Interval in Varanasi

addendum to Kushinagar

Cris objected to my glossed over version of the parting with Vinaud, our driver from Sonauli to Varanasi. And so I’ll take a moment to amend the last entry. Vinaud was in his late 20s, maybe 30, not yet married, apparently has a girlfriend currently studying nursing in Saudi Arabia. In the final hours prior to our arrival in Varanasi he inquired repeatedly about my willingness to stay in contact. It’s an interchange I have encountered many times. People in Nepal were always probing to discern one’s willingness to help out with an entry visa for the US or help finding their way into school or a job. But from Vinaud there had been other questions, like When would I be coming back to India? Had I had a boyfriend when I lived in Nepal? Not one?! Not a single Nepali boyfriend?! And that boyfriend back in the US, the English teacher, when were we going to get married? Vinaud explained that if I called his mobile just once from America then he could call back and I wouldn’t have to pay. I explained, truthfully, that I currently have neither home nor phone and delicately evaded a direct answer with a simple herau (we’ll see).
Upon arrival at our hotel, Vinaud was warmly greeted having called ahead to a number of friends who work here. After depositing my bag I returned to say farewell. I found Vinaud in the hotel’s travel agency where he introduced me to one of the staff, yet another Nepali speaker. While Vinaud rather bashfully extended a scrap of paper with his name and phone number, his friend Tika was the one, in a delightfully indirect Asian fashion, who articulated Vinaud’s wishes more explicitly. He commented how much Vinaud had enjoyed meeting me, how sweetly I speak Nepali, what a good person I am (all customary Nepali flattery). Furthermore, he explained that Vinaud would be very happy to accompany me on any further outings during my time in India…even tonight, for example, if I was interested to go out after I had rested…or if in the coming days I had free time while in Varanasi, I need only call his mobile and he would happily drive back (the 250km) from Sonauli. I thanked Vinaud and Tika returning equally customary but hopefully more neutral flattery to Vinaud and said a parting namaste.

Varanasi

The first day in Varanasi was filled with nourishing quiet and rest. At dawn on the second day I went out on the waters of the Ganga. The Varanasi boat ride was one of the most intimate and moving experiences for my father during a trip my parents took to India in 1998, after visiting me in Nepal. The young Argentinian I met in Lumbini likewise spoke of the ghats (steps leading down to the Ganges) and their powerfully mystical quality. And so I went primed for a serene and somehow magical experience.
Navigating the river were dozens and dozens of tourist filled row boats. Some held 30 or more people with accompanying tour guide vocally conducting from the bow. The overall atmosphere felt like a slightly more reverent version of this country’s congested streets. Occasionally a hawker would careen into and hold onto our row boat, his own filled with wares for sale; marigold garlands, candles, postcards, videos, trinkets, and statues of Hindu Gods. As we ghosted along, I wondered if the boat arrangement was a clever way the Indians have devised to keep the tourists out of their hair. Allow us to look, but keep us out of the ghats. Intended or not, it quite brilliantly relegates most tourists to a movie screen experience of the entire dawning panorama, leaving the banks of the Ganges, I believe appropriately, in the hands of those for whom the river is laundry room, cremation site, ritual bathing place and God. I felt like a voyeur.
I found the sunrise view compelling in one particular respect. The river’s alluvial plane extends approximately a kilometer before reaching a distant hazy tree line. An impressive array of buildings crowd up to the stairs’ edge on the Varanasi side. However, looking east lies the most open expanse of land I have seen without human inhabitation since arriving in this country. Were I to live in a place with so little room afforded to the individual, I might too be drawn to praise a sun which rose across such a sweeping open space.
During and after the boat ride I reflected on past experiences in which I have felt less like an outsider. During my hospital work in Nepal, I witnessed the cremation of one of my patients. I rummaged back amongst old computer files to find the narrative. I believe it would be hard to rival the vividness and intimacy of that experience which is recounted below. In addition, I recognize that with our arrival in Varanasi, I lost my linguistic link to the surrounding culture. Many Indians speak English. However, it is my language and that of preexisting colonial rule, not their own. Considering all of this, my dawn experience on the Ganga of distance, even alienation is perhaps not so surprising. Note the account below is graphic and perhaps best to skip for the faint of heart.

I met Pravin at the hospital the morning after the death. Together, we went to collect Bahadur’s body. Inside the morgue it was cool and smelled stagnant. We found Bahadur’s body wrapped in white gauze. Pravin picked up his shoulders. I wrapped my fingers around his tiny ankles and we lifted his body. I thought it would sag in the middle; I expected his tiny body to be unwieldy. It was stiff, like a pine board, dead not even twelve hours. I gazed at his shape through the gauze, thinking about the words we had exchanged two days ago, thinking about the voice that had come from this body, now silenced. We moved him to a stretcher, into the back of a “dead ambulance,” and headed for the pyres of Pashupatinath.
I remember the heat of that day, that time of year before the rains come to cool the earth and fill the terraces. I learned to walk slowly on such days. That morning moved slowly with me, giving me enough time to absorb every detail. I had walked by the pyres a dozen times, always covering my mouth, choking on the smell. However, I had not before witnessed the cremation of any of the patients who died during my work. I felt a need to lay Bahadur’s body to rest, to see a body just like my own reduced to ash. Fifty feet away another cremation was in process. One rigid leg stretched out of the flames, muscle and skin remaining from the knee socket down. I stared without shame. As the sons of the deceased attempted to push the leg back into the blaze the corner of the pyre collapsed. The leg tumbled to the ground. With some difficulty, they pushed it back into the flames with a lengthy bamboo pole. I stood dumbstruck, as this human leg was pushed around like another piece of bamboo.
Pravin lit a small piece of wood and circled the body three times. He pulled the gauze back from his uncle’s face, set it on his lips, and recovered the face sending a ribbon of smoke into the air, like a visible, final breath. The fire was lit. Long wet grass was laid on top of the body. As the flames leapt upward they caught his hair first. It sizzled and coiled in on itself, blackened. I was overwhelmed by an almost childlike fascination with every detail. I did not cry, nor did I feel mournful. I saw this as Bahadur’s healing.
The fire consumed the flesh on his legs first, and eventually the attendant used a long bamboo pole to bend the legs back onto the abdomen. Occasionally he would bring the pole down hard on the body, gaining a sense of what was left. When the legs were no longer bone and tissue but smoke and ash, the body was carefully rotated using the pole—no lurching, no falling limbs. Bahadur’s skull and abdomen faced down into the earth, eating the fire. I stood and observed each detail, mildly numb, pensive, humbled by how our bodies burn as quickly as wood. It took only three hours for his body to be reduced to ash and swept into the creeping Bagmati River.
There was nothing left, not a bone, not a piece of hair, not a fingernail. I walked away from Bahadur’s cremation. I took a bus into the city to visit Palgi. Arriving at the bottom floor of her tiny apartment building, I paused and steadied myself, cheek and palm pressed against the cool cement wall. I shut my eyes for a moment and breathed more deeply than I had since the quiet of my morning zazen. I could smell the infection walking up the stairwell toward Palgi’s room. I had walked away from death and was walking again into death. We sat quietly after I explained where I had come from. That day, it was she who held my limp hand. We sat in silence, my eyes and mind still full of flames.

After the boat ride, our small group from the hotel was shuttled around to visit two different Hindu temples. Our guide was a borderline evangelical Brahmin caste Hindu, very passionate and vocally so about his faith and life view. In the context of those visits, I realized something these recent days. In Sarnath, Kushinagar, a bit less in Lumbini, I felt like I was visiting my place, like these sites were also for me. This morning, seeing and entering into places of worship for those of another faith I felt distinctly that it wasn’t my home. I was an outsider, and I have no interest in being a voyeur. This is a, perhaps the most fundamental and dynamic tension present for me in travel. I have a strong aversion to being detectably invasive and suppose this is the primary reason I have chosen to travel in few places for longer periods of time, optimally where I know people of that place.

***

On our 3rd morning I set out in search of an envelope en route to the post office. I wandered along the street stopping at the first corner store. They directed me next door to a shop almost identical in size and nature. Upon requesting the envelope in English, a 4 word interaction, the shopkeeper inquired, “Excuse me ma’am, are you Australian?” “Well…my mother is Australian, but I was raised in America.” “I have met many foreigners and your features look very Australian.” I was welcomed, by Mr Khan the shop owner, to sit down. We proceeded to have a lengthy conversation involving 3 silent onlookers and tea, served to all in the ubiquitous palm sized one-use terra cotta cups. Mr. Khan was most intrigued by why anyone would go to study in Nepal as there was no major university there and what use was it to speak Nepali. We spoke of the influence religion has on culture. I explained that traveling to a country the roots of which were non-Judeo Christian was one of the primary motivators in my initial travel to Asia.

In the haze of that late afternoon I returned to walk along the ghats. Every evening sunset is accompanied by a service at the main Dasadhwamedh Ghat. I wanted to give another try to the experience of Varanasi’s stretch of the Ganga. I had a very peaceful stroll along the steps. There were foreigners scattered through the crowd, however many of the women were dressed in culturally respectful Punjabi dress and I found the overall tourist presence somehow less offensive in this context than during the dawn boat ride. The Indians seemed largely unconcerned by us foreigners and carried on with their activities; drinking tea, chatting with friends, conducting prayer or puja. There were many young children wandering around with platters of marigold garlands and candle filled offering bowls for sale. While their pitch became more insistent as dusk approached, their manner was not particularly harassing or aggressive. I felt more comfortable tucking myself in a quiet corner and taking in the open common space, surrounded by the people for whom it is a part of their daily and sacred lives.

