tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48807094410448817422024-03-12T23:48:58.589-07:00Second Chance World TourTraveling with wonder ...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-48894646579261460662018-03-28T06:45:00.000-07:002018-03-28T06:45:18.082-07:00 Good Grief! Boat-ride to Gili Air<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>After the most lucky day, I decided to push my luck and go island hopping. </b></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, just one island because I only had three more nights before I had to hopefully catch a plane to Australia. We would see about that! Volcano Agung was still puffing away but the ash was blowing away from the airport. Strange to tie your fate to the direction of the wind…</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I left a perfect place, Alam Nusa, on Nusa Lembongan Island. Lovely helpful staff. This offering music always playing at the outdoor dining room. These offerings always being placed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="281" id="y_id_6fd9_d65e_d3e4_227" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oz6SDX0H5_o" width="500"></iframe><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oz6SDX0H5_o</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it was time to go to another island, one with even more of less to do! Gili Air. No vehicles there, just pony carts and bicycles. Sit around, write, get bored… before the stress of figuring out what to do in Australia. It sounded good, BUT! Be very careful when you choose to leave paradise because getting to the next paradise can be treacherous!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">I thought I had fooled fate by at the last minute booking a boat trip and accommodations.</span></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Did I research the various boat companies? No. Kind of hard to do, actually. The boat agent at the kiosk at the restuarant said it was too late to book for the next morning. But I pleaded, saying he had to be nice to a “nenek” (grandmother) and that the agent before him said I could book! So, he called a friend who called a friend and I bought a ticket. Could he tell me the route or show me a map or weather conditions? Translation issues here ...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So at 8:30 AM.I was picked up. Loaded onto a small boat that took us to the larger boat. Here we are, expecting a pleasant ride.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" id="id_14f9_1286_b578_4844" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZLIs6FXpAL4/Wq64hN8CTTI/AAAAAAAAgrc/tNxT_M1mzkIzt1Gl8QBML_KaepuyikUmQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 530px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The big luggage was piled on top (not tied down that I could see and certainly not water-proofed.) And off we went, not to Gili Air, it turned out, but back over to Bali — Padangbai. Pretty choppy but doable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There we took on more customers, could see that pesky Volcano Agung close-up and could buy mango and chips from vendors. Considering what happened next, I can’t believe they had to gall to sell Pringles! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" id="id_11d_3180_e71c_f15c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4w7eiCaDnB0/Wq64k724EeI/AAAAAAAAgrk/xMSMxE4cWVQTlthByzw5qUT5u190iUNWQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 541px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<span style="text-align: center;">Fortunately I used the facilities at the stop because I would have lost it on the wild roller-coaster ride that ensued!</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Aren’t there rules about when a fast boat should maybe not cross the waters?</span></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or maybe just slow down? I couldn’t believe the bucking and swaying. The sloshing and spraying. The slap as we rode over a wave and hit down hard. The lurch as one caught us broadside! Jolting, jerking, swerving, slamming. White caps and troughs. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Didn’t they make a movie about the perfect storm? At least we had no rain but I couldn’t believe the ferocity of the ocean.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="281" id="y_id_bdd7_4034_bb04_ccf0" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/n-V4Lr2TYhM" width="500"></iframe><br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-V4Lr2TYhM</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How did others react? Children fell asleep. A Muslim woman behind me closed her eyes for two hours, praying, thank God! People literally turned green. (That is not just a figure of expression.) The crew-man kept watching the crowd and ran forward with sea-sick bags as needed. The lovely Australian surfer next to me just kept a fatalistic “isn’t this fun” grin on his face, which helped.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">How did I react?</span></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With absolute disbelief! They run a boat in weather like this! Then with fear, abject fear! I wasn’t this afraid when the roof flew off and the rain poured in during the hurricane! It didn’t help that I hate rollercoasters. And this was an up and down, side to side, unpredictable bouncing and lurching.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I made sure I knew where the life-jackets were and the exit door, but if we flipped over all bets were off. Don’t we frequently read of ferries in this part of the world sinking? The crew-man told me not to panic, that we were safe, but I think he’s paid to say that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I had some concern about the luggage piled on top. I could just imagine it flying off. Surely they know how to balance this thing! But TV scenes from a Nepalese bus catastrophe ran a similar movie through my mind about this boat. Surely no captain wants to die, and the bus driver didn’t either. But that didn’t keep him from going off the side of the road, into the river, killing most of the passengers— supposedly because the luggage made it top heavy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Did I pray? Did I relax?</span></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Did I cultivate compassion or do self-hypnosis? Heck no! I was just holding on!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One thing that did help was to think of service men on boats. Men in World War II headed to possible death. My father in the South Pacific War. Navy Seals taking the plunge. And because I know a dear man who has faced these odds and can be really tough, I called on his warrior spirit. Please be with me. Give me strength. Help this Captain, for heaven’s sake!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Finally it was over. No one was laughing, probably thinking about the return trip in a few days. There is no way to check on the conditions before booking a ticket!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I decided to thank the Captain who skillfully kept us alive. He sat in the control seat, grinning broadly, like no big deal. In fact, he looked like a happy cowboy, enjoying the wild bronco ride!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">So, here I sit on a pony-cart ride to Biba Beach Village. I had survived!</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" id="id_72f4_9b8_c239_2a33" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oszPKagENHA/Wq64mob8Q1I/AAAAAAAAgrs/BOBC9HlVvlorjRXJdAUA6OQx5sb5mjZjQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 477px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
A cup of hot tea to settle my nerves.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" id="id_ff72_43db_ad12_f871" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OvEM1Y7J7P8/Wq64k08PNpI/AAAAAAAAgro/4NleyEh_FFsbuFR4H6Ut3qlccZSK9WC9wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 470px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And a friendly Asian cat, proving that this too would be a welcoming place.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" id="id_8bf8_6411_e292_580" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5bIsEb5edOg/Wq64klqE1AI/AAAAAAAAgrg/AUfVweoNGFMylUmAR5G7Mm01exG3MSiHgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 464px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A delicious bowl of seafood chowder by the beach and the gratitude to be able to do nothing— alive!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">I do know, though, that I had failed a test. </span></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There wasn’t a spiritual thought in my body as I tried to keep the horizon horizontal! I thought I had dealt with letting go of control with Volcano Agung. But someone just upped the ante on me as I faced the fear of imminent death in a watery grave.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe Paradise isn’t just the Bali version of having everything beautiful, comfortable and cheap?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe this is the real homework I need to do, the last big step in Bali magic transformation Overcoming fear of death as the key to Paradise on earth? Stay tuned...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-80880666790747413222018-03-15T17:17:00.001-07:002018-03-18T12:45:28.982-07:00 Our Lucky Day!<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b> The first three days in Nusa Lembongan were not exactly exciting.</b></font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I had escaped here from the island of Bali in order to do more of nothing, so what did I expect? The tour on the back of the motorcycle with 21 year old Bodhi was fun but after two hours we had seen it all! Other than that there was rain. What did I expect— the rainy season! (In case you think I’m whining, I actually thought this would be the dry season since the wet season in Nepal was in the summer. Yep, less than perfect research.)</div><div><br></div><div>The Lonely Planet guidebook suggested Mushroom Bay as the place to snorkel off the beach. Not! Since the book was written the boats have destroyed all the coral. What to do? What everyone else does, of course, go on a snorkeling tour!</div><div><br></div><div>The first day my clerk couldn’t reach her friend who had a boat. The next day we had it arranged but it rained. This morning it rained too and I put him off until noon. It cleared! A hut neighbor walked by with his go-pro camera and I invited him in order to split the cost and make me feel just a little safer. After all, the waves were high, the native catamaran fishing boat seemed to be held together by rope, and the fisherman didn’t speak English!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">All I really cared about was seeing manta rays.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div>I’ve seen coral and tropical fish galore in other places, but manta? They seem other worldly. Give me one manta and I’d go home happy! “Maybe you will be lucky,” hoped the clerk.</div><div><br></div><div>Yep, the waves were high, the water looked murky, but overboard I went, avoiding a bop on the head with the catamaran. Nothing. Cloudy view. Then the fisherman started yelling in Indonesian. When he couldn’t get Alain’s attention he angrily jumped up and down! Then pointed. We swam in the direction of his shaking fingers and there… gliding… was manta. He had been the look out for us. Then another manta. Then another…</div><div><br></div><div>What were they like? Other worldly. Flying under water. Graceful. Dangerous looking projection off the back. Unconcerned with us. A little scary when coming right at me with that bizarre looking mouth.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ix6OpvhMCiM " width="500" height="281" id="y_id_9c2c_a007_3ec3_f7c" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ix6OpvhMCiM</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The fisherman was pleased with his guiding skills and led us to two amazing snorkeling sights. And throwing bread crusts into the water he created a swirl of technicolored fish, circling around me. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Here is my favorite blue coral.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><img id="id_98de_18ea_1646_acfc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NNz-cKzFFmQ/WqsM-CiMyRI/AAAAAAAAgk8/DMEFWCVY2ugCYooyp3P9GfYZB2GYqAP8ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 621px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And after aimlessly wandering the sights of coral, waving tentacles and darting fish, I realized that down there, in that other world that really could care less about plane flights, politics, money, accomplishments or relationships, I could forget them too. So nice to forget about my stuff. My plans. My, me, myself and I. Nothing down there related to this thing I call I. No thoughts really. A meditation of sorts in which there is no suffering because there is no fear, no grasping, no planning. Just being, underwater..</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And on the way home, me trying to pose, undignified, before sliding down to the bottom of the slippery boat.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fc94_3535_f37c_d79c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7_tIjv4Hwug/WqsM8q8shNI/AAAAAAAAgk4/pMT55pB9SBclzH4K4AuE3KSqthyuuR8fwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 584px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div>Yes, we were lucky! Thank you Alain!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Our lucky day!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Then, as he and an Australian sat with me over dinner (quick and very temporary friendships while traveling), we three agreed we were so lucky. It was the only night out of four when it hadn’t rained or the ash obscured the view. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1138_d0f9_2d21_8aa" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yPqwv23TJrU/WqsM-6DOOiI/AAAAAAAAglE/8ioGdHRxMWU5w0NvcgBbPK4LUvVcqgd5QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 584px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Local children playing below, using a coconut as a ball.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Zy-WwQc2YdY" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_d6a6_4c51_e39e_eac7" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zy-WwQc2YdY</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><br>Swallows darting. Agung puffing away at a safe distance, its output turned to flame by the sunset.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4006_f3a_975_45c7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4sea9XBId-U/WqsM-v3XGQI/AAAAAAAAglA/1cD8yIUf4q0tbnV37A3FwAZGv6IQYrtewCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 596px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">We had to wait over 50 years to see that!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">And overhead, ahhh… an airplane! The airport was opened! And might just stay that way if the winds pushed the ash clouds away from Denpasar.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_660d_b17a_a09b_f24e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7xGm9s16rQY/WqsM_Z03eZI/AAAAAAAAglI/egNayqJtkzc7nzIg7w7r4UPdi5Er9jzUQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 585px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Interesting how one lucky day can erase the other disappointments. Yes!! We toasted. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-25580683272693674032018-03-15T16:48:00.001-07:002018-03-15T16:48:26.738-07:00 Cruising Nusa Lembongan<div style="text-align: center;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b><br></b></font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>It’s time to get out of Dodge! How often have I said that on this journey! </b></font></div><div><br></div><div>Something about me is never content to sit pool-side and read a book. I can’t stand confinement, even in Paradise and have to see what is around the next corner. Dissatisfaction? A Buddhist source of suffering? Or just Kathy…</div><div><br></div><div>There isn’t much to do on the island Nusa Lombongan, an hour’s boat ride from Bali. (It is actually a part of the province called Bali. The country is Indonesia and the capital is Jakarta, Java — geography lesson.) But it was around the next corner.</div><div><br></div><div>No gangplank here! The luggage was tossed to the top (hopefully tied down) and we had to wade on.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4bdf_58d6_e7a6_598" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WQo6oWNa8mo/WqsFshjyScI/AAAAAAAAgjc/aZW5GCmWSusJ2kFtWNXFrqHEF_st-m0fgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 486px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>See the interesting sign on the boat. It was a safe and easy boat ride.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8dd2_7c3f_9bee_bb28" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-P7o0c3hyl68/WqsFwFnTyyI/AAAAAAAAgjk/WABXPAMVvg4KoUJK3Hr1B-X4GSpXuZX7QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 501px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And that’s why I came. Few distractions, do some writing, wait out the volcano in Bali.… </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c918_af79_bd75_3f5d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-V69jkpfiLDk/WqsFtc3PnlI/AAAAAAAAgjg/9iMmU8P5EugpIbOyaMeTV2b4S4v8a-RtgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 546px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>But after one day I’m bored and need to get out of these Alam Nusa Huts. They are lovely — see the “welcome drink”, welcoming bed with the ubiquitous mosquito netting, semi-outside bathroom, and daily offerings.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_403c_1b45_3ddc_2b4e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fGFCOIvZMBU/WqsFqv16JxI/AAAAAAAAgjY/b3S0XM8Y0y4DurkJxqiDXnkOZMIOVxT2gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 566px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e9de_45d0_2368_b1a3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tHG0sE4Em5E/WqsFwTgJO5I/AAAAAAAAgjo/dGaTslGmd1Ee9rIE5nyIL29CtUHMAlMOgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 560px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_db8e_fcb6_2721_eacd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-b_jcjXBE_Sc/WqsF0BJLnJI/AAAAAAAAgjs/VUWqh19QdbQKHz_B_A5Dnz-G3g7u4YtFwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 554px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_abfd_6c21_84c_f44a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FniyNMCquWE/WqsF14k-NMI/AAAAAAAAgjw/g7vUYvilCmYe5-Yavm3J_iV5RQyxhBPxQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 566px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div>But, I needed to see the island …</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Obviously I could rent a scooter and figure out the unmarked roads and rocky lanes around the island. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>But I promised my children I would not come home in a wheelchair! So, I hire Budi for $15 for the day and off we go. Too late I think of a helmet, but no one rides with them on this island. They are mandatory in Bali but here four schoolchildren will buzz along happily on one scooter without any protection.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7122_60ac_ec99_8d1d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NQR9oHiXTDg/WqsF676ej7I/AAAAAAAAgj8/P-YJ1N9bKGkjjQMZfr5FMbDItHgmmWlAQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 565px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Holding on to his waist very tightly, I do keep reminding the 21 year old invincible Budi that I am “Nenek”, grandmother. And it is really bad karma if he gets a grandmother injured or dead! “I will come back to haunt you, like the witch Ragada,” I promise. We are safe. He is a careful driver and one can’t go too fast anyway around the twists and turns.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Cruising the island is just what I wanted. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Very rural, jungle even. Simple houses, a little farming, and beaches. A temple where we get yelled at because I’m not wearing a sarong.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_136_9634_f8d9_8fa0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6QgAr5bejtg/WqsF6Mp1NQI/AAAAAAAAgj0/yJEldiPIg1E71sasBMuggaFqwnrwS-GWwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 575px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>He points out a small cemetery where the dead are buried under concrete, an umbrella and frequent offerings. Once a year the bones of the dead are unburied and cremated. These Balinese cremations are such big events, with relatives taking off work, that its best to consolidate them to certain dates if possible. (At least that’s what I think he said over the motorscooter’s roar.)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ab62_7e38_b08e_be9c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UKKcCaiOvwI/WqsGCfadHgI/AAAAAAAAgkE/cZqc1baKsqUuf-PLw0j-vC9qcrUMS9jiACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 592px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">From the largest beach at Jungutbatu we see Volcano Agung spew ash and steam. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><img id="id_d44d_e1ff_236_537d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YJC3JXvTvTg/WqsF6UDeP9I/AAAAAAAAgj4/WjuYg3GIq1Q8spdexItIeemJH11OeoCPQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 601px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I would like to stay for awhile and honor it’s massive power, for I’m sure it has something to teach me. No doubt about it, I can see why the airports are in trouble! And in case you are wondering, the ash is why we are wearing face masks.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Then a manpowered mangrove ride.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8702_1d83_2ab1_f8ff" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fFdABhOCL20/WqsGAzKvlYI/AAAAAAAAgkA/m8S-MlrmCGcAQIg950zzwYMSLomZwJbWQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 608px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_ff2f_afbe_670_ddaf" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BMCz5lwY2rM/WqsGJsUlU3I/AAAAAAAAgkM/45Bkg4thzK4JDGGp9VubsTv7BM37tmoTgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 622px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br><br></div><div>Looks a lot like Florida, minus the alligators and manatees. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">A very strange underground house called Gala-Gala.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>It was carved by an ambitious priest in honor of a story from the Mahabharata and the character Pandawas who had to protect his family in an underground cave. Interesting to crawl through the tunnels and wonder why?</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1dd5_a52f_72ef_c0cb" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-c1ZGnUIqjSQ/WqsGFTV025I/AAAAAAAAgkI/mADFpuv_-T0_oqqhRJExXy229q-wtRPuQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 612px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><img id="id_2886_a170_438e_f3ca" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-B7-QeeDRW7Q/WqsGKgx4wqI/AAAAAAAAgkU/JqowMiogU6s75mglpP0jIGLG9ScfKqsLgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 616px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Over the yellow bridge onto the island Nusa Ceningan. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e694_1412_2ae6_9c7c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HbII13gCZFU/WqsGKWwyH-I/AAAAAAAAgkQ/MuOCwReX3HQn_Y5MtQiHB1AitE0QgPEMACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 615px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">And the only transportation to those living on this tiny island is scooter or foot, even for a grandmother— “nenek.”</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f793_5e4f_15cd_ff65" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0RtdutdJGvQ/WqsGL-wVP6I/AAAAAAAAgkY/lE-eOX9BEqABQ6j2ZaPVmOiC5ggC3NVJACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 625px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And other sights. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>See the mighty cliffs dubbed “swallow house”. </div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_19a8_5676_8aea_2bfd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ohhFCU8dZjU/WqsGQPX2T7I/AAAAAAAAgkc/ElRV4_3L0oIMgoFv9g3WZNzPYth502G2wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 624px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br>And the flats where at low tide seaweed is gathered, to be made into the emulsifying agent for ice-cream — carrageenan. Tourism is more profitable and less back-breaking now. There are even fewer tourists here.</div></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f25_d6c6_7fc_c5cd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-a2-L_H_j794/WqsGQcfcpMI/AAAAAAAAgkg/UMWtwwOjznscIVQD1zdEshdZu3ac0mgGwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 611px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And then a stop at Dream Beach before buzzing back home, safe and sound.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c961_4374_a4bf_97cc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jKgiIzYj4Vs/WqsGSAXg-vI/AAAAAAAAgkk/Xu8wzNuQYhM8GOxyzhRP7lbQr5dhUrxHgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 610px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br><b><font size="4">The next morning my hopes for snorkeling with the manta rays are dashed by a rainstorm.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>So I will have to be content in Paradise, writing, reading and swimming, and working with that insatiable urge to be somewhere else!</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-8105298458817401892018-03-15T16:17:00.001-07:002018-04-07T05:36:47.407-07:00 Gili Air — Last Chance at Paradise<div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">When I told a friend in Bulgaria that I was planning on going to Bali, she said simply: “Go to Gili Air.”</font></b></div><div>“What’s there to do there?” I probed. “Nothing.” And that was the point. It was to be a dip back into an earlier, simpler time. Less hub bub. Fewer tourists. Certainly fewer distractions.</div><div><br></div><div>Ubud was very busy. Sanur was peaceful but still lively. And always anywhere I went in Bali there were scooters, tourists, and traffic. I was still looking for the elusive “Paradise” that did not include the chaos and the annoying edge of money-making from tourists.</div><div><br></div><div>Well, Catherine was right. I found it in Gili Air. Here petrol motorized vehicles are banned. The loudest sound you hear is a clop clop of a pony behind you.