This is from the Oxford English Dictionary 

I have come to the conclusion that everyone may not enjoy some of my deeper thoughts appearing in a few of my earlier and latest postings on this website. I have received some comments and e-mails that range from praise, confusion and/or loathing of these more introspective posts. I realize that although this website has my name on it, it is in fact not actually for me. After all, I already know where I have been and what I have done. In reality, this web page is for you, my friends and family, to continue to feel connected to me and to share my experiences with me through the good and the bad as friends and family often do. Hence, I have decided to start another Blog specifically for this type of post and will stick to a loose journalistic and autobiographical style for my original Blog (www.drockinindia.blogspot.com). The new Blog can be found at www.broadcastingmymind.blogspot.com and will feature only my dialectical and philosophical ramblings and amateur attempts at intellectual speculation of Truth and the world that surrounds me. Of course, I do not claim these essays to be authoritative in any respect. I simply enjoy taking out my brain and seeing how it works, so to speak, in the same way a curious child dismantles his toys to see how the pieces fit together. I also would enjoy some discussion and arguments for or against the ideas expressed in the posts from those of you who endeavor to decipher the bewildering labyrinth of words and ideas within. It would be nice to hear your views as well as to see any faults in my own reasoning. For those of you who like things simple and in plain English, I will continue to document my experiences as I saw and remember them on this website for all to read and enjoy.

Nepal Bunyan ( A Tall Tale)

We left for Nepal on May 28^th. There was a group of about 15 monks and myself traveling by jeep to the border and then by bus to Pokhara and Kathmandu. I rose at 5 am that morning to get ready for the jeeps that would be waiting for us at 7:00. It was a hot day and it was only about to get hotter. I was ready by 5:45, having packed the night before, and anxiously ran down the stairs to the monastery to see if Yeshi and Karma Sherab were geared up to go. Yeshi was still asleep and barely packed and Karma Sherab was nowhere to be found. Tibetans are notorious for being spur of the moment fly by the seat of your pants kind of people, as you will see as this story unfolds. They may make plans, which I think is usually just to appease Westerners, but they will rarely follow a schedule or any previously decided course of action, with the exception of religious or educational institutions. This behavior, despite being very Buddhist in the aspect of non-attachment, takes some getting used to and is not always the most suitable approach to every situation. I waited in Yeshi’s room with his roommate, Tashi Tsering, for him to wake up. Karma Sherab came in shortly afterwards and was all set to go showing me his surprisingly small red backpack. He was wearing a yellow tennis visor and his usual monk robes. It is quite easy to pack for travel when all you own are three robes that look exactly the same except for the subtle shades of deep red to darker red cloth. In fact, the only thing that distinguished him from the other monks, as being “on vacation” was that bright yellow tennis visor he was wearing and his small red bag. I, on the other hand, was loaded with an Eastpak backpack crammed so full that if you were to add one tic-tac to the contents it would bust the seems of the zipper sprawling eight days worth of shirts, socks and pants onto the sidewalk for all to see. I was also sporting my laptop bag which was slung not so comfortably around my neck and made it difficult to walk through doorways and cumbersome to sit in small spaces such as bus seats and cantinas. I brought the laptop at the request of Yeshi and Karma Sherab, so we could watch DVDs in our Hotel room in the evenings. However, I was later made fun of for bringing two bags, which I agree was a mistake. Karma Sherab was jovial and animated as usual. He beamed with a confident smile that seemed to say “I will be your captain today. Don’t worry you are in good hands.” He had every reason to take on the courageous leader role. After all, he is from Nepal and has had his share of nasty experiences with the Maoist faction, including being held hostage on a bus for two and a half days last winter. If we ever did end up in a jam he certainly would be the person Yeshi and I would rely on. Yeshi finally woke up and slowly slid out of bed and into his robes. After some polite conversation over breakfast in the local cantina at the top of the hill and a few last minute preparations we were all set to go. At this point it was 6:45 and about time to leave. However, no one seemed to be in much of a hurry. In fact, I soon found out that although the jeeps had arrived and were waiting to be loaded with passengers and luggage, the group had no intention of leaving on schedule at all. This was a power game that I have found to be quite common in India and Nepal. I heard from one of the monks that our bus doesn’t leave from the Indian/Nepal border until 5pm. It only takes about 3 hours to get there from Kalimpong, which would put us there at about 10am if we left at 7:00 with the jeeps as scheduled. Most of the group agreed that the drivers had arranged to leave at 7 O’clock so they could pick up more passengers at the border to earn some extra cash and make a return trip back to Kalimpong by the afternoon. This all seemed reasonable to me, but what do I know about these things? As we waited in the cantina I heard all about how selfish these drivers were and how they could care less about their passengers. “All they care about is money.” Karma Sherab said. “We already paid them so we will leave when we decide.” So, there we were cutting off our nose to spite our face. This is typical behavior here. People are so concerned about who’s in charge and even more concerned about proving it that they sometimes neglect to see the whole picture. What would be the difference between waiting here uncomfortable and annoyed or waiting at the border, a town much larger than the one we were currently occupying and therefore with much more interesting and new things to see and do while we endured our inevitable delay? But like I said, what do I know about these things? Finally, after much deliberation the group came to their senses or became impatient, I’m not sure which. Either way, we loaded up the jeeps and embarked on our journey. The remaining monks at the institute gathered around our vehicles and cheered us on as we started up the hill. Karma Sherab waved his yellow visor out the window and bellowed loudly what can only be described as the Asian equivalent to “Yeeeehaw!”

And so we were off. After a short stop for fuel we began snaking down the mountain on a nauseating 3-hour excursion to the border of Nepal. I cannot begin to describe the overwhelming discomfort one can experience in transit through the foothills of the Himalayas when using the local public transportation. It turns out the monks were right after all. The driver certainly did not care about the passengers and indeed seemed to be trying to break some unknown Guinness record for fastest mountain descent. If you are the type of person who likes to go to carnivals on hot summer nights and pack into the small compartment of the Tilt-A-Whirl, which was obviously designed for midgets or at least a lower capacity of people, while sitting closer than your prom date to complete strangers, who apparently have no concept of hygiene or the amount of sweaty limbs that are being rubbed against you, and then jettisoned into the air twisting in ways the human body was never intended to be subjected to, then I would highly recommend this type of travel. The speed that we were traveling hardly gave us enough time to decompress from the higher altitudes. The pressure in your head begins to build while the vehicle snaps back and forth zigzagging down the mountain giving you every opportunity to remember exactly what you ate for breakfast, which from the looks of what our friend in the back seat sent flying out the window was some kind of noodles. I felt sorry for the guy. He got pretty sick. Although, I must admit that some part of me was relieved that I was not the only one who felt ill. It is not easy being the only white guy in a sea of insecure 3^rd world natives who are quick to find, or assume, your faults and shortcomings. You could be the poorest toughest self sufficient Western male and they would still stereotype you as being a rich man dependent on modern technological amenities and generally weak in body and intellect. These views are by no means harbored by everyone in this region of India and Nepal but I do believe it is the general perception of white men and Westerners as a whole. A person may not get a sense of this in the course of a short and predominantly tourist aimed visit to these areas. However, if you have the privilege to spend more intimate time with the locals you will get a real understanding of the misconceptions they have about us. I must say that after watching what western television shows they have in syndication over here, i.e. “Will and Grace” and “Cops”, I can understand where they get these ideas.