***

Akin to the cremation stupa in Kushinagar, I found the qi of Sarnath’s Dhammekha Stupa similarly organic and powerful. I took this morning of our last day to return there, only 8km away. Having arrived rather early, for the first hour or so it was only myself circumambulating with half dozen of Tibetan stock; the soft shuffle of feet along worn flat stone, the gentle murmur of mantras, occasional bells from nearby temples.
I said a silent prayer of gratitude for all those who have contributed to my journey along this Dharma path. My teachers Zoketsu Norman Fischer, Shodo Harada Roshi, Dai Chi. In some ways almost more sustaining on a day to day basis have been the brothers and sisters I have encountered in this practice over the years ~ John * Lillian * Dan * Florence * Tim * Gillian * Ed * Yusan * Shosan * Sokei * Robby * Mimi * Matthew * Jeff * Mary * Cris * Jay * Betty * Enen * Judy * Miche. And all of these people further stand on the shoulders of so many generations who have turned this wheel for such a very long time.
While I write here with reasonable openness, beneath what I articulate about this journey is a deeper exploration of my internal landscape. These days I have been looking at patterns in my behavior and character which are extremely distant from any enlightened state and frustratingly obstinate. And like all those who have practiced right in the crucible of their own human limitations, I keep picking myself up like a child, dusting off my knees, and placing one foot in front of the other. This too is part of the pilgrimage.
We have now spent four days in Varanasi. Although Cris continues to have residual chest congestion and fatigue, his energy and spirits are greatly improved. Tomorrow we travel by train to Bodh Gaya, where the Buddha achieved enlightenment.

Welcome to India!

I have contributed to this writing incrementally over the past 2 weeks and only with our arrival in Varanasi have had the opportunity to post this, now, lengthy narrative.

New Delhi ~ Return to a place I have never been

I was not prepared for India to feel so familiar. Since my arrival in Delhi, I have been stunned by the resonance with my experiences in Hindu Nepal. There has been a profound sense of returning

I have returned to a land where rains bathe the land
only in summer, and the Winter and Spring
are enveloped in a cloud of pollution and dust.
I have returned to a world of vibrantly dressed women,
flowing folds of silk and cotton, crimson, fuchsia, vermillion,
long black braids fall down their backs, the ears
and wrists of those who can afford it adorned in gold.
I have returned to a territory where dawn is greeted
with offerings to the Gods; candles, incense, food
laid at shrines unabashedly nestled between storefronts,
as regular a part of the landscape as bicycle rickshaws
and push stands selling bananas, oranges, pomegranate.
And all this occurs to the blaring soundtrack from
the most recent Hindi film and the guttural clearing
of mouth and sinuses by men…and women.
I have returned to a place where tucked into the space
of a glorified broom closet, one finds the corner store
but they aren’t relegated to corners, they are ubiquitous
and within one finds batteries, soap, stick –on-bindi,
deyhydration salts, matches, school notebooks,
lice shampoo, kite string, biscuits, candy…
I have returned to a place where a subtle wiggle
of the head, and anyone who has every traveled
to the subcontinent knows the gesture of which I speak,
indicates yes and okay and occasionally a non-commital
no without the speaker really saying no.
And I have returned to one of the many corners of the world
where a good measure of the goods used
to sustain human life are transported short distances
born on the head or back of another human.

 

Sarnath ~ The Deer Park in which the Buddha Taught for the First time

One of the things which led me to study in Nepal in 1994 was a desire to spend time in a country the roots of which were not Judeo-Christian in origin. I didn’t have much previous exposure to Buddhism in theory or practice. In a lecture given by one of the professors from Tribuvan Universe in Kathmandu entitled something like Introduction to Mahayana Buddhism, I recall him paraphrasing or perhaps even directly quoting the Buddha, “When you take a deep breath, be aware you are taking a deep breath. When you take a shallow breath, be aware you are taking a shallow breath.”
It made rather pure and fundamental sense to me, the idea of being awake and aware to what I was doing, whatever that was. It was more than a year later that by another series of events I found my way to a Zen sitting group in my college town of Waterville, Maine. If you’re interested in a longer account of the journey that led me there, it appears in an anthology of essays garishly titled Blue Jean Buddha, subtitle something like essays by young Buddhists.
My Buddhist practice has never been devotional. By that I mean I do not revere the Buddha as God. For many years I even shied away from the title Buddhist. Rather I articulated that I had a Buddhist meditation practice. For me, both initially, and throughout these years of practice it has remained exactly that, practice. I meditate on the cushion so that when I get up and move around in the world I will hopefully, at the most rudimentary level, remain aware when I am taking a deep or shallow breath. My intention and desire is for the ripples of that awareness to permeate my thought, speech, and actions. And like a small child who, when learning how to walk, doesn’t give up after falling down I keep picking myself up, dusting off my knees and trundling along every breath, every day.

***

Over the time I lived in Nepal, I withdrew more and more from Hindu culture, gravitating instead toward the people and customs of my closest friends who were all of Tibetan rooted ethnic groups (primarily Sherpa and Tamang). It was with them that I found the greatest warmth and ease. And while my days in the dusty, urban streets of Delhi were a return to Hindu culture, my arrival at Sarnath, wandering through the Deer Park, in which the Buddha first began teaching the Dharma, and the other temples and stupas, I have found more of those of I’ll just call them Tibetan stock. Again, there has been a wave of homecoming.
First in the Archaeological Museum I encountered perhaps half a dozen in Tibetan dress, prayer beads (malas) in hand, touching their foreheads to every statue, muttering om mani padme hum. These were hill people, reasonably rumpled even tattered dress, their lack of familiarity with the modern so evident in the very way they moved. Within the Deer Park, I spent some time sitting close to the Dharmek Stupa, a huge monument 28 meters in diameter and 33 high, dating to the Mauryan Period (323-185 BCE). While it’s unknown what the stupa was built to commemorate, it is assumedly the site of the Buddha’s preaching to his first 5 disciples. It is the focal point of the park for devotees. Some meditate close by. Some circumambulate, laying flowers or white silk scarves (katas). Several groups of Tibetan stock were doing prostrations, chanting. I sat close to one such group and sank deeply into their recitation; rhythmic, both melodic and softly guttural.

The end of our second day in Sarnath, I returned to this stupa to circumambulate. As dusk approached, the small crowd further thinned leaving only myself and a dozen of Tibetan stock with their soft voices and the gentle click of prayer beads. A swell of gratitude inside was ushered in with tears. I wept quietly as I walked. I felt tremendous tenderness and a sense of shared humanity. I felt gratitude for all of those who have turned the wheel of the Dharma paving the way for me to practice, to be aware when my breath is shallow and when it is deep.

Sonauli ~It’s All Part of the Pilgrimage

“Despite its dry climate and harsh environment, India, along with Egypt, China and Mesopotamia, was one of the great cradles of human civilization. It was the central Ganges valley, or what was called the Middle Land (majjhimades), that many of Indian civilization’s greatest ideas and innovations sprang up. The Buddha was born in the Middle Land and spent his whole life walking its dusty roads, meditating in its dry forests and teaching in its cities, towns and villages…The extent of the Middle Land is very precisely defined in the ancient Buddhist scriptures. In the Vinaya we are told that it extended in the east to the town of Kajangata, in the southeast to the Salalavati River, in the southwest to the town of Satakannika, in the west to the Brahmin village of Thuna and its northern borders are marked by the Usiraddhaja Mountains…
…Being as it were the sacred land of Buddhism, the Middle Land has inspired pilgrims throughout the centuries to overcome enormous obstacles and to risk their lives to see the places associated with the Buddha’s life. They have come from all the regions of India, from China, Korea, Sumatra, Burma and Sri Lanka…descending into the hot dusty atmosphere of the Middle Land often meant sickness or even death for these travelers…Of the many who set out, a large number never returned, and some never even managed to get to the Middle Land…Even if they pilgrims still faced the considerable hardships that the unhealthy climate, the not infrequent political strife and the long deserted roads offered…But those who successfully completed a pilgrimage and returned home safely did so with their faith stronger than ever, and the knowledge that they had walked where the Buddha had walked gave them a joy that remained with them all their lives…To set out on a pilgrimage required patience, courage, faith and a cheerful disregard for hardships, and those who returned home found these qualities strengthened.”
                                                 ~ Middle Land, Middle way S Dhammika

By contrast to those who have traveled before us, our way is easy. We have access to a wide variety of transportation. We are not traversing mountains in winter. And although precautions against malaria and dysentary are important, there is likely less threat of disease and death than faced by previous pilgrims. Having given Cris free reign to determine the itinerary and parameters of this journey, he decided 3-4 weeks seemed reasonable. And yet, these recent days have been a series of decisions to pare down the number of stops on the itinerary due to the pragmatic reality of time. Movement between places in this part of the world seems to require hours of leg work in preparation and close to a day in execution, almost regardless of the distance.
Cris and I share a similar sensibility in prioritizing more time spent in fewer places, and still we have spent the lion’s share of our time moving rather than being still. AND my own mantra for this trip…this, too, is the pilgrimage, every moment, every breath, every irritation and challenge, my internal response, every morsel of it constitutes the pilgrimage. I’m learning a great deal. With that learning comes growth, and that very growth is one of the elements compelling this chapter of travel in my life.

