock and contraction at the experienced assault of disorganization of Alexandria has subsided and adjustment has again easily stepped up, I am able to see the sweet and kind nature of the Egyptian people with sweet clarity.
We walked home between the narrow strip of beach and the busy thoroughfare that runs along the entire 20 kilometer stretch of city stitched between the sea and two lakes, talking of the different nations we come from, and the sorrows and passions that unite us as brothers of the world we share a dedicated desire to improve.

Eight million people live here, but it swells to twenty million in late summer when most of Egypt flocks here for summer vacation. Sounds like a congested nightmare of humanity to me, judging by the descriptions he gave of complete gridlock, both vehicular and muscular.
Gamal told me of his pride at the Egyptian people's resilience toward a positive attitude and an easy smile, telltale signs of their auspiciously welcoming nature. Then he opened more to speak of his sadness at what has become of his country politically. How the president "stole" the election and the popular runner-up framed, arrested and placed in confinement with very sick inmates until he himself was made ill. It was a very sad and nauseatingly familiar tale.
Doesn't anybody win elections fair and square anymore?

And by the looks and smells of this place, the country suffers immeasurably for it. But there is so much to be gained and said for the joy that cannot be quaffed in the face of oppressive injustice and inequality. So much inspiration to pay homage to. And so much gratitude for the openness I can uphold to call in the companionship I seek, and the connection to a country I am no longer a stranger in.

Sun, 30 Sep 2007 09:53:39 GMT

This stomach bug has been rough on me, intensified by the vivid heat and humidity that Lena tells me has returned with a vengeance. She thought last week that cooler weather had settled in for the turn of the season, but now summer has returned to Greece in time to floor me with its debilitating thickness. The weather accompanies me and my process in continual erratic fashion.

I did still manage to venture out to the Acropolis yesterday despite my sickly sluggishness, inspired by the free admission price for this weekend only. It was cool, but also disappointing. Especially the Parthenon, a structure I have heard many say was the most impressive manmade wonder they have laid eyes upon. Well . . not to me. It was cool, but alas, there's this cultural thing going on seemingly everywhere to keep national treasures alive, and in the process they have completely uglified them for all to see for many seasons to come. Thus it was with the Parthenon, a temple that hardly needs furthering by today's meager attempts at upkeep that seem to drag on for endless months and years. The temple already is very much intact, most of its columns fully standing and supporting a good measure of the overall original design (forgive me my lack of architectural terms here). As it now stands, it is wonderful! And largely intact. But, the authorities have seen fit to clutter it with scaffolding, cranes and all manner of junk littering it in the name of preservation for generations to come. Yuck! It was a downright aesthetic travesty.

The generations that are alive to see it now can barely see the beauty of it behind all the construction debris and snail-like inklings of guesswork "progress". I for one see the Parthenon as a poor candidate for renovation. I have said it before, but just leave these ancient structures as they are and let us see them free of any artifice, crutch or metallic braces, which makes them look more like bedridden decrepit convalescents of the mystery school rather than the simple and proud surviving relics of a bygone era of grace, tenacity and magnitude.

Nevertheless, seeing those ancient ruins atop the sacred rock was a worthwhile treat and breath of freshness for any skeptical cynic, which I can certainly be.
Then I roamed over to the archaelogical museum that was large, thorough and oh so thankfully air-conditioned. If I feel better tomorrow, I will go to the national gallery before catching the late afternoon ferry to Naxos, one of the many islands of Ionian descendency.

Last night I went to a play based on a story by Haruki Murakami called:

On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning. The story goes:

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl corresponds to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock built when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

*******
Sadly, the play was in Greek so I couldn't understand a word; again, it was all Greek to me.
Sorry, second time I've used it but I couldn't help but go for the easy cheap laugh once more. But my host and her sweet lawyer friend loosely translated it for me and then the beautiful lead actress came over and translated a paper they had handed everyone at the end with some recommendations. Every paper was different, no two were alike.