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9011_71e3_a943_5fcc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lJPgCnsWY7c/Wqr-goXo4yI/AAAAAAAAgiA/DSJOjThfRRMI9eo9Ml1xT4uq4JYVJrHeACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 407px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> You can walk around the island in 1 ½ hours. You can rent a bicycle and try to cycle the perimeter instead but get bogged down by sand. So, you take the slow way. Always slow on Gili Air.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Gili Air is mellow</font></b>. </div><div><br></div><div>So mellow in fact that this is a sign advertising magic mushrooms, bicycle for hire and accomodations. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_98cf_52ab_9ba6_1ed6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6SI0XHeMLmk/Wqr-ka_ZwoI/AAAAAAAAgiI/-fHIjxYV_eMzXkJ0xlm3CJaZw5pqmTcEwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 466px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Really? And how does one order magic mushrooms? Well, first you get them from the cow patty. (Lots of those lying around.) Then the restaurant owner informed me, either put them in a smoothie or an omelet and let the magic lights begin. Honestly!? For a country where dealing drugs can be a death sentence this is mind boggling. But hey- its Gili Air.</div><div><br></div><div>Want some up-scale mellow? Easy. The H2O Yoga Studio is a few minutes walk down a pot-holed alley, strewn with cow patties.</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_16f3_3760_7374_be21" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-GD-spCTRrzk/Wqr-fwqecPI/AAAAAAAAgh8/VpOmNNHsXrgGAFMcnSMyUgKOYmFhxC0tQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 470px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div>You could choose pool yoga (great for my knees that can’t kneel), advanced classes, vegetarian cuisine and meditation. In the evening the calling out of a yoga pose was matched by the distant call to Muslim prayer.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Because this is a Muslim island. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7908_49b2_b2a2_2812" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y4hiHFPL_Xc/Wqr-h26ySfI/AAAAAAAAgiE/SCs8kcG8eCEqmhqZiuG3w7otk4mqPUx6QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 475px; height: auto;"><br><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Except for Bali, all of Indonesia is Muslim, and the three Gili islands are actually part of nearby Lombok, not Bali. I was wondering what difference this might make, apart from the calls to prayer and the head coverings.There were no offerings, gods or rituals. Well, almost none.</div><div><br></div><div>While I was relishing this full breakfast and watermelon juice,</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1c4a_3eda_f463_9522" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SyC12OijfBo/Wqr-lewUVFI/AAAAAAAAgiM/nWse_Rg27RQOOpfk3nv9JkXP0niTZJsAQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 480px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> I noticed four people gathering on the beach. A woman with white scarf sat and a man with incense put something on her forehead.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2ab5_5e0f_39_9885" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PMDXxfHB1lM/Wqr-nf1UmhI/AAAAAAAAgiQ/iSz_ZhLL_YA9UUpejtBz67hQsjt5_t6TgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 477px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then he took a large platter of bananas and placed them in the ocean. An offering? But for what?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a17_d99c_b3c6_93df" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2KgSibLb2ZQ/Wqr-ohwAMBI/AAAAAAAAgiU/Sz-3b2Vrh8wib5qtpAsVL8gGsfppI8x-wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 487px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>After he left, another woman rescued the bananas. And then the honored woman took off her scarf and sat in the shallow water. Fully clothed and cleansing herself. No soap. Just the ocean water. Over and over. Another woman took pictures. And then they went home. </div><div><br></div><div>What was that! My hotel clerk gave me his opinion — that it was the ceremony done 7 days after birth, “buang awu.” Thanks are given to the ocean. The Mother cleans herself. But is that Muslim? Well, Gili Muslim. People here had religions before Islam took over Indonesia, before the Hindus escaped to Bali. This sure looked pre-Muslim to me! He explained that the Muslims got rid of the bad aspects but kept the good. </div><div><br></div><div>Why the ocean? “Because the ocean is everything to us. We fish in it. It surrounds us. It is life.” </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And eating at a restaurant that had tempted me with a handmade sign, I understood their relationship to the ocean a little more. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_85c1_55a8_2c94_9e6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eN6ZNpqTjPo/Wqr-uziZ-VI/AAAAAAAAgik/tq-HtgtX7FozTIQPrn4F3reNQ-vNRuI8gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 501px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>No one else was eating there. But when I asked what fish they had, the young man replied, “Whatever my brother brings in.” And I realized that the man poling the small outrigger to a larger outrigger that morning had been his brother. And look at the fish he brought in! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2f55_78eb_1c88_67f2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-daP8T2gm2Nc/Wqr-rYlqRyI/AAAAAAAAgiY/tFK7yCtdLRYG7f37D42OIVNAdtbIBXxKgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 493px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Red and white snapper. Little tuna they call bonita. Look at the curious little boy.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e5ab_9482_24af_66c3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-srzWB2VJHsI/Wqr-s5vtcVI/AAAAAAAAgic/VWAGGT7iMksaMUrWrKfsIyuln1U7MDEtQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 488px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> I asked for white snapper (they can also catch black snapper) as this was the only time I’ve ever seen it. Grilled with garlic. Delicious! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7402_60bb_e6eb_d8c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oi4gAGxT9OE/Wqr-urDwErI/AAAAAAAAgig/3HIqKu7-1wEukNRvGUBcaoCBhwNaYI5AACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 498px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_16_f63f_40d_b523" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4ABRiR-seiU/Wqr-yBUHL9I/AAAAAAAAgio/C13OT70ltrAONxEGgpT30t1GQ_49ZOvmwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 499px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The waiter/clerk asked to sit with me and chatted, jumping up to attend to other clients, coming back to his plate. He asked something about my views on Osama bin Laden and thank goodness the power and lights went out before I had to beg off the question! I would have been curious about his point of view, though. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I’m impressed by the industry and enterprise of these people.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3d26_19c7_6dcb_18ff" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZCqgoWX0sgI/Wqr-zLgQvpI/AAAAAAAAgis/VmNN5uuJouUkmNP60gDDwyEatXmlw01hACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 491px; height: auto;"><br><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div>The next morning his mother pedaled up with loads of kang kong she just bought and two little boys and I’m impressed by the enterprise of these people.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6d1a_263b_6bfd_cdf1" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zEawqveBPXA/Wqr-3Q9V3nI/AAAAAAAAgiw/5wghThfzrXoh-WnwWYcfdB9pvuIyY99bwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 505px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The father can’t work because of illness. You can’t grow vegetables in this horrible soil and even water has to be shipped in. But they seem quite happy. In fact, the pony cart driver told me with great pride that he owns the pony and cart — inherited from his father. He makes more profit from one trip to the boat landing than my taxi driver in Sanur, who has to lease the taxi, did for a two hour trip!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What else did Gili Air teach me?</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I was still reeling from the ride from “the boat-ride from hell” to get there, wanting to solve my fear for the return trip. So I asked people how they deal with fear of death. When I got bogged in the sand bicycling, this man resting from hard labor called out to me in Indonesian. “Plan, plan.”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f9e6_92c0_162e_b63" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gtaBh4FN5p0/Wqr-7CmzmcI/AAAAAAAAgi8/pEH_APgPaeUXGXjmDBUmGu8SmCdwlMUSgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 533px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> What? He translated — “Slowly, slowly.” Good advice for inner peace. And I took a chance with this helpful stranger, asking him how to overcome fear of death. “You have to work with your mind a lot so that your thoughts are always with God.” OK… I had a lot of work to do.</div><div><br></div><div>I pursued it further when I signed up for a yoga class at H2O Yoga and asked one of the instructors what her advice would be about fear of imminent death. “Pray to the 100,000 angels!” she confidently advised. The other instructor practically and emphatically proclaimed, “Those boats are crazy! I won’t set foot in one during this season!” </div><div><br></div><div>I braved the seas for a snorkeling tour. Lots of dead coral although no one would say why — fish bombing is now illegal. The highlight was sea turtle.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9a80_c47a_e1c6_7581" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uq-KOY1sHG8/Wqr-6TE-L0I/AAAAAAAAgi4/S1kT5INrPcEoEb_DRhUkSa7mF80EeKoyQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 575px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The guide found them, pointed them out resting on the bottom and nudged them up as we swam after them, enthralled. </div><div><br></div><div>Lunch on Gili Meno (where there is even less to do) was surreal — pancake topped with banana and chocolate, Bob Marley playing and the mosque singing across the water.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The last night was magical with a full moon, music in the air. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e06a_f657_21c9_5e63" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JJgiuOsfX3U/Wqr-5Zp8PpI/AAAAAAAAgi0/BuDaUcC-XIs87nq118sMo4sPyUrWbtGigCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 543px; height: auto;"><br><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I asked the hotel clerks to sing me a song and show me some dance moves. Silly fun guys. Here they are.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kYaHxP0b5p0" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_5d1f_a72c_6463_d5d0" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/kYaHxP0b5p0</span></div><div><br></div><div>And when they asked me what my “dance moves” were, I replied, “Well it depends on the song — salsa, swing, …” So folks, here it is— the only two moves I know of bachata. Ahhh… Gili Air.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zcN-8LIywAQ" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_804f_ec85_9cf0_f663" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/zcN-8LIywAQ</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, if this last Indonesian blog seems a little hodge-podge, that is because my impressions are rich. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Bali and Gili Air meant rest, rejuvenation and renewal. A dip into very different cultures. Affordable, interesting, beautiful, exotic and with amazingly kind people. If you have spiritual questions or fears, this is a safe place to explore and grow. (And the boat ride back was fine, by the way.)</div><div><br></div><div>Go!! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_13e4_a288_7e86_670c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dhgzno-TpQI/Wqr-8akIRrI/AAAAAAAAgjA/KNxuZuVv6dUOvtT62UGSoQRkt1wUIfFgwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 512px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And now onto Australia to catch a permaculture design course that got canceled in Bali because of the darn volcano!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-80222888422444473812018-03-09T17:36:00.001-08:002018-03-09T17:36:48.072-08:00 Ash on the Bamboo Floor — Bali Stories<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I love people’s stories but I will never really know the Balinese. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Sure the drivers and tour guides do their best to let me glimpse their culture, their politics and their struggles. They answer my persistent questions the best they can. But it feels like I will always be more of an outsider here than with any other country I’ve visited.</div><div><br></div><div>I can enjoy watching them play on the beach on Sunday, their only day off. They arrive on motorbikes, swim in their clothes and ride home wet. Simple pleasures.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ca3f_7f39_d9f4_3247" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vsUmd3KOa74/WqM2lu_GklI/AAAAAAAAgVE/1G6ta9C3o4E179dxHvMtr8s2MVwvz_MCACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 443px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br>I know they need us tourists and a good day is when they catch a taxi fare or nab one of us for a massage. But I’ll never really know their stories.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"> So instead I listen to the stories from us foreigners and reflect on the attraction of Bali. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The Dutch came to plunder the spices in Indonesia for over three centuries and the Japanese to conquer. But why do the rest of us come? Are we allured by the conclusion of the book, “ Eat, Pray, Love?” Do we hope to find ourselves? Lose ourselves?</div><div><br></div><div>The climate is gentle. Flowers decorate the bathrooms and beds and float on the pool. Adornments are the norm.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d22c_cf5a_1883_13cb" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EmNVYKT1qEM/WqM2lNmen_I/AAAAAAAAgU8/7rgOhBpS24giREgmcbp3xlo-LWxZfEqEQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 446px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><img id="id_2194_b66b_ef4a_bc5e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VaBdv6QZZpk/WqM2lGiDMdI/AAAAAAAAgU4/w8yLwTj02bEFkdTZffapN2HX5JesiUyIgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 456px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Beaches surround us. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3825_c017_385c_e5d7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xmL_T6KZ08A/WqM2kb8FvGI/AAAAAAAAgU0/CjkOluNuA5w42MM6RQEIAi-c3R55Q7mLQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 427px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Amazing food.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1f29_bf4_3ad8_d954" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3f7lntMO_v8/WqM2llhjlrI/AAAAAAAAgVA/kuCvf6a_8pgPo8EzWhK9x07pQeQ2KlAKgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 458px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9fee_7c01_2e82_81bd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--irU3WIB0_g/WqM2mZUtzbI/AAAAAAAAgVI/WakFvMC9md8r371iHSnS8nyek9YzwYq_QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 486px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> The people smile, sometimes enigmatically. Temples and colorful offerings are everywhere.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8147_2637_57dc_723e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-avySX287lIs/WqM2nXAd7fI/AAAAAAAAgVQ/ld7-HUJJYZYub3FH3ZjV4Kr8MHQ0iX-kgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 467px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> No other part of Indonesia has the tourist draw. Because it is an exotic blend of Hinduism, animism and demonism? Because of the plethora of exquisite arts?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ed17_1c1a_583f_59b1" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vy7fY00QKGo/WqM2omdtArI/AAAAAAAAgVY/kaaFpC6vseESDfHDynONBK6KynBljimvgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 488px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">“Why do you come to Bali?” I ask. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>And from the answers of total strangers I have concluded that Bali is a lovely container that holds and even changes our stories. Think about it! The cottages I have stayed in are more like spas, for $30 a day including breakfast and pool.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b5c5_887b_45c0_cc5b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-U44iMT19c4A/WqM2nKz-cpI/AAAAAAAAgVM/f09ONGmL0bkrhCxlSw59CVK-49y-FMykgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 539px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Massages are $7 and fresh grilled dinners of snapper served on the beach $7 also. Yoga classes are the most expensive outlay of the usual American rate of $10. It is affordable luxury. It is comfort and support as we experiment with new ways of being.</div><div><br></div><div>For many Australians it is an easy time-out. One cottage neighbor has been here 35 times! She sits in a rented bean bag chair, smokes and reads a book, gets two massages a day and soon will return refreshed to a job in a nursing home and life on a sheep farm.</div><div><br></div><div>Over seafood pizza, an American School Principal in Singapore and her husband who works at the internship camp for Syrians trying to escape to Australia, tell of their romantic meeting in extreme danger in East Timor. Obviously they come here to decompress. And having saved little for retirement will be able to afford retiring here.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">For some it is love, and of that there are interesting variations.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I heard a really wild story today while resting under the shade at the Museum le Mayeur in Sanur from a Dutch woman. Her 25 year younger Sumatran live-in boyfriend fell asleep while she described her lifestyle. It would make a unusual book although the husband might not appreciate the exposure! </div><div><br></div><div>She is wife number two out of three of a wealthy man in Dubai. He supports her lifestyle which includes the boyfriend in Bali, and she helps him design custom yachts and diamond jewelry. My prying conversation: How do you get along with the other wives? We are a team. But what about sharing your husband, you know, sex? Well, there are the yard boys, the gardener… Really! And what happens if your husband dies? I get 1/3 of the wealth.”</div><div>It works for them! One type of love story.</div><div><br></div><div>As for Le Mayeur— he arrived in Bali in 1938 to paint the lovely topless ladies and tropical scenes. Falling in love with a much younger dancer, he painted and then married her. Apparently they lived together happily and productively for twenty years and upon his death their house and collection was donated as a museum. See these window shutters carved with a scene from the Ramayana, a Hindu classic love story.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><img id="id_f464_2fe1_bf43_2fdf" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CjfU93xSXtI/WqM2oMewz4I/AAAAAAAAgVU/mNbyigatQhc28PttuUf6tnK_ok53OBJPACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 460px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And in this sweet place with fading art I could sense the genuine devotion of this Belgian and Balinese. Here are their memorials.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><img id="id_3a01_bc17_40a_2e95" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HPpnRmair5k/WqM2oqlpnsI/AAAAAAAAgVc/qyLeEkInva8JyEa9zmzNj4WNDxzM2YiJQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 457px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Do some of us come for prayer? </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I can’t see us praying to their gods or making three times a day offerings, and more on full and dark moon. Even if we were Hindu or connected to aspects of Nature (animism), can we really relate to the demons and fierce protectors?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_48f_338f_56a9_6427" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cJb6wfl8sXk/WqM2ozy_rtI/AAAAAAAAgVg/MJ8vJ4xAl2guzNq8WRFY1QmB6yPpzkNWACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 475px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><img id="id_3026_a28a_35f9_91fe" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wiPsSbQvjFw/WqM2pwjCW_I/AAAAAAAAgVo/ErC3WW8g6ZcvbjgaVKarclF_3rWHiRrjwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 497px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">But some do definitely come to shake out their demons!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>An English woman I met at yoga suffers from psychosis and post- traumatic-stress syndrome. In Bali she is stable on meds, lives inexpensively, and takes good care of her health.</div><div><br></div><div>I talked at length to an American and Australian who were totally up front about their alcoholism and narcotic addiction. They’ve stayed in Bali for months, coming clean in the mellow tropical atmosphere, letting go of shame and facing the truth. They are supported by good therapists, 12 step programs, healthy fruit juice and genuine hospitality. And with the hard work of introspection, self-acceptance and service, they are totally positive about long-term success. And they start me thinking about my behaviors. “We all have addictions, Kathy.”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And my story? Because that’s what this adventure is really all about. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Not just about adding months of experiences to an already rich life, but about real change. I will truly understand what has happened in retrospect, when I come home. But I’m getting a glimpse in this magical container called Bali.</div><div><br></div><div>After months of veiled threats, Volcano Agung is finally exploding.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7bee_32d4_41c7_b0b8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fi4bzAdnXcI/WqM2pubWzBI/AAAAAAAAgVk/mrcBk6NlCa0y9_e1mk9JbUE8r6Dk-xnSgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 531px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>As in — airports closed, ash in the air, and the not knowing weighing heavy for everyone. The worst affected are the refugees from the danger zone who have lived in camps for months. They had to sell their livestock for a fraction of their worth and have no income. But the affluent rest of us are also worried. How will I get home? Should I just get a ferry to Java, then fly to Dubai, then Australia? Have I lost the value of the plane ticket? What if I’m here for months? Has Paradise just turned to a Prison? </div><div><br></div><div>(And we won’t even discuss my fears of tsunami! The Prama Hotel has promised me a space on their fourth floor if I can get there in time. And if not, I’ve placed a ladder next to the tallest coconut palm! I sleep with my passport and flashlight…)</div><div><br></div><div>Here is Trevor, an Australian flight attendant with a positive attitude the next morning, when we didn’t have to climb the coconut palm— “We’re alive!”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_803d_96d8_36ce_49" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-miraolMsRI4/WqM2rYcOlaI/AAAAAAAAgVw/-B-ECeQyLcU5pe5Y3zgmr-vyMzAyOoGHQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 368px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">In the meantime, I do yoga.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div> The only class I can actually accomplish is Restorative Yoga. </div><div><br></div><div>Ade’s voice is loving, gentle, and refers to my two gimpy knees and torn shoulder as “injuries,”not failures. With enough props and bolsters I can relax totally into poses. Nothing to accomplish. No pain. No forcing. Just relaxing, releasing and moving from one comfortable pose to another.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6ea4_9b0_d1eb_9bde" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VLemxu4NVho/WqM2qXERGnI/AAAAAAAAgVs/-grUQjxAbSkcoLmGM1qzRMRE-F8Rd45fwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 489px; height: auto;"><br><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div>Bali is starting to get to me. I’m starting to believe that I can let go of a life-time incessant drive of countless accomplishment. Is there a 12 step program for “accomplishment addiction?” It has gotten me far in life but at this age seems silly if not delusional.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Ade gives me a push I need towards enlightenment. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>“Reach out and touch the bamboo floor. Feel the grit? That’s ash from Agung. Think about the volcano. It is neither good or bad. It is just nature. We have to accept it. What can Agung teach you? And let an intention come to your mind. A heart felt understanding or resolution.”</div><div><br></div><div>Then the room goes quiet. Some are sending compassion to those whose farms are being destroyed. And for me? This is what the power and fury of Agung says: “If you can’t control something, let it go.”</div><div><br></div><div>That simple. Can’t change people, places or things. Can’t stop a volcano. Can’t make the airplanes fly. No accomplishment on earth can bring lasting happiness. No lifetime of projects can delay death. It’s time to just, “Let go, girl.”</div><div><br></div><div>And just as the recovering alcoholic friend reflected that her addiction was the best thing that ever happened to her because of how she has changed, I have to be grateful for this prolonged and unintended stay in Paradise. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Thank you Agung. Thank you Bali</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-87359308451817073342018-03-06T11:44:00.001-08:002018-03-06T11:44:48.322-08:00 Bali: Black and White<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">No matter how peaceful Sanur was, once again I had to get out. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>And other than summoning the courage to rent a scooter and deal with traffic, suicidal dogs and a total lack of signs, a comfortable air-conditioned car was the only way to go. So I booked a personal tour of the east side of Bali with a trusted driver.