***

When one is traveling by bus in this part of the world, there is little to do other than gaze out the window and take in the landscape. Golden mustard fields * markets filled with carts and tarps stacked with mounds of cauliflower, red onion, green cabbage, eggplant, beans, greens, pomegranate, oranges, bananas * water buffalo with their skin draped heavily off the bone * kites dancing in the sky * children and adults squatting on a wall, beside a field, beneath a tree bare ass to the wind as they have a BM * children in British blue school uniforms * small mud houses – I know the feeling of these houses on the inside, the smell of the earthen walls and the cook fire * hand hewn furniture, hand plane being used to smooth table tops and chair arms, these items likely going into the large concrete homes lightly peppered through the countryside, towering over the majority of one story structures * occasionally a few women in full, black burka * roadside restaurants, open to the air with rice, daal and vegetables awaiting buses like ours to pause, purge their human contents and feed quickly before moving on * small store fronts with glass cases of Indian sweets, little other glass in the entire village but automobile windows * the bicycle repair man with his wares of tubes and chains set out on a tarp on the ground * tiny men folded on themselves squatting, stainless steal cup filled with milk sweetened tea in hand * stacks of discarded tires , piles of rebar, bamboo, hay, dung drying in the sun, the odd vibrant clump of marigolds; children wandering and playing freely, chickens roaming freely, cattle, goats * a two man team, one with the wheelbarrow, one with the shovel, patching holes in the road with broken concrete and tar * the occasional shrine with altar reddened by tika * sarees hanging out to dry * dusty trees the only thing breaking an expansive flat landscape of fields which disappears into the hazy horizon.

Sonauli was not on the itinerary. It is not a sacred Buddhist site. Sonauli is the border crossing between India & Nepal where we arrived between 9 and 10pm after taking 12 hoursby bus to traverse the 250km from Sarnath. The space afforded the body on public buses is…suboptimal, even for me a humble 5’5″, Cris’ 6’4″ is another story. I had a penchant for riding on top of buses in Nepal, but that seems to be illegal here. And so traveling on a rough not quite two lane road, the driver, one hand engaging the horn most minutes, safely threaded us between bicycles, cows, trucks, other buses, tuk-tuks, and carts filled with everything from hay to building materials. And this, every bump and groove is a part of the pilgrimage.
Arriving so late, we were discouraged from making the remainder of the journey to Lumbini that night and stayed in a rather dingy hole in Sonauli. I have a reasonable amount of experience with such rudimentary lodging arrangements. However, I recognize now, having witnessed Cris’ response to our night in Sonauli, that my threshold for such accommodations may exceed average. It was a difficult journey; many hours of cramped jostling inhaling air thick and chokingly dusty & polluted. Still, close to the end of it I commented light heartedly, “but look, we’re traveling under the full moon in INDIA!”

***

My return to Nepal for the first time since December 1998 is a rather mixed experience. It has been a positive delight to casually banter with everyone from the border guards to children along the road and bask in the comments of how sweetly I speak their language. And this, this southern strip of the country is not my home within this place. My home is further north. It is Bouddhanath, one of the two major Buddhist stupas and the heart of the Sherpa and Tibetan community within the Kathmandu Valley. It is portions of the middle & high hills, Simigaun and the Rolwaling Valley in the Dolkha district, these are home. While I am intellectually clear about my decision to continue from India on to Taiwan rather than traveling for a stretch in Nepal, my arrival here has ushered in an understandable and I believe healthy sense of wistfulness and yearning. And all this too is part of the pilgrimage.

Lumbini ~ Birth Place of the Buddha

I visited here in the autumn 9 years ago. At that time the Nepali government had just launched a huge campaign to beautify and enliven Lumbini and opened parcels of land to a variety of countries for temple development. Lumbini was and is still a dusty, rather disjointed little place with a Disney Land quality; each country enthusiastically demonstrating pride and prowess by building a bigger and better temple than the others.
The Nepali government’s efforts are visible in some aspects of infrastructure; a paved pathway alongside the canal which divides Mahayana temples to the west, Theravadan on the eastern side. The main Maya Devi Temple, site marking where the Buddha was born, has been surrounded by carefully tended gardens, meditation platforms built around some of the larger trees throughout. Hundreds of fresh strings of prayer flags are hung between the trees, perhaps simply a manifestation of more pilgrims visiting at this time. I recall only several lifeless strands from my previous visit.

In just these recent days I have had a number of delightful encounters with other travelers; always an intriguing experience to learn both where people have just come from in the immediate sense, but also in the larger sense, how and why they have come to subcontinent. Justina, a bright eyed Argentinian woman in her early 20s, and I were sharing one of the dormitory style rooms here at the Korean Temple. She reminds me much of myself a decade ago when my travels were more open in purpose and time horizon. Her eyes shone with a particular receptivity and curiosity which I see as an almost intrinsic and precious element of that era of life. In Sravasti, where the Buddha spent much of the last 20 years of his life, she arrived intending to stay for a meditation retreat and then continue on, but she ended up staying a month…because she could. When she spoke of her experiences at a variety of pilgrimage sites, she articulated something I have felt but not yet put words to,
You know, these places here and in northern India, it’s nice to visit them, but there’s really nothing there. You go and find a patch of dusty grass. You can sit under a tree. But I can go just outside the gardens of that place and sit under a tree anywhere, and farther away from all the people it is probably even more peaceful.

***

Since our fateful night in Sonauli Cris’ health moved in a downward spiral with an aggressive assault by cold and damp or a probable bacterial upper respiratory infection depending on one’s vocabulary and health paradigm…I try to think in both. On our second day in Lumbini, after a feverish night and the decision to begin a course of antibiotics, Cris spent much of the day resting.
I went out for a walk in the afternoon and at one of the Tibetan temples encountered some of the most astounding tanka paintings I have ever seen; covering the ceiling, interior walls, and wrapping around the entirety of the exterior. The gem of the day occurred when, after hesitating a bit at the entry way, I chose to wander into the Thai temple, thinking I would just stop in shortly to see the interior and continue walking. I made eye contact with one of the monks and, simply upon asking how many others lived there, opened an animated conversation. Over the following hour and half we chatted, I was served coffee and some fresh Thai sweets, given a tour of the garden verdant with both vegetables and a variety of herbs they use medicinally and shown their home made steam bath. I was quite inspired by the steam bath construction. A leaning bamboo frame, maybe 8’ square-ish, stands covered in pale blue plastic. A pipe is fed through a hole in the plastic on one side. The pipe attaches to a 5 gallon recycled metal cooking oil container which is stuffed full of fresh lemongrass and other herbs, heated over a small fire and produces steam to fill the small plastic enclosed space.
Sudas (or Sutaap?), the monk additionally introduced me to Vilia, a Thai woman in her late 60s with a firey and vital spirit. She has been over from Thailand for about a month, lived and studied in the US for sometime. We spoke at length. She explained that if she had truly found the Dharma earlier in life she would not have married. And she swore to herself, and gestured emphatically with a wide grin, she would not do this again, not the next time (ie she was not going to marry and have children in the next life, but rather devote it solely to the Dharma). She told me I had the sparkle of contentment and freedom in my eyes.

En route to Kushinagar ~ Where the Buddha died/entered Parinirvana

Our departure from Lumbini began with a canvas-covered jeep ride from the Korean temple as far as the border. Cris’ rode, groaning, awkwardly scrunched in the back, head repeatedly banging against the roof. In the interest of Cris’ health we decieded against another dusty bus ride and had called ahead to arrange car and driver from the border as far as Kushinagar. When I walked up to introduce myself to the driver I asked if he spoke English, “No. Only Hindi & Nepali.” “Nepali?! Great!” I exclaimed and then we launched into comfortable banter. Vinaud, our driver, has been an extremely kind, gentle, patient blessing on our journey. He is one of the least aggressive drivers I have encountered since arrival in India, maybe laying on his horn only ever 30-40 seconds rather than at 15 second intervals as most drivers do.
As we approached Gorakhpur, Vinaud expressed concern for Cris’ health. He asked if we needed to see a doctor before continuing onto Kushinagar. After a quick mobile phone call Vinaud arranged to pick up a friend who knew good doctors. We proceeded to weave our way through the narrow pollution and vehicle choked streets of Gorakhpur. Our first 3 stops seemed rather discriminating, the friend asking for specific doctors. However, as we encountered queue after queue with proposed 2 hour waits, Cris’ stamina for the degraded air quality and over stimulation of the crowded streets declined. After an unfruitful hour, we abandoned the search, thanked and dropped off Vinaud’s friend, and carried onto Kushinagar. In contrast to our experience with the bus, Cris was actually able to rest and even doze during the ride.
As we were driving east to Kushinagar I began theoretical negotiations with Vinaud about his willingness to drive us as far as Varanasi (note that many of the explicity yeses written here were some version or another of the subcontinental non-verbal head wiggle.

“Vinaud brother, if we were interested to stay in Kushinagar one day and have you drive us on to Varanasi, would you be willing to do that?”
“Sure sister. Your friend is very sick. The bus will be uncomfortable and take lots of time. Driving will be peaceful for him. Okay wiggle.”
“How much would you ask?”
“Well, sister, you know it’s a long way. There are lots of toll stations between here and there. They ask a lot. And then I would have drive all the way back from Varanasi to Sonauli, 300km, it’s very far.”
“Yes brother, I understand. Already you have done so much for us. You have given my friend so much love {concern} (the direct translation from Nepali is to do/make love for someone, I find it a very endearing phrase which communicates providing care and concern). I understand that you have gone to a lot of trouble.”
“No, it hasn’t been any trouble for me.”
“Brother, tell me, how much might you ask?”
“Gas is really expensive. Here I’m with you today, then traveling all the way to Varanasi, and then a whole other day to return to Sonauli…3 days.”
“Brother, take your time. Think about it. There’s no hurry. When you have an idea, you tell me.”
wiggle, wiggle, wiggle

Perhaps an hour later Vinaud came back with an offer which I then countered. There was further discussion, and again we let the subject lie. Only toward our arrival in Kushinagar did we settle on final arrangements to everyone’s liking, the only way that I measure success in the realm of bartering.