We arrived at the border around 11am. By then we were already quite hot and exhausted. Getting my Visa was no problem at all. I think with the current political climate in Nepal they welcome any tourist willing to throw a little foreign currency their way. In fact, in order to even get a Visa you must pay $30 American. That’s right; even if you are from Uzbekistan you must first convert your currency to American to get a Nepal Visa. I couldn’t even begin to try to understand that one. Nevertheless, I was prepared thanks to a helpful tip from Gwenola, a French lady who lives near the institute in Kalimpong, and I was in and out of the Visa office in less than 15 minutes. Every Indian and Nepali citizen must go through a rigorous baggage check and general inspection before crossing the border. Strangely, if you are obviously a Westerner, as I most certainly am, they just wave you through, no questions asked. That seemed to be the situation throughout my entire excursion in Nepal. The police and military extend this courtesy, no doubt, to counter balance any other inconveniences one may run into as a tourist in Nepal. They are just doing their small part to promote tourism, which has been in steady decline for the past several years. We all made our way through the checkpoints and walked across a long bridge into Nepal and straight to a Hotel named Hotel Kanchanjunga. Kanchanjunga is a famous Himalayan mountain in Nepal known for its five snowcapped summits that are visible from as far away as Kalimpong. Apparently, this was the usual thing to do because the monks who are from Nepal, and have traveled regularly through this town, all seemed to know the staff of this Hotel very well. We all chipped in to get two rooms to take showers and rest until our bus left later that evening. Of course, not without some healthy arguing and bickering over the already extremely cheap price we were paying. The people here love to argue about prices. In fact, clerks usually have more respect for you if you do this, especially if you are a Westerner. Although the price of things may seem extremely cheap compared to our standards, and though you may be arguing over what comes out to be only 50 cents to a dollar, you are often considered a rich ass hole if you just accept the price offered without a little discussion. Think about the wealthy people you know or have seen on television that walk into stores and purposely pull out there huge money roll and count it out in front of the store clerk with a smug look on their face and throw the money down with a pretension that says “ I just want you to know how loaded I am.” Then condescendingly turn their backs and walk away. This is how we are sometimes perceived when we accept a given price without first trying to talk them down.

We settled into our rooms and rested for a while, and soon it was time for lunch. We walked down the street to a more pleasant looking hotel with a restaurant on the roof. There were two Khenpos, monastic Buddhist scholars, five monks and myself seated together in the restaurant. As we waited for our food, Yeshi started a conversation about American politics. He was well aware of what he was doing and I could see it coming from a mile away. Unfortunately, if you are standing on the tracks when the train is coming and you don’t move it is your own stupidity. So, I must take full responsibility for falling into a trap that I knew was set for me. Yeshi is famous for his love of debate and it is no secret that he gets a sense of pleasure from defeating his victims. I used to observe this from the outside perspective and paid little attention to this aspect of his character. Unfortunately, I recently had become a target and he seemed to relish the moments he could trap me into a corner with his sophistic trickery. He generally refrains from this type of behavior in one on one situations. However, when all eyes are on him and the opportunity arises to conquer someone in public he never ceases to resist. It can be noted that he once asked me to document a continuing discussion between him and Karma Sherab during their debate class because, as he said, “ It looked very nice yesterday when everyone was gathered around me. I want you to take pictures of me today when we are debating.” It was then no surprise when he began attacking a simple comment I made in regards to George Bush and his policies affecting the “freedom” he claims to be protecting. It should be noted here that most Indians are staunch supporters of George W. Bush due to his position against terrorists and his anti-Muslim rhetoric. When India gained its independence from Britain in the earlier part of the last century, the nation was divided between the Muslim population and the predominately Hindu population, which is when Pakistan was formed as a stronghold of Muslim political and social views that could not be upheld in the Hindu homeland of India. Yeshi began to attack this simple comment in pure Socratic form and went on to dissect my words and their definitions thereby pushing me into taking a defensive position on a subject that by now was far from politics and even further from anything I had said or intended. But that is how these debates work. The trick is to force the opponent into defending a view you have steered them into and only allowing them to answer yes or no questions that you can then hold against them as being his complete and total view on the matter. This allows you the upper hand, especially when you are trying to win the argument and truly have no concern for which side you are on per se. This is the method of Buddhist logical debate. It does not matter what position you take as much as how well you use logic to win the argument. It is only an exercise of the rational mind. You are then able to say to your opponent “If you say this, then you must believe this and if you believe this, then you therefore must be saying that.” and so on until you have lost all enjoyment for any conversation and resign yourself to his victory. As I mentioned before, I used to never be the target of such debates. Most of the students here hold me in high esteem and usually call me “sir” out of respect. Yeshi used to behave in a quite pleasant and respectful way as well. This all changed, however, when I asked him to be my teacher for Tibetan Grammar a couple months ago. I must point out that I never took to being called “sir” or all the over politeness directed towards me but I accept it out of respect for them and their customs. In the past couple months his attitude towards me slowly changed from being my friend and equal to that of my superior. He began to be absent during several English classes, which I justified because he was the best student in the class, and he began to speak to me less and less in social settings. When he did speak to me it inevitably ended up in a public debate beginning exactly the way as stated before leaving me feeling overwhelmed and dejected. I began to understand by observation the way things work over here. This is a culture that has relied on the caste system (a hereditary class of Hindu society, distinguished by degrees of ritual purity or pollution and of social status) for thousands of years. Although the caste system was made illegal in the fifties and incorporated into the Indian constitution, it remains a prominent feature in the social atmosphere of India to this day. We must remember the abolishing of slavery in our own country and how long it actually took for desegregation. As we are all aware, racism still exists in America. Therefore it is not difficult to understand that a social structure such as the caste system, that has existed several times longer than African American separatist views in the United States, will take a while to actually become a thing of the past. Despite the plethora of religious doctrines from the east that preach of tolerance and equality, they undoubtedly were a reaction to the prominent social hierarchy of the caste system. Here there must be someone on top and someone on bottom. There is not much room for equality. This system in many ways performs its intended function quite flawlessly. Everyone knows their place and everyone consequently knows what is expected of them. The caste system still decides what job you will have, who you will marry and how your life fits into the social structure as a whole. It can be argued that there must always be worker bees. In our culture, in most cases, it is a choice or lack of making choices that places you into a higher or lower status in society. In India it is conveniently predetermined and as a result allows a person his entire life to accept his/her fate. It was quite surprising at first how many times I was asked what caste I was. The people here simply could not understand that we have no such thing in the west. When one has no assigned place in a system of hierarchy, a place is usually created for you and often without you realizing. I understand now that no matter how strange and uncomfortable it is for me to play along, it is a necessary evil if I am to survive in their culture. We may have the misconception that we can just slip into an entirely different culture and expect everyone to accommodate us. This may work on vacation but this approach is not effective for long-term use. The fact is, one must adapt to his/her surroundings as much as possible. This does not mean compromising your beliefs or becoming some sort of egomaniacal monster to show who is in control. It is a certain kind of tolerance that involves accepting the way things are done in the culture you are submerged into and using this understanding as a tool for efficient interaction with the people who adhere to these social views. It is my misfortune that these revelations came to me after my journey to Nepal. For had I been privy to this knowledge prior to embarking on this excursion I might have been able to prevent a lot of grief and discomfort. However, instead of reacting in an appropriate manner I fell right into the trap of defending my side of the argument I was presented with. In the heat of the moment I forgot where I was, who was around me and even what I was doing. I was completely lost in some primordial alpha male defense mode. Some animals have claws but humans have intellect. So, my instincts were shouting, “Defend! Defend!” as my mind clicked over into rapid response mode. With my focus entirely on the argument laid before me, I lost all concepts of time and space. That is, until I shamefully came out of my testosterone induced daze and realized I was in the company of six other people. I began to feel like I had made a complete ass of myself in front of 4 of my students and 2 important teachers from the institute. Of course, I was just being paranoid. It wasn’t quite as dramatic as all of that but I nevertheless felt embarrassed.