</div><div><br></div><div>Sure, I wanted to see the sites, but I really wanted to pick Agung’s brain — his opinions, his feelings about the history, the culture, etc… Of course it would only be a slice but that is all that 500,000 rupiah ($30) could give me.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">First stop, Pura Puseh Temple. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>It is old, he thought— 11th century. The Balinese have another calendar— in Isaka time is 944. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_858f_a9f5_1982_fda2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KH3Zh9kUK38/Wp7vT5pmOyI/AAAAAAAAf8U/Hg3Yfo9DysInH7vODoNeU-I9j78QHnQYwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 489px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Of interest is the carving of a turtle. (See the head on the left.) He calls it Empas— a figure on which the world can be turned, an incarnation of Vishnu?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6b46_b723_7b27_849d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-87REkuPUVVo/Wp7vU31-hBI/AAAAAAAAf8g/usZuPHJo09k2OIs8IewstclTjMODMds6QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 481px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Here are men preparing holy water, letting black smoke infiltrate the jar. Everything here, it seems, can be holy.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c60d_bb49_8d50_7878" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wxXSpwJxX5M/Wp7vUT37nHI/AAAAAAAAf8Y/GhwnHPknLfoWND4mnENg-34gTHw6PI93ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 474px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The Elephant Cave, Goa Gajah, named after the river, used as a Buddhist Hermitage.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a607_41ff_f1ad_caa" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6MfrK5Y5Llg/Wp7vUtdo3SI/AAAAAAAAf8c/JTcEJiuxM0AXQJ1EWW7w1K5bey_9dGS_wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 458px; height: auto;"><br><font size="4" style="font-weight: bold;"> </font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font>With everyone in required sarongs, tie belt and shoulders covered.</font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font><br></font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font><br></font></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d522_b401_ddc4_bac3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NfZKw7cTK-c/Wp7vYRZ-77I/AAAAAAAAf8k/xDNCcrAEV2Ac1RHYUU3FL7KjQujIR68DACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 467px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The oldest village, around the 11th century, Tenganan, is home to the Bali Aga people — descendants of the original Balinese. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">No vehicles are allowed. A “magical” cloth known as the kamben gringsing is woven here from cotton and local plant-dyes. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_28e4_3e97_189c_5910" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rNXbppxVG9w/Wp7vY0M8FiI/AAAAAAAAf8o/0KSHNMR1K-0cheyADoCF3UohmyLktsKGQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 471px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_baa0_fde0_e1a9_841b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dzgym_7z-zs/Wp7vZs2ZclI/AAAAAAAAf8w/FrDTwnFJRvshGSqmmUrxG7PQoaaKPrb8ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 471px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I also resisted the urge to buy these intricately inscribed traditional pieces on lontar. (Rule number one, Kathy— don’t buy anything! Too much luggage!) </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_5e99_3cdc_5f3_e930" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-a29EoEtUplw/Wp7vZeJF6XI/AAAAAAAAf8s/2QFrKPzlq0U9JEpyGL3KLP2LkCHcH_h2gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 479px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And handcrafted baskets from local fibers.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9087_2a1e_e77d_52cd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5hpe5s6yPIc/Wp7vdN5VEdI/AAAAAAAAf80/S_8SmxQ6mLgiLBKJbVkn0pFRDkXLy3NtwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 481px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Men displayed their dyed fighting roosters who are taken out of the bamboo cages for daily massages. Blood sacrifices are important to religious ceremony, Agung related. Blood-letting rooster fights at the temple, even puppies …</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_aa5f_1a1e_7f6d_316b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--_2FIJip6Lo/Wp7vdscES-I/AAAAAAAAf88/5Tfvt30ynjcFdiiHzfqP_GnQQOMrgfpQwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 465px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I had missed the festival in May in which the village men fight with sticks wrapped in these thorny pandan leaves, the very leaves that are dried and woven to make comfortable sleeping mats. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7e4a_f019_532d_de8c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UCA5SBQpWUo/Wp7vdkfNxpI/AAAAAAAAf84/HKbX5HZ3cXQiJCEBWaql80ffKQg01SNPACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 491px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d83c_226e_6d3e_d9ac" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xbM-RBTBsww/Wp7veR1kHlI/AAAAAAAAf9A/yf6Llhz8lgQvUXS62QIWz5ZD_Uxxaq5wwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 495px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">A fight of honor, to the death</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Agung didn’t display any emotion during this historical tour until we reached Puri Agung Semarapura, a historical building complex, consisting of the court of justice, a floating pavilion, and a museum. The palace itself was destroyed by the Dutch in 1908. Here is the memorial to the “puputan”. My tour book refers to a suicidal fight of the depicted royalty at this site in 1908, including women and children. Agung calls it a fight of honor— a fight to the death.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3d3d_1d1a_c65d_43cd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CW4xdbwDhFM/Wp7vhUpg5XI/AAAAAAAAf9E/lTuUJpRgo_cZCMFnXHwc3x-PrPQ_gG1UACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 476px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fe61_c212_b0e6_9fc9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BgEt51AFDP0/Wp7vhw1CjWI/AAAAAAAAf9I/VDzykRkxag0WToHhXroU8U6MrmhRAx9ZgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 482px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c70d_a2be_86d4_bf7b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5XlK2lpiShk/Wp7viVO79yI/AAAAAAAAf9M/eEg-NuMrQa08UunQfcQFyT49jrNPv7_UQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 493px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Yet Agung quickly said that there is no black and white to any of this.</div><div>“The cloths we see around objects in nature such as trees, around carvings of gods and protectors, and at offering sites are black and white. Like Yin and Yang, it isn’t about one or the other but about a balance of both. We say thank you for everything. God made black and white, bad and good.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2955_8d61_df64_ea16" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xUZ4szliQ30/Wp7vjM52m_I/AAAAAAAAf9Q/Ya-C3VgM9IAizP2P8GsOy83NXVUMTIiEACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 501px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>“But in Western thinking we resist the bad, strive for the good!” I insist.</div><div><br></div><div>“But we have three main gods— Brahma the creator, Vishnu the sustainer, and Shiva the destroyer. Without destruction there can be no new creation. And bad and good are just powers, like nuclear power— it can be used either way. Look at the Dutch colonization — if they hadn’t taken away many of our sacred objects for their museums in the Netherlands they would have been lost here!”</div><div><br></div><div>An interesting perspective…</div><div><br></div><div>And indeed these gods, in one form or another, seem to be at every major intersection! This Balinese form of Hinduism (and animism) is all pervasive.</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4311_734d_c510_ed45" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2aaiit0S4YU/Wp7vlm_KvlI/AAAAAAAAf9U/v6Y1j_2xQJ4AvkjVZO-VN3qZR7l7rUsjQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 526px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>“Is black magic real?” I probed. I had just finished a book “Bali Magic” and wanted to know his perspective.</div><div><br></div><div>“Of course it is real. Just because we can’t see the dark forces doesn’t mean they aren’t real! My arm hurt for three weeks with no cause. The doctor couldn’t find the reason and his medicine didn’t help. So I decided someone had put a curse on me and went for a purification ritual. Immediately when the cold water hit, the pain disappeared and has never returned.”</div><div><br></div><div>“Didn’t you want to find out who put the curse on you?”</div><div><br></div><div>“No. It doesn’t matter. Revenge is just negative karma. All that is important is purification and moving forward.”</div><div><br></div><div>I remembered that he had refused a payment of 350,000 rupiah for an earlier ride from Ubud to Sanur, showing me on What’s App, that we had agreed on 250,000 even though I had forgotten. “To take it would have brought on bad karma. If I ate food with the extra money it could have poisoned me. We can always choose the good.”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">But I have to agree that Bali is not black or white. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Offerings are made to the demons to appease them, not deny them, and to keep everything in balance. What look like demons to me are often strong and fierce protectors at the entrance to buildings or walkways.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ef57_9838_3552_7870" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6m0wmiCStqM/Wp7vmL8_EvI/AAAAAAAAf9Y/-rYTQiq2LCYYDIegYAY3shARIVMveZ0PACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 540px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2f19_acaa_41e2_6b60" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1j3_SbHgpZI/Wp7vnUk0cpI/AAAAAAAAf9c/d4lV4mPfq4oZNsrdc0rEA-rGUIMJvV-cQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 537px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Our last stop was a visual reminder of black and white — natural salt-making by the sea. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_45d0_3f21_7a49_2c6c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yrnmHSxfpbA/Wp7vn20SK8I/AAAAAAAAf9g/wWY0XAHqHJ0PVcit1-1d9p3pbPOiinVawCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 536px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div>At first I could not figure out what this man was doing with buckets dipped into the sea. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1c6a_f8b3_548_a1f2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JmdEWxwvQPs/Wp7vpEJaRoI/AAAAAAAAf9k/nZFIMKIe9_wOgNSD5EvumeQ4ewu5oFOGQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 607px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>As he walked back up the beach they leaked sea water all over the black sand! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/p7fTxthHCro" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_87fe_c559_6fac_4c62" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7fTxthHCro</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And then Agung described the process. After drying, the salt-infiltrated sand was put into a basin, more salt water repeatedly poured through it, and a super saturated salt solution was recovered out the bottom and poured into these troughs. The sun did the rest, ending up with pure white large crystals that fetch a good price in expensive hotels. Who would have thought?</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3c90_7bfe_a217_150c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-l4TS-flK6rs/Wp7vq0OTBvI/AAAAAAAAf9o/R2iPF9Fbgrg2ONRMfpp_e7Lo4JoazFawwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 527px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The precious result, white purified through the black volcanic sand.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_24a5_77c4_cd73_a65f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7aGQN-Wh7hE/Wp7vrrNtohI/AAAAAAAAf9s/2A5_vi715OIlgmetsRIQtKzZCdpa6UipwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 538px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">A great day. A dip into a culture. A new way of thinking — black and white. Acceptance of both. And always a choice.</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-79771047384993215742018-03-02T14:13:00.001-08:002018-03-02T14:13:32.202-08:00 From Humiliation to Triumph!<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I was determined that Bali would be a recuperating, healing and strengthening place for me.</font></b> </div><div><br></div><div>The educational opportunity fizzled out when the two week Permaculture Design Course was cancelled, after I had arrived and had applied for the extended visa because people were afraid to book flights because of the silly volcano. Bummer! I wished I’d thought that might happen and I would have taken the course in India instead and at half the price. Hindsight!</div><div><br></div><div>So, with firm resolve to meditate every day, exercise, eat healthy and start yoga, what happened? I got sick for the fourth time in one month. (Yes, it definitely was time to get out of Nepal. No protein or fruits or vegetables or exercise for one month!)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Once I started to recover I vowed to get strong! First step —yoga class. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Here is a picture of the setting in Ubud Yoga House, looking out on rice fields, breeze wafting through, nice teacher. I was actually her only student in Gentle Yoga and she carefully adapted all the poses for my two bum knees and one wrenched shoulder. I felt encouraged. She was also kind enough to tell me where the expats go to get their extended visa expedited (Immigration Highway) and where they congregate for movies and healthy food (Paradiso.)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_10c4_76ca_d572_b867" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2ON7W6nb8Tw/WpnLVsbkHnI/AAAAAAAAfgY/PKWZ5_dGE1MgV2Sdd4m9pTUVBFA86ocLQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 492px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Yes, it was going to work! Gentle yoga, daily swims and fresh fruit juice, eggs and bacon. I was feeling better already!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Nest stop, the beach-side town of Sanur. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Ahhh.. my Florida soul felt at home with the sand and surf. Definitely a resort town with sports, restaurants, music and dance on the beach— in a happy non-offensive way. Everybody was coupled up ...but me. Everybody having a great relaxing time.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_bddf_6316_9ba5_8547" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jBVEvU2rzKQ/WpnLQoeRQHI/AAAAAAAAfgU/KtFwZF-CCkYeJ0IWadJG9u-5duq93YoYACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 460px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Yoga on the Beach a sign proclaimed and I signed up. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c470_ed4e_40ef_a043" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vjhyUOHSH3Q/WpnLYpqx-mI/AAAAAAAAfgc/XwrW7-hAPm05-ja38XihiavZIkDJegBKACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 509px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Bought 5 tickets at a discount and started. The teacher on the first day was Balinese with a heavy accent. I could not understand what he said to do, except I finally figured out that “depreading” meant “keep breathing.” I explained about my compromised joints, but he proceeded to teach a very difficult class to advanced students. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I was humiliated, frustrated and sad! I used to be good! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>My ego used to be invested in my yoga competence! But no longer. I couldn’t kneel because of the knee replacement. I couldn’t support myself on the torn shoulder. Limitations, limitations! </div><div><br></div><div>So I just stretched, modified the best I could, and finally observed that actually maybe possibly I could do a downward facing dog and triangle pose, after a fashion. Child pose? Forget it!</div><div><br></div><div>I left very discouraged but sort of curious about what might be possible. After all, I had 4 tickets to use up! The clerk suggested Restorative Yoga the next evening. And alone I walked the beach at sunset. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1d54_f59a_31b_aa58" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Tplw_tA21Nk/WpnLI7WAtxI/AAAAAAAAfgQ/_ZuA3gzqyYwEuIuILNk3xrDikoA-26ZlwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 501px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Somehow I can never really feel alone at the beach even in a romantic setting. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_16d1_1756_434b_a4ad" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AErVVnbtDqo/WpnMh4kln1I/AAAAAAAAfg4/DcvTvNDIpDU0eNY4ofOKfJc6Swut5XwzgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 533px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>It’s just so big! And lit by fireworks. </div><div><br></div><div>And Brazilian dancing!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OVJXfSadmwQ" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_a3ec_90aa_3593_5a20" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OVJXfSadmwQ</span></div><div><br></div><div>And sounds of dance music down the way….</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Salsa! That was it! The antidote to humiliation!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I had seen a sign for salsa on the beach! Did I want to go? Well, I knew it could be very sad without my former dance partner, expecting everyone else to be coupled up. And it would be impossible without my salsa dance shoes— you just can’t twirl in regular soled shoes. But I still wandered by. And what did I see in the sand but two Balinese young men dancing cool moves with each other, barefoot! Interesting… no dance floor. Just deep, shifting sand.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, wanting to feel competent with this poor body at last, I asked one of the men to dance. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>They were hired to dance with the guests and had just been practicing with each other. “OK, but this one is a Bachata,” he warned.</div><div>“No problem,” I replied. </div><div>And off we went with automatic muscle memory of those Latin dance classes in Vero Beach, Florida.</div><div><br></div><div>Tricky, very tricky to twirl in the sand. Fortunately he was a strong and tolerant 21 year old and kept me upright. Then a very fast salsa with him showing off all the stuff he’d learned on You Tube and me enjoying the music, the rhythm, the way my body knew what to do, the partnering… and of course the fact that no one else was on the sand dance-floor! I assumed that they were looking at us in awe even if they didn’t applaud.</div><div><br></div><div>And here we are posing in celebration!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_365a_a4ff_94b4_bf14" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MnghLsDiNDE/WpnL4M-CqSI/AAAAAAAAfgs/joyzR_W7ptwucqb_HKqqObDQbqVfpZyQwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 522px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Mission accomplished. Ta da triumph! And now off to the pool to strengthen those legs for Restorative Yoga tomorrow…</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-40901818392919765732018-02-24T00:27:00.001-08:002018-02-24T00:27:10.669-08:00Snoozing in Sanur<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Once again it was time to move.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Away from the comfort of Ubud and the Aya Putri Cottages on Bisma Road — to something new. The beach called to me. Scenes in the movie, “Eat, Pray, Love?” Or just the need to get away from the crowds and traffic, do nothing and write? I am a Florida girl, after all.</div><div><br></div><div>The main reason I picked Sanur, and not the popular if frenetic surfing and party beach Kuta, was that I had met a lovely Dutch woman in Kathmandu. We had hit it off over breakfast, bonding as adventurous retirees do. She mentioned that her long-term partner had a daughter in Bali and that they were going to Sanur for three weeks while I was also there. “Come visit us!”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I had high hopes that they would guide me towards wonderful sights, tours, etc … and that I would find friendship. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>His daughter did pick the Gardenia Guesthouse for me — a great choice— but after an initial drink on the beach with the couple, they were off on their motorcycle to enjoy his family. I was a little sad not to spend much time with them but had only my assumptions and loneliness to blame. I even went back to the Gardenia and indulged in self-pity, hugging a pillow for comfort— so tired of being alone, of being cheerful in messages back home, of recovering from illness …</div><div><br></div><div>And then I noticed the inscription on the pillow <i>—“Strength does not come from your physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.” </i></div><div><br></div><div>Someone had placed placards and pillows around the cottages:</div><div><i>“Be patient. Things will change for the better.” </i></div><div><i>“Life is what you make it.” </i></div><div><i>“Some people look for a beautiful place. Others make a place beautiful.” </i></div><div><br></div><div>OK, Kathy, get a grip!!!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">It turned out that Sanur was perfect. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The Lonely Planet Guidebook refers to it as “Snore.” I was cared for by the staff, given a lovely cottage and pool and full breakfast for $31 per day. The beach was a three minute walk. With little distraction, I could settle into a nice routine. Not exactly the “Kathy normal”, but I could get used to it!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Each morning:</font></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Wake up to the sound of roosters and the scritch scritch of brooms on the lawn. The Balinese are the cleanest people I know! (Other than plastic trash.) The main litter is flowers— in the pool, on the roof, on the grass. Removed every morning. Enjoy this veritable watercolor!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7hojP0FzqrU" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_f2f0_f3b5_7cc2_5791" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hojP0FzqrU</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once removed they are arranged, offerings and beauty everywhere!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3c97_8f91_8c06_17dc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eNkcMhddDp4/WpEhSiFM6MI/AAAAAAAAeok/tm302w68hwYzKFy8HfWmFw_RGV4XWrO9gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then an hour walk south on the beach boardwalk and back. Lovely to see the boats in the early morning light.</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3f28_8d6a_624f_c51a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-11JJ01LxI8g/WpEhSTNF0gI/AAAAAAAAeog/Fqb38xCzjzcJArf7my1HpCMagh7dDoJFgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 469px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Enjoying a little girl twirling and singing “Let it Go!” from the Disney movie Frozen. Notice the size of her brother’s shoes!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2ef1_31a3_293e_a396" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XAmbOa6rM2U/WpEhRXHE6fI/AAAAAAAAeoY/zxxtDwGgAo0nujQjSBOCg5HMwG52VXonwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 470px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> Respecting the owners of little stalls making their offerings before cooking sate on the grill. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4e3a_c1db_fea8_8702" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-bxRk06LtxA4/WpEhRdyKZrI/AAAAAAAAeoc/UxchsWsusXAWPlz4M5ZEB42FLHN6NLaNACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 466px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>One path led to a mangrove swamp— with a its own temple. An old man and woman statues guarded it — not to be messed with!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_bc93_944b_9cb_4ac5" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5XXD8QxRj_U/WpEhbyEG-YI/AAAAAAAAeow/WXtMvZXBEHUEHM9r680DU_QsVBiSHP4TQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 466px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And then on the canal a man swept up the sand from the night’s overflow, a never-ending daily job.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2ed4_2956_a0ed_3f64" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wLucumTsXyw/WpEhbQ_i5vI/AAAAAAAAeos/JwyZ5xUkyUA3RQd6eNK4cIMmRrQoCJKegCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 500px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div>And another removed plastic before it washed out to sea.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a32a_8654_df11_c2bd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-npl26S6Jc5c/WpEhZompNNI/AAAAAAAAeoo/_2XB6ZkqsQgQQSRL_EAmNykeEsEK4DhvQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 510px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Everyday cleaning up, everyday making offerings, even if the trees drop more flowers and the beach sand encroaches on the concrete. </div><div><br></div><div>At one community gathering I was almost enlisted to help in clean up!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ab93_8316_3e94_7e5c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6qAleMYWwyk/WpEhcSF5oqI/AAAAAAAAeo0/enFfnRPef8s7UX-ageEDRpz5SCTzDcKogCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 506px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">On Sunday, Bali families turn out in force on the beach. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_366_dbe8_bd95_2297" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w_iiJAIXPn0/WpEhjG0OBGI/AAAAAAAAeo4/8VABPqxJZxYOWGKdvMzmbcfG2mhk0qMnwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 526px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>It’s their one day off and they buzz in with motorcycles and run into the ocean fully clothed, even those with head scarves. At day’s end they buzz back, wearing the soaked clothing. Happy people and simple pleasures!