The one she gave to me read:
'Don't try to be your strengths . . . rather,
show your weakness.
It is there where we meet, in the weakness.
You are not alone.'

I think it was the 100% perfect note for me.

Under the weather

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 07:53:36 GMT

So I realized soon after arriving in Greece that I basically blew it as a Muslim, having not waited till after sunset to eat and drink my first day in Greece and to continue with the intent of dietary and communal resonance I hoped to keep pace with for a bit after leaving Turkey. Oh well. Maybe next time.

I had a good talk with Lena about the greek alphabet, which is so unequivocally unique and fascinating to me, with letters that look nothing like what they sound like -- in English. And just the whole symbology of it is interesting, such as the symbol for 'pi' is their P.
15 years ago "Greeklish" was developed as a way for the Greeks to integrate their language better with the rest of the world, but especially for easier use with cell phones and computers. So, all the signs in Greece have both the greek and the 'greeklish' word for things and places. But even then, the greeklish is so different from english words.

I am enjoying my stay with Lena and her sweet little boy. I found my shorts I had thought lost, and I resolved my ATM card fiasco. But then I got a stomach bug that came down hard on me yesterday, sapping my energy, rendering me dizzy, nauseous and weak. Always something, huh? Seems to be the same thing as my friend Toby from Toronto had, who was struggling some in Turkey. Maybe my constitution's a bit stronger so it took longer to hit me. And maybe I might have eluded it altogether but for my stress of two days ago which let it drop in for a squirm.
Still, I ventured out nonetheless. I couldn't bring myself to stay inside for my first full day in Greece. Unfortunately, it was a blazing hot day, and it is already full-on autumn. Good lord, the summers here must be brutal.

I climbed a hill in the center of town at an agonizingly slow pace so I could see the layout of this giant sprawl of a city for my bearings, for Athens is indeed enormous. Then I went and saw a Byzantine museum, and as if I hadn't walked enough on my limited stamina, it turned out the bus Lena told me I could take back to her place ends its route like two miles away from her apartment and there were no other transports to take. So there I was, with no clue where to go except that I knew the name of the nearest metro station to her, so I asked a couple of folks and finally got back, beyond spent. Such challenges hone character, or so I tell myself for encouragement.

I find Athens to be not the most agreeable city to me, both energetically and becasue of the fact that almost evryone is a chain smoker. Surely, my view could be tainted by feeling so lousy, and things certainly not flowing at their best, but it feels deeper than that. I'm still thrilled to be here, but after so many places, I find my radar, if you will, is pretty well-tuned and it senses dis-ease at my being here.

This may all change when I head to the islands, tomorrow, but a cool thing is that all the main sites in Athens are open today for free, a last weekend of the month thing. So I will go to the Acropolis to see the Parthenon and what all else is on the 'sacred rock', as they fondly call the massive rocky crag that prominently sits in the heart of the city. I was surprised to find the acropolis in the heart of town, I imagined it on the outskirts, which works well for my compromised physical state, being just a metro ride and a bit of a stroll away.

In the mid-fifth century BC, when the Acropolis became the seat of the Athenian League and Athens was the greatest cultural centre of its time, Pericles initiated an ambitious building project which lasted the entire second half of the fifth century BC. It was dedicated to the goddess Athena, the city's patron. Athenians and foreigners alike worked on this project, receiving a salary of one drachma a day. The most important buildings visible on the Acropolis today - that is, the Parthenon, the Propylaia, the Erechtheion and the temple of Athena Nike, were erected during this period under the supervision of the greatest architects, sculptors and artists of their time. Later, in the sixth century AD, the establishment of Christianity set forward the conversion of the temples into Christian churches.

The people are intriguing to look at here, having a very distinct quality to their appearance, for the most part. The curvy noses, bottomless eyes and desert/mediterranean aura shine thru with felinish grace. That probably makes no sense at all, but describing people sometimes eludes me. They have a toughness to them, but there is an oceanic exoticism to their features that is seemingly ancient and serene in its timelessness.