We arrived in Kushinagar to find a similar cold dampness pervading everything as we had encountered in Lumbini, possible even worse. The blankets in the Chinese temple where we stayed were moist to the touch. We decided to take only the afternoon and following morning to visit Kushinagar. In the interest of Cris’ rehabilitation we would continue south to the warmer climate of Varanasi. Prior to heading north, Cris had surveyed the hotels in Varanasi and pre-booked several days at the Hotel Surya with modern amenities such as consistent electricity (not the case in any of the temples in which we stayed) hot water, toilet paper, a reasonable array of non-Indian food (to Cris’ liking), and internet (of particular importance to me). Cris’ mood lightened significantly that afternoon. I saw him smile for the first time in 3 days. Perhaps it was the antibiotics, perhaps the ease of the travel arrangements, perhaps some creature comforts on the very near horizon.

***

In contrast to previous times in my life, I do not feel so much draw or curiosity to participate in the ritual of those temples in which we are staying. While I feel great respect and gratitude for their unique traditions and the refuge they have offered us, over the years I have developed my own morning ritual in sitting practice. With this trip, I have incorporated 108 prostrations into my mornings; more homage to my experiences of the Dharma in Nepal than my own lineage and practice. I have vivid memories of crimson clothed monks extending their bodies in full length prostrations on the flat stones around the perimeter of Bouddhanath in Kathmandu. In addition to daily prostrations somehow rooting my attention at the beginning of each day on this journey, I also believe this practice is one of the primary reasons I have remained healthy amidst the exposure of this past week, slight scratchy throat one day, slight stuffy nose the next. Small cuts are slow to heal, things have become easily infected. Breaking a light sweat each morning and incorporating a bit of yang activity into a distinctly yin journey has felt critical. My leg muscles stopped burning after the first few days and the abrasions on my knees have almost stopped weeping.

***

There are several sites in Kushinagar related to the Buddha’s death/entry into Parinirvana. A modern structure, built in 1956 by the Indian government, houses a reclining Buddha statue which dates from the 5th century and is apparently one of the very few representations of the Buddha’s death found in northern India. With only about 4-6 feet of walking space tracing the perimeter of the statue, the entire space was a bottle neck of devotees, Buddhist monks, lay people, and Hindus. If one continues out of the center of this small town several kilometers one comes upon the Cremation Stupa, originally 34 meters in diameter. The stupa is now a remarkable, undulating mass of bricks, moss wrapping the northern side. Small white candles were lit in a few places, two groups of pilrims sat chanting and making offerings. The grounds are relatively small and immaculately kept, not a leaf left uncollected.
In this place, I experienced a powerful and somehow earthen quality unlike anything I have encountered on this journey. I didn’t have our book with me and so as I was circumambulating didn’t recall which site marked which event. I only registered the feeling, a very deep rooted quality, a stillness and it was compelling. I was struck by a sense of paradox; to experience a place which felt both powerful and intensely connected to the earth commemorating the cremation of a man whose entire life was dedicated to the teaching and helping others to awaken to the reality of impermanence. Although we didn’t talk about it much, both Cris and I had similar feelings about the stupa. We returned the following morning to spend some time there before our departure.

After breakfast in Kushinagar, shared with a precious group of about 20 monks under the age of perhaps 12, we began our journey back to Varanasi. It was a long day, traversing the same roads we had in the days prior; miles and miles of brilliant yellow mustard flowers. In one area, the fields were dotted with small mud covered conical smoke stacks emitting thick black smoke. The sugar cane harvest is underway and these are the way in which they process the cane.
We parted ways with Vinaud after 2 days of travel. He introduced me to one of his friends, recent Kathmandu transplant, who works here in the Hotel Surya, Varanasi. And so if I choose I have another opportunity for more guph suph (chat) in Nepali in these next couple days. Vinaud was a true blessing along our way. If you happen to be traveling anywhere in Uttar Pradesh he would be a spectacular traveling companion. While I encouraged him, for his own benefit in this economy, to work on his English, I can only say that in Nepali he is a delightful conversationalist and apparently gentle soul.

Cris’ health is improving although incrementally. Considering the stress to his body and mind over these recent days, we both find it quite extraordinary that his cardiac condition has remained stable . I believe it was the afternoon we were in Kushinagar, walking by the fruit stands that I asked him with an impish spirit how the equanimity was going? “Soon.” he commented with a slightly grave smirk. “soon. I’m evidently paying for all the sins of my evil karma of past lives.” “But just think,” I responded, “You’ve got me…after all you could be doing this alone. Then you would be really S-O-L.” We will stay here for 3 days and during that time deliberate about our movement on to Bodh Gaya and the surrounding area (Rajgir, Nalanda etc). This, too, is part of the pilgrimage.

 

 

Reflections in Transit

Travel presents interesting opportunities for introspection. Thoughts can be playfully and leisurely followed, like a cat pursuing butterfly. I begin these reflections thousands of feet into the sky, our plane passing over the labyrinth of islands and sea which make up Indonesia. Six hours brings me not yet a third of the way on my journey from Sydney via Bangkok to New Delhi where I will arrive this evening.

I have left behind the Australian summer, a city oriented toward play in and around salt water, a peculiar world of collared lizards and brashly colored birds, shadeless trees and pods which germinate only when shattered by the heat of bush fire. I have left a population of distinctly tall people. Maybe there is no discrepancy with the average height back in the US. However, my impression based on the majority of my family and friends in Oz is exemplified by the reality that I, granted only a strapping 5’5″, fit neatly beneath the arm of my 12 year old cousin Jack.

 

Even with a lifelong familiarity with Australian mores, toward the end of this visit I felt I was beginning to discern certain elements of the culture, at least based on my experiences of non-aboriginal populations in New South Wales & Queensland. There is a thought provoking fusion of vaguely British reserve with relaxed informality. The reserve I observed in the more customarily sardonic humor, certain social formalities, dietary inclinations, and greater restraint in the exchange of physical affection. And yet simultaneously this country hangs out in bikinis and board shorts, flip flops, even bare feet and some do so with an unsequestered beer in hand while strolling along the beach.

While the affluent suburbs of Sydney are pervaded by mega houses, old and new, many neighborhoods are made up, almost exclusively of small terrace-houses, moderate to very humble in size and nature. These along with their slightly more rural counterparts, the quintessential one story home, like the one in which my mum grew up just up the street from the Newcastle Iron Works, constitute the majority of my experience of small and mid-sized town Australia. This architectural texture, in conjunction with my experiences with family and friends, seem indicative of a more contented middle class sensibility, not such a drive for acquisition; more, better, bigger. This may or may not move in tandem with the renownedtall poppy syndrome, which at its best supports all to succeed and at worst undermines, even penalizes those with skills, gifts and self driven motivation.

Myriad other comparisons with US culture have been explored in dialogue over the past month; differences in dating and divorce patterns, race relations, relationship to the outside world, travel, market trends regarding technology, organic & whole food, health care both allopathic and alternative, politics etc.

I offer only skewed and limited snapshot of the Australian population and culture. These are simply a few impressions which linger for me as I move across the ocean, attempting to reflect and record certain perceptions before I enter yet another country. I believe it’s easy to assume that sharing a primary language necessarily reveals cultural similarity. While our shared Anglo-Saxon culture undoubtedly provides more likeness than say my autumn experiences in Israel, I think the commonality of language can impose an illusory sense of sameness and even blind us to the subtleties and differences.

 

***

 

There was something rather profound in returning to a place filled with family and friends, many of whom I have not seen in 8 years. When I last traveled in Australia I was 25 years old. I had left Nepal and was circuitously en route to the US. I was bound for Washington State having not lived there in 7 years. I was returning to begin from scratch. With only a B.A. in Political Science & International Studies along some obscure and intense life experiences with health care and death while in Nepal, I had little clue how I was going to find my way into hospice work, which I felt was my place.

In my final days in Australia, several people offered reflections about the differences they see in me now compared to at that juncture in my life. While I recall that chapter being marked by independence and strong self assurance, apparently I also appeared somewhat apprehensive, excitable, even struggling and a bit lost. It is no surprise really. At that threshold I was a piece of driftwood, floating along both open and subject to influence by life’s wind and currents with less clarity as to what the horizon held for me. As I wrote in this travel log’s intention & itinerary, in this chapter of travel there is a sense of openness even hunger to explore the unknown. However, in the midst of that, I also feel a distinct rootedness due to being at a more mature stage in life, the completion of studies which I am passionate and excited to move forward in practicing, and the presence of a companion who continues to provide sustaining encouragement and support.

 

***

 

While with my cousins at Mt Crosby, I pulled Barry Lopez’s About This Life off their library shelves to share with Ewan. I had read the then new book when staying with Rex & Susan 8 years ago. I recall being profoundly moved by Lopez’s essay Learning to See in which he writes of his decision to lay down his camera and career in photography. At that time, I myself was struggling with the separation from the world I felt a lens created. It has only been with the gift of a digital camera last year and the advent of this trip that I have returned to look at the world through a lens with any regularity.

Up at Mt Crosby, it was Ewan who brought my attention to the introduction of Lopez’s book, a passage which I find compelling enough to include here in its entirety. Lopez offers three suggestions for cultivating one’s skills as a writer. However, I believe his insights have implications for not only those interested in writing but for anyone who desires to BE ALIVE! I am almost positive that if I were to go back to my journal from my last Australian visit that I would find the entirety of this passage written in my own pen amongst those pages.