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">After the walk, thoroughly soaked with sweat — a good swim in the pool, bathed in the falling flowers.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_654f_57ff_ef01_acd0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-P15ukU9Zr1E/WpEhlLyMTZI/AAAAAAAAeo8/oBqTyCN5ycI8Cn9v8VS7jyF_g2zmVb5bgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 519px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Ahhh… time for a read, writing,… Maybe a good haircut, shopping for a summer shirt at Hardy’s where you don’t have to haggle over prices, or lunch at a new place. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Other options in this “Snore” (boring?) place:</font></b></div><div><br></div><div> Finding a thousand year old pillar and the offerings that are left there.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4f57_6abb_f4a_7dea" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3EdZOGmNb9E/WpEhnp96PXI/AAAAAAAAepA/uBbDnyeqWzUn72nPNGdxlpkeyLmfVCjJwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 494px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_497c_96d9_60ae_ff7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xtiuyaR8t2g/WpEhoHjSB8I/AAAAAAAAepE/WvDOVqcarjg54TBsuqPq6E5PasiVAoq0QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 486px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Learning to make palm leaf decorations at the Mercure Hotel.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f403_13c3_2806_21d6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4-z4uUuzhu0/WpEhzwF652I/AAAAAAAAepM/XPLk5vNbeJkqpapATqCbtv5rNpb9rwLSwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 488px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>But mostly just hanging out.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And at 5 PM Yoga at the Power of Now Oasis, two minutes away.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">In the evening? </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Well, there was the Frog Dance at the Prama Hotel. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lB3hW_otcCc " width="500" height="281" id="y_id_d6b5_34ed_d1f3_fdca" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lB3hW_otcCc</span></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div>A $7 fresh fried red snapper dinner, here, with my feet in the sand.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d6b1_2a60_486_d137" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9Xa3hls08jo/WpEhywI_FhI/AAAAAAAAepI/Yrqrkz9DnC8Wz1a20Za4Wc0bS21xasjRgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 475px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9396_e098_d785_afe9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JxyeCDJr0E8/WpEh2eiSMZI/AAAAAAAAepQ/UkBUjwaKG7Q3Wy-RmGXVAWKRgeUpRkIuACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 458px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Or a $7 hour long foot massage.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7a22_1998_f2e9_be90" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8oLZebBhFN0/WpEh2-qu9HI/AAAAAAAAepU/mINM--xkyGw0fDGgki-ZYZGKjISsFoUXACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 468px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And then, time to snooze</font></b>.</div><div><br></div><div>Sounds boring? Well, I could take it for a week. And I had to. Because my passport for the extended visa was still in Immigration!</div><div><br></div><div>And the truth was, I needed the protein, fruit, rest and exercise in order to recover from Nepal. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Thank you, Sanur and my Dutch friend!</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-21122498886142189782018-02-20T14:34:00.001-08:002018-02-20T14:34:18.647-08:00 Best Day Yet in Bali!<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>Sometimes you just have to get out of Ubud. </b></font></div><div><br></div><div>The Putri Ayu Cottages were lovely. The room inviting. The pool refreshing and the landscaping beautiful. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b85c_4d49_a7b8_f9e1" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-c6-z1pB-uBY/Woyg91HRfLI/AAAAAAAAeYk/KySCVxPObCckwP6OxS6aWBH3l28pX_j3ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 492px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_50a0_faa6_5caf_1491" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Uniivk7N24o/Woyg_WyNbFI/AAAAAAAAeYo/oKFqBiqyp4U1QxZ5FvTwoVSslLWzeJzlwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 491px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>They took great care of me when I was sick for a week after Nepal— cold and stomach cramps etc…One clerk called me, “Mama.” The owner smiling here told the pool boy to climb a coconut tree to get me healing green coconut water.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_86fe_4048_fe1a_8f17" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0Cc8RL2A1zg/Woyg28vcNiI/AAAAAAAAeYg/UNYLHl_fa7EPd8SbqINVTP4TPThwAMrVACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 486px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>But, the traffic was impossible to negotiate crossing…. No crosswalks. My Bisma Street which was originally built for those farming the rice paddies, degenerated the further you got from the main road. The asphalt turned into paving stones turned into potholes. I apologized to each taxi driver who took me home— they didn’t know I lived in that part of Bisma that would turn an ankle in the dark and probably a tire!</div><div><br></div><div>Tourists everywhere of course. And the poor taxi drivers just needing one fare for the day to survive and the massage people who played on their cell phones when there wasn’t a customer, which was usually always. They were annoying in their requests for business, in their hunger to support themselves. I was tired of the effort it took to ignore these honest people who just wanted work. Tired of saying, “No thank you.”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I needed out!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>There are a zillion booths lining the tourist streets with the same fading pictures of tours for hire — ride an elephant, raft wild waters, see this waterfall or that temple. Too hard to choose and who should I trust and who speaks English well enough to be a guide???</div><div><br></div><div>So I ducked into an actual building that looked like an official tourist information center. Not! But a very pleasant woman sold me a ticket to a Greenbike Cycling Tour— “500,000 rupiah, but for you, 400,000.” Great trip advisor ratings. </div><div><br></div><div>I was a little uncertain about the state of my knees and no bicycling for the past 8 months. I didn’t want to hold up the group or randomly fall over. But… I had to get out of Ubud. Not much more dangerous than walked down Bisma Street in the dark! Perfect.</div><div><br></div><div>They picked me up promptly at 8:00 AM, loaded on three others and a guide who spoke perfect English, understood bicycling, and taught us all kinds of cultural things. Turns out that the tour in the van was just as much fun as the bicycling. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">First stop, a coffee plantation. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Well, actually a tourist attraction which gave pancakes and 10 tastings of coffee and tea, included in the tour price. </div><div>The best? Ginseng coffee. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7d5f_1ff5_3e4_733e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-RnYQbz_h_UM/WoyhDBWoM6I/AAAAAAAAeYs/_n7Z6m6KOt0cB9oezP4Cdhfrw3A6qDfdwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 509px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The most interesting? Luwak coffee. Or civet cat coffee. What?</div><div>Convinced they were putting me on, our guide showed us this little bugger on display.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ebe8_81db_eec1_9972" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ovrjGsfwT0M/WoyhVIuQMeI/AAAAAAAAeYw/UQmjgF8T4UoUrR58t64mPw4KkzIk9XmLQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 491px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The luwaks love coffee beans for the sweet fruit around the beans! They eat them. They drop them in their poop.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a9cc_7e6e_a756_1e63" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TQKKdiI5V2o/WoyhWj6qLaI/AAAAAAAAeY0/d0LogDoMLdUyUqWABgVpTFyMngo58QmKACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 486px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> People collect the poop, wash it thoroughly, roast it and drink it. Because historically it was from wild luwaks who were attracted to the very best beans, it became an expensive delicacy. </div><div><br></div><div>This charge would be extra. Well, should I? For $4 I could have a once in a lifetime experience. They brewed it at the table. Tasted like coffee, but with a stuffed nose the nuance of scent was probably wasted on me. But I did it! (A Dutch fellow rider said that when Balinese workers were forbade the coffee beans on the Dutch plantations in Bali, they just found some luwak poo. That’s how it started.)</div><div><br></div><div>Here is one very caffeinated civet cat.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4a7a_5863_73bf_11cb" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uuJcC_q1PVk/WoyhfJ2eD5I/AAAAAAAAeZA/d4Nruq0OGtU9YDaszq7WlubFVIalH8iQgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 460px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Then onto a great view of Volcano Batur </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>...from which the locals gather black debris or stones with which to decorate their temples. And Lake Batur under it, down from which the rice fields are irrigated. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4023_7286_9375_f2d7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8pUFZLmY2F8/WoyhbQ5DUpI/AAAAAAAAeY4/iZgC0T9boUo_MGZmolpujOSX50SWIztCQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 450px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Finally we got on our bikes, with me pleading to lead up the rear so as not to endanger anyone else and off we went— down-hill.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e1e9_d04c_bb2a_7145" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vWXcNtmjCvo/WoyhtBZrQEI/AAAAAAAAeZE/HnUfQtkcbps2Y_gLu8Jy7Azu4e13Ae5lgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 449px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div> It was much more like riding the brakes than riding the bike. The whole trip was downhill! I’m sure I never even burned off the calories of the pancakes! But wow, was it wonderful. Through villages and tangerine groves (which can grow at this elevation) and under which are planted coffee or vegetables or ginseng.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">We stopped at one compound which Greenbike helps because the father is disabled. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>They hospitably showed us the rooms, the making of three times a day ceremonial offerings, and offered me the clean hole in the floor bathroom.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6f8f_57eb_8b51_2697" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QHx4IvuvMCw/Woyh0GSPzJI/AAAAAAAAeZI/WyWABD-1aXwqGJFUjPMiiZlOzc_CQc4DgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 555px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> Our guide detailed how the open-air ceremonial room in the center of the compound is used for rituals, including teeth filing. Yep— the top front six teeth are filed flatter at puberty by a priest— so that with the feel of the tongue one is reminded to curb the six bad habits of lust, greed, anger, jealousy, confusion and drunkenness. Hmmm…</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e2a1_8fe9_e4aa_fffa" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pALlPAJhTFU/Woyh212h9pI/AAAAAAAAeZM/TvM3XRdLPtQlG3XwSoOB_lIRVyhlUMFQACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 563px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Then on to the rice fields! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Now, I’ve seen rice fields in Nepal. I’ve harvested rice in Nepal. But these were grand, green swathes of undulating curvaceous exuberance. So beautiful!</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7a8d_a756_7e8c_a1e5" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-g9HEvcV-nh8/Woyh8HDxpVI/AAAAAAAAeZQ/zUMGUGiSr38dngtzzQSB_W8_Dkhqy-61ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 572px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div> With an intricate, orderly and ancient irrigating system called…suwak. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8893_3adb_691d_49c4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j0kuortPaT4/WoyiKVjIIXI/AAAAAAAAeZU/BOvKGS29Bj0PL8cUFp8zY4fEDxIode1ggCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 571px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>How do you know which is your rice field? By the markers. Does that include those really tall coconut trees? Yep— and you climb the tree like a monkey to harvest your coconuts. Why not just let them fall like we do in Florida? Because once on the ground they no longer belong to you. OK…</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And then more non-strenuous bicycling downhill, and the rain started. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Out came the free use of ponchos and we rode on. Now this was the scary thrilling part for me. A spill could have sent me back to the States. But here I was — “Focus” I told myself. The guide leader did just what he should— pointing out pot-holes and little ditches in the road obscured by the down-pour. I followed the buttocks of the woman in front of me, avoiding debris and dangers. </div><div><br></div><div>But what to do about sudden dramatic downhill slopes, dangerous with gravel, chickens, dogs and random children? Much less a woman with a sickle? Ring the little bell? Worked for the humans but not for animals or gravel. And sudden braking on slick pavement not a good idea. I just pretended that my dear friend and competent ride leader from Florida was beside me saying ,“Focus, no sudden actions, you can do it…” And St. Larry as I dubbed him in my appeals got me through it upright.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f2e3_9d47_6e00_a0e5" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NUHr3-ZUeks/WoyiVN8RxwI/AAAAAAAAeZk/m0nYKDh0XhMA_8dxoh-NqD0to7yXSVAIwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 509px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I survived, a bit muddy but happy! Yay!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>And the celebration was here, at the buffet provided by the Greenbike Cycling Tour’s own restaurant. Maybe the Vero Beach Bike Club should adopt this model, Larry?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_818a_659d_fa65_f27" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8i2SwSg72UM/WoyiU6GPRwI/AAAAAAAAeZg/BlM9kXQPq90gSv1Hpt5bONeN9JcNEVcWQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 506px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_24e7_9b40_b6c1_470f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-an1zGPp1nb0/WoyiWqwI3-I/AAAAAAAAeZo/oQslg2DauSAUhJ05b59R7KBIhBUGz2sXQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 503px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>So, for $30 I had a full day out of Ubud. Sights, tastes, nature, culture, learning weird luwak stuff, proving my survival skills … and coffee, pancakes, banana and water, and full buffet. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div>(And because I wasn’t strapped to a GoPro for the really exciting rainy dangerous part of the trip and can’t show you that video, I’ll leave you with this. Enjoy the expansiveness and serenity.)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2K4JSvtWfGs" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_7ef_49bd_171e_f900" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2K4JSvtWfGs</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And yes, I survived without a spill!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_760f_68e4_3fe1_ec56" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iKtFOt5rISQ/WoyiaO8ntNI/AAAAAAAAeZs/qNj6Pv3ZoAsmpnrfMDsAxsBrqNFBtSMuACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 522px; height: auto;"><br><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Yes, the best day yet in Bali!</font></b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-81564144175793478792018-02-15T01:19:00.001-08:002018-02-15T01:19:49.676-08:00 Ubud, Bali — Anything You Want!<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">“Why Bali?” you might be asking. “Why not?” I reply. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Haven’t we heard about Bali all our lives, from the song “Bali Hai” from the musical South Pacific, to the last third of the book, “Eat, Pray, Love?” I hear about Bali twice a year when I visit my dentist for tooth cleanings. Her surfer brother settled there, married, and will never leave.</div><div><br></div><div>On the surface of things I chose Bali after Nepal for a 12 day Permaculture Design Course. At my journey’s outset I had intended to do this in Southern India as part of the International Permaculture Convergence. But a conversation at an organic farm in Nepal gave me second thoughts and I looked into other choices for this course. A tent in India in a field with thrown-together sanitation or ….Bali? Back and forth I went for about two minutes and chose the more exotic and and what I hoped was the more sanitary. And after a week of surveying the eruptive potential of Volcano Agung and noting that the threat was steadily decreasing, I bought the ticket and arrived. And with a month to enjoy myself before the training began, I started in Ubud.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What is there to do in Bali? </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">In this popular tourist and cultural center, Ubud, anything you want!</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">This entire blog entry should have all been video!!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div> Legong Dancing at the Palace.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xxOlr1w8iLA" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_561_91fe_ac8e_7f3f" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxOlr1w8iLA</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Watching children learn Legong dancing at the Agung Rai Museum of Art. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/VZYS2OoA78k" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_ecd4_cad7_89bb_a2c4" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZYS2OoA78k</span></div><div><br></div><div>And learning instruments in the Gamelan ensemble music.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rR6fs1pcNfY " width="500" height="281" id="y_id_7a6f_f36a_dc91_6111" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rR6fs1pcNfY</span></div><div><span style="font-family: UICTFontTextStyleTallBody; font-size: 17px; text-align: start;"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Water gardens outside Starbucks.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8ef1_90a2_167a_6a96" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5J02h1Caf58/WoVQWLVz9ZI/AAAAAAAAdyQ/5Qa23YB6Z-8B58Opp6qiuHWRZTXzHe9-ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 519px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Temple ceremony for which I had to don a sarong, sash and arm covering. And hand-made offerings.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_56c6_7de4_b97f_efe2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-onFa3k9zHxk/WoVQcZWmjoI/AAAAAAAAdyY/1-V5fSPP9REP4pAkA6RgoNs4oDKICPs9ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 527px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d8f7_5e2a_695e_c456" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OokPbHghS4k/WoVQblK-n4I/AAAAAAAAdyU/K8rVg4-D3p83kyGTNq6zBO9V6LTZtkQwgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 525px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The Monkey Forest: but beware!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>One little bugger jumped on my backpack, undid the zipper, plucked out toilet paper and ran up the tree with his findings in about three seconds. One friend got bitten for no good reason. Fortunately she had had the rabies vaccine in the States and did not have to fly to Singapore for the full rabies treatment!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f9f_6cb3_6cea_bd7d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-A1y5_3ljGCw/WoVQc-0xlkI/AAAAAAAAdyc/ol5fLjMpGlw9sRJJexehnf7THJ2jt1cXgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 536px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f3f6_3277_2110_f6fe" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fa5Ri02OZMg/WoVQghQKwWI/AAAAAAAAdyg/aIoMal4wOSov8olYR11-I-LZ9osWX5xqgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 526px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c5f4_c844_c626_7689" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-crn7Hjvrwmk/WoVQr_MV5lI/AAAAAAAAdys/_Pc-pA3wQVcZhhMprN4cePe45DgB3Ep9wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Shadow puppet show, from the Mahabaharata. The story was described and then narrated in Balinese, Indonesian and English but I completely lost the story line!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FC79VT2OfWk" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_9045_724f_4897_6113" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FC79VT2OfWk</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Cooking classes. They pick you up, take you to the market, efficiently have you cook and eat eight dishes and drive you back home. Delicious! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d85f_6fa6_eb08_264" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1DFuopq6vSo/WoVQq_j-OoI/AAAAAAAAdyo/ZjY4AoOrs9cRJiJYyCQB0MoNKFDryRXmQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 492px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_42f_badb_9a3c_ad09" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-M4IgXl0yf8c/WoVQs6MDwQI/AAAAAAAAdyw/XUsqCG6pX6Qj9kv94wCs1bRtWHVZD2N-wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 501px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Ubud is lively, friendly and very busy! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The only danger are the holes in the sidewalk and disregard for crossing walkways and the ubiquitous unsafe water. (Got a sick tummy again!)</div><div><br></div><div>Go, have fun, get a cheap taxi ride if it rains and ignore all the other offers for rides and massages and street sales.</div><div><br></div><div>And if you start missing Western conversation, the Paradiso movie house and vegan café on Hanuman Street will make you feel at home before you step back out into the beautiful and mysterious Bali. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And I still had almost a month to go!!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ab59_b0f1_3c07_987f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fJqpc0WlF0E/WoVQqF9_tUI/AAAAAAAAdyk/kHf81qAdGpQxvpm303mjx_KD71kfO2_HQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 507px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-16678983693727261012018-02-11T17:29:00.001-08:002018-02-11T17:29:37.235-08:00Finally Appreciating Nepal!!<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">It has taken me 9 days with this family of 5 to finally appreciate the gifts I’ve been given.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div>There is no way I could have foreseen it! All I wanted was to learn organic gardening at EverythingOrganic.org after having been given a tour by Shyam two weeks before. Here is the very accomplished and lovely Judith, who founded the farm with her late husband, and reaches out to teach the Nepali farmers and agricultural students techniques that work, are profitable and sustainable.</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f450_7464_8b25_c645" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-S1a4buizCUk/WoDtmkjQ-YI/AAAAAAAAdOo/N9E72GjF1HkS1QJ_mYiVsq2rxIYfSf-lACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 452px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Shyam, the training manager, had an upcoming 3 day training on trees and I certainly needed to learn how to graft and prune them. Only $10 a day for training and $10 a day for room and board at his house. It felt right. The interval of time between the meditation retreat and the training was awkward so I took him up on his offer to work at the farm as an “apprentice” for that time and to stay at his home. I hoped I’d learn a lot about organic gardening in Nepal. I had no idea of what I’d actually learn.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Until today, the day I’m leaving, I’ve basically whined. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>To myself of course. To everyone else I hoped I looked easy and grateful and content. But inwardly I found it so difficult! I constantly had to use the “work with the difficulties” practices I’d learned at Kopan Monastery. Why? Well, the language barrier. There was so much I wanted to know about this family, especially the women, but it was all filtered through Shyam and the poor guy had enough of answering my questions at the farm. So I nodded and said “dhanyabaad”, thank you, a zillion times. Communication was actually easiest with 20 month old Unnati! Hi, Bye, Ammah (mama), grins, bouncing on the knee…</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And the sanitation has been a big put-off. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I think I’m getting used to it. At least I’m using more of the wipe-with-the-water method, since toilet paper does not exist. But no soap in the out-house? Really? In two of the farms there was no sink in the kitchen. In all three there was no soap in the out-house. Makes the Kathmandu campaign I witnessed of “Wash your hands!” much needed and especially poignant since so many children used to die of diarrhea in the summer, before electrolyte solution was invented. They eat on the kitchen floor which I think is hard mud. Anything spilled just soaks in. Peelings are dropped on the floor. Food that spills from the plate is left there. The goat occasionally scampers in and leaves a dropping. All of us leave our shoes at the threshold, except Unnati, so she tracks in who knows what. At the end of the day the floor is swept but obviously never mopped. </div><div><br></div><div>One rag hangs — to wipe hands that wiped noses … So, close proximity of livestock, a wipe down of the floor each morning with sacred cow dung, food on the floor… Hard for this doctor to get used to! I’ve been scrupulous about drinking filtered boiled water. But still I got the tummy trouble at two of the farm stays. Dishes are rinsed in cold regular water. I have no control over that. Even if the food is offered with love...