Athens arrival

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 07:05:14 GMT

Athens, Greece

I had a pretty rough entry into Greece. It began with waiting to deboard the plane and noticing out of the corner of my eye some otherwise beautiful girls mimicking me contemplatively rubbing my soul patch and laughing. I turned and looked at them with a lingering unsmiling look, locking eyes long enough to imply I knew what they were doing and to make them feel a little uncomfortable as they had me. Then I was done.

I realized this was but a show of pride at the self-awareness of my peripheral vision which is acutely keen these days. Sometimes, when people are strange when you're a stranger, calling upon your pride is your base.

Arriving in Athens, I exchanged the last of my Turkish lira for just enough to cover the pricey metro ride into the city to where yet another couchsurfing host awaited me. I had both a leftover phone card and an access code for calls from having booked a European hostel a week back. Neither of which worked. Corner stores would not take my credit card to buy a new one, and I could not find an ATM machine en route to my destination. And I was too stubbornly set upon reaching my endpoint as soon as possible with ym heavy pack to pause and pull out some shorts, which would have certainly made the going easier.

As I noted my pack becoming ever heavier, dismay began to rally its war cry and hopped onto my pack with its extra load of chattering balderdash, the nuisance of which grew with every sweating footfall. Suddenly, the image of my dear friend Anne-Marie came to me, a vision of her recently hiking many miles southward from Oregon down to California, the eastern horizon her ultimate destination and inspiration. I let her inspiration infuse into me, gracing my embroiled 'stuckness' with her passionate courage and determined tenacity that I was receiving from her communal emails. Fueled from her truthful endurance and the connections that weave and bind us so gloriously, I roamed on with renewed vigor.

I knew my host awaited me but a definitive time had not been agreed upon. I knew she had a young boy so I figured maybe she would arrive home early, but I knew nothing really. I was flimsily going on flippant asumptions and a lack of adequate communication as to my host's plans other than knowing I was welcome.
This uncertainty, combined with having no money and an empty stomach, aside from the handful of turkish figs and dates I had that morning in the shuttle to Istanbul airport, began to trickle forth an array of unpleasantness that the hot grecian sun did little to allay.
So I followed the directions to her place, hoping she would be there. She wasn't.
I looked to stash my pack somewhere inconspicuous, and was rewarded with an old man who was a leathersmith of some kind who, though he spoke no English and, like everything else in this country, what he said was "all Greek to me." I did my best to convey my needs and he offered to hold my pack in his shop so I could explore and hopefully find some money and food. But then little else flowed in my favor for awhile.
I should have dug into my pack for some shorts but I didn't want to go digging away through all my stuff and without my pack on, I figured I wouldn't be that hot. Wrong.
Al I needed was money for food. It didn't feel like such a huge task to achieve so i could start feeling at ease. Wrong again.
I found and tried 4 or 5 ATM machines with my newly activated card, but rejection was all I got. It seemed my card had been deactivated again, much to my disgust at my banks' flippant discretion with my money. Well, I still had my VISA card. That should get me something. Not.

I could not find one restaurant that would accept credit cards. Admittedly, I was in a shoddy part of town for catering to the tourist dollar, for I seemed to be in the auto repair section of the city. Still, was I not in Athens, the largest city in Greece?! I was incredulous.
After a prolonged search during which I became hungrier, hotter and wearier, a low-blood sugar fueled agitation began to set up shop, a sweatshop to be sure, in my emotional barracks. I looked for an internet or call center to either unleash my verbal fury onto my bank by or to email or phone as to why my bank card was again worthless. Neither of these could be found either, and I could not even use my VISA in the public phones that had a card slot. I tried to not slide into a bleak feeling that the day had conspired against me, knowing if it had, things would probably be a whole lot worse.