 

Once I was asked by a seatmate on a trans-Pacific flight, a man who took the liberty of glancing repeatedly at the correspondence in my lap, what instruction he should give his fifteen year old daughter, who wanted to be a writer. I didn’t know how to answer him, but before I could think I heard myself saying, “Tell your daughter three things.” Tell her to read, I said. Tell her to read whatever interests her, and protect her if someone declares what she’s reading to be trash. No one can fathom what happens between a human being and written language. She may be paying attention to things in the words beyond anyone else’s comprehension, things that feed her curiosity, her singular heart and mind. Tell her to read classics like The Odyssey. They’ve been around a long time because the patterns in them have proved endlessly useful, and to borrow Evan Connell’s observation, with a good book you never touch bottom. But warn your daughter that ideas of heroism, of love, of human duty and devotion that women have been writing about for centuries will not be available to her in this form. To find these voices she will have to search. When, on her own, she begins to ask, make her a present of George Eliot, or the travel writing of Alexandra David-Neel, or ‘To the Lighthouse.’

Second, I said, tell your daughter that she can learn a great deal about writing by reading and by studying books about grammar and the organization of ideas, but that if she wishes to write well she will have to become someone. She will have to discover her beliefs, and then speak to us from within those beliefs. If her prose doesn’t come out of her belief, whatever that proves to be, she will only be passing along information, of which we are in no great need. So help her discover what she means.

Finally, I said, tell your daughter to get out of town, and help her do that. I don’t necessarily mean to travel to Kazakhstan, or wherever, but to learn another language, to live with people other than her own, to separate herself from the familiar. Then, when she returns, she will be better able to understand why she loves the familiar, and will give us a fresh sense of how fortunate we are to share these things. Read. Find out what you truly believe. Get away from the familiar. Every writer, I told him, will offer you thoughts about writing that are different, but these are three I trust.

 

Upon my recent rereading I was, again, moved by his sentiments and counsel. I have been fortunate in having lifelong family encouragement and the intuitive wherewithal to prioritize travel amongst life’s essentials. Travel has indeed been crucial to the process of self discovery and finding my own voice.  And this brings to mind another passage (provided across the wires by my poet professor Ewan), found in Luminous Things an annotated collection edited by Czeslaw Milosz.   He introduces each section with his own reflections and I was deeply moved by his words introducing travel,

In old Arabic poetry, love, song, blood, and travel appear as four basic desires of the human heart and the only effective means against our fear of death. Thus travel is elevated to the dignity of the elementary needs of humankind. “To sail is necessary, to live is not” (Navigare est necesse, nivere non est necesse)—-these words were, according to Plutarch, pronounced by a Roman before the departure of a ship in tempestuous weather. Whatever practical reasons push people out of their homes to seek adventure, travel undoubtedly removes us from familiar sights and from everyday routine. It offers to us a pristine world seen for the first time and is a powerful means of inducing wonder. And since poetry is an expression of wondering at things, landscapes, people, their habits and mores, poetry and travel are allied.

During my recent stretch in Australia, I also discovered renewed appreciation almost a reverence for the role family has played in providing a foundation and touchstone for me throughout my travels and my life. Many of us spend significant portions of our adult lives attempting to elucidate and in some cases liberate ourselves from patterns related to our families of origin. And yet these relationships also provide the very soil from which we emerge and grow into the world. I am blessed by a wealth of family, biological and chosen, throughout the world and by the contribution of these relationships to my life.

In a very tender interchange with cousin Tony days before my departure, he articulated the emotional importance, despite the ocean which separates us, of my parents, brother & me in his sense of family. Likewise, I feel the existence of my extended family has provided me with some very deep taproots, not only due to blood ties, but because of the sense of being ‘known’ and concurrently being a part of something larger than my small self. I cherish that. Similar sentiments arise when I consider other elements of my life in which I am connected to a lineage larger than myself; notably Zen practice and now Chinese medicine. At this writing, I feel expansive and penetrating gratitude for the roots present in my life, the anchoring they confer during this current period of travel.

 

***

 

Upon my arrival in New Delhi I will meet Cris, a friend who I met through meditation practice with the One Drop Sangha in Seattle. In 2002 Cris and his family relocated from Boston to Seattle for his wife’s work at the UW medical center. He spent years of his earlier life studying Zen practice in Japan, later worked as an engineer and in yet another career change finished his nursing degree just before moving out to Seattle. In 2006 Cris traveled with translator & Chinese scholar Bill Porter (Red Pine) to visit temples of the major Zen patriarchs in China. He has remained a dedicated Buddhist practitioner for decades.

For the 8 months prior to leaving the US, I provided acupuncture treatment to Cris for cardiac arrythmias and general wellbeing. Last Spring, as my travel itinerary was taking shape, originally to include time in Nepal, Cris inquired if I would be willing and interested to include a Buddhist pilgrimage in India. He invited me to be a traveling companion and offer OM treatment as needed in exchange for his taking care of traveling expenses. After meeting in New Delhi we will venture northeast on a pilgrimage to include Varanasi, Sarnath, Bodh Gaya, Rajgir, Lumbini, Kapilavasthu then crossing back the border to conclude in Calcutta from where I will fly out on February 9th to Taipei.

 

***

During my time in Australia, life experiences were frequently more compelling than the chronicle thereof. Taking that into consideration, along with the likelihood internet access will be more limited and the more contemplative nature of this chapter of travel, I intend to give myself a bit of breathing space from writing in as detailed a manner as I have aspired to do over these recent months. While I will continue this narrative, I envision more succinct entries, be they prose or vignettes in another form.

 

 

Final Sydney Chapter

After a couple days of rather extreme mental roiling in the wake of Ewan’s departure, having concluded an afternoon of errands in the city, I made my way to the station at Circular Quay to take a train back to Alice’s flat. Circular Quay is there on the waterfront, close by the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. It is the origination point for many of the ferry boats which skate endearingly along the waters of this sun filled, marine oriented city. Ewan and I passed through Circular Quay a number of times during our days here. That afternoon I felt his absence poignantly. And in that experience of quite purely and simply missing him, somehow all the mental churning settled. In that calm, I felt able to be more present, present to movement within my own heart. It is an interesting journey we are on together; nurturing this relationship at this distance marinating in our individual experiences along with the associated blessings and vulnerabilities.

***

My skin is a richer shade of brown than it has been in a very long time and this has occurred without effort, despite +30 sunscreen. My vitamin D levels must be in great shape. Hopefully the skin cancer risks will be moderated by my relatively short tenure here. This has been a sun filled time of play, has been since my arrival on this continent. Since Ewan’s departure I have attempted to balance a reasonably full series of family social visits with good centering exercise and writing which honestly helps me sift through it all. Alice and I have shared some wonderful time over morning walks, shared meals, and harbour pool swims.
My characteristic tendency in life is to trundle along open to social engagements until I arrive at some magic and unidentified threshold at which time I feel rather primally compelled to crawl into my hermit crab shell and simply be still for awhile. I have suspended some of my hunger for stillness in deference to squeezing in visits with the family and friends here in NSW. While ‘busy’, these meals and gatherings have largely been pervaded with ease and leisure.

***

Manly Scenic Walk with cousin Tony

When my grandfather was 9 years old, he boarded a ship with his parents and 4 siblings departing from Scotland for Australia. Each of the siblings married and had their own families which are now strewn largely along the eastern coast of this continent. On the other side, my grandmother’s maiden name was Barwick. In the early part of the 20^th century there were some 27 Mrs Barwicks living along Warrah Creek in rural NSW. The scope of my relations on this continent is extensive even in sticking to the closer branches of the family tree.
My maternal aunt Rosemary, who died of ovarian cancer 28 years ago, had three children, all of whom live in NSW. Stewy, Tony and Chrissie are very loving people, all who happen to be over 6 feet tall. They each lavished my brother Jason and me with attention and affection during our visits as kids. While these three, particularly because of their height, occupied near mythic status in my childhood mind, it is with them, along with the Alice, Susan & Rex that I have cultivated the closest, albeit rather sporadic, relationships during my adult life.
Tony has had a diverse series of careers, with over 20 years as a pilot and later photographer for the military, some years ago he returned to school and is now close to completing a second degree in psychotherapy. He has made a couple visits to the US and over more recent years been an erratic email correspondent. One day we met up to go on the Manly Scenic Walk, a stunning 9k hike along the north shore of the harbour, mostly through park and beach with a couple limited stretches through waterfront neighborhoods. Through a rather hot afternoon we hiked in and out of eucalypt forest, onto rock outcroppings with breathtaking views of the Harbour, along sandy coves filled with holidaying families and sunbathers, and back into the cool moisture retained by the eucalypts. We saw a lovely rust bellied iguana and many smaller lizards scuttling amongst the leaves.

Per my request, he spoke about my grandparents who he knew far better than I did due to the distance. He offered simple reflections on their characters, their marriage, my grandmother Nanny’s superlative hand at Scrabble, my grandfather Poppy’s fierce discipline, critical eye and self motivation, and their support and love for him. He spoke of the role my own mother played in Tony’s life; the adventurous auntie who sadly left the continent in her mid 20s, but who introduced him to exotic things like gelato on return visits after her world travels and settling in the US to marry my father, who she met in Mexico (another story worthy of its own narrative). Despite the distance between our homes, Tony feels a tremendous sense of closeness and resonance with my entire family. Our afternoon hike along with a few other visits we managed in recent days afforded us an opportunity to further cultivate a connection at this stage in our lives as adults.

***

Free Marine Amusement Park Ride

One afternoon Alice and I ventured to Nielsen Park, a harbour pool in the eastern suburbs, the cove demarcated by stunning golden sandstone. ‘Look, Moby Dick,’ Alice commented satirically pointing out one formation which resembled a whale breach. The barrier designating the pool is only a flexible rope net suspended from an arc of cable 15-20 feet above the water. In recent days, many of the ocean and harbour beaches have been closed due to the enormous wake generated by more extreme weather out the coast. This explained why there were actually surfers at a beach renown for its calm waters and family atmosphere. After swimming out past where the waves were breaking, we continued on to the net, grabbed on and had what felt like a free amusement park ride, buoyed and pitched, swinging with the inflow of each wave and then drawn back out as the next gained momentum. It was fantastic!
I am not fundamentally a beach goer, at least not a sunbather. And yet I have been positively enamored by the beautiful harbour pool experiences these recent weeks in Australia. Each has its own character, most are free to the public, and all have some little kiosk/café where one can find a coffee or meal for reasonable prices. As the Christmas holidays coincide here with summer vacation for kids, it has been a delight to see the beaches and parks filled with families out freely enjoying the world together.