</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_da90_7b13_a9fc_45c6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FxiFtkKB0E0/WoDtfwBr_XI/AAAAAAAAdOg/vJgKhXYxhzQALFxNw6t27DWCXk8i9oAYQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 483px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>And the danger and embarrassment of having to walk these rocky narrow slippery mountain trails with two hiking poles! </b></font></div><div><br></div><div>Such a blow to the ego! It’s a miracle indeed that I haven’t broken my neck! The paths on the garden terraces are narrow and the wet clay soil is a set up for falling. The walk to and from the farm slows Shyam down a lot and he hasn’t complained, but the 92 year old neighbor, who easily moves up and down the hills, asked him, “What’s her problem?”</div><div><br></div><div>I’ve learned to ask the trainee girls for help going down sod terrace steps (why are the risers so high for these relatively short people?). I choose not to care what they think but I’ve shown everyone the knee replacement scar to get a little sympathy. The main problem is balance on narrow tracks. I never noticed it in flat Florida. Not fun to be so unsteady! The knee replacement cut out the proprioceptive nerve fibers in the joint! Or maybe I’m just protein deficient! See how I whine?</div><div><br></div><div>And the fear was founded. I fell twice. The first just off the terrace, mistaking weeds for solid ground. Just down 8 feet, mostly sliding. And it was a miracle I didn’t gouge myself with the sharp sickle I was carrying! And another when I was walking alone down a stream bed— a neighbor girl helped me up. Fortunately the rock only bruised my butt and … my ego.</div><div><br></div><div>Food. Falling. Fear. Not fun!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">But … I soon realized that I had a choice. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I had chosen this experience even though I had no idea of what I was getting into. There was one to blame but me! But more than that, none of this was a problem for anyone but me! They were doing just fine with the sanitation— better gut bacteria and strong legs and balance for the steps. I was grouchy but it had nothing to do with anyone but me!! This is their place, their country, their culture and rituals. Their relationships.They are doing just fine!</div><div><br></div><div>And when Shyam was worried that one of the cow’s teats was blocked, is that really any different than when my adult child needs a car repair? There is always scarcity of some sort. Uncertainty. I wonder if they are more used to the vagaries of life — of nature, farming, animals, health?</div><div><br></div><div>They are certainly more familiar with the logistics of death. Within 20 minutes of a relative’s death, the conch horns sounded, cell phones rang and a group assembled. The women consoled the wife. The men prepared the body. And then they carried the blessed, fabric-wrapped body slung from bamboo poles, down the mountain, down a trail. Shyam and others carried it for two hours to a sacred fork in a river. Others preceded them, cut down a tree, and prepared a funeral pyre. Within three hours of death, he was becomimg ashes. I know — I watched the video.</div><div><br></div><div>Who knows? Maybe a Nepali farmer’s life with subsistence crops and livestock, living with extended family and a debt-free house is even more certain than an American who loses a job, has college debt, a sick child and no health insurance. So, really should I pity them in any way?</div><div><br></div><div>I did have compassion and admiration as I watched a woman sift sand, and carry it, gravel, and bricks on her back to rebuild her house after the earthquake. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3077_dadd_8e0c_6f60" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-icj_4g7qogE/WoDtiMtERBI/AAAAAAAAdOk/aFWRpmv6fokfOdEcmqoh4SLv687MUkPzQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 555px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I did have a little sense of anger as I watched the wife sick with bronchitis struggle to feed everyone including the animals, watch the child, do the dishes and laundry… while the husband basically sat after work. I finally said something and he did the dishes and rubbed her chest with Vicks! Definitely cultural differences.</div><div><br></div><div>Tonight, my last night, I watch the sun go down from my writing place by the rock goddess Devi. A fourteen year old boy appears and I ask what he is doing. (Neighbors do tend to wander into the place …) “I am looking at my village.” Village? All I see are houses scattered and hills. No market. No temple. But he proudly tells me the name, not knowing how to spell it, and that it includes 350 people. He knows his place.</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1996_e3f8_cad_14e3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1REf7Gd9I80/WoDtaEQdtmI/AAAAAAAAdOc/8GAdOdP4-IwFX9Umg5I3zqwALtfWRrHDQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 533px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>So I have just been plopped into a place, a culture, a family. And the attitude I’ve finally arrived at tonight, my last night, is that of gratitude. Wow— what a rich experience!!!</b></font></div><div><br></div><div>The shift happened as I followed a woman up the path to the home. Shyam had stayed below to help his parents carry up immense bundles of rice straw on their backs (food for the livestock in the winter.) So he asked her to carry my back-pack, explaining about my knee problem. I recognized her as the woman who the night before appeared and pulled from her feed-sack vitamins for Unnati and worm pills and a tattered notebook for Shyam to sign. “She is from the government. Sort of the community health worker.” </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ef53_6d12_3351_e6ac" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0Kc59z6heNU/WoDtm-26YAI/AAAAAAAAdOs/i17VYzGL6skioxUJWkKQvICVBjOoeICjwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 558px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>So when I met her on the path today she said, translated, that since I’m a doctor we share something and that we have to say hello in a special way. Shyam then told me that she was indeed a special woman. That before the hospital was built 20 minutes away she was the mid-wife, going up and down these paths at night, saving lives, and dealing with disasters. Wow! Was I privileged to be walking behind her! Here we are together, me full of admiration.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_767d_669a_5830_1519" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sH1CdlIyeqE/WoDtv37aS1I/AAAAAAAAdO0/J8BV5MYGSjUGlhsv0wDSHV3WMLFCbNgrQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 571px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And for the first time as I precariously ascended the path behind her I wasn’t ashamed of my disability. Here was a woman, a health worker, who understood that I was just doing my best.</div><div><br></div><div>A rich experience indeed.!!!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Tonight I will say thank you to them. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I will explain how much I appreciate their patient inclusion of me. Their putting up with my cultural mistakes. Their toleration of my boiled water requests and slowed walk to work. </div><div><br></div><div>And I’ll share what I admire about them— that they have each other and care for each other as an extended family. That spirituality pervades their days, with morning puja and over 100 holy days a year. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e2e_300d_b89b_b70" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qq3_1k7kP7w/WoDturokE3I/AAAAAAAAdOw/j0xW4N3DSNQ1ctTp8yRyE_wefeDHCL11gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 578px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>That they wear clothes until they drop, use local resources— usually what they grow, come together within hours after a death as community, survive and rebuild after an earthquake, and even if there are the rare conflicts, there is always laughter.</div><div><br></div><div>I feel badly that I don’t have gifts for them, so I look through my stuff and come up with these. A cobalt blue cloth for Sabita— given to me at Kopan Monastery to hold our Buddhist texts. Nice face soup from a hotel for Bagavati. A two dollar euro for the head of the household, Kesav. A one dollar bill and euro small coins for Shyam, and biscuits for Unnati. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And what have they given me? Priceless! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Memories of watching TV Animal Planet on the bed, rubbbing shoulders with the whole family, in English. Language is irrelevant with animals.</div><div><br></div><div>Celebrating the day of the Holy Basil, decorating the tulsi plant. (Tulsi is the goddess who worships Vishnu.) </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f5c4_66a1_fd7a_7748" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-WOzl_52g94g/WoDt9TjPHDI/AAAAAAAAdPE/5jM2kFwge_0aeIkZ7V5ix9kDJpDE7n-3QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 552px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fresh milk each morning and yoghurt made just for me. </span></div><div><br></div><div>A very special treat for me of fried chicken feet. Hmmm…</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3f32_bfbc_fff9_1ec8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EblwXxyJotk/WoDt1k3K80I/AAAAAAAAdO4/Qdcy29a_tPAggKy_ssgXFyZfhE5fa8pegCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 554px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And when I give them their presents, tears from the Shyam’s Mother, Bagavati. “Why are you crying?” I ask, translated. “Because you have been here so long, you are a member of the family. I’m going to miss you!”</div><div><br></div><div>They bless me with a beautiful mala that she strung from marigolds and chrysanthemum, a white scarf, and hugs. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f65d_4018_8d6_c3de" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4qBPpF1IMuI/WoDt8KeHD1I/AAAAAAAAdO8/ZSOiE-AKcvMZjG20ogreap2NCW419hTKwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 581px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>So, even though I learned how to air layer tree grafts, and recieve this certificate,</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_bd9b_11f9_d543_2d7a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PPjhIxuoMf8/WoDt9DqAqlI/AAAAAAAAdPA/dDxBQgrmMG4vW3Vm0cWvNXjGk3iEc2yxgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 573px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div>... finally, after a month of inner whining, I’ve actually learned appreciation for the courage, the ingenuity, the kindness and the beauty of the people of Nepal.</div><div><br></div><div>Thank you so much!!!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And together with you, I wish the very best for your precious children, and your future!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_65c1_9ef7_2663_7230" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-FuPBi6ffESo/WoDt_ym5GrI/AAAAAAAAdPM/C8JAMUAIHXosdyprxNk6Yc1ymRwMhqwowCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 540px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-15395838084000305452018-02-06T20:53:00.001-08:002018-02-06T20:53:18.972-08:00 The White-Faced Mama<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Yes, I survived! What’s more, the gods didn’t strike me dead because I surely offended them!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>There are cultural differences at this Nepali home-stay and no guide. So, I’m learning as I go and practicing not being offended when Shyam says, “You just made a BIG mistake.” Actually he has only said that when he’s told me once, I goofed, and he had to drive the point home.</div><div><br></div><div>Such as?</div><div><br></div><div>Where I pee. He suggested I work my way down the dark slippery slope with 2 foot high uneven stone risers in the middle of the night to the very clean outhouse. Sorry! I don’t think so! </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4481_204d_23e5_cafc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6ZbK3aF7U6Q/WnqFIvOLISI/AAAAAAAAcdE/mTrje83o9Pwm6zX5yAXT5fT4ZpaYGfBUgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 446px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>So we settled on me having a pail once it got dark. I dumped it the next morning in the very wrong place. He politely said, “Put urine on other side of your house. You put it where the Goddess is.”</div><div><br></div><div>OK… And yes, this morning we gave paint, food, water and incense to the Goddess Devi, which as far as I can tell, is a colorful stone. It’s all about intention and care — about respecting the sacred. Got that one.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_51b5_f04d_70c5_9177" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jvIs_pkg-Ps/WnqE_2IoplI/AAAAAAAAcc0/M_OKZhyLh08EEuPEAAhtQGwmZijhUYOMgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 460px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And I’m afraid I goofed again when I asked him to repeat the constituents of the floor in my shed/room/earthquake house. “Is my floor stone?” It looked a little like adobe. “It is dirt.” “Dirt?” “Yes, dirt” OK… so I take my shoes off outside the room so I can walk on dirt with my clean socks...</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">That got me wondering about the kitchen floor. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Turns out there is no dining room, much less a table. That’s right, no table. We sit on the floor of the kitchen to cook, eat, visit, etc… I asked about it too. “Every morning we spread it with red paint and cow dung to honor the Goddess Laxmi who is incarnated as the cow.” OK … so plates on floor, I’m sitting on manure. I choose to ignore the possibility of germs.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_721a_96b2_b6b1_d694" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-t1Ij4lNdpOg/WnqFDeBnA9I/AAAAAAAAcdA/Y5FeHu9OSzUMw1k3cVjH0BpLr6zR0x8IQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 515px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Next, I wanted to win over their sweet 20 month old daughter Unnati. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>She was understandably shy of this older lady in camping clothes. She wouldn’t smile or play so I gave her a cookie. Opps, without asking her Mother. Dumb! “Sugar?” Sabita asked. “Yes,” I admitted. Turns out she has had a cold for the last month and they aren’t giving her sugar.</div><div><br></div><div>OK… So, this morning I gave her an orange. Again, without asking Sabita. Dumb again. I figured the Vitamin C wouldn’t hurt. Boy did I get a look! Turns out that when their child has a cold they don’t give her raw food. (But I did see her eating a banana.)</div><div><br></div><div>I’m definitely waiting on bringing out the chocolate!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I’m amazed that this little girl does not have or need toys!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>She simply imitates the adults and has a wonderful day. Here is the attic full of corn.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_5b09_f328_708e_ff9e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nQ2AFB0pfeg/WnqFCFmWgWI/AAAAAAAAcc8/z_4_D816D64xLZRXRNMH9cV0qTZeDgRowCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And here she is helping out husking the corn, without being asked and without praise. Joining in, having fun. Just a child doing what needs to be done. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mU53Kqv2_0M" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_2be4_eab1_81ed_9192" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mU53Kqv2_0M</span></div><div><br></div><div>She played for about two seconds with a corn-husk doll I made, tossing it aside to imitate my sweeping the courtyard free of goat poo with a smaller broom.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_db9f_6ada_932d_6e16" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eEf6sjya3as/WnqFg7uOsEI/AAAAAAAAcdQ/9ZODoLTuPmspnml0hwR0Eai2fTVOzpbqQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 537px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>When her grand-mother made rotis from flour and water, she took a little wad and rolled it out too.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1f40_c30c_19e0_6dfd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-p3jtkI_86wY/WnqFjBLeHzI/AAAAAAAAcdU/WKXCYojrhbMwbf3SEb0cHBudcc-_KDXpwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Here she is learning to milk, 20 months old!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_985c_8d82_5ad3_9ab0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KkZSmKYbUEU/WnqFlDISNcI/AAAAAAAAcdc/x2MVoRXuBiA00CXXp6kYoUWV2CHsxBGTwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 523px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Adorning the Holy Basil altar with paints.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d650_11da_8456_50e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-G3MKIo_ghpI/WnqFm5kzPUI/AAAAAAAAcdg/psG5ljc2eoESd-6g-RHywwmPVYg2IdKGQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 539px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Helping her grandfather bless the cow.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4944_bb7d_63d9_19cd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-U0IyXmJdHUQ/WnqGFkaCKHI/AAAAAAAAceA/HU0dgmWHXl4pndPpP7z8zzoky7GExlgJwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 527px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div>Drumming.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b7de_b145_1988_d55" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hCUfKGqFPYo/WnqGEDUlL9I/AAAAAAAAcd4/h9eEKWcqdzE-GEKyBnEvXxsImG1kRBYYACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 540px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Dancing with her grandmother and father. All so natural...</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a7ec_7593_39f8_7e27" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lwbJN_y2D3U/WnqF8AX1YgI/AAAAAAAAcdo/PErh8-4Jw7wywQ4zAOy_BAivkC5zy5lcwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 529px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div>And just hanging out. Loved, adults keeping her safe without hovering, learning by watching, part of an extended family.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_206e_dac6_60d5_d090" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ESg9ibcuIV4/WnqGAK7mGLI/AAAAAAAAcdw/62wtCrsgaS0P16mV1gnlQUlbGtDtdTAUwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 461px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And did little Unnati come around to me, the stranger who doesn’t speak her language? </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>She finally started smiling when we played peek-a-boo around a post. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_177d_a2af_997e_d156" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3R291IgxskA/WnqGPGU30xI/AAAAAAAAceE/ZKyDz-o0Z9kxG1LdYfo_Q2nr-q9pYMrjwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And when I pushed her on the little swing and sang a childhood swinging song, she looked at Shyam and called me something with a grin.</div><div><br></div><div>“What did she call me?”</div><div><br></div><div>“The white-faced Mama.”</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-7194243420327495722018-02-01T10:43:00.001-08:002018-02-01T10:43:10.567-08:00Arriving at Shyam’s Home<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>I sit at a place of unimaginable beauty.</b></font></div><div><br></div><div>Marigolds line terrace edges, growing there spontaneously. (Occasionally they are pulled up to feed the cow and buffalo and make pest-repellant tea.)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_acc1_3436_cf28_c77f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_9zZPkBoe8Y/WnNfhj3inDI/AAAAAAAAcP0/irqW2hwpOmAAoJSOdQMqHNyXmUb2-ndcACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I’m not quite at the top of the “hill” (“mountain” is reserved for snow-capped Himalayas)— but it sure felt like we were making a steep ascent on the climb from the highway.</div><div><br></div><div>I can’t complain. All I had to haul up was my butt, two bad knees and a day pack. I offered to unload some of the suitcase and carry my part, but Shyam insisted on carrying it, full and heavy. He had promised me by email that it would be no problem but I’m sure he didn’t think I’d be bringing so much stuff for this 9 day home-stay. I’m sorry!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_cf45_f454_4763_2edb" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BDAl2VDk3c4/WnNfeiKOOoI/AAAAAAAAcPw/ToknHH3jSo4eN9BHAhKACZ24brAUkx0MgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 525px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>He did sweat and stop to rest on the way up. It was all I could do to not topple off the slippery stone “steps!” Finally he called his wife, Sabita. She arrived with Nepali know-how — the strap that goes on the forehead to help with heavy loads. Here he is! Not with trekkers’ packs or fodder for the cows, but with my suitcase!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_eaf0_7805_7200_447b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7H8uJ41nbMU/WnNfifAtfuI/AAAAAAAAcP8/dA0xudVoQOULeLCY-fWPKyFxymc-exHQACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 516px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">He warned me on the way that “My home is simple.” </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>That’s fine. I’m used to camping. And at Sangam’s Organic Farm I slept in the Earthquake House — tarp top and floor and a few rodent droppings. Here my sleeping quarters is to be a shed with mud-daubed walls, a hanging light-bulb, an outlet that doesn’t work, a zinc roof and hard dirt floor. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9571_d4a1_eff_9345" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MZrWxh48T70/WnNfeTPd-RI/AAAAAAAAcPs/fretlfZ80xEaAMc5HsKNzAPADGyFxyknACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 502px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>It does seem a little odd to have to take shoes off and then walk with clean socks on a dirt floor, but that’s the custom. I find out later that this was an Earthquake House too, with the roof donated by Shyam’s employer. Now it is a “home-stay” abode. I’m OK with the basics.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What is better than basic, what is perfect, is the view high above any pollution or dust!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The distant mountains, snow topped Himalayas above the clouds.</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3861_17e2_d74f_d95" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LQuuu282A-Y/WnNfhktdDLI/AAAAAAAAcP4/Csuxg9WdtRERgneimQTSMhTyJ5TKaBdvQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 520px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Terraced fields. Vegetables everywhere. Randomly placed houses, which constitute a village, even though there are no roads up here. And the sounds — birds I have never heard before. Even the bus horns way below are melodic, playing tunes that are banned in Kathmandu. Animals moo and bleat and knock their goat heads against metal feed bowls. Shyam’s wife quietly feeds the live-stock with the enormous basket-full of fodder she harvested from some field or terace wall.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1d59_fae1_c2b1_f96d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5CsE3XXuRBM/WnNfqTnyiDI/AAAAAAAAcQA/MvewSI_mvfQruJNYVyo4FaUXk9Yzp5E0gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 525px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And silently falling leaves, announcing fall.</span></div><div><br></div><div>And the feeling? Of spaciousness. So much clean air! Marigold scent when I brush against the golden blossoms.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I complained at the last place that I was living in a “barn-yard.”</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I did not want to repeat that experience! Well, I have and I haven’t. The livestock of cow, buffalo and goats is tethered right below my shed. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d3b4_3823_a8e2_2c9d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kFCltT8PiEk/WnNfq3dhpNI/AAAAAAAAcQE/SD1rGw5WS_YzAMkP3nFn7Mlc8cFskNvbACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Two small goats actually frolic and poo freely right in front of the bench where we eat our noodle snack. It is the barn-yard! But it’s a happy barn-yard. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_5014_56d8_d2af_ac8a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ro8xAE5M1hs/WnNfq7gq83I/AAAAAAAAcQM/YiboJPjZ_HwDdpCGBRc-uqdQ-ZA-KHsvACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 515px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Shyam loves his work and is committed to teaching the Nepalese farmer organic farming and tree planting at the teaching/growing site “Everything Organic Farm.” It was established by the American Judish and her late husband who were well schooled in organic gardening in California. </div><div><br></div><div>Shyam’s lovely wife calmly and continuously works. Loving her 22 month daughter, Unnati, chasing her with kisses and clothing her warmly as the temperature chills in the late afternoon. Feeding the live-stock. Bringing me warm milk from the cow. Cooking me noodle soup with just picked garden greens and insisting I sit on a cushion, not on the floor like everyone else. And when snack time is over, washing the dishes outside by a hose which brings water down the mountain.</div><div><br></div><div>I watch carefully how she squats and washes them. Placing dishes on the stones. Gathering ash from under the outdoor fire-place. Adding a shake of powdered soap. Rinsing dishes and putting them back on (dirty?) stones. Scrubbing them and rinsing and putting back on less dirty stones. In the kitchen they look gleaming clean but the water is not filtered. Am I risking something eating from them? We shall discover.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4d5b_efe6_cf90_c587" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mZoxsr83Y-w/WnNfq0ldCuI/AAAAAAAAcQI/k-_J3Eq7Mys1p73xPqqBNzw5r425XUy3wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 499px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I’ve also begged a pan for peeing inside my shed at night rather than risk walking down the slippery stones in the dark to an unlit toilet shed. So, I have arrived and am settled.