But sucked down into the bog of the moment, it felt pretty damn awful. I cursed myself for what had to have been some shortsightedness to find myself in such an apparently bleak situation, but honestly I could not even find respite in my own persecution, a new new, for I felt I had done what I could to arrive there. Feeling hungry, pennliess, hot and exhausted only seemed to be negatively intensified by the fact that I was in a prosperous city. If I had been in a slum or some rural outback, I think I would have fared better as my situation would have semed more in tune to my surroundings. But this is untrue for I was surely in the same boat as many of the homeless that inhabit big cities but who always tend to be overlooked. Here was yet another chance to commune and connect with a demographic I rarely had before, this time as more of an energetic level than an actual encounter.

I briefly slipped into Eckhart Tolle mode and closed my eyes and appreciated that I had my health and my wits and all my possessions still intact --as far as I knew. Slipping in and dropping down, I was able to feel the deep pleasant peace of that present moment with thorough sweetness. But despite the welcome respite of meditative resources I had at my disposal, I knew I still needed to resolve the situation at hand. I needed food, for there was nowhere for me to adequately rest.

So I walked and walked and walked some more, finding nothing to alleviate my solidifying bedrock of exasperation as the sun grew more relentless overhead. I saw a BMW motorcycle dealership that accepted VISA and had the appealing thought that I could just go in and buy a bike and ride off into oblivion and be done with this miserable charade. But even more appealing was the desire to just sit down in the middle of the road and weep until something, anything, happened that was different from any more of this.
Yes, dramatic and stubborn are the aspects of myself that drip forth when my spirit feels wrung like a twist-tied towel, ready for the whipping. Yet the emptiness I felt slowly became a rich substitute for the food and drink that completely eluded me. My psychological stew, if you will, arose, full of all sorts of thick morsels to chew on for hours.

I thought how all this travel had both allowed me to lose myself and find myself anew. I was losing myself in the immersion into yet another cultural heritage and population, surrendering notions of who I am in the blending. The plane incident contradicted this, for it was my egotistical and insulted pride reaching out to them, admittedly falling shy of the zenness of simply having smiled at them.
And there I was, finding myself as the core of who and what I rely upon when arriving in new and strange climates of unknown everythings. There is a sweetness to this balance of surrendering and solidifying who I am and what I can and must do for myself. And as I walked and walked and walked some more, the sheer magnitude of the emptiness in me lent me a feeling of deep harmony.
With no food or drink left in me to sustain this achievementless stroll, I felt I was relying upon my base-level prana and from that deep empty place was a recognition and reconciliation with the soft space that is always there. I know I have spoken such many times before, but the encounter with this place in myself never fails to blow me away with the breadth of its energetic wisdom and serenity.
I then remember it was Ramadan. Of course! I had felt regret at having participated in Iftar without having gone through the sacrifice of fasting beforehand, so this was simply another manifestation of my emotional desires from days earlier.
This truly lightened my psychological load and I felt engaged with all those fasting in the country of Turkey just a bit eastward from whence I had just come. So I surrendered into my involuntary acceptance into the Muslim community, for as Yussef told me, Islam is not a religion but a way of life in which all are equal and equally welcome. I gratefully allowed myself that belonging, and proceeded to dedicate my fast to the benefit of all sentient beings if at all possible. This offering was my lunch, and suddenly what had been such dismal dismay became such a lighthearted affair. It was as if I needed the stripping down nakedness that hunger provides in order to grasp the deeper potentials of true nourishment and sustenance that are always on hand, if you are willing to look at it right.

So, I returned to the apartments, feeling empty, but spiritually satiated to the good timing of the leatherman's departure and the necessary retrieval of my pack from his shop before he closed down. I reflected that, when, during my outwardly unproductive foray through Athen's streets, I felt the compelling urge to call it quits and book the next flight home and call it done. Though this feeling was strong and the mental image of my homecoming was riddled with unbridled anticipatory joy, I recognized the superficiality of my reaction to simply another challenging moment on my trek, and one surely to be overcome soon, change being the only constant and all that. And so I had stayed present, allowing the shift to come.
The predictable reaction of wanting to retreat when the going got tough seemed little to do with who I am and more a mere mental flipswitch recording, the flimsy mechanism of which scantily holds my interest these days for very long.
Rather, I want to know what lies beneath the claptrap circuitry and willy wonka tinker toys of my brain, and move into the chewy nougat morsel of my deeper mind and burning heart.