Other Excursions

~ I met with Daiju/Simon Rowe someone I know through the Tahoma One Drop Zen Buddhist sangha, my home practice community. Daiju and I share not only our Zen practice, but also careers in Chinese medicine. Daiju finished his course of study just over a year ago and is now establishing his private practice in Sydney.

~ I have long heard about and was recently included in Alice’s almost ritual Friday night supper with friends Daniella and Gary for dumplings in Ashfield, the heart of Sydney’s Asian community. After stuffing ourselves with dumplings and Chinese broccoli, we headed into the city for a free night of outdoor music performances which were kicking off the first night of the Sydney Festival. We boogied a bit to some swing jazz in Hyde Park and then continued on to hear Paul Kelly, a well known singer song writer at the Domain, a vast open park space. Thereafter we listened to half a dozen (for me wince inducing) songs by Beach Boys Brian Wilson…just not my thing. The evening was beautifully punctuated en route back to the train station by stumbling upon a fantastic smaller stage, a handful of very skilled musicians with penny whistle, uncertain mandolin like stringed instrument, Uilleann pipes (which like bagpipes rather spontaneously evoke tears in my eyes when heard in the open air), and occasionally quite tasteful, in contrast to past experiences, integration of a digeridoo.

~ Last Sunday was shared with cousin Tony’s sister Chrissie and her family. Chrissie manages, I’m not sure how, to balance a career as commander in the Australian navy while concurrently raising three teenagers. Chrissie’s youngest, Jack, was celebrating his 12^th year. The birthday party occurred on a sultry afternoon in the treed suburb of Pymble, Chrissie & her husband, Jack’s teenage sisters Ashleigh, Hannah, grandfather Pat and uncle Stewy (the third of my 1^st cousins). In ’99, I lived with the Clarkes for a couple months on and off during some travels in New South Wales during the Spring before leaving Australia. Amongst tales from that time Hannah recounted being in the midst of a shouting match with her father (assumedly on a hot and irritable day) and having me direct her into a cold shower, effectively ending the argument.
Stewy’s account of an interchange decades ago with Pop Anderson, my grandfather, was another memorable anecdote. Stewy reckons Poppy would have been close to 70 at that time, still a regular lap swimmer and tremendously fit. Stewy was at my grandparents’ for dinner and refused to eat his vegetables. Rather than face his vegetables Stewy bolted from the house and ran down the street. Several blocks away he recalls hearing heavy foot falls behind him and then feeling a firm hand coming down on his shoulder, Poppy conveying clearly that Stewy would indeed return to his plate of veggies.

~ After an overnight with the Clarkes, I caught the train down the coast to Wollongong about 1 ½ hours south of Sydney to visit friends Cynthia & Jim. They met my parents while both couples were vacationing at the same hotel in Florence, Italy in the late 70s. If I recall correctly this was one of the early experiences of my mum’s marked by her waning Australian accent. She apparently heard Cynthia speaking, recognized it as an Aussie and made to strike up conversation. Cynthia inquired, “So do happen to know some Austrlians?” To which my mother assertively responded, “I AM Australian!”
I have always enjoyed visits with this interesting. well traveled, dear and hospitable couple. During my visit in ’99 they took me hiking for several days in the Blue Mountains. Our time together this visit included a couple drives; into the verdant inland hills, south to Kiama another north along the coast to Austinmer. We enjoyed an early morning swim at their lovely local ocean pool one day, later a delightful lunch with a vibrant, interesting and intellectually vital group of elder women, and celebration of Cynthia’s birthday.
Perhaps the most amusing moment of this visit for me was during an evening Scrabble game. It will likely be comical only to those people who know me well, knowing the depth and intensity of my study of the central nervous system over these recent years, particularly during the last 8 months of my studies at SIOM. For my senior research project I examined Multiple Sclerosis from both a Western biomedical and a Chinese medical perspective ~ online for anyone interested in the subject matter

http://www.siom.edu/resources/senior-projects

During the Scrabble game I laid ‘axon’ down on the board. After a few moments Cynthia asked me if I could explain to her what an axon is. I hesitated…I knew it was a scientific/medical term and yet for the life of me could conjure up neither definition nor context. As soon as Jim began reading the definition I laughed out loud, at myself, and proceeded to explain this keystone of the nervous system complete with small diagram, explanation of the myelin sheath etc. This simple experience affirmed just how much rest, in one sense, my travels have afforded the overstimulated portions of my graduate school fatigued brain. These sunny, harbour swim filled weeks have gone a long way in that respect.

***

These recent days have all been more of the same. I don’t imagine it would be of particular interest to further recount the minutia of these social visits with family and friends. Additionally I have begun to pivot my attention toward my pending departure for India in less than 2 days. There are a variety of thoughts and reflections which have been passing through my mind about Australian culture in comparison with my own, the nature of family (blood and chosen) and human relationships therein, the impact of extended travel on the mind, heart, and body. And yet none of these are succinctly developed and so will have to wait a bit before appearing here. Times of transition and airplanes I have often found to be good places for the honing of such thoughts.

Companioned Travels in Australia ~ Part II

Holidays in Queensland

The final hours of our road trip were in dramatic contrast to the beautiful open spaces we had traveled through over the previous days. We drove the stretch of coastal highway from Byron to Brisbane which provides little view other than vast stretches of concrete and glimpses of the skyscrapers of the Gold Coast. Alice sardonically suggested a stop off at Movie World, Sea World and Dream World in response to the garish advertisements along the highway.

We arrived on December 22^nd in the subtropical Brisbane suburb of Mt Crosby, the home of my cousin Susan and her husband Rex. Susan has worked as an editor and writer thoughout her life. Rex I have heard self define as a tropical architect. 1 ½ years ago they purchased a small 1930s cottage in Mt Crosby and have since remodeled and extended the house in ways which honor its architectural roots while integrating Rex’s distinctive style and their shared aesthetic and sensibilities. There, as in their previous home, also designed by Rex, I found a rather porous boundary between the external and internal environment. The northern wall of the main kitchen, living, dining space is a series of large sliding doors which open onto a small open courtyard; a patch of grass and a small soaking tub which Rex affectionately refers to as the sheep dip. Large sliding plexi-glass windows make up the southern wall of the main living space and that along with the peaked ceiling and open nature of the house allow a consistent cross breeze, at times when there is a breeze. The windows look over a gully filled with eucalypts, jacarandas, the odd mango tree and many others I can’t identify.
Dawn light begins to filter into the sky about 4am. In the early morning darkness the skies swell with cicada waves, kookaburras cackles, and calls of the whip birds, galas and cockatoos. Everywhere we went Ewan and I were amazed by the astounding bird life; in call, color, and character. Even having traveled on this continent before, I have been absolutely captivated and thrilled by the vibrancy of the avian world, it being one of many manifestations of this warm southern hemispherical world in which I find myself. As I said to a number of friends back in the fall before leaving Washington, ‘I get to spend this winter in warm places!’ I have welcomed all aspects of this warm winter.
In 1999, I left Nepal after 1 ½ years and Rex and Susan’s home was, as I have commented before, my first port of call. I ended up staying with them for close to two months. I believe we had met once prior to that visit. I knew Alice from the single holiday season we had shared at my parent’s home in 1995. I learned, I believe only after my arrival, that their family had spent 4 years in Papua New Guinea (PNG) when their children were quite young. Their experiences in PNG informed their lifestyle choices and sensibilities in ways which were extremely comforting as I transitioned, back in ’99, out of the developing world back into more western industrialized culture. Susan & Rex’s home provided a distinctly soft landing for that process.
During this recent visit, again their home provided a decidedly soft landing. Our time at Mt Crosby was suffused with a remarkable ease. Their home is pervaded by openness not only architecturally, but also by their characters, the priorities which guide their lives, and their pace, at least during the holidays. Ewan and I were given sleeping quarters in Rex’s adjoining architecture studio with almost wall filling plexi-glass windows facing out onto Susan’s emerging garden at the edge of the tree and bird filled gully.
The weather was particularly hospitable, temperatures generally hovering in the 70s, changeable skies with even some gentle warm rain storms attributed to cyclone activity off the coast. Christmas in Brisbane commonly sees sultry temperatures over 100, so I was quite grateful to find such a moderate climate. Our days, including Christmas, were filled with shared meals, ample time for cups of tea, leisurely dialogue, a Trivial Pursuit one day, Scrabble another, a couple walks down by the river, a few afternoons with the Americans off for a jog, and requisite afternoon dips in the pool which comfortably accommodates 2 maybe 3 people at any one time.
In the midst of our days being largely lighthearted, there was a bittersweet quality also present. While not explicitly spoken about, for 12 years now this family has been absent one of its members. I imagine they have each experienced that in a variety of different ways since Charlie’s death and I can only assume his absence is particularly palpable during holidays and other special occasions throughout the year and their lives.