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">That’s it for now. It’s getting chill. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Sabita is picking marigolds for a mala for her brother who is going to Australia to study and work. One can’t get a work visa there so study is necessary with an extended family pooling money to get him there.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a66f_d9f3_248d_fbe0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KKSqNgVJEtM/WnNfutOnTHI/AAAAAAAAcQQ/rioX3o4wR7I2yGdRiZOaZMpWIPAs8eAMQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 521px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And before Shyam descends to the kitchen, leaving me perched by the view, he confides his ambitions. He is 26. At 11 he was sent to the city to be a servant. He went to school maybe 1 hour a day. Yet, after a few years of English exposure he is speaking remarkably well, He wants to open a home-stay place on his own land, not on this his Father’s home. But he has no money. I remind him of all he’s accomplished in 6 years of working the Everything Organic Farm and teaching. “But,” he insists, “ My hard-working years are over at 40. After that I’ll get weak…”</div><div><br></div><div>I wish them well and hope it all works out, somehow. Hoping that he can offer his daughter more than his parents could offer him.</div><div><br></div><div>It’s getting colder. Time to put on warm clothes and hope I can charge my electronics inside their house.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I have arrived!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-71012414032237660832018-01-28T22:20:00.001-08:002018-01-28T22:20:51.052-08:00 Kopan Monastery — High Above it All.<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>This is a challenging blog to write because basically it is about silence.</b></font></div><div><br></div><div> I wish you could have joined me to sit high above the fray. In Kathmandu, below this hill, the festival day of Laxmi was erupting. Lights, music, gaiety, with people going door to door performing. I missed it all by leaving Eco-Organics Farm for this five day retreat.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b14e_79ef_5780_fcd0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tdUTBJQjDiE/Wm69BsbCv1I/AAAAAAAAbsI/-pXOAkp0lt8Ifrw7WFlDULZfLqGz9QPzwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 603px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Why did I choose Kopan, a Tibetan Buddhist Monastery? </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_120_c63e_1f53_b19" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-u65twdWV50w/Wm69ChbpeFI/AAAAAAAAbsQ/QkdLORujs1Ery0EalS7ms92pjZRQAO_3wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 600px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Well, I think it chose me. My hotel manager, Prakesh, had felt very guilty about stranding me at the airport upon my arrival to Kathmandu. No driver as promised. No answer on the phone. No Nepali money to pay a taxi driver. No functioning ATM to get Nepali money … So, he helped me by finding Eco-Organics Farm and now this Kopan Monastery. His kind aid more than compensated for my initial confusion and fear!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">It felt good to sit here, high above it all. The chaos, farm difficulties, Nepali woes ... far below.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f734_ecbd_f55_4e9d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dCTXVttmkGY/Wm69Cc-MJkI/AAAAAAAAbsM/iJe6F23AC6cN2P9930VHkAT79jIRPBoDwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 556px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>What did I gain from this retreat? In order of pleasure: a sit down toilet! A room to myself with no rats leaving droppings or goats being birthed or precarious paths to a hole in the floor toilet in the middle of the night. A shower!!! Reliably filtered water! And most of all protein! Yay tofu!!!</div><div><br></div><div>I know it sounds like I’m grumpy about the farm living situations which I indeed chose. Sorry, but the contrast was lovely and proved how, even though I’m a great camper and farm girl, I am addicted to certain Western cleanliness standards. I’m a relative wimp, I confess.</div><div><br></div><div>But the 5 days wasn’t really about Kathy feeling clean. It was about working with my reactions with filth or anything else objectionable in life. The title of the retreat was “Transforming Problems into Happiness” by Geshe Losang Sherab. That’s promising a lot!</div><div><br></div><div>I won’t subject you to Tibetan Buddhist philosophy, much of which was dense, intellectual and challenging. An easier read, but still potent, is Pema Chodren’s book, “Start Where You Are.” Basically the teaching is about using whatever hits you in life or disgruntles, disgusts, or confuses you as the path for awakening. Awakening to what? To what all spiritual teachings point to —the “two wings of the bird” — wisdom and compassion. So, stop griping, Kathy. Use your difficulties. Say “thank you” to them and to the difficult people who are your “teachers.”</div><div><br></div><div>Easier said than done, of course. But rather than being theoretical, the teachings were practical, doable and effective. Again, Pema Chodren translates the Seven Point Mind Training and the “tonglen” practice well for us Westerners.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What else did I love about this retreat, other than the room, protein and guidance? The people. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>We gathered from around the world. Kopan is a famous draw and people fly in from everywhere. I received so much support from Americans, Canadians, Germans, Indians … and I just have to recall their sincere faces to remember the practices. Here is my small discussion group.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_de58_9590_e36_3244" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IcgA0MXyw3s/Wm69DetD1_I/AAAAAAAAbsU/-EhQ41lYl5gOcqrc3_Sqfhw4v7A6GcnAwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 480px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Our larger group:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_55c0_5d9d_47cb_aa6f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gfXXOIuDD8E/Wm69GMqZSfI/AAAAAAAAbsY/n1l2F4JrfxcF442mRMx4vWwG6OTGZj6UgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 478px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I think you would love the sight of these monks playing soccer, their robes hiked up for better running. And the little ones helping each other with laundry chores, arms around each other like brothers, or chanting in unison. When we asked our monk teacher how they come to arrive at the monastery, he said they were allowed to stay only after great consideration. If it wasn’t a good fit they were sent home to their families. If they wanted to leave at any time, no problem. But for a boy from a poor village, it was a great chance for a good education in a loving and healthy environment.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_306_cb80_db11_ce31" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rfLk_D9omaY/Wm69Gtk_vaI/AAAAAAAAbsc/wbKSUGVJQQIGboGAuHrNS_DvtK0-6_LcACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 520px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>The monks always seemed to be cheerful, helpful and studious.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4814_da9f_ca88_20c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ERoUl5V8Ykk/Wm69HHdnAnI/AAAAAAAAbsg/Bh9BhnorAFw6nYPR5x5_Yni2IWtNh6ldACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 511px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Some of the customs might seem odd. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>When a Rinpoche died the search was on for his reincarnation. And here this little boy is, loved and guided. (And free to leave, as one did years ago, to become a film director in Spain.)</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d5e3_987a_9ff7_beee" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UEnn1PT21zA/Wm69IUzQeVI/AAAAAAAAbsk/TaL7zM657NAWw51u1ELNFn7-cHHksIpSgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> Living one’s whole life in a monastery or nunnery did seem restrictive to me, the Westerner who loves her freedom. But how free is the mind, attached to wanting stuff, her identity, her small circle of friends? </div><div><br></div><div>One morning practice really made me think. A nun had been doing it for two hours each morning for 20 years and I joined her. In the Lama’s quarters we meditatively emptied several hundred small glass bowls of water— sending prayers down the sewer— carefully dried them, filled them with clean water, and replaced them in meticulous order — in front of flowers, statues, and holy paintings. Silently, reverently, relating to the most essential element of life as sacred. Focused yet liberating…</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Kopan reminded me of practices I did know but wasn’t doing. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Up to this point Nepal had been both rewarding and difficult for me. Yet I was just living, experiencing, even suffering but not doing any spiritual practices consistently! It’s natural to try to control things. It’s easy to forget that everything in this physical and emotional plane changes. Nothing lasts. Not the difficulties or the joy. Here I was reminded that when it’s hard, send yourself compassion and then extend it to all who suffer in the same way. It makes you part of a greater whole. When it’s easy, instead of holding that positive experience close to your chest, send that bounty and happiness to all. Get out of way of your small self-absorbed self — connect with the largeness of the earth, all that lives, your own potential. Be grateful for each day and vow to use it well.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Kopan’s reminders were many.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">Of beauty.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7190_cda6_1db6_c6dd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IlICWlB4urI/Wm69K5AjUKI/AAAAAAAAbss/Udh0-WXoZ-IzXmpK7hW4fn5yCOmGo3ylACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 488px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_5534_c54c_f5da_43d4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rG9szXicoU4/Wm69KPbm2zI/AAAAAAAAbso/xc96mMrHoYsIDHu7gKCkZUPU__149zX3wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 481px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Memories of meditating with friends.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ad52_c7c3_9410_8b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eovFTI8FBzs/Wm69MIPO1ZI/AAAAAAAAbs0/GQUHlnHhqGIfnsP-9YimdfRnRQhQd0jZACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 591px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Simple Buddhist vows, over 2400 years old:</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4f29_512b_e37a_aab6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1C0n3mkna80/Wm69LmzK_5I/AAAAAAAAbsw/OP7872kqE1cGbV60buzJHV1OEFCJkGy5wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 585px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wisdom through the years:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e1f1_8c77_c92e_5e18" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w_e8N63hFC4/Wm69Np8On5I/AAAAAAAAbs4/4CwK7fNZbCUGALZR1MjRvod5LeFys7UmwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 587px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">And a living teacher:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4fa3_1541_6c08_6bf9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BzMtiGRmN70/Wm69OQ6lgdI/AAAAAAAAbs8/bzssfCKcKSctUrzvVZyZ3FvBkIzBe2dbACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 960px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">Reminders to pray:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c24e_69e7_807_a5d8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-w83Wpx2yTaM/Wm69QZrz8BI/AAAAAAAAbtI/IA4qxlvyJSE4bhE_FnKOnSPSYT5n8DhfwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 511px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">And memories of the deep voice of our teacher, who performed these vocals for us:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CA5qRSu55i0" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_3ff6_fd97_c570_8006" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: start;"> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CA5qRSu55i0</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Reminded and fortified I was ready to reenter the world. No matter how clean the environment, could I remember to appreciate water as sacred? Would I encounter difficulties in life with which to practice? (Duh!) </div><div><br></div><div>Would there be a few minutes each morning at this next farm to meditate? To start each day in a quiet way, to be silent, like my friend here?</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f351_96b2_6367_97be" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-flPaNBvyi4E/Wm69PXh3VAI/AAAAAAAAbtA/6T-oq7Z2eGwkOeeH4ImKqaXiZ0ODCSkWACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 502px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div>Even though I have vowed not to carry books around the world, I am bringing this one out of the monastery bookstore — “Transforming Problems into Happiness” by Lama Zopa Rinpoche, that is until I’ve mastered the practices (Ha!). </div><div><br></div><div>And as a bookmark a postcard of a gaggle of giggling little monks reminding me— “If you can solve the problem then what is the need of worrying? If you cannot solve it, then what is the need of worrying?”</div><div><br></div><div>Remembering the view, high above it all, I’m so grateful for this time apart!</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e5fe_1969_1ea0_8996" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-A0AkVSe9pCw/Wm69P8yvjZI/AAAAAAAAbtE/3sksfHQjWIQXGjEIuakafzwh7YcR6RwvACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 510px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, rested, renewed and reminded —down the hill, back down into the world, to Everything Organic Farm, and a home-stay with the farm manager Shyam...</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-28133863816314421132018-01-25T13:58:00.001-08:002018-01-25T13:58:56.335-08:00 What a Ride!<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What a ride! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>That’s all I can say. The day was dragging at Eco Organics with trying to check out flights to Bali with a terrible wifi, barely good only if you stood in the bushes outside the office window. And news of the volcano in Bali. And trying to figure out if I could get a visa to Bhutan. (Not— needed a bank transfer which I could only do in Florida in person.)</div><div><br></div><div>What to do? I had to get some hair dye, so go for a ride! My bowels were happy so I could chance a trip on the scooter, I thought. Sangham was in his beige suit and I in my best capris and purple top, because we had to “dress to impress”— his motto when being out on the town. I had to insist on a helmet, he resisted because it was dirty, I insisted and won. The mission? He had several items to check off on his shopping trip. I just needed henna for my hair. And to get away from wifi frustration.</div><div><br></div><div>I didn’t think that one through very well. Without a go-pro on my chest I couldn’t have captured the chaos, bumps, smells and gasps for you. To my credit I didn’t scream. I just decided to trust because actually I had no choice. I was on the ride wherever it took me, kind of like this year’s trip. Except I believe that my Higher Self is guiding this year’s trip, not a Nepali in a business suit.</div><div><br></div><div>First stop? To buy me a surgical face mask. It helped with the dust a little. Of course the sequence of face mask, sunglasses and helmet had to be followed at each stop. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a09f_76e3_db3c_62ea" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CV2IEncbDGI/WmpSZOROAdI/AAAAAAAAbd8/SbL9a0PjvW0GkibGfyl8uyVGwCMIMBLMACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 489px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then to a mechanic’s store front where a man was wiping grease off his hands and in whose pocket Sangam placed folded cash. For the parts for his tractor.</div><div><br></div><div>Then, to an alley somewhere. We waited and an professional looking man appeared with a repaired lap top. “I can’t hold that thing,” I insisted. It was all I could do to hold myself on the swerving, bumping carnival ride!. Sangham tucked it under his knees up front.Then to TAAM, the organization in which he helps to regulate tourism and trekking and being fair to the porters. He did his politicing, I sat and read a newspaper, then we went on the rooftop for a snack— fried mung beans, flattened rice and curry… and bathroom.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Then upward and onward to the real reason for the trip, I believe. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>To the store of the Buddha Citta beads. This friend of Sangham’s owns a plantation of this shrub-like tree which produces these brown beads.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a808_d2e1_4020_3512" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fxZGAdD1EB0/WmpTHRP2tYI/AAAAAAAAbeM/6vEBJ7C06w8n-HI84N-2RZMT0RoPYT1lwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 497px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> I bought an 108 length one, and two bracelets to give away and then twenty spare beads to give away or plant. Wouldn’t that be cool? Buddha Citta beads grown in Grant, FL?</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4b64_d4ef_b502_c2a2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9F5uDQ1qEoI/WmpTDf1leiI/AAAAAAAAbeE/WWK2axD8wa8mlLj1ZgPOIFrH4GxBCG0WQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 493px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>We talked about the Buddhist meaning of boddhicitta— awakened heart—and he gave me a present, a bracelet for myself. Sangham was happy and told me to get them consecrated by the Lama at the Kopan Monastery.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Then the most ridiculous segment of the whole crazy trip. No photos folks!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>There was no way I could know which alley to take, or short cuts, or any symmetry to the road system. I just knew it was all pot holes, ruts, dust, jutting rocks, and in Thamel, the destination, it was people. Hordes of people! Cars couldn’t move. Motor scooters barely could, and the procession of hungry shoppers wove in amongst us. It was like Christmas on steroids! I couldn’t take pictures because I was clinging to Sangham’s middle, and when there was a really big bump, I had to clench his thighs with mine, the way you would a horse. All I knew is that I could not get unseated or I would be dead meat! Why the crowds? Tahir festival! Today is the day of honoring the crow. Really! How?</div><div><br></div><div>Well, the first sound I had heard this morning was a, “Caw, caw, caw.” Turns out the harvest of rice the day yesterday had attracted the crows for the gleaning. And boy are people getting ready for this festival! Fruits, vegetables, nuts, pigments of powdered paint. The market place that had been navigable my first wandering in Kathmandu was packed and impossible. Finally Sangham motioned for one rider to push a box of fruit aside, weave foreward, and for me to hold back traffic so Sangham could finally move. Yay! And why were we dong this? We went around the circle to end up almost where we started. Why? All this impassable chaos for… mung beans. Six bags worth! But I thought he went shopping yesterday! I had hoped for some festival goodies! But no, they are Buddhist, not Hindu, so all he bought were mung beans.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I madly wanted to get home. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The dust and crowds and impossible traffic was almost over the top! But nope. On the way home he pulled up to a beauty shop. Closed, of course. The little boy ran out back for us and summoned the owner who happily showed me a box of hair dye. Golden blonde. Of course. From my natural brown to the slightly red in Bulgaria to this. Why not! Turns out that she is Sangham’s “sister” but with a different mother, which simply means she is related but not really a sister. Interesting that the shop was about 10 min walk and I didn’t really neeed to take a scotter.</div><div><br></div><div>“This is a cultural experience,” I kept telling Sangham while I chanted Tibetan Buddhist mantras, under my clenched teeth. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world Just another chance to let go.” But… he could have just taken me to the beauty shop on on his way. Or pointed me to the place. But no, we had to weave and dodge and count our blessings for 2 hours to get to there And then blond was the only color she had other than black!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>“What shall we call us,” </b></div><div><br></div><div>I asked him, exhausted and wondering about this strange journey as we neared home. “The old lady and the farmer,” he laughed. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7c70_3da8_d80a_ae98" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MUiJnjUYRbc/WmpTG11RmpI/AAAAAAAAbeI/RO2t5wbJVTkpMdkUSYJFzcJQ2A6DpxAgwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 541px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Some of my friends are calling me courageous. Sometimes I call myself foolish. Mostly I’m ignorant of what I’m myself getting into, despite the best possible planning, because it’s outside of my control.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">On this short segment of the journey the best I can say is, I hung on!</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-91966798598165326122018-01-22T00:58:00.001-08:002018-01-22T00:58:15.903-08:00 Yay Rice!<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I spent the morning at Eco-Organic Farm harvesting rice. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>It was satisfying to see the patterns. The green stalks and yellowing rice as waves of grain on concentric terraces. The cut clumps lying rhythmically in bundles. The shorn root stumps as perfectly spaced mounds on brown cracked earth. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a4b7_f45b_6fb6_8eea" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CAUajmERc6Q/WmWnouCMn1I/AAAAAAAAbNc/UNwn-zGKxp4OVJIoIlXOWcK0cUjQEm-kACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 542px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>All of this backed by slopes bordering the terraces of purple native ageratum and orange marigold.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_71dc_9e2a_d123_c293" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AeP3KMULJeo/WmWm6wlr7fI/AAAAAAAAbM8/xdCyAL-fX1IawKUWpRqpvZ1h6m1-iVxHgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 553px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And satisfying to work. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Cutting each clump of about 8 stalks with a sharpened sickle. Thwack. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_cbfa_8f73_e02e_b788" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-04K3qZegIdo/WmWnDpPsrQI/AAAAAAAAbNA/tlnFlhQ2HXMo38rzBw5HErj-aIXp3twagCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 568px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>Laying 4 clumps parallel on a bundle. Seeing the full terrace of stalks shrink to brown earth and spaced green bundles. And feeling the scratchy stalks, the drooping rice heads, the sweat.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ba57_11b3_b365_61e8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JX-IjtILG7c/WmWnQlbc7-I/AAAAAAAAbNI/pwK9ZAK5UkIRCZB7WqbhA47qOhCgxclLgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 560px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Working together, more people joining, having to be a little careful not too get too close to someone else’s sickle and lose a finger. Sangham sang us a harvest song.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nPGhx3z9T2I" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_e4fc_2087_1ac9_fc7c" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/nPGhx3z9T2I</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div>Because it is a celebration! The rain was good. There was no hail! 150 grains of rice per stalk! Even-though the skies are grey right now there is no rain. Yay rice! We will eat this year! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And what is this descending the narrow path? </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>An ancient tool, a mechanical thresher. Sangham laughed that this model was used in the US in the 1700’s and now still in Nepal. Of course I don’t hardly see how a larger machine thresher could work these terraces, even if anyone could pool the money to afford one. This way no ground is compressed by heavy metal ! It takes a little while to level it off with a pole and string. Then pump it vigorously with the foot. Then take a bundle and hold it against the rotating whopper and grains fly off. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6af9_b11b_58a7_785f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-o5kOM7JKi18/WmWneFb6RfI/AAAAAAAAbNU/fe-1lmMi4D0ddBDsNGloBCvELuSHJXgJgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Sangham demonstrated but was pushed aside by a more shorter, older more vigorous worker. He pumped harder, rotated the bundle better and produced a greater pile of white gold. (For two days!)</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/c4mktfG0PCQ" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_8d91_f8da_341f_37f9" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/c4mktfG0PCQ</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">I got dehydrated even after a liter of water and after having learned all I could of the process and having absolutely no need to outwork the grandmother, retired up the hill to shower and wash the dusty clothes. Yes, I was a little jealous to observe the crowd below laughing and eating lunch, but not enough to descend the slippery slope to join them. I searched the kitchen for lunch and found two boiled potatoes— the rest were served to the workers as well as rewarding alcohol.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What did I learn? Yay rice! The harvest was good! </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d0f4_87e_5601_ca3a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZCK79TelqRw/WmWnpg4GnDI/AAAAAAAAbNg/HzVhcROhJkwslJE2x2cjMNVsgFqTNfIwgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The coming together to gather and thresh was bonding. And wow will that fragrant bowl of home-grown rice contain more than just the carbohydrates that some of us try to avoid!