***
As I finished writing most of this, taking account of my own shorthand process, I looked up at the intercom next to the apartment door and saw a yellow post-it that was not there when I had first arrived. I was so into my process that I went straightaway into scrollful integration without pressing my host's buzzer to see if she had returned since my little outing. So I got up and read the note.
"Hey Chris, Join us! Grabbing a bite just down the street." I grabbed my pack and followed the brief directions she left and after only a blessed two minute walk, came upon her and her brother and son chowing down and drinking wine. "In vino veritas." Oh yes.

I joined my hostess and her brother with utmost gratitude, briefly releasing my tales of woe, met from her brother by a "strange days feel stranger". To which I hastily replied, "people are strange when you're a stranger", which he then concluded up with "Oh show me the way to the next whiskey bar, oh don't ask why . . ." Doors lyrics uniting us across oceans of culture and time as companions in song. One can always make friends through music.

Lena's brother uncannily resembles my father, blessed be on the other side is he, so that was interesting. Sitting back, watching the antics of her six year old boy Angelos gone angelically amok in the cafe while feeling the soothing recuperation of food and drink, I took my first good sigh of the day.

Corrections and etceteras . . .

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 19:50:19 GMT

In my eagerness to absorb what locals and other travelers tell me about the history and info on certain places, I seem to have neglected doing a bit more research before accepting things as fact. I intend to be more cautious about this hence forward and check my sources more throughly next time. But I truly do enjoy soaking up the info that the people I meet and stay with generously proffer me on a consistent basis, whether I ask for it or not. I soak it up like a sponge, and gladly squeeze it out again with tints of ym own analysis and awe.

In Sarajevo a Frenchman first told me the population of Istanbul was 40 million, and then a local confirmed this as well at a bar gathering. But a part of me still wondered at the numbers, for 40 million seemed a bit extravagant for this city, even if it is truly gigantic. But today, my last day in Turkey, I talked with Yussef, who mentioned that the population of Istanbul is actually 16 million. This seemed more reasonable to me, for the population of Turkey is 70 million, and after touring the countryside some and talking with those who had toured it even more, much of Turkey is somewhat densely occupied. So for Istanbul to contain more than half the country's populace just didn't quite fit.

There are cats everywhere in Turkey, many of them quite young. They roam from the streets into outdoor cafes, museums and bazaars. But it was interesting to see how respectfully they are treated, short of neutering and spaying them so their numbers aren't so ludicrous. Very few seem to go hungry. Everywhere I saw food left out for them, and even saw locals of all walks of life pause to stoop over and pet them as they strolled down city streets. I wondered at the proximity of Egypt and the historical reverence for cats that existed in that civilization and the possible carryover of such attitudes towards the felines in this region.

I took a nine hour bus ride east to central Turkey to the Cappadocia region, which was recommended to me but whose images called to me most of all. Cappadocia is truly an amazing place, with stone houses galore, a castle of carved out windows like a skyscraper straight out of the Flintstones, and all sorts of ancient frescoed churches and habitations built into the rocks and caves of that region. I am really glad I went and did an intensive two day tour of the area. I met a great guy named Toby from Toronto on the tour who had been doing a 3 week counter-clockwise trek around the western half of Turkey.

Toby told me about watching Al Jazeera on the tube and how great it was to see things like a British and an American military commander argue about the former's retreat out of Basra. The American was saying that the Brits were not needed anymore because they were ready to bring the war to the Iraqi's doorstep and the Brit called the American crazy and that they shouldn't have gone into that area to begin with. Sounded like a priceless argument that was apparently uncensored between two reps of the "alliance". Sadly, I never caught that channel while I was there.

I overheard other foreigners argue that Al Jazeera was as bad as CNN or Fox in the states, they were simply presenting bias from the other end. I for one would welcome this. Hearing both extremes helps me get a feel for the middle ground, and the chance to see how the Arabs experience things is so perfectly foreign to whatever is presented to me back home is what makes it undeniably refreshing to me.