The Lada

On Christmas Eve, with a brief stop in at the local police station, Rex determined it was indeed okay for Ewan and I to drive in Oz without international licenses. He and Susan had offered, in advance of our arrival, the loan of one of their cars so we might head out after Christmas for a bit of camping in the mountains. Christmas Eve afternoon, sunny and moderately hot, Rex drove us across the weir of Brisbane’s reservoir, onto a dirt road. He offered us a crash course intro to left side of the road driving, but perhaps more importantly to the idiosyncracies of his 2001 Russian Lada; a possession which my own father believes is the purest expression of Rex’s eccentricity.
In his search for a car some years back, Rex also looked into the purchase of a retired US postal service vehicle, it also having the wheel on the right side of the car. But for a variety of reasons, including that it is the second least stolen vehicle in Australia, he was sold on the Lada. The Lada combines an endearingly funky personality akin to a VW bug with tank like construction which Rex assured would leave us unscathed in any encounter with other vehicle, animal or inanimate object. Ladas were designed for the rough roads and harsh conditions of the Siberian climate. It is impossible to lock ones self out. Rex explained the risk of doing so in the Siberian climate would be rather untoward. The ignition is on the left but turns clockwise. The release for the trunk is an obscure latch on the back passenger side. There is no stabilizing mechanism in the gas tank so the gauge can swing from ¾ full to an empty tank warning light simply by driving around a corner or up a hill. The beast drives rougher than any truck I’ve ever driven including the old Cherokee I learned to drive stick shift on in my teens. After stints with both Ewan and me behind the wheel, Rex seemed satisfied with our performance and gave us the go ahead for a Boxing Day (Dec 26^th) departure.

At some point during our time at Mt Crosby, Ewan and I shared a conversation about how much of my traveling has historically occurred through the lens of people. Certainly some of my decisions to travel in this way have been compelled by finances, an effort to make travel affordable. However, experiencing a place through people of that place has provided me endless experiences I would have never touched had I traveled in any other way.

· Churning milk in the home of one of my friends in Nepal’s Sankaswava district, and many other experiences working the millet and rice terraces.

· Riding with my cousin Ian on his tractor through the cane fields of Homehill, Queensland, discussing agriculture as he had recently seen a program of rice harvesting by hand in Asia. Later during that trip traveling with Pat, the wife of my cousin Lex, to visit and clean the grave of their two deceased adult children.

· More recently ~ leisurely morning coffee on the terrace of my friend Jamal’s family in Eilabun, Israel, conversations and exchange recounted in an earlier posting.

· Witnessing my friends children Tjimen & Isa compete in a Judo competition in the Hague, Holland

· Since arrival at Alice’s in Sydney, many an excursion to the abundant harbour pools scattered throughout this amazing water oriented city.

· Innumerable intimate encounters in different countries with human beings feeding, raising, loving their families and living their lives,

Through these experiences however, I have never had someone joining me for the ride. It has been a very new experience attempting both to recognize and integrate another’s needs and desires into the plan which I have long been so comfortable devising alone. Ewan was an amazing sport through it all, the meals and visits with friends and rellies of mine whom he had never met. I can only hope that he experienced these many encounters with the enthusiasm he externally expressed and found both nourishment and joy seeing this culture and place through the people who accommodated us along the way.

***

The Bunya Mountains

Mid morning on the 26^th, Ewan and I headed off on an adventure in the Lada. Encouraged by Rex & Susan to travel inland rather than face the throngs of holiday travelers on the coast, we headed west for the Bunya Mountains. Already marginally comfortable in our command of the Lada and left roadside driving, we decided not to tow the trailer, also on offer for the trip. Instead we called ahead to the Mt Mowbullan Guest House, a rustic accommodation where Rex & Susan have stayed in the past. When I phoned, I encountered an older sounding man’s voice with a broad accent, the below is a rough paraphrasing of the conversation.

“Hullo, Do you have any rooms available for Boxing Day.”
“Boxing Day…right…coming on Boxing Day. Yes we have a room. Now are you eating with us or cooking yer own tucka?”
“We’ll cook ourselves, thanks. How much is the room?”
“I can’t hear you luv.”
“How much is the room?”
“Ah…I’m not quite sure. There are two of yous.”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I reckon 60 something. I don’t know where my dautas written it down. Now give me your address…roughly.”
“Seattle, Washington.”
“Siaba?”
“SE-A-TLE…WA-SHING-TON.”
“Ah, well that’s why yur not speakin’ propah. Which Warsh-ing-ton is it then?”
“The West Coast.”
“Seattle then. Right. Are you traveling on holidays?”
“I’m visiting family, my mum’s from here.”
“Right, well then, Boxing Day. When will you arrive?”
“I’m not quite sure, the afternoon I reckon.”
“When in the afternoon.”
“Ah…I really don’t…”
“Alright, we’ll just say Boxing Day PM. How bout that.”
“Sounds fine.”
“What?”
“Great.”
“Right then, Boxing Day PM.”

About half way out to the Bunya Mountains, we stopped in Crow’s Nest National Park at the Valley of Diamonds. It’s a short walk through eucalypts into a serene and beautiful swimming hole where Susan had taken me years ago. Uncertain whether or not there would even be water, we walked down carrying neither towel nor swimsuit. We arrived to find the breathtaking spot irresistibly empty of people and full of water. Half way through a positively divine swim, several families arrived. To the smile and chuckle of a mum sitting on the rocks as her children splashed about, we not too seriously apologized for our indiscretion as we exited the water.

The Lada’s idiosyncractic gas gauge coupled with the petrol stations of every small town being closed on Boxing Day led us on a slightly longer route to the Bunya Mountains via Dalby in search of gas before heading into the park. After a glorious day traversing vast changes in landscape, from rolling grazing land to the flat of the Darling Downs (no relation), by early evening we began the final steep climb into Bunya National Park.
Our little guest house room looked out over an open meadow dotted with several grazing cattle, the meadow surrounded on all sides by forest of bunya and hoop pines. Beyond the forest we could see, when the rains ceased and the skies cleared, an expansive vista of the open grazing and agricultural land stretching out beyond the other side of the forest. We stayed two nights in the little guest house. Having checked in with the daughter, it was only our first morning that we encountered the guest house’s proprietor when he rapped on our door. He bore a weathered face perhaps 70 some years old. Dressed in full rain gear, a hood atop a broad brimmed hat and tightly tied beneath his chin, he perched at our doorway and talked at us for some time. He shared stories about the place, commenting that he originally moved out there for the freedom, but over time began to feel caged by the responsibilities of the place. He pointed out different aspects of the forest, the landscape. He declined the offer of tea commenting he took tea only with his meals three times a day, none of this women’s drinking tea at every turn. He ignored most direct questions, including how we might call/address him. Upon hinting we were going to get on to do a bit of hiking he departed about as unceremoniously as he had arrived.
Bunya pines, even more than the hoop pines and tree ferns, are truly primordial in appearance. They are one of many forms of flora in this part of the world which give me the impression a dinosaur could well emerge at any moment. There in the park Ewan saw his first wallabies lounging throughout the camp grounds even more tame than deer or other quasi-domesticated wild life in the US. We went on a couple short hikes (Dandabah and Mt Kiangarow) and reveled in the bird life and forest. Having deliberated about a bit longer hike in the afternoon, we chose to head back to the guest house and arrived about 10 minutes before a torrential down pour. During our final days in Queensland the cyclone activity further east was blamed for erratic rain storms and highly changeable skies.

After so much social contact, it was a gift to have a few days for just Ewan and me. These days were characterized by leisure and a slow unfolding however felt most natural. It was distinctly cooler in the mountains, cool and quite wet. The morning of our departure with no time pressure or specific plan for the day I asked Ewan what he wanted to do with the day. “I would like to go back to where it’s warm,” he smiled. “I get to do cold and wet all winter back in Washington.” And so we headed back to Mt Crosby with a repeat stop for a swim and lunch at the Valley of Diamonds on the way.
In reflection on his time in Australia the day before he left, Ewan commented that if Susan and Rex ever decide to go somewhere and need housesitters to let them know we’ll be on the next plane. I believe this exemplifies our experience of the house and our time at Mt Crosby. I know we would both have reveled in more time with these people and I am grateful for what we did have. It was a delight to share time with them in their home, such a gorgeous setting and relaxed atmosphere.

***

While Alice remained in Brisbane, Ewan and I flew back down to Sydney on the 29^th and had a few days in the solitude of Alice’s apartment. Our days, while in a distinctly different climate and setting, unfurled with a tone not dissimilar to our days in Paris. We took long walks amongst the terrace houses and small streets of Newtown and Erskineville. We bused out to Wyllie’s baths, a glorious salt water pool right on the ocean at Coogee beside the Women’s Baths.
The morning of Ewan’s flight on the 31^st, he realized that he had confused the time of departure due to the date line and was infact not leaving until the following day. We took advantage of the extra day and made our way, in a rather protracted fashion, by public transport out to Bondi to walk a stretch of the Bondi to Bronte path along the headlands facing out to the Pacific. Enormous swells pounded into the beaches along the coast, the enormity again attributed to cyclone activity. We stopped for a dip in a cluster of surf carved sandstone pools at Mackenzie’s Bay. For a time we sat comfortably in a shallow pool watching formidable waves crashing into the edge of the rocks 20-30 feet away. At one point we were alarmed to witness a woman, who had been walking closer to the edge of the rock, get picked and thrown down against the stone by a fierce wave. Thoroughly shaken, she escaped with a rather brutal forearm abrasion an additional patch on her knee, but no head trauma. She and her boyfriend headed gingerly back to get some attention for her wounds. That particular wave additionally ushered a blue bottle, a common poisonous jellyfish, into our lovely wading pool. We decided the strength of the ocean had clearly articulated itself and it was time to begin our journey back to the flat. After a reasonably long, hot walk and two trains we arrived back in Newtown. Close to 8pm plenty of light remained in sky on that last evening of 2007. We shared a relaxed New Year’s Eve at home; a lovely meal, a bit of wine, tender time together in dialogue and in silence.