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Look and listen, feel and taste— green, gold, brown, song, sweat, thwack, stack, carry, thresh, scatter, save. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Yay rice!</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-63284569672294795402018-01-22T00:57:00.001-08:002018-01-22T00:57:35.162-08:00 Yay Rice!<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I spent the morning at Eco-Organic Farm harvesting rice. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>It was satisfying to see the patterns. The green stalks and yellowing rice as waves of grain on concentric terraces. The cut clumps lying rhythmically in bundles. The shorn root stumps as perfectly spaced mounds on brown cracked earth. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a4b7_f45b_6fb6_8eea" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kH3Zg8p26f4/WmWmcDcBlEI/AAAAAAAAbMs/WwLOFcVwsVETHXmSu-Kx4Th59QZvVp6tgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 542px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>All of this backed by slopes bordering the terraces of purple native ageratum and orange marigold.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_71dc_9e2a_d123_c293" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mN46oDSHj3E/WmWmnGYCb-I/AAAAAAAAbMw/tpwJkNuJo3EjiKESqfEqJ8iCxSartFBtQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 553px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And satisfying to work. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Cutting each clump of about 8 stalks with a sharpened sickle. Thwack. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_cbfa_8f73_e02e_b788" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2sPcmBdpJFI/WmWmwVMBh5I/AAAAAAAAbM4/4ebBFP7YUnUYjfVgr3YhfUOCbfYMiiHXgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 568px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>Laying 4 clumps parallel on a bundle. Seeing the full terrace of stalks shrink to brown earth and spaced green bundles. And feeling the scratchy stalks, the drooping rice heads, the sweat.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ba57_11b3_b365_61e8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SgumhW7Jy74/WmWmviUHI3I/AAAAAAAAbM0/YUghqBs15s86cQD59ubamswUVag-M2-wwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 560px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Working together, more people joining, having to be a little careful not too get too close to someone else’s sickle and lose a finger. Sangham sang us a harvest song.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nPGhx3z9T2I" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_e4fc_2087_1ac9_fc7c" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/nPGhx3z9T2I</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div>Because it is a celebration! The rain was good. There was no hail! 150 grains of rice per stalk! Even-though the skies are grey right now there is no rain. Yay rice! We will eat this year! </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And what is this descending the narrow path? </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>An ancient tool, a mechanical thresher. Sangham laughed that this model was used in the US in the 1700’s and now still in Nepal. Of course I don’t hardly see how a larger machine thresher could work these terraces, even if anyone could pool the money to afford one. This way no ground is compressed by heavy metal ! It takes a little while to level it off with a pole and string. Then pump it vigorously with the foot. Then take a bundle and hold it against the rotating whopper and grains fly off. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6af9_b11b_58a7_785f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-G8uyGuTy7eA/WmWnV18wr5I/AAAAAAAAbNM/34_Y5B0KHMAeYzywr9v_JQhv8CqGEYp3QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Sangham demonstrated but was pushed aside by a more shorter, older more vigorous worker. He pumped harder, rotated the bundle better and produced a greater pile of white gold. (For two days!)</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/c4mktfG0PCQ" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_8d91_f8da_341f_37f9" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/c4mktfG0PCQ</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">I got dehydrated even after a liter of water and after having learned all I could of the process and having absolutely no need to outwork the grandmother, retired up the hill to shower and wash the dusty clothes. Yes, I was a little jealous to observe the crowd below laughing and eating lunch, but not enough to descend the slippery slope to join them. I searched the kitchen for lunch and found two boiled potatoes— the rest were served to the workers as well as rewarding alcohol.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What did I learn? Yay rice! The harvest was good! </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d0f4_87e_5601_ca3a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YUcOtCENtOM/WmWnem01h8I/AAAAAAAAbNY/Yr1fzzHkNWECm3GYhbLTQVsPeOptAZLBgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The coming together to gather and thresh was bonding. And wow will that fragrant bowl of home-grown rice contain more than just the carbohydrates that some of us try to avoid!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Look and listen, feel and taste— green, gold, brown, song, sweat, thwack, stack, carry, thresh, scatter, save. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Yay rice!</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-17847765491095485012018-01-12T13:56:00.001-08:002018-01-12T13:56:27.454-08:00 Organic Magic<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>Well, folks I’m at my second farm experience in Nepal. You can call this “total immersion”.</b></font></div><div><br></div><div>Eco-organic Farm in the Kapan district of Kathmandu is the complex enterprise of Sangham Sherpa and his family. (The “Sherpas” are a Buddhist tribe/caste in Northern Nepal that we associate with trekking porters.) </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f537_8bc8_7b03_96a2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Iqq3UPlxWbs/Wlku3mvTThI/AAAAAAAAass/2jEnguBpaXIJLY0_nT68OS3x4_jfOi8MgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 484px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I’m not quite sure how to describe this far-reaching undertaking. It’s an organic farm, the produce of which we package each morning for sale in upscale markets. We sort mong bean sprouts. Measure out kim chi.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_116b_ff5a_ac21_8d47" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qub6TfbLOBY/Wlku3hD7YJI/AAAAAAAAaso/Q2XL7x9Rub4UczjoqZVMoSGJNSp_Wo0AgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 489px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>It’s an organic restaurant for those ambitious enough to ride up the pot-holed lanes. </div><div><br></div><div>Combined with the Himalayan trekking company he and his wife lead. Here they are dressed in their Sherpa finery with a Belgian tour group after the Anna Purna Base Camp trek with their two daughters.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_dcdc_de53_eb4_4786" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3ww2Dg60IPA/Wlku36sFU_I/AAAAAAAAasw/Ix2UgQh2g2YJESmrcsQTg0EEK1EHlfahQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 511px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And they have plans for supplying organic food to trekkers, maybe an organic garden at Kopan Monastery, etc …. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">He is an ambitious man! Always on the phone, planning, influencing, helping...</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_849f_1605_a1f8_a543" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-E1YlblOPL74/Wlku4RkiDgI/AAAAAAAAas0/t28Gf9FJ7I0q9D8Oc44uhxLZOp_PyGLxwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 504px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div>But that’s what it takes to rise from what we could call poverty in a small village, to organizing better conditions for trekking porters, to having connections in the Agriculture Department and lobbying for more organics in Nepal.</div><div><br></div><div>His Mother is a case in point. She didn’t seem to be a happy woman, always yelling shrill instructions. But at night when she enjoyed the local brew, we could get her to reminisce.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e43d_88c2_3b95_a9c4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IkirDdDJkHg/Wlku8Re3dJI/AAAAAAAAas4/vClaGThtGqg--pZ5Tp9kMymeA2KQZOywgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 504px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> I asked the 12 year old to ask her grandmother what it was like growing up. The jist of it was:</div><div>No schooling, reading or writing. Her father would walk 7 days each way barefoot to fetch bags of salt. At age 9 woke up at 4 AM to haul fodder for the animals. Age 12 married. Husband left the country for work and she raised her son Sangham by herself, being a porter, growing food, etc... Husband came home and died. She worked hard and survived. She taught her son ambition.” Wow!!!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b style="font-size: large;">I had hoped to get more instruction in organic growing here but what I got again was an education in living. </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">My rendition will seem a little hodge-podge but that’s is how it evolved, or assaulted me, each day.</div><div><br></div><div>Here is the Earthquake House where I slept.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7c79_344a_c61c_fa3a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fTTu8yhtBI8/Wlku8yk4diI/AAAAAAAAas8/SInXOufY0qoXw58z6586cGlTNdLptkrIQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 522px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>There are many such structures in Nepal. Because there were many aftershocks after the initial destruction in 2015 and because the family home often needed reconstruction, families lived for months in these tarp or zinc roofed, bamboo framed and dirt or tarp floors. (And for those poor enough not to have the resources to rebuild the house, they still live in their Earthquake Houses. My driver from the hotel, Deepak, says that’s all his Mother will ever have.)</div><div><br></div><div>At first I recoiled to the label of Earthquake House. Do these people want to be reminded of that death and destruction? One daughter remembered sounds like many buffalo stomping, water shaking and then houses collapsing. But after hearing stories of this neighborhood, I feel privileged to sleep here. I am told that neighbors without houses slept on the grass here and in these organic gardens. They played volley ball here in community solidarity. Who cares if there are rat droppings on the floor! </div><div><br></div><div>This is a place of safety, a place of refuge, where a family slept together and celebrated survival.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">You could call this organic living! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Picking green beans and bok choi for dinner. Walking past odiferous cowsheds and scurrying chickens on the way to the outdoor toilet. Trying not to slide off the 1 foot wide path in the middle of the night. Washing clothes and food in the same unfiltered not-fit-for-drinking outside spigot.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c888_21df_b6b4_aa07" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EJbHcVVcoJY/Wlku9QFAPDI/AAAAAAAAatA/cd9X32ANIXUrr8ZLfYlp3Pa7fvOVNrbDQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 475px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And organic magic! The first night I was awakened by grunting squealing behind us. The next morning? Placenta still trailing, the mother and wobbly gaited babies. Each morning they greeted me, each day fresh new life.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_63a2_b2bc_c421_8a8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Em2pEV180WE/Wlku9psRhZI/AAAAAAAAatE/ZbwdBRhYVG42q75CyDJGtZwm1bIs_Z6LwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 517px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And here two are of the workers in the green tarped dining room as we listen to the ultrasound heart beat of my tiny fetus granddaughter! Sent by wifi!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fb96_ca99_278f_348d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fd0ZAgrCVfs/WlkvAxz_IcI/AAAAAAAAatM/XZgrWQ43oH0ai3BkIRZOlI2RPgElEGoxwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 506px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And although I had missed the Dashain goat-sacrifice festival, I did partake of three days of the Tihar Festival. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Five days of celebrating different life forms. The first, crow (takes prayers to heaven?) </div><div>The second, dog — see these street dogs enjoying the attention of adornment and extra food. (Honored for protecting the home.) </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4afb_4e3c_f2f8_a41c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uzhH9XYIicI/WlkvA7cNFnI/AAAAAAAAatI/4mPv1xVGEdE5ZsBG2uty0HEKuG6anvgmwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 505px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And the third, cow (prosperity.) . Wow! What a big to do! Necklaces, foot anointing, tail and forehead painting, incense ... (And I wasn’t around for the next two days…)</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/er-1nq7NACA" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_c760_ce0c_4cd0_15f7" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/er-1nq7NACA</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: start;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: start;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_88a_d5b5_2a4d_56cc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-i29B6zxNPSg/WlkvCJUZMaI/AAAAAAAAatQ/ebwlexUq5HApcs_POpzZsi0u9iQoxBtsgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 531px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I wish this family well. I hope organics succeeds in Nepal. I’m so glad girls can go to school. Here the are the children on their school-bus.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_5885_88ab_da7d_fdb2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ez0O28GTz0E/WlkvCeLbfzI/AAAAAAAAatU/wDPK-Uq0fE4Vlnvoy62jVkJb3OKXfZcBwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 504px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And I’m grateful to have slept in an Earthquake house next to baby goats. Organic magic.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-12387406626843046702018-01-06T20:10:00.001-08:002018-01-06T20:10:50.183-08:00 What did I Learn at Hasera?<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">One goal of this trip around the world is to learn </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">organic gardening techniques in different countries.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Another is to keep my mind curious and aware by writing a blog. Of course the grandest aim of all is probably an unconscious process related to personal transformation, and certainly won’t be understood until the trip is over!</div><div><br></div><div>But I am an annoyingly curious gardener and incessantly bugged all who could speak English about the growing practices here. What I did learn is that this is not an efficient process. If I could just sit someone down for one hour I could get the questions answered! But that’s not how it works. </div><div><br></div><div>I did learn by observation of how vegetables are grown on terraces, and in fact how terraces are hacked out of hills. How trees and bushes are planted on their edges to minimize landslides during rainy season. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_46b5_d494_d748_fde1" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2AdAAyNZbZg/WlGdn5i8avI/AAAAAAAAacQ/_OI2QsUxcJoI4lCcOUa55Mgxqp8sjh7LgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 521px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>How soil is “grown” with sheet mulching and composting — and how often the mound is covered with soil and directly planted into. </div><div><br></div><div>How Kali’s cow urine is drained from the stall into tanks.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1b38_a866_c255_cd7e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-C3fkexVnqOs/WlGdn_webvI/AAAAAAAAacU/xIL75BbmnOApCuI9SPgWXzPkNoQNlCXCQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 517px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then when bitter, astringent, aromatic and spicy leaves are added, and the whole thing well fermented, voila! Instant pest repellent on the vegetables! </div><div><br></div><div>How some vegetables are sown in the ground in the tarp-roofed “nursery” and transplanted. How some seeds are directly sown in beds. How companion planting of different species confuses the pests and covers the ground against most weeds. </div><div><br></div><div>How mulching isn’t done much because of lack of resources. How composting with cow manure is done because of immediate resources.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7884_c8bb_177_dbf4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dxuX0By51hc/WlGdoSIcHfI/AAAAAAAAacY/LTUbtKKYVE0OBtaHKMYP9TybKFFU-Q5lACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 512px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_67bd_815f_a6d4_6edf" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Z83De06ot4c/WlGdoyBLAbI/AAAAAAAAacc/rq4LZJ7pvOIF01Gkar5zP4vHvroQkOlDACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 513px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I learned how rice is winnowed by hand.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4c1_9144_3df9_5a23" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tPtgIiNQtx8/WlGdscOy-_I/AAAAAAAAacg/JqmT7O-_nPQReDbgnHyOSfnvdch8Pow4gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 508px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>And easy places to dry clothes.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1d41_a042_1521_c630" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ERfl2Hv5icc/WlGdtE8h-6I/AAAAAAAAaco/lI--2lGILQUHIvFnaq66BihK_9SDHlorwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 515px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>So, I guess I learned a lot! But at the end Govinda and his wife did apologize that they didn’t have time to answer my questions … I wish I had told them that this is also what I did learn:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I did learn to appreciate the horns below. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I had to walk the highway to buy more toilet paper (not part of a home-stay in Asia). Hair-raising! Several blind curves on the road. Sheer drop-off on one side with some concrete barriers. Motorcycles, buses, and cars, honking before they passed on the wrong side around the curve. The horns were saving their butts! If they didn’t honk they would die and maybe take us off the cliff with them!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I did learn what a happy Nepali family is like. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Caring for each other and extended family and friends. When one family visited we did a round-table — each person getting a chance to talk uninterrupted about their life. The young people were passionate about their service and teaching projects. And then with genuine interest they asked me about my journey.</div><div><br></div><div>They did care for me too. When some bug lodged in my gut and I took up lodging next to the pit toilet, the farm manager/chief cook Bishnu brought me electrolyte solution and a hot water bottle. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4447_b51f_eecc_9ff4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JNvfiiUGdf0/WlGdtVBmKEI/AAAAAAAAacs/Nbd81a6GpekHwGEAHiddbCY8CAJ8Yb73QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 439px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">This family is committed to service and education.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>They provide the land and provide lunch for the women for this project. Started by a Taiwanese woman, these women make cotton washable sanitary napkins that are sold world wide and help support their families. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_be1a_15ca_d645_acfe" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vgPVKNXi62g/WlGds-ruQhI/AAAAAAAAack/ObaYd0slKKQLTqQ7P6k06pI3BwK0Bnh7gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 462px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c058_f5c7_9877_430d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-z0WFPtFq4HM/WlGdxG31u5I/AAAAAAAAac0/FAnRRASLyV4eaw2rPjDKczHSpRByrOP0wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 483px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div>They also are involved in Menstruation Education Programs. Evidently in the past, some women were locked into sheds during their periods, and several died each year in Nepal.</div><div><br></div><div>Here is one day of a children’s summer program where they are given English books to read.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_a26f_40d5_6f3f_4c18" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NI-6qO16Lfo/WlGdw69UaoI/AAAAAAAAacw/YBpDpBeheFgfWzOl-R5_dew19_Fp7sGywCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 490px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div>Mitta and other village women have a women’s group — they pool small amounts of money to lend for other women to start small businesses. They will even visit a couple in trouble, for example with alcohol or abuse or communication, and help prevent divorce. For free!</div><div><br></div><div>Like many Nepali families they are devoted to educating their two sons at the University, one in agriculture. They are committed to educating the Nepali farmer about organic practices (many of which are their historic normal practices) and not listening to the agriculture school’s teachings about pesticides and fertilizers. </div><div><br></div><div>And definitely not ending up like the southern Indian farmers who are committing suicide in alarming numbers because their soil is depleted and they can’t afford fertilizers! Actually a visiting woman told me of the Indian Government’s commitment to organic because of this disaster. And it is so ironic, because in 1968 I was there, in India, as the Green Revolution with tractors and fertilizers was being proclaimed as the end of hunger!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And I loved this sign at the entrance to Hasera! </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_440e_3d44_c5da_62b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OCpAg9Wga2Y/WlGdx7KDZ-I/AAAAAAAAac8/wLgYMHXjjbAOTmcIY3ESCt5AlgEey42AQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 526px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div>About getting guestions answered? Or about cultivating the questions relevant to our own situation? Relevant to this trip around the world?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">At the foundation of all this family does is Hindu spirituality. A small shrine is anointed in the kitchen. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And at the end of a lovely week, I was thanked for my “postive attitude and enthusiasm.” And I was annointed.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_28ee_8d78_fda2_32e3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-GMogd2sNYp0/WlGdxfejz0I/AAAAAAAAac4/m8WSZeCJfwckwpDBk6aOqCMPfO0eE-yogCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 524px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div>With oil and pigment. With a draped scarf. With a sweet goodbye. Realizing what I did learn. More than gardening facts — values and inspiration.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Thank you Hasera!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-61773618233830099182017-12-31T12:19:00.001-08:002017-12-31T12:19:23.956-08:00 Hasera — Simple Pleasures<div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">My friends are texting— are you having fun?</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I don’t think “fun” at this point would describe my Nepal experience. If “adventurous” means uncertainty, noise, chaos, foreign, interesting, getting lost, etc… then that would describe the center of Kathmandu (Thamel). </div><div><br></div><div>But fortunately now I’m in the country. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At Hasera Agricultural Research and Training Center (www.organichasera.org.), Govinda Sharma, the founder and well-known Nepali teacher of permaculture, had answered my inquiry about organic farms on which to work and stay. Just one long taxi ride from Kathmandu.</span></div><div><br></div><div>Whew! This feels so much better since I am a “country girl.” But also one can breathe here, high above it all and away from the pollution and noise and tourists. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fed0_fb06_658_a928" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0sbZOybUIKE/WklF35Sa1kI/AAAAAAAAaG0/spZsJKVTv8Ef9C07MjRta6P3XpKeA2z3ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 459px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Here is Govinda teaching, always teaching...</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_72e0_31ec_b95b_489e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VAsXAy39qBw/WklF6pZPtpI/AAAAAAAAaG8/78vN8RUEjFQtGNcXWMDqAPjPjkxqcvQ4gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 471px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>Well, sort of away from the noise. </b></font></div><div><br></div><div>Below the hill on the highway, musical horns play while passing around a blind curve next to a cliff. (Apparently horns playing a tune are outlawed in Kathmandu so the bus owners enjoy their individual musical statement below me.) So I awaken without an alarm at 6 AM to the sound of horns, the mooing of Kali the cow and the chopping of vegetables in the kitchen. Actually those sounds are now simple pleasures. Life awakening.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">My days here at Hasera are unstructured</font></b>. </div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes they have work for us, sometimes not. Here we are planting.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_967d_bfa9_c94c_747c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jmVrmXhh1NM/WklF8i3s-WI/AAAAAAAAaHA/IsL8g3xpcZQcXaL6SA2gBu2Gpj8lFvqnACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 520px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Picking tea leaves.