We came back to the room for a little more rest and a shower before our bus left that evening at 5pm. The guys were watching some pro wrestling on television. I had forgotten how obviously fake wrestling was. Let me tell you, somebody should nominate these guys for an academy award, because the acting in these wrestling programs is stupendous. The story line is always the same. Somebody disrespected someone else and now “This time its personal!” Even more amusing than the acting was the fact that most of the guys believed it was real. I understand. It is a completely different culture in the west. They have no frame of reference as to whether that is actually the way people handle disputes over there. I still find it amusing that people believe pro wrestling is real. But hey, I believed in a magical fat man in a red suit that lived at the North Pole and made toys for all the girls and boys around the world for no good reason accept that we were supposedly good children. So, who am I to say anything about what other people believe in? Finally our bus arrived and we made a mad dash to the station across the street to get the actual seats that were on our ticket. Tickets with seat number mean absolutely nothing over here. They might as well just say first come first served instead of falsely raising your hopes by letting you choose the seat numbers from the remaining open seats on the bus when you buy a ticket. Luckily, we were some of the first people on were able to get all of our seats next to each other. Yeshi politely ushered me into a seat as he had done when we boarded the jeeps. I later suspected this as being a clever tactic to secure the more desirable seat position for himself and slyly tricking me into the less comfortable ones. By gesturing me to enter the jeep first, I was packed into the middle seat with little air and minimum body space. Then, by politely allowing me to enter first on the bus he was able to secure the isle seat for himself, which has more ventilation and legroom. In retrospect I’m sure I was just agitated and paranoid. Although, when I pulled the same slick maneuver on him on the return bus trip he seemed rather annoyed and hesitant to acquiesce my courtesy. I sat with my backpack stuffed under my seat and my laptop bag on my lap. Yeshi suggested that it would be more comfortable if we put the lap top bag in the overhead compartment. I mentioned that Karma Sherab had advised me to keep it on my lap but Yeshi insisted. Unfortunately, the bag was about a half an inch too thick and would not fit in the compartment. He squeezed and pushed with all his effort, and to my horror, but the bag was not going to fit. I was fine with keeping it on my lap as I had intended to do from the beginning.

There is not much from the border of India to Pokhara in the way of cities or civilization in general. However, there is some of the most beautiful mountain and valley scenery I have ever seen. We passed through quaint meadows and pasturelands situated below the most majestic mountain scenes you could ever imagine. Inspired by this beauty, and wishing to take advantage of the window seat I had obtained, I decided to pull my digital camera out of my laptop bag and get some pictures of this charming Himalayan countryside. Reaching into the bag and sliding out he camera case, I quickly pulled the camera out and turned it on. I eagerly leaned towards the window to take my first shot when I discovered, to my dismay, that the LCD screen was completely busted. This is, of course, the only way to operate the camera since all of its countless features and settings are in a digital menu displayed on this now completely shattered and useless screen. Yeshi’s facial expression dropped as he realized what had happened. He asked me how I thought it had broken. We both knew the answer to that. Quick to see the guilt on his face I told him that we could never be sure when it broke. He apologized feeling certain that the camera broke when he was trying to shove my bag into the overhead compartment. Although I agreed with this assumption, I chose to ease his worries again and explained that we could never be sure how or when it broke. “ It is only a thing.” I said. “ It is not like anyone was killed.” Although, on the inside I felt otherwise. That camera was to be used as part of my duties for documenting His Holiness’ Dharma activities. It was a model that was designed to be completely compatible with my laptop and could not easily be replaced in Kalimpong or any neighboring part of the West Bengal region. Even if I did have the money to replace it, which I don’t, I would have to order it online to be sent to the United States and then have someone ship it to me at the risk of it being stolen or damaged on the journey here. I tried to keep a poker face and disguise my panic and anxiety. I assured him that this was of no concern and that we will have a great vacation regardless. He expressed how disappointed he was that I would not be able to take his picture. He loves to have his picture taken. At least two times a week he comes to my room with a request for me to take his photo doing something or other. I always joke with him that in his past life he was a fashion model. This is a symbiotic relationship that has worked out quite well considering I have a camera, which I enjoy using, but hate my picture to be taken and he loves to pose for photographs. He has allowed me many hours of practice at being an amateur photographer. Regrettably, there was no way to be sure what setting the camera was on and if it even worked at all. The only thing to do was to sit back, relax and enjoy the two-day journey to Pokhara. We could investigate the damage when we arrived at our destination.