I never tire of people thinking I am younger than I am. At the hostel in Istanbul, a young Czech was telling me his theory that men get older when they travel, while women get younger. After asking my age and mildly gawking at my reply, swearing I had to be no more than 30, he joked that by the time I get home I will feel like 50 -- per his theory and the extent of my journey. His was a seriously extensive one to boot, for he was cycling from Prague to India. All I can say to such a fine specimen of traveler is "Go!"

On the other hand, I am most definitely tired of being asked "Where you from?" by every single person who enters my proximity. After the hundredth time today, I felt like invoking Al Pacino in Scarface to say "What the **** difference does it make where I come from, man?"
But I didn't. I smiled at the image, but mainly because I think that's Pacino's best role ever.

I went on a tour today, one of those epitomous love/hate experiences so readily available to those on holiday. I mean you cover ground like nobody's busness, someone else drives you and you get special access to discover those nostalgic nooks and characterful crannies, but you are at the mercy of the group and your guide.

I was irritated by the tour guide, a nice local woman, who seemed overly concerned with wanting to caretake me. She asked me if I was okay while we were inside an underground "city" that held 5000 people once, checking if I was claustrophobic. Laughable really, as I was probably the most able-bodied of the group. I rather fully enjoyed the close quarters of the cave city, as long as no one was right up against me to hold me up, so I hung back at the rear, probably prompting her inquiries. I assured her I was fine but felt she was always checking to see if I knew what we were about to do. And it wasn't because I was keeping separate, as I am prone to do from time to time, I must admit. No, today I actually stayed with my group. So the issue seemed to be she thought I was some young'un who needed guidance, or maybe that was just her way of flirting with me.

After this went on for a bit, I wanted to ask her, "How old do you think I am?" I wanted to see if she thought I needed mothering and to set her straight by my clarification. I found it interesting and am convinced she thought I was much younger than I am. I partially conclude this based on the fact that people start smoking at a very early age in Turkey, as I have sadly witnessed, and so in turn I think they tend to look older than their years.

I am going to go out on a limb here and confess to something. I do not like the Chinese. Well, staying in the moment and being true to my own experience, suffice to say, I was heartily triggered by a group of them I saw today. They were tauntıng an old woman peddling her wares at a tourist pulloff -- oh how I loathe to be seen at such places, and getting off of a minibus too. They were offering her ludicrously low sums for her goods, and when she refused and tried to negotiate, they just laughed at her with tasteless display. That's all, my tirade against them is done. But it really queased my core for a bit, I must admit.

Capadoccia is so beautiful! There are countless hoodoo rock formations and dwellings built into them. Hoodooos is not how they are referred to here, but if we were in Utah, that's what they would be called. They are essentially pigeon houses, where the Christians fleeing Roman persecution had built shelter in and for their animals to be safely kept inside the cave walls with them for both their body heat and sustenance. Pigeon houses arose as pigeons were used as messengers between tribes and they came and went out of the mnay carved windows hewn into the rock faces above us as my group wandered into the canyon lined on both sides by them. The rock here is very soft and these ancient Christians carved their homes in them in the winter when the rock was its softest. Red painted designs were still evident around some of the openings on the rock face as we wound our way through the canyon walls, because pigeons can apparently see red clearer than any other hue. Amazing the many things the "primitives" knew, isn't it?

Capadoccia is derived from Tapatuka, meaning "beautiful horse country". Interesting since they are the Turkish version of the badlands, and not very hospitable for an easy overland gallop.

Then we went to a factory store that cut and polished locally quarried turquoise, which means "turkish stone", as well as onyx, the rarest and most valuable igneous, or volcanic, stone of the quartz family.

Toby and I shared the bus and a great bottle of Bordeaux on the bus back to Istanbul, listening to each other's ipods along the way, appreciating one another's musical tastes. It was a fun time and helped the bus ride throught the deserted Turkish night go by groovingly, but we were both sore and tired the next day for certain. Arriving in Istanbul, we napped, hung out and shared stories. He was a great guy from what I continually hear is a great town.