In booking my journey to Taiwan, I chose to purchase a ticket continuing through to Seattle 6 weeks after my February 9^th arrival in Taipei. With those weeks, I will determine whether or not the return to Seattle will be a one way affair, or if after a short visit I will return to continue studying in Taipei after a reunion with Ewan stateside. January 1^st he boarded a plane to travel again across the seas, back to the northern climate and darker skies of the Northwest. The machinations of heart and mind related to that parting may or may not be elucidated in future postings here.

Companioned Travels in Australia ~ Part I

At the beginning of this travel log, I determined that I would never sacrifice the living of this journey in the interest of recording it. And consequently the blog has been untended since December 16^th. At this juncture, I’m struggling to recapitulate my recent experiences without becoming paralyzed by my desire to thoughtfully convey detail.

***

After Ewan’s arrival on the 17^th, we shared several mellow days at the Harbourside apartments in North Sydney, a long distance and generous Christmas gift from my folks. The Harbourside is beautifully situated on the water’s edge of North Sydney Harbour gazing across to the Opera House, the Harbour bridge, ferries skating in all directions throughout the day, the cityscape breathtaking at night. Ewan and I were later able to admit to each other that in the midst of the beauty, we both experienced a degree of unease while there. The apartments felt a bit more upscale than either of us were comfortable with. Some of that discomfort may have also been an intrinsic part of our recalibration to the same time zone, refamiliarizing ourselves with each other at yet another stage of our relatively new relationship. We went on several humble adventures in the city; one morning waiting in queue at the Indian Consulate to lodge my visa for travel in mid January, a trip out to Manly Beach and Ewan’s first experience of the Pacific Ocean from this side, a long walk through the Botanic Gardens, preparation and hosting of a barbeque at the Harbourside for a half dozen from my Australian circle of friends and family.

During a family visit to this continent during the same season in 1990, my parents rented a small holiday house at Pearl Beach, a small coastal community north of Sydney and linked to the outside world by a single road. For two days of that week fierce bush fires swept through the forest separating that small town from the rest of the world. While the blaze occurred largely on the other side of the ridge beyond our sight, the fire breached the crest of the hill and descended along the eastern slopes, our side, in several areas. I recall watching the glow of one orange tongue weaving its way down the southern slope from the beach at night. Additionally, the fire had descended the western slope just beyond the houses at the edge of town, walking distance from our own rental house.

I had never witnessed fire of that magnitude, and certainly never at such proximity. As we observed the blackened skies and listened to the gum trees exploding in the heat, several people educated me about how bush fires are an intrinsic and vital element of Australia’s landscape. Seeds of certain Australian plants and trees will only disseminate once the pods are forcibly opened by exposure to such extreme heat. And so while the fires devastate, they concurrently revitalize, allow for opening, new growth and perpetuity of the forest.

This is a rather dramatic image to invoke as a metaphor for relationship. However, I do see parallels in that exposure to difficult conditions can result in new openness and growth. The life of our interior landscape is nourished by the elements; joy, delight, support, play, dialogue, shared time of both the adventurous and the mundane. These are the rain, the sun, the nutrients which feed our internal landscape. Likewise, the topography includes communication challenges, the distinct needs of two individuals which may or may not coincide, and differences in the way we respond to all manner of situations. And yet the very adversity of such terrain can also clear the way for new and deeper understanding.

It feels as if during our time in Australia, Ewan and I entered a new chapter, perhaps slightly less enshrouded in the intoxication of nascent romance. For me, the texture of our companionship feels somehow distinctly more real. These recent weeks, moving from daily correspondence across the seas to 24/7 together for a couple weeks provided lots of opportunity to discover the intricacies and dynamics of our unique pairing, bumps and warts included. While I don’t think either Ewan or I regret any component of our adventures Down Under, I reckon we would have benefited from another day or two of calibration for us two at the beginning of it all before charging ahead. However, in an effort to avoid holiday traffic, my cousin Alice picked us up in a rental car on the 20^th and we began 3 days of driving north to Brisbane.

***

We chose the inland road as we drove north heading first to Dungog, a small town 3 hours northwest of Sydney. Alice’s friends/writing colleagues Sue & Andrew have long welcomed her to come out to their simple house which they maintain as a writing retreat and getaway from their Sydney home. The house is situated amongst steeply rolling verdant hills several kilometers out of the small Aussie town. Normally this landscape bears a resemblance to the blond grass and scrub oaks of northern California, with evidently different flora. However this has been a particularly wet early summer and as a consequence we drove through expanses of almost technicolor green grazing country. Sue and Andrew shared a leisurely conversational lunch & tea with us. Thereafter they headed back to the big city leaving us with directions to a local river swimming spot and tips about the stores in town for evening meal provisions. After a brisk river swim and a late afternoon walk, we sat with a glass of wine on the screened-in porch facing out onto a sweeping treed slope, watching the light transform the sky.

Our second was our longest day on the road as we drove from Dungog to Tenterfield first traveling Bucketts Way, then Thunderbolts Way, and finally the New England Highway. The diversity of landscape was breathtaking as we traversed expanses of open sloping pasture land, areas of exposed red earth, dense forest dotted with tropical tree ferns, one stretch of ghostly silver trees absent of any foliage, all illuminated by broken sun emerging repeatedly from behind swiftly moving clouds of blue, white, black and grey. In addition to lively conversation, Alice’s iPod held not only music but a number of This American Life episodes which provided entertainment of both a humorous and thought provoking nature as Ira Glass is apt to provide. Alice has been hooked on the American NPR radio show since I introduced her to it during her 2006 US visit. For those reading who are out of the States, you might consider giving it a listen sometime. It provides a very different window into American culture than Hollywood Films and television.

http://www.thislife.org/Radio_Archive.aspx

Under rainy early evening skies, we arrived in Tenterfield, a mid even large sized town. As is common in rural New South Wales, lining the main street one finds the fruit & veg shop, local grocery, a news agent, a bric-a-brac store, the local bakery, at least one pub, and the requisite country Chinese restaurant. After finding a pleasant enough roadside motel and having a bit of a rest, we ventured through town in search of a reasonable pub meal. First, however, I needed to find internet access in order to communicate with my travel agent regarding future travel to Taiwan. Armed with my laptop, Alice pulled into town, first sidling up to a business touting free wifi. After no luck she turned and we crept along the main street until I hollered ‘wait! it’s found something!’ I laughed at the whole scenario out loud, at myself, our search for wifi in small town There my little computer ‘acquired someone’s network address’ and I was able to steal onto an unsecured network and communicate to confirm my booking before my travel agent left for holiday vacation.

After a couple circuits through town, rejecting one pub due to the cost, we settled on the Royal Hotel. It was a rather traditional two story structure, pub below, at some point functional hotel above. The pub is divided into the bar with pool tables and the historic ‘ladies lounge’ which has been converted into a restaurant. In the process of ordering our meals at the bar, Ewan and observed the female bartender rather assertively telling a couple pretty surly guys that she would deal with them later, a distinct edge in her voice. At the entry to the bar and in the restrooms a bulletin was posted with a 3 strikes policy. The bulletin outlined parameters of aggressive speech and overt violence which would solicit first a verbal warning, then have an individual thrown out of the bar for the night, and finally suspended from entry to the bar for 30 days. We didn’t feel a need to hang out in the bar for the cultural experience but instead adjourned for dinner to the sedate Ladies’ Lounge.

Our 3^rd and final day on the road to Brisbane, we drove out to the coast on the Buckner Highway to meet up with an old family friend who lives in Byron Bay. John, the son of a friend of my mother’s oldest friend, was one of those who, during my early teens, showed up on my family’s doorstep. In his early 20s, engaged in a period as the classic itinerant Aussie traveler, he arrived at my family’s home to stay for a weekend. He stayed a month. As I mentioned in an earlier post, this was a significant element of my upbringing; our small guest room frequently inhabited by an exchange student, friend, or some obscure Australian relative. After John’s time with us and some further travel in the US and Europe, he returned to Australia to complete studies in architecture. Over the past decade he has also worked for the organizations Uncle & Pathways. Initially a volunteer, John’s work with both are now an integral part of his life and livelihood.

Uncle is a mentoring program existing for boys (particularly those with absent fathers) who would benefit from a more supportive environment of positive male role models. Uncle builds communities of men that care about the young men in their community and also gives the boys an alternative social community outside of home and school in which to explore their place in the world. http://www.uncle.org.au

The Pathways Foundation is a high impact social venture that provides a contemporary, community based Rite of Passage for boys into Manhood and girls into Womanhood. http://www.pathwaysfoundation.org.au/

Both John and his mother have remained in touch with my family over these many years. My parents called on John to draw up the architectural plans for their recently built home and visits are always shared when we make it to each others respective side of the ocean. John met Alice, Ewan and I late morning in the heart of Byron Bay, two hours south of Brisbane. Byron seems a rather commercially driven alternative community; a common stop off for backpackers, musicians, those of a progressive or alternative approach to life, and equally as many looking to make a profit on the scene. When John met us, he commented the problem with food in Byron is it’s expensive and it’s bad. Consequently, he recommended a good walk along the golden sands to the far south end of the bay, where one of the last vestiges of the true, reasonably priced beach side café, according to John, is tucked up amongst the trees. After many hours in the car over the previous days, it felt exhilarating to brace against a forceful ocean wind as we walked along the sand.

John and I last saw each other when he visited during my 1^st year at SIOM. Amongst myriad other aspects of the discussion, he was curious to know if my perfectionist tendencies had killed me during grad school, and commended Ewan and I for traveling together and all the challenges that can entail. We shared a fantastic few hours catching up on the details of each others recent lives, learning about John’s work with Uncle and Pathways and his assessment of different aspects of Byron Bay culture. In the early afternoon, we strolled back along the beach, and Ewan, Alice & I continued north to Brisbane.