Once we reached the Pokhara bus station, we eagerly leapt off the bus with our bags and grabbed the nearest taxi to take us to the monastery where we were to stay for the next few days. The five of us packed into this small compact car, 4 in the back with the two drivers and me up front. For some reason, many taxis have two drivers over here. I guess it is more of a ‘keep your friend company and get paid while he drives people around all day’ kind of thing. Whatever the reason, I ended up with ‘Mowgli’ sitting on my lap for the next 25 minutes while his friend drove us to the monastery just outside of town. We had finally arrived. I was so happy to be off the road and out of my shoes. Once we had taken our showers and freshened up, the three of us collapsed in our bedroom after an exhausting twenty-four hour journey on a miserably hot bus breathing stale air and diesel fuel. We were able to muster enough energy to take a walk before dinner that evening. The monastery is set in the middle of a Tibetan refugee camp just outside the city of Pokhara. There is a Tibetan retirement home on the left side of the monastery grounds and a Tibetan primary and secondary school to the right. I really enjoyed looking out of our window and watching the children play during recess or recite in unison their morning prayers in the schoolyard before beginning the day’s studies. I also rather enjoyed all the old Tibetan women and men from the retirement home next door who circumambulate the monastery and stupas from before the sun rises in the sky until after it set later in the evening. They would just calmly walk with their prayer wheels in hand reciting “Om Mani Padme Hung” with a placid smile on their face and beaming with an air of wisdom. There is just something sweet about religious old people. Like those plump old southern grandmas scooting around the house baking pies and cookies with a smile on their face and devotion in their hearts. I don’t quite know what it is, but it seems to be a graceful innocence or discreet wisdom that exudes from the very young and the very old.

The next morning we rose bright and early to get a full day out on the town. We headed out that morning with Karma Sherab’s friend from the monastery nicknamed ‘Apu’, presumably because he resembled the monkey with the same name in the animated Disney classic ‘Aladdin’. Most of the day was spent driving around from one tourist trap to another while I was harassed by merchants to “just have a look” at their merchandise. The day didn’t seem to be planned at all. From my perspective it was all just last minute decisions that were made without me being involved in the decision making process. It can get pretty lonely even in crowds when you don’t speak the language. My original plan for this vacation was to sponsor Karma Sherab on a brief trip to Nepal to kill two birds with one stone. I needed to leave the country to satisfy my Visa and I wanted to visit Chogyal Rinpoche’s orphanage, which I have been helping him with getting sponsors and creating a web site since February. I invited Karma Sherab for three reasons. One is that he is my friend and I enjoy his company. The second reason was that he was from Nepal and therefore very handy to have as a guide and lastly because he was from a village that is a seven-day journey by foot from a remote area outside of Pokhara and he doesn’t get to visit his friends and family so often. I knew he didn’t want to stay at the institute during vacation again while the other students went away to visit their families. We certainly were not going to make a seven-day journey by foot but I was sure he would see people he knew and hadn’t seen for a long time while we were traveling around Nepal. Karma Sherab decided to invite Yeshi to go with us at the last minute. He knew this would be all right because we were all good friends and we enjoyed spending time together. However, since it is more comfortable for them to speak their own language and since the English speakers were out numbered two to one, I spent most of the trip lost in my own thoughts while the two of them jabbered away about god knows what. I’m sure in the midst of one of their incoherent discussions they were making choices as to where we were going next and what we were going to do. Unfortunately, they failed to acknowledge the fact that I had not spoken or been spoken to in the past 45 minutes and in fact had no idea what was going on. All I ended up with, during the majority of this trip, was an abrupt “ Come on! Lets go” from Yeshi. The only thing I could do was follow them blindly while they advanced toward unknown destinations for unknown reasons. I felt like an old rag doll being drug behind an aimlessly wandering toddler. Finally, we found ourselves at a beautiful lake with boat rentals and an ancient Hindu temple in the center of the lake on an island. Yeshi asked me if I knew how to row, explaining the money we would save if we didn’t hire a guide. I said “Sure, no problem.” assuming that his inquiry was to see if I could row as well as he and the other guys. What happens next is what I get for assuming. They take us to our boat, load us in and push the boat out into the water away from the shore. It was then that I noticed there were only two paddles to share between four passengers. I thought, “Oh well. We’ll take turns.” Wrong again. Apu hands me both paddles with a look of anticipation while Yeshi and Karma Sherab stare at me expectantly. “You do know how to row right?” Yeshi said. To which I replied “Yeah, but do any of you?” At this point we had drifted far from the shoreline. I realized then that they expected me to pay for the rental and break my back rowing the four of us around the lake until they got tired of this boating thing. I was completely amazed at their lack of sympathy for the amount of work it takes to row constantly for two hours at their whim. I finally expressed this to them and Yeshi volunteered to help row. This was a total disaster. The boat perpetually spun in place for about 45 minutes while he tried to grasp the mechanics of steering and rowing. Apu would glare at me and ask, “Where are you going?“ As if I had lied to him and the rest of the guys about my ability to row a boat. I explained to Yeshi that we had to be two bodies with one mind if we were going to row together. I have to commend his efforts. He tried hard and he was also able to see the amount of work that went into rowing. Exhausted and sunburned we made our way to shore and I paid for the two hours of slave labor.

As soon as we had a quick lunch, we did one more short tour of a monastery located on the side of a large hill. Soon after we went to the main market place to roam and shop. Though, as became common amongst many of our casual outings, most of the time was spent with Yeshi in an Internet cafe chatting on yahoo, flirting with attractive girls via web cam and blathering away with old friends online. The rest of our time in Pokhara was a blur. We were able to meet Shangpa Rinpoche later that evening at the Monastery. It was auspicious that he happened to be passing through at the same time we were. It was truly an honor and a privilege to speak with him. He has a very strong and powerful presence, soft spoken and articulate yet with a mighty and commanding aura. He seemed genuinely happy to be talking to me and I was certainly very happy to be talking with him. The conversation ended with an invitation to have further discussions to get acquainted when he arrived in Kathmandu in several days. Unfortunately, our schedules conflicted and it turned out that he arrived in Kathmandu the very same day Yeshi and I were headed back to India. The rest of our time in Pokhara was spent hanging around the Tibetan refugee camp, Yeshi and I debating, me getting more aggravated and karma Sherab feeling more isolated. I finally had to come out and bluntly request Yeshi not to instigate these debates anymore, which he readily admitted were intentionally started by him. However, this request somehow turned into another debate from his analysis of why I did not want to have these discussions and when it was all said and done I was at my wits end and Karma Sherab was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Poor Karma Sherab, all he wanted was for the three of us to have a great time in Nepal. We all hoped that a 6 hour bus ride and some rest might put us in a better place with all the negativity and bickering behind us.