Being with a bunch of tourists made me miss home as I have not missed it for some time. Not sure why, but it did. Maybe because most of them were from Canada. But that's reaching.
I also am aware of it now being Libra's tıme, conjuring issues of relationshıp and balance. And I am out of balance in terms of nurturing touch. The hand-slappıng, muscle crunching grindstone of a massage I got at the Turkısh baths was certainly good, but it brought home to me how much I miss the healing touch of those I know and dance with back home.

The simple truth is, I think I simply miss being where everybody already knows where I'm from.

**********

Toby wondered why I wasn't ferrying to Greece from Turkey instead of flying. This brought up doubts of my preplanned itinerary, again, and I wondered as well. I know I will return to Turkey someday, and I would rather cruise around the whole ancient archipelago with a partner or friend when that day comes. I would like to save that for a more leisurely trip in the future. And so I did not feel bad about skipping the boat thing this time around. Besides, there are a lot of ruins to be explored on the Turkish shores and presently, I am a bit ruined out.

When the doubt of my planning judgment comes, I imagine all the voiced inquiries as to why I planned my trip so much in advance rather than just let it happen, since I claim to be such a creature of spontaneity and windflown spirit; or at least that is who I strive to be is more like it. But now I realize that all the voices are mine, and so the need to explain is null and void.

I do have some nice lengthy lounging time in some upcoming regions of my journey which will provide a good balance of being more leisurely in those areas: namely, Kenya, Tanzania and India.

***********
I retained a great love for Turkey throughout my visit there, but it got tainted a few times. Witnessing men openly laugh at overweight Caucasian women was unpleasant, while overweight Turkish women seemed to be overlooked, but they were primarily much older in age. All the younger Turkish females that i saw seemed very fit. It was rather fascinating to see racism from a different perspective. I recognized the human trait of either judging or finding humor at that which is different and which gets interpreted readily as what we do not understand. My empathy simply got activated when I imagined how those women felt being laughed at so blatantly.

Another incident really bugged me. At a bus stop en route back to Istanbul at 4 am, I wandered away from the cigarette fest taking place by the buses, the smokers competing with the bus fumes for pollution saturation . . . and easily winning. I saw the moon ablaze on high and strolled to an empty part of the parking lot to appreciate her away from the convenience store glare along with a blessed breath of fresh desert air. A whistle pierced the air which I ignored though being fully aware it was directed at me. Act as if you've done no wrong is one of my policies.

But the pierce came shriller this time and I had to acknowledge it. A policeman came hurrying over to me, speaking aggressively in his foreign tongue. I told him I did not understand. He continued in Turkish and got a bit amped at my lack of immediate submission to his agitated gesturing for me to get back to the buses. I explained I was looking at the moon and why should that be a problem?

He insisted I had to stand where everyone else was. I resented being corralled, my lack of sleep and physical stiffness easily intensifying my ingrained resistance to questionable rules and regulations. But I had to submit, my imagination quickly churning forth ominous omens at the potential consequences of overstepping the patience of Turkish law.

He probably was trying to prevent me from taking a leak away from the public urinals of dismality that were charging a lira to suffer through, which was certainly a side option to my stroll besides the moon. Another one of my policies is never paying to take a leak.

All in all, the Turkish were a very friendly people. But I was totally fine with flying out of there today. I got my fill of it in the time I was there.
I feel tired more often in a psychological way these days and I feel it showing up in these entries; showing up as flippant grandiosities, sweeping generalizations and fractally occurring truths, and overall simply a straying from center -- wherever that is. But I feel the regularity of moving on from place to place of late is the contributor, and so this will hopefully shift when I settle into my next destinations more in the coming days. Physically though, my resilience is reliably strong, praises be to that.

And so it is Athens I which I now find myself, staying with my lovely hostess Lena and her boisterous six year old boy Angelos.