We weren’t able to grab breakfast at the monastery before we left for Kathmandu. Instead, we ate noodles at the bus station and shortly afterwards boarded the bus. The journey was long, though much more comfortable than our trip to Pokhara. This bus had soft cozy seats and Yeshi and I had plenty of legroom because we were directly behind the driver. I had the window seat again and spent most of the day on that bus gazing out the window at the gorgeous Himalayan countryside. All in all it was a pleasant ride with the exception of a bleeding scalp and an injured pride. It seems that I could never remember to compensate for the fact that everything, including doorways and bus seats, in Asia is designed for considerably shorter people than myself. It never failed that, either when going up the stairs of the entrance of the bus or sliding over into my seat, I would bash my skull into a pointy ill manufactured component of the bus interior that was hanging slightly lower than it should be. The final result was about five skin-scraping blows to the head in the course of ten days without the fortune of experiencing these moments of triumph discreetly with no one noticing. Being the only white guy, possibly the first one some of these people had ever seen, on a bus full of curious Asians insures that you are being watched at all times. Naturally, all eyes would be on me when I would crash my dome in the coarse of getting on or off the bus. And, just to let it be known that what just happened was witnessed; someone would give a satisfied chuckle. I’m sure I’ve got scars. But hey, who doesn’t?

We arrived at Kathmandu late that afternoon. There was no rest for the weary yet we were no worse for the wear. We made our way to the Milarepa guesthouse just across from the entrance of Swayambunath stupa. The rooms were surprisingly nice and the rate per night was ridiculously cheap! If you converted the room cost to the current American currency exchange rate, the total cost for my half of the room each night came to about two bucks. There was no television or air-conditioning, but the rooms were very clean with a nice view and there was an attached bathroom with plenty of hot water, which is a luxury over here. We got settled in and waited for the sun to drop a little lower in the sky that evening before going to Swayambunath. It was extremely hot and humid in Kathmandu that week. Luckily, I have the privilege of living in a place where the climate is very similar to that of Virginia. The only difference being when Virginia has its summer, Kalimpong is having its rainy season. Needless to say, I never acclimatized to the heat of Kathmandu. It therefore goes without saying that every morning and evening when we would climb up the 250-yard flight of stairs straight up to Swayambunath stupa, I would be drained and drenched. All I could do was keep moving once I reached the top. If I were to try and sit down right away I would have collapsed into some sort of semi-conscious coma and would have been paralyzed from movement. So, I went right away to the stupa every time and circumambulated it, which is an act of veneration in Asian culture especially around holy places, until I had cooled down and my heart rate had fallen into a normal pace. From the outside I’m sure I looked really religious and devoted but I must admit that this served as an act of necessity more than an act of faith. Plus, it allowed me to avoid getting into direct conversation with anyone thus giving me time to catch my breath. This cleverly preventing any sweaty gasping introductions like, “ HHHHA, Hhi...HHHHHHA AH HHHHA HHHhow are HHHHAHhhyou?” Therefore sparing me the embarrassment of appearing as out of shape as I shamefully was.

A stupa is a dome shaped structure designed to resemble a meditating Buddha. The custom of erecting stupas began thousands of years ago when Yogis, religious saints of India, would pass away in a seated lotus position. Consequently, the devotees would bury him on the spot by covering the deceased yogi with dirt, thus leaving a pyramid like dome that would then be venerated by any who wished to come and pay their respects to a monument of religious piety and extreme devotion to the visceral experience of Truth. This religious custom was later adopted by the Buddhists of India and continues to the present day in many Buddhist cultures around the world. Stupas have now evolved into more of a giant urn, which contains holy relics from a deceased Buddhist master with other holy objects and scriptures. They are usually adorned with gold and are well maintenance by devotees or monks from the nearest monastery. Swayambunath is said to be a natural stupa that has rested at the center of Kathmandu for several thousand years and is believed to be responsible for the creation of this valley when Manjusri spied it in the middle of a great lake, at the time of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni. Inspired by its magnificence, Manjusri cut an opening in the side of a mountain driving the lake into a river thus leaving this natural stupa to tower over the newly formed valley. Since that time, two monasteries have been built and expanded on and several ancient stone monuments and stupas have been erected at the summit of this natural stupa. It is in one of the two monasteries at Swayambunath that Karma Sherab spent most of his childhood as a monk. He preferred to stay at the monastery and let Yeshi and I share the guesthouse room at the foot of the hill. Each morning I rose at 4 am and walked across the street to the entrance of the stupa. I hiked up and down those stairs at least two to three times a day. There are countless merchants and beggars waiting for sucker tourists like me to stop and rest on the way up. They would come swarming at you with their trademarked intrusive politeness. Its is like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. Everyone has a sob story, even the merchants use the beggar approach, and they sweeten you up with a puppy dog faced, “ Sir, please. Sir, I beg you. Please.” I felt like a heartless bastard. I knew that if I were to give to all of them I would be broke and if I were to give to one of them I would be branded, causing everyone to come circling in around me like zombies with pitiful faces and arms stretched calling, “Sir. Sir.” No thank you. They didn’t know it but these beggars and merchants were my fitness coaches that week. The climb up those stairs is difficult for anyone and no one makes the effort unless they have a reason. Therefore, if I didn’t stop to rest they couldn’t approach. They certainly were not going to chase me up the stairs, and I was inspired this way to steadily climb the steps until I reached my destination at the top. I must say, thanks to them I was in much better shape by the end of our vacation and could scale those steps without hesitation and arrive at the summit fresh as a daisy.

The rest of our days in Kathmandu were entertaining but typically touristy. We went to all the major spots Like Bodhanath stupa and several caves that were once occupied by the famous Buddhist saint Padmasambhava, as well as a few special spots like the retreat center being built by our lineage holder the 14th Kunzig Shamarpa. It was great to see the city, even if I had no idea where we were going or when we were going there. Yeshi and karma Sherab continued to speak mostly in Tibetan and Nepali thus leaving me clueless as to what was happening at any given moment. However, I resolved to just go with it at this point and not worry about it so much. I had made one desperate attempt to stimulate some organization in our planning the first couple days we were in Kathmandu. It was then brought to my attention that they simply could not follow a schedule and they, in fact, had no idea what we were doing or where we were going next either. They just had the luxury of speaking the local language and therefore the ability to get us transportation to the next random location. I was able to swindle them into going to all the Buddhist pilgrimage spots around Kathmandu, which I am sure would have been outvoted in favor of chatting on the internet or lazily hanging around the monastery watching European football and HBO. I insisted that we should at least take advantage of seeing these holy places, which they have seen many times but were nevertheless new and interesting to me. I am grateful for their submission to my persistence and their tolerance towards my ignorance of traveling Tibetan style.

On one of our last days in Kathmandu we decided to go to Namo Buddha, a Buddhist pilgrimage site located in the mountains a short distance outside the city. We walked down the steps of Swayambunath to a taxi stand and waited for Karma Sherab to arrange for a ride from an old friend of his. His friend could not take us that day but he recommended another guy for the job and our driver turned out to be a very nice man indeed. We started off towards the mountains, passing two military checkpoints, and in about thirty minutes we were at the foot of the mountain road that leads to Namo Buddha. It was a beautiful day and not too humid. The foliage was bright green and the sky was a chalky blue haze. The road was bumpy but not entirely unpleasant. However, our ride didn’t last long after we came upon a steep and steady incline with bulging rocks and treacherous potholes. Something had struck the axels of the car and made it impossible for it to continue up the mountain. After trying to push the car and then waiting for the driver to figure out what to do, we resigned to the long trek ahead of us. This turned out to be blessing for me, because I love hiking in the mountains, however everyone did not share my enthusiasm. It turned out to be a 6-hour walk to Namo Buddha from where we were. We conquered every peak and summit with the gracefulness of an evening stroll in the park. We must have traversed over at least 4 different mountaintops, with their pseudo valleys on the declines of the ridge, that day. Walking up and down the steps of Swayambunath each morning was paying off; for I am sure I would have been more winded had I not been conditioning myself all week for this very thing. We passed several small mountain villages and many migrating shepherds. Each small village consisted of no more than five modest houses miles from any other village tucked amidst mountain wilderness and scenic over looks. We stopped once on our way up and called on a man in his mud clay house for some water, or “pani” in Nepali. We all sat peacefully in absolute silence under the shade of the trees outside his house and savored the water and this precious moment. No one said a word except for a few polite comments to the householder and our thanks on our way out as we trudged onward over the mountains with the house and its shade trees slowly disappearing behind us and new frontiers to conquer before us. After hours of walking with company one tends to get tired of conversation. Everyone seemed to come to an agreement of silence, for it was too beautiful to disturb with idle talk and if we were to try and discuss the beauty we were beholding the words would be reduced to useless banter in comparison to the awe inspiring splendor that surrounded us. So we marched along like good little children towards our destination. Yet, our casual gate gave the impression that we were in no hurry at all and had no particular place to go. We all were aware that our destination may be wonderful but everyone secretly knew that the journey to our destination would be the shining jewel of our memories from that day. We finally arrived that afternoon. It was nice to have achieved the purpose of our efforts. We remained reverently silent and at ease continuing to feel invigorated and illuminated from our recent excursion over the stunningly picturesque highlands above the Kathmandu valley. We enjoyed most of that afternoon exploring the surrounding areas of the Namo Buddha site. We ate our lunch that day in a small yet enterprising village just bellow Namo Buddha. There were a couple of makeshift hotels and two restaurants to chose from. This place obviously thrived off of tourists wanting to stay in the middle of nowhere high atop a mountain as opposed to the hustle and bustle of the city below. We ate our lunch that afternoon in the shade of an old stupa and set off for our descent down the mountain to the car. The walk to the car was considerably faster than our walk up but it was every bit as pleasant as before. We finally landed ourselves at the intersection of the mountain road and the main highway and meandered down the remaining few yards of gravel to a small wooden hut convenience store where our car awaited us. To our surprise, the car was nowhere near ready to attempt to drive to the valley. Two men had already walked to town to buy an axel and replace the damaged one on the car. When they replaced the front axel they realized that the rear axel was also busted. So, now we were going to have to wait for an indefinite period of time until they returned with the second axel. We were left with the dilemma of having not paid the driver at all yet having promised a certain amount of money to persuade him to take us here in the first place. So we were all in this together through thick and thin. We occupied ourselves as best we could. I spent a large amount of the time subtly flirting with a beautiful spectacled young lady by exchanging playful smiles and alluring stares. We ended up having to wait there for a few hours making it a little awkward for the both of us to keep this up. She was running out of excuses to pretend to be doing something important that would cause her to be in my field of vision and I was running out of excuses for not going up to talk to her. We both knew I would be moving along shortly and this would never amount to anything more than playful flirting, but we continued anyway. For me it was to alleviate the boredom and exhaustion while we waited for our ride and for her, I think, it was a way to alleviate the boredom of living in the middle of nowhere. This playful interaction was finally broken when the two men arrived with our new axel. Everyone leapt in anticipation of leaving. But, to our dismay, the car was not going to be fixed that evening. What happened next I could not be too sure. All I know is that Karma Sherab was arguing angrily in Nepali with the group of guys working on the car. He seemed to be telling them how disgusted he was with them. I don’t know exactly what was said between Karma Sherab and those men that afternoon but I don’t think it was a friendly chat about the weather. I was eventually motioned to get into a different car with the same driver as before. We seemed to be headed down the mountain and back to the guesthouse, however the silent and tense atmosphere inside that vehicle made me wonder what exactly was going on. We eventually ended up in a more urban area just outside of the city when Yeshi shouted, “look, a bus!” and I was frantically ushered out of the car and on to the bus. At this point the skies opened up with a torrential downpour while lightening and thunder serenaded us home on a crowded city bus crammed with twice the recommended capacity. It was getting hard to breath with so many people sitting on the bus and standing in the aisle. Two men in front of us were smoking and the humidity in the air was making it difficult to catch your breath. We were making extremely slow progress down the mountain because the bus kept stopping to let passengers on and off. Finally I told Karma Sherab that I would pay for the bus tickets and the cab fare if we could just get off this damned thing and take a taxi back to our rooms. As soon as we saw a taxi sitting in the rain outside the bus when we had stopped to let some passengers off, we dashed for the door, joyfully departed the bus and bolted for the taxi that was to put a quick end to this miserable evening. We were back at the guesthouse within 15 minutes. The four of us (karma Sherab, Yeshi, Khenpo Wang Chen and myself) dragged ourselves up three stories to our room and to what truly felt like salvation.

On our last day there, I went to visit Chogyal tulku’s orphanage. I had promised him that I would bring chocolates for all the children, gather some information and take some pictures of the children for the website we are working on. The chocolates were no problem. Getting the information we needed from Karma Tendar, the overseer at the orphanage, was no sweat either. Taking pictures with my now broken digital camera, on the other hand, turned out to be a bit of a risk. It had been established that the camera worked about 85% of the time. I did not want to lose any good pictures of the children and the orphanage because of my incompetence. Thankfully, Karma Tendar had a decent camera and we were able to take pictures with it instead of risking it with mine. I just collected the film before I left to get developed when we got back to Kalimpong. I could then just scan the pictures at the local Internet cafe to digitalize them for a website. I felt awkward coming to the orphanage and not bringing some big donation. It was all prearranged by Chogyal Rinpoche and therefore everyone there was expecting me. We received a very warm welcome from Karma Tendar and his wife when we arrived. All of the children were gathered in the TV room because it was their holiday. They greeted me with big smiles and politely waited their turns while I handed out the chocolates. The children were exceptionally well behaved. I had seen pictures of many them before back in Kalimpong. Except now, all of their heads were shaved, including the girls. I didn’t ask but I think it was probably from a lice outbreak. They were all adorable, shaved heads and all, and it was wonderful to spend time with them that day. Karma Sherab had joined me on this visit, which he had later told me with tears in his eyes was a life affirming experience. He said they reminded him of himself as a child when he was all alone in Kathmandu with no family around to take care of him. He expressed how proud he was of Chogyal Rinpoche for establishing this orphanage. Karma Tendar treated us to juice and cookies in his office while we talked about the living conditions there at the orphanage and the children’s needs. He then called all of them outside to pose for photos. This part was really fun. Karma Tendar ordered them to get in their exercise positions to which they all stood in queue, like they do every morning, and did there exercise routine for me to photograph. Their exercises combined physical fitness with memorization because they recited the English alphabet and various other educational subjects in unison while stretching and flexing their little bodies. They then posed all over the grounds of the orphanage one group shot after another. The children were surprisingly very cooperative and seemed to rather enjoy the whole process. Karma Sherab and I stayed there for about 4 hours that day. I regret now not making more time for this visit and I have vowed to make it my main objective the next time I come to Kathmandu. We gave our thanks and goodbyes to Karma Tendar, his wife and all of the children. On the ride back Karma Sherab related his teary eyed confession to me in the taxi and we both were at peace with satisfied smiles on our faces and hope in our hearts.

Yeshi and I packed all of our things that night. We settled our debts and prepared to leave on the first bus out of Kathmandu at 5am the next morning. Karma Sherab had decided to stay the duration of the vacation in his monastery at Swayambunath. He expressed his gratitude for me inviting and sponsoring him on this trip and he wished us a safe journey home. We boarded the bus that morning and barely spoke a word to each other for the next day and a half. Yeshi and I had grown apart and back together again over the course of these two weeks and we were still mending. It is not as though any one changed during these two trying weeks. It was more that each of us learned who the other really was and there was no turning back. We had survived a trial by fire test of friendship. Our true character was revealed and our weaknesses were exposed. We both gazed out the window in a daydream and dozed off every now and again. The closer we got to home the more it all turned into memories. We had originally planned to go to Darjeeling for three days directly after we returned to Kalimpong. We both knew this was not going to happen. While I was sitting there silently hoping he had forgotten all about Darjeeling, he was sitting there trying to think of an excuse not to go. On our way back up the mountain from Siliguri to Kalimpong he blurted to me in the jeep something about us not being able to procure seats on the toy train, which was to be a scenic grand finale to our two weeks of adventures. He presented a transparent justification for why this meant he wasn’t going to go, but he didn’t need to give any more detail because I was in complete agreement. We both needed time apart to heal from all of the growing pains of a newly forged friendship. Sometimes your favorite song is last one you fell like hearing at the moment. Sometimes the best of friends are the most difficult to spend time with. A friendship is something deeper than polite conversation and a few laughs. It cuts to the bone of your existence. It is a bond of understanding, not of conveniences. A friendship is a pact of naked truth and therefore total unadulterated freedom. Once you have been through the trials of friendship you are liberated from your fabrications. You are like a child without shame or blame. Friends are more than useful acquaintances who aid you in the search of your daily amusements. They are like mirrors, which are able to show us our own ugliness that has been hidden from us by our inflated sense of self. The three of us unknowingly had formed a bond that will without doubt remain with us, in one way or another, for the rest of our lives. As the saying goes, “ You cannot create anything without destroying something first.” Such was the case of our friendship.

People circumambulating Bodhanath stupa in Kathmandu. This stupa is massive in size and is a major attraction for anyone who travels to Kathmandu,Buddhist or not. 

Bodhanath Stupa in Kathmandu. 

The Monastery at Namo Buddha 

This is at the top of Namo Buddha. This location is where the Buddha, in one of his previous lives, sacrificed his body to feed a family of starving tigers. 

on our way to Namo Buddha( a buddhist pilgrimage ) our taxi broke down and we had to walk over the mountains to get there. I was very happy to get to trek in the mountains through the villages. Here is one of the mountain sides. We had just crossed that ridge and I turned around to take a photo of the rice patties on the side of the mountain.

Here is Yeshe and karma Sherab in the field in front of the new retreat center being built by Shamar Rinpoche. They requested that I take this picture to put on my web site. I told them that it might look funny to the people back home concidering that they are standing in a field of marijuana. The stuff just grows everywhere in Asia and the Asian people just think of it as a normal plant like any other 

during our travels my camera was broken. It was a big bummer but it still works half of the time. Sometimes it takes some strange photos. I decided to roll with the punches and enjoy them for what they were. Here is Yeshe and Karma Sherab at the new retreat center built by Shamar Rinpoche in Kathmandu.(it has been doctored a little) 

Buddha Statue at Swayambunath 

Swayambunath is often called "Monkey Temple" due to the large population of monkeys that live up there. They can be cute,annoying or just plain scary depending on the day and their mood. 

Buddha statue at Swayambunath. 

Swaymabunath Stupa. People walk up the endless flight of stairs all day long to circumambulate this ancient stupa. the wheels the lady in red are spinning have the mantra "Om Mani Padme Hum" on them. These prayer wheels suround the entire stupa. 

Swayambunath Stupa 

Buddha statue at Swayambunath stupa, Kathmandu. This place is where I spent most of my time. One of the monks I was traveling with was originally from the monastery that is next to the stupa and he lived there for the duration of our trip. 

This was the view outside of our window in Pokhara. Those white spots in the sky are not clouds. That is one of the highest mountains in the world. Unfortunately, polution is so bad in India and Nepal these days that it is rare to catch a full glimpse of these majestic beauties. 

Truth is no stranger to fiction

Many of you may be wondering why it has taken me so long to write. My reasons are many. The responsibility of documenting experience is much more difficult than one might assume. To explain what I am talking about we must first look at the meaning of the word “experience”. This word is defined as “ practical contact with and observation of facts or events” or to “encounter or undergo (an event or occurrence)”. The documenting of such experiences is, as explained in the definition, to give an account of one’s “practical contact” or “encounters” via the “facts” observed by the one who experienced said “occurrences” or “events”. Hence, we must then take a closer look at the word “fact”. A “fact” is defined as “ pieces of information which can be proved to be true” or “a thing that is indisputably the case”. If a person is asked to explain their observations or “experience” of the sun, each individual could easily give seemingly different responses to this inquiry. One may describe it’s warmth and how it melts the snows on the mountain tops to replenish the rivers and streams that flow into the valleys or the way it can soak up the moisture from the earth caused by the morning dew. Another may describe it’s brilliant light and how it allows us to see clearly during the day. Yet another may take a scientific approach and explain how it is made of gasses and give reasons for the occurrence of day and night caused by our planet’s orbit around this sun. A person could give a botanical perspective of the sun and describe the way the vitamins that permeate the sun’s rays are transferred to all plant life thus occupying a pivotal role in the ecosystem of our entire planet. And so on and so forth, each person describing what he or she feels is the most accurate aspect of their perception of the sun. Now, I will ask you, are any of these descriptions more “indisputably the case” than the others? If you answered no, which for the sake of argument I will assume you did, then you agree that life is a multifaceted experience with limitless observations and perspectives.
Our insight into truth is no more accurate than our ability to put this “truth” into words. What we perceive is just that, what we perceive. It is nothing more and nothing less. Our perceptions are but a drop of water in the vast ocean of truth. Even when setting out to accurately describe one’s own experience, knowing that he/she will not be able to describe the reality of the circumstances surrounding the incident, one still confronts obstacles in his/her attempt at putting into words the many sided aspects of the individual human experience. If a new mother were to describe the experience of her labor, she may begin by telling you about her first labor pains of uterine contractions. She then may tell you about the journey to the hospital. Maybe this journey was well planned and calculated or maybe it was manic and adventurous. She may then explain the amount of time spent in labor painstakingly responding to the doctor or midwife’s every order and what great efforts she made during these trying hours. She may speak of the joy of seeing her child for the first time, of watching her newborn take it’s first breath and the feeling she had when it gave it’s first cry. She may tell you about holding her new baby in her arms and the relief of knowing that her baby is healthy. She may describe a whole myriad of emotions and use countless descriptive words in an attempt to simulate for the listener the experience of childbirth. However, try as she might, she will never be able to accurately piece together the innumerable emotions and events in a way that allows the listener to truly understand the unfathomable collection of sensory and emotional faculties that created such an experience. Our experiences are just minute increments of sensory data placed one after another in flashes of hot/cold, good/bad, dark/light, big/small etc which are then filtered through our habitual emotional responses and logical judgments of the given sensory data and then assimilated afterwards as a single moment we label “experience”. Truth is rarely perceived and even more rarely conveyed. If truth in fact could be expressed with cleverly used words, then simply after reading a book about war one could call himself a soldier. If truth could be expressed with words, then the realizations of Plato or Aristotle could be felt by all by simply reading their philosophical treatises. If truth can be perceived by the words of others, then any man who has read the Bible, the Koran, the Bhagavad-Gita, the discourses of the Buddha and so on would have obtained the wisdom and knowledge of the saints who compiled these verbose elucidations. We all know that this is not the case, yet we insist on trying to put our experiences into words in the hopes that by sharing our experiences we can somehow share the responsibility of placing meaning to the series of events that we call our lives and deceive ourselves with the notion that we do not travel the path from birth to death alone.
One major obstacle in conveying our thoughts with others is the inevitable distortion of our words as they travel from our mouths, which are possibly already tainted with insufficiencies, to the ears of the listener and then filtered through the same chain of sensory data and emotional responses as mentioned above. Therefore, the perception of the experience, which is an attempt to create a copy of the original, is then recalled by the one who experienced it, endeavored to be described and then passed on to another carrier who then attempts to piece together the information in a facsimile of the original experience illustrated by the one who had the experience. This is like making a copy of a copy of a copy. The unavoidable outcome is a hazy and often completely erroneous view of the events attempted to be described.
We must also take into consideration our ego and it’s inability to see our own faults and shortcomings that could be important elements of the experience, yet not revealed so easily to the one who is having the experience. We all have imperfections and shortcomings, which are responsible for our idiosyncratic behavior. In other words, these things are what make us who we are. In most cases we are not aware of these idiosyncrasies, which perpetuates these habits since we are unable to perceive them, and therefore are unable to adjust and account for their influence. However, the influence of our habits is undeniable and the ego’s failure to recognize this is exactly what makes the influence so powerful. Habit produces thought, thought produces action, action produces consequences and these actions and consequences are collected together and recognized as an experience. The stealthy manner in which our habits affect our outcome is rarely seen by the perpetrator. We see what we want to see. By all tests of logic it has been proven that emotions and emotional responses are created by the person who experiences them. No outside force can manipulate the molecular make up of your body. The neurological chemical reactions that cause emotions are completely contained in the interior of our body and are in no way controlled by outside factors. There is evidence of this when two people share a similar experience yet have completely different emotional reactions. However, we most often describe things around us as causing our emotions. “ He made me angry.” “The smiling child made me happy.” This is our ego’s attempt at pushing the responsibility of our current state of being on to the outside world and creating the psychological perspective that we have little or no faults of our own and therefore are not responsible for our situation. Although, if our situation is a desirable one, our ego may want to recall the events that lead up to this desirable state and then take full responsibility not only for the factors that were in it’s control but then also take credit for those variables that were beyond the control of any individual, thus adding to the distortion of the true events and creating a truth that suits the person’s ego and strong sense of self. So, we often find that, especially when recounting a story of our own experience, we cannot help but tell the story that is in essence more comfortable for us to tell.
If I were to try to put into words my recent trip to Nepal, I might begin with some witty remarks about the differences between Asians and Americans. I might talk about the trials of traveling on a bus for two days through the countryside of Nepal with five monks and a busload of Nepalese and Indians headed to unknown destinations for unknown reasons. I could tell you about making faces and playing games with the baby in the seat beside me for hours while she sat on the lap of her sleeping parents. I could talk about the grave political situation and how every two hours we were stopped by the military and scrupulously inspected. I could talk about the surprising observations I made about the private life of a monk. I might mention the way everyone assumed I was rich and persistently harassed me to either buy what they were selling at 10 times the cost or just to simply give them money for no reason. I might mention the negative way Westerners are perceived by the insecure and divided masses of Nepal. I could talk about the insults and ridicule I received from some people of Kathmandu and the folks on the return bus trip. I could talk about our taxi breaking down in the middle of the mountains on our way to Namo Buddha, a Buddhist pilgrimage. I could talk about having to then walk for hours through the Himalayan foothills through tiny village after tiny village. I could talk of the beauty I saw on the way. I could mention the peaceful nature of the villagers on the outskirts of the Kathmandu valley. I could tell you about the conversation I had with a local craftsmen in those hills who made birds out of bone and wood. I could talk about having to wait for four more hours after our 6-hour trek for the taxi to get fixed. I could tell you all about the food we ate and the people we met. I could tell you it was fun. I could tell you it was difficult. I could tell it was beautiful. I could tell you a lot of things that I though it was. All the things I could tell you would only be a small semblance of the true experience clouded by time, ego and my biased perspective of what is the truth. Therefore, rather than sell you a story of unintentional lies and give a vague impression of what it was or might have been, I will say the only thing I can say about my trip that is the total truth. It was.




DISCLAIMER: I don't take myself as seriously as this post may come across. I simply felt like writing something like that. if you truly are interested in the witty and not so funny details of my trip, I will gladly tell you all about it. When I sat down to write, I just wrote what was on my mind at that time. I do not claim to be an expert at anything and I only temporarily believe in the opinions expressed in this post.

These Old Tibetans from the near by Tibetan camp get up at sunrise every morning to prostrate in front of the monastery and circumambulate the monastery and stupas. 

This is the monastery that we stayed in while we were in Pokhara Nepal