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6f0f_21eb_f8c1_c40a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-btnzcGgyl_k/WklGBQwochI/AAAAAAAAaHI/OCZvyCgCe88KsqJEv45SsZbDmaQuKZ3_ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 512px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>We don’t even know when mealtime is. We just wait for the”Yodelyodelyodelwho.” Apparently a Swiss girl once tried to teach them how to yodel.They didn’t master the technique but retained the sounds as a meal call. And if you don’t appear for the meal they come find you.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And the meals? </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>“Dal Bhat Power, 24 hour” T shirt describes the basic meal. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_80c_59ac_8562_1994" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VILnlozbLng/WklF_QV5-II/AAAAAAAAaHE/5G23APc222AWeikFIBslhEA_TataTi8swCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 531px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>A little bowl of lentil soup and large plate of rice. (I begged for less rice.) On the side are are sauteed vegetables and if you lucky fried bitter gourd, curried balsam apple, and other exotics from the garden. So good!!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_65e0_26ae_e406_61c3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7CMWf__uhmM/WklGC_cIRSI/AAAAAAAAaHM/e3T3cEFdmSsn_BGqPFrkspsQ9aXP8MCqgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 505px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Even the spices they use are grown here — pepper, chili, cumin, garlic, ginger… For breakfast often roti (like Indian chapati), banana and apple. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_eda0_3281_feab_aaca" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9427apBBFJg/WklGGFsLdqI/AAAAAAAAaHQ/nOJAXCBeGfsIR1Fn5oWxXRStPMFu4usrACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 511px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Actually the fruit is a luxury because it is grown here only in season and often has to be purchased.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, when the basic meal is supplemented with something special, that is a “simple pleasure.”</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Like when Begin, the older son, went to the city for errands and came back with peanut butter. Add that to the roti and banana — wow! Or when I gave him 1000 rupees to buy chocolate for everyone. (I thought he’d come back with change for the $10 but chocolate here is expensive.) What an after dinner treat! </div><div><br></div><div>And mo mo’s. A traditional Nepalese dish. See us here taking the rounds made from just flour, water and salt and stuffing them with a curry mixture. One has to do it just so or they will fall apart while steamed. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_bcab_9ece_dfb2_1d6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ei2dqwZAvQg/WklGKD67HPI/AAAAAAAAaHU/0na_F5-5iF0sgqot6ueKaJl1AodDIF5gQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 493px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Or the samosas! A lot of work, made with more of a pie crust dough, again stuffed just so, and deep fried. A luxury high calorie snack!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_25ee_b9f8_f98a_2619" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9HmDRaLexF0/WklGMJvloKI/AAAAAAAAaHc/uQBrxtSLHvgxC1NQ-3_EpJutBW7BnGyYwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 498px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> In addition there are dipping sauces that I have yet to make. The simplest is tomatoes and salt and chili, cooked 5 minutes. Or the same with tomatillos (called tree tomatoes) here, with their skins first boiled off. To each of these ground roasted sesame seeds are added.</div><div><br></div><div>The best so far? Well, a slightly adulterated Western version of mo mo’s. Shaved chocolate, mashed banana and chopped apple. No cinnamon? No problem. Just add black pepper. Maybe deprivation makes something this simple more precious. If so, deprivation occasionally is a good thing.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Case in point is the most delicious sensual experience yet at Hasera. A shower! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>See Rebecca blowing on the fire after feeding it cardboard and wood. (Of course we can’t heat water when rice bran is being cooked for Kali the cow.)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_85d2_b66_914b_5127" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yvGizV0oGEk/WklGKpVDPwI/AAAAAAAAaHY/i0bYsN10y-UtKy8ZikTwmAL6maPn7_1NACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 521px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> See Josh pouring water to be heated. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e4a1_8f57_ddf1_15b8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fSVhKTv5b4I/WklGNRLP8jI/AAAAAAAAaHg/FEX_LVGVKiUgW5ZFcCQPRLDtXXGmL3LOACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 514px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>See the shower stall — a short walk up slippery steps while carrying the bucket. Ahhh… Even hooks to hang a towel, clean clothes and the underwear one washes in the warm water. Simple pleasures!!!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f25f_3b78_7d8c_b735" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0Hux3VGoaPM/WklGRnUscoI/AAAAAAAAaHo/moNAo__rtQstPQH6C6ZEeY3I4v58fSE5wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 518px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Clean body, full tummy and sunset. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Or in the early morning, if you are very lucky, a view of the Langtang Range of the Himalayas. Ahhh…</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fc3f_75a9_d677_bbd4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wtZaKTwBRPM/WklGOBrBXpI/AAAAAAAAaHk/vbwQiTLa07ECyoq39oBs8blyTU2ou7jrQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 642px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-30230371563665932052017-12-28T13:30:00.001-08:002017-12-28T13:30:12.004-08:00 A Hair-Raising Journey to a Holy Place<div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I’d wanted to go on a beautiful ride to a peaceful oasis</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>By now I’d realized that I can only do so much of the chaos, mess and sound of certain cities. I crave peace! Maybe I’m a country girl?</div><div><br></div><div>So I asked Deepak to drive me to Namo Buddha, a Tibetan Buddhist Monastery two hours out of Kathmandu. Once we got out of the city’s outskirts, I could finally stop holding my breath against the dust and pollution. The traffic still drove me crazy but I stopped gasping once I realized that Deepak was going more slowly and aggravating everyone behind him because he knew I was scared. It was simply death defying, this intermingling of busses, cars and motorcycles, men from India pushing bicycles laden with fruit and cows in the middle of a 6 lane highway!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f546_bcb5_b27a_d4c7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BjAudbO9s1U/WkVg-HVNWXI/AAAAAAAAZ9Y/JwgotmAlo8shC3EhSZelX1WVJbTHfqI3QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 507px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Deepak soberly told me that you would get 10 years in jail if you deliberately kiilled a cow. Afterall it is the incarnation of Lakshmi! And she is the goddess of prosperity so you want to stay on her good side! He then said he read that the penalty for rape was 10 years (really, the same as a cow?) And murder 16 years. Wow—that would save on death row appeals…</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">He also told me I shouldn’t take a bus, that I was “too old.” </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>What! But after the two hour trip I totally aggreed. The potholes, cleared mudslides, wandering animals, pollution and kamikaze motorcyles would have sent me flying back to Portugal. At least I got nice calm Deepak who answered all of my personal and social questions. </div><div><br></div><div>He then threw in an aside that he deserved a greater tip than the one I was told to give him yesterday and also would I consider helping to send his daughter to school? OK… I never know where I stand with these money issues with the Nepali. He did talk the cell phone vender down $50 just by casually not giving the man the full amount he asked for. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_1a85_d299_29b7_bacf" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XF67Nylzcog/WkVgm3Q9kII/AAAAAAAAZ9M/7yBOr2rvLJ8EOGDaFDixaMeULuGbCCJtgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 483px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>But he was my Prince Valiant behind the wheel!</div><div><br></div><div>The scenery got more peaceful. Shiva on the hill.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_25c9_57be_fe49_a28c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rFaZ4RAnvQI/WkVg0QAvDCI/AAAAAAAAZ9U/zblqgJUNzAkz7GPclTZmmsuXKCBxUnTbgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 494px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Terraced gardening scenes. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8c98_4507_699d_c283" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Dw9UmF7m9_w/WkVgylGi_kI/AAAAAAAAZ9Q/K-krmx6GbQ4f2kTGe3bOu1SRyBZsQrYLwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 563px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>A man asking for a road tax and Deepak not giving it because he looked like an alcoholic. An old woman filthy lying by the road—alcohol he pronounced. Apparently this is a home-grown millet and rice booze which a few people are addicted to.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Then we had to get out and walk. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The road turned to ruts and mud, although motorcycles braved it. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_bd88_3053_1e17_6012" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tGy__ZL1A8w/WkVhOlomlsI/AAAAAAAAZ9c/s8XOnk0Jtrk41hKVuLCG1cMS1yKixEW9gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 519px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Marijuana casually grew as a road-side weed.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fda7_9fcc_c303_8966" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Vs6ff6XpBGQ/WkVh5dMixTI/AAAAAAAAZ9s/HRCr0ro_jO8F27Ggg3_sXTajb7y6GuKXACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 519px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And finally Namo Buddha. An oasis high above the fray. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>A place of escape, of refuge, of committed spiritual practice.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b8db_3014_5772_1b5b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KgWnDooQq1c/WkVhb0TA81I/AAAAAAAAZ9k/66eOaOhzXWg5UM9sy8Yg2FDGEwREaQKZACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 523px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>See the prayer wheels which I turned and prayed for family, friends, this poor world ... for all of us.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9fa_83a0_7bc9_f853" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8B-djKCeDyI/WkVh1iWvpdI/AAAAAAAAZ9o/kom1IhrMhlAMtz5W-aKmkscl_OFwFNj2ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 522px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And the tiger on the lawn?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_aa47_d5c2_6a1c_6d06" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Iy6sNVwhPIk/WkVh9s6ljjI/AAAAAAAAZ90/8xtwdp9wgM8nB872VJyAeg73GU0yXwCWgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 451px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>According to tradition this is the very site where an earlier reincarnation of the Buddha came across a starving mother tiger and her hungry cubs. Out of pure compassion (more than I could ever muster) he bled and cut himself so they could eat. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_358d_783e_6792_a202" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7_xJ3MjOnWM/WkViYTISjMI/AAAAAAAAZ98/Z3ZqWmu621wzkSssLjZ-MjVdcDYugzohgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 559px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>They lived and he was reincarnated as the historical Buddha. Left me wondering how much sacrificial compassion lives in me?</div><div><br></div><div>I couldn’t take pictures of the very inner sanctum. Just trust me that Tibetan Buddhism is over-the-top ornate!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b165_f466_7f47_a184" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8AyRfaIJQQQ/WkViV_Tf5DI/AAAAAAAAZ94/Gudut78mZYkTJobQo55103g_OHLoyIG9ACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 549px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I did enjoy talking to the monks. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Monks on motorcycles, monks on cell-phones, monks happy to answer my questions. (For some reason, nophotos.)</div><div><br></div><div>“What does Buddhism say about saving this poor world? How do we pray for this?”</div><div><br></div><div>Well, his Holiness the Dalai Llama says that the only prayer that really matters is for your own inner peace.”</div><div>Maybe because that’s all I really have any control of? Not over the traffic, dust, poverty, greed, ignorance, fear, illness or death?</div><div><br></div><div>The picture of the still living founder of the monastery is laughing. “Of course,” say the monks.</div><div><br></div><div>But all they really want to talk about is the American election! “Why did you vote for Trump?” Hmmm...</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The journey home was the same, with mud, traffic and dust. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>But I was safe. I’d made a pilgrimage of sorts, remembered peace and was advised of a doable prayer.</div><div><br></div><div>When I told the hotel clerk Prakesh (who had up-graded my room after the airport snafu) of the “hard journey”, he replied, “Yes, life is hard. But it is worth it.”</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-47159129142018852272017-12-26T18:00:00.001-08:002017-12-26T18:00:52.697-08:00 Christmas in a Campground<div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">For my friends who think I’m still in Nepal, because my blog is, let me update you—just for Christmas. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I’m writing this in a very noisy game room at a caravan park by a beach at South West Rocks in North New South Wales, Australia. It’s the only place with wifi. Kids are playing the TV at full volume and pingpong games are slamming. But it’s Christmas! Time to be with family, friends and tradition.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, what do you do when you’re traveling alone and those you love are back home?</font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Well, you celebrate the small things:</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Like, these are happy kids on holiday. Its summer in Australia!</div><div>The caravan park, unlike my usually roughing it in the woods, has wifi, water, toilet and a shower.</div><div>The family next camper over just invited me to share in their Christmas dinner. And when their little son Jack saw I was a little tearful after a call back home, offered me some M&M’s.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4c91_c19a_9d70_2a81" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-halqa-2HohA/WkL9AWmKV_I/AAAAAAAAZWw/Rgzh6GSNAz0Io9z6fsLw94L2_xwQuyhagCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 498px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>I bought a dozen oysters from a truck last night and cooked them in ramen noodles for a solo Christmas Eve dinner. A relative yummy!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_cf50_9864_6e2d_6b8c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Wolpq1BNZAg/WkL9CsYT7NI/AAAAAAAAZW0/prIyi2qTilEg4R_r40uq8PmDemLD-6oigCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 485px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>My family will skype me for their Christmas dinner.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And you celebrate the small things in advance leading up to Christmas:</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>This lovely lady, Bronwen, helped me celebrate Christmas a week early. She and her husband took pity on me at a restaurant and invited me home for a shower! Did I smell that bad? No, she was just passing on some kindness that someone had done for her a week earlier. (Generosity is generative.) Yay!! What a gift! And a hand-dyed washcloth by her daughter of an apple orchard in Bilpin.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_669e_9998_5e1c_d8a9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ToCAkG4nsRY/WkL88EUbrjI/AAAAAAAAZWs/sd0SoA51y6EwOtb5wJX2JpMtju5GlsGZQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 506px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">My own Christmas basket, from produce and apple cider in the Bilpin area.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f763_5277_d465_3e3b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3vJZJ71pvNg/WkL9fwcm82I/AAAAAAAAZXI/3bp5E4YIy5AuPhVPqmsh8_n1fpWKRlWIwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 530px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">And a special snuggle with an orphan. (What big knees you have!)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b736_a616_18a8_1525" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rtIa4GDcVpk/WkL9T3b7n6I/AAAAAAAAZXA/w5Dvf6RVcpQtQ1ivLOxXJHK08wFsmgOpQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 538px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And you appreciate the decorations, which in rural Australia are sparse but unique.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_eb39_be62_3e0f_749f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pMTer0tPwXI/WkL9Ukn93dI/AAAAAAAAZXE/kUbVPR6VTX49cPLUJJqPOLaJYQQZsaDxACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 480px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_92d0_aa33_cb41_60ad" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-p_XbAy_M0ew/WkL-G4CU2WI/AAAAAAAAZXk/8q3wevNhCMwxMYCv-RJdasy_BummYWoggCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 478px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>You rejoice in not dealing with Christmas cards, shopping, and the overstated commercial hoopla. Camp living is simple.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6559_96f7_3ae8_87ff" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-nL-1ipUZXTw/WkL9_vHbZlI/AAAAAAAAZXc/aEe2kMR7FaQSSdaOXlkbaSCUkv3jyUKNgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 495px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">And you celebrate the big things, like … I survived!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>The workman cleaning up the debris this morning called last night’s storm “cyclonic!” This neighbor who had camped here each Christmas for 20 years said, “It was one in a million.”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_22d2_c037_7bf0_d51f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BQJY2VqpJqs/WkL91m3M6OI/AAAAAAAAZXU/UI-NVNcGYIkUTuYPvTiksGvpuJZZvdh-QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 465px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>There were dead cicadas littering the ground, kookaburras looking disheveled and disoriented ducks. Last night my tent shivered and shook. I was seriously worried about lightening striking the trees above, as one did nearby. (Right, I picked this site because of the shade.) I should have been more worried about the falling branches! Eucalyptus trees are notorious for shedding their branches in the wind!</div><div><br></div><div>But… it didn’t leak. Yay for not buying a cheaper Kmart tent! </div><div><br></div><div>See the big branch that just missed me.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_579d_a29f_69b4_f9ff" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-amQ91ovWYRQ/WkL-Gar7ajI/AAAAAAAAZXg/kfbscETKkoM2VzLhg4sxNEmrvhgj5JHLgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 483px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, as the storm wound down in the afternoon, we celebrated in Aussie style. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Turkey, ham and prawns. Beet-root salad. Ending in home-made boiled Christmas pudding with mince pies, custard and cream. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3d63_8c9a_fa3a_3451" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-m-jcj_MUjws/WkL-LyYhQsI/AAAAAAAAZXo/LFKS3XtsiI0xcdm9QYRwF5ojU4-o0JVRwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 503px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And cracking “crackers!” Little explosions with these English treats, toys and silly hats. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7918_1109_20f0_d3e9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lmT18LAAoPY/WkL-0gmTUlI/AAAAAAAAZYI/vQly6ZGP4pU1oPXuegXDHhDt38SzyZcmACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 490px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And jokes—“What does an angry kangaroo do? Get hopping mad!”</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So, my friends, my Christmas in a campground was “one in a million.” </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_42b0_615c_1b4d_c0f0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vOQooG_eGUQ/WkL-ZULQj9I/AAAAAAAAZX0/B2JSdiNrICQcg5RiNW51rdGc5QGLbyRkgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 477px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I learned to appreciate dry shelter, generosity, little hoopla, a sweet little boy and the kindness of strangers. Maybe a little like the first Christmas?</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Wishing all of you the heart warmth and inner light that this Season offers!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Now, back to Nepal…</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-81934878099137838222017-12-18T16:54:00.001-08:002017-12-18T16:54:58.471-08:00 Kathmandu — Washing Death out of my Hair<div>10-2-17 </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Not a happy title I know, folks, but right now its very real.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I escaped the cacophony of the city by having the hotel driver take me around its outskirts to three sacred sites. I read about them in the guide book as I went and thought I was prepared. Deepak filled me in on the traditions and history the best he could, being a hotel employee and not a certified guide.</div><div><br></div><div>There were the usual unusual sights. A cow in the street (sacred reincarnation of the goddess of prosperity, Lakshi). Apparently the owner comes at night and takes it home for food and water. In the meantime it is undisturbed. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e24c_ff0f_596f_4509" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9K7lTcnAR6c/WjhjLa2Le7I/AAAAAAAAYnY/qyQ6Mx64ZrsvZ76RvI6AjXvi7LUwgGkDACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 466px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>The only traffic light in Kathmandu, which Deepak laughingly pointed out didn’t work. And discussions of healthcare and social services in Nepal. “What do you do if you are seriously ill and can’t afford a Doctor or medicine,” I queried. “You die.” </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The first, Swayambhunth, you can see here, is both Buddhist and Hindu. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Apparently these two religions live together with no complaint, in proportions of 80/20 %. After all, the Buddha was a Hindu prince, born in Nepal. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4249_1f0_56d5_5295" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ulroVLXiuSI/WjhjKqnhEhI/AAAAAAAAYnU/mKfRLpeXpRoPNd0dvA-c-UarnE6XY-DVgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 497px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> It’s also called the “monkey temple.” Monkeys climbing anywhere they chose with their own swimming pool. “Don’t touch,” I was admonished. “They have rabies and HIV.” Egads! I thought the plunging motorcycles through the darkness were bad!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3d99_cb7b_dc27_6757" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zeyEsAbqPIM/WjhjOLRp_TI/AAAAAAAAYng/e0lo8LXAm7c1E6tJszJ3Ggdo1SmrOrndwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 452px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Everything in this site was sacred. People chanting, placing marigold flowers, bowing, incense and butter lamps… constant prayer it seemed.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The second site, Bodhnath, was definitely the most lovely. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>This is the largest stupa in Asian and definitely is a place of peace in the midst of Kathmandu chaos. The impressive white stupa, several sided with Buddha eyes all around. Gaily flapping prayer flags.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3975_31e0_d5f2_f05c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-n5k1NkXSY2U/WjhjOeWRHOI/AAAAAAAAYnk/nJBuhljgA9gzF8LxEtAOWTY1p5nUlzL4wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 465px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> An enormous prayer wheel.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c20b_90d4_999f_be77" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zLDN2y2Vj6Y/WjhjOGaemPI/AAAAAAAAYnc/o3hzStZwBrs-VqzXyaS5FHkQVcahhj8NwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 469px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div> Chants in the background. Quiet monks and nuns meditatively walking clock-wise.The usual stalls selling stuff but no one hawking wares. Exquisite hand-painted thankas.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d00d_11d7_4a2b_7e15" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-o4rc4ox6KLA/WjhjREyBEwI/AAAAAAAAYno/uiQ4BegX2vk1R5C4FgvFA0w06JG-lLXRQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 452px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Definitely my favorite!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9faa_4d5b_28ec_aac3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-uy714Hs8Ug8/WjhjShRYH9I/AAAAAAAAYns/7E_TosCCPmUNijbEgWm_FBUf5sezbu3dACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 453px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">But it was the last site, Pashupatinath, that sticks in my mind, clothes and hair. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Hindu with statues of Nandi the bull and shiva lingums of male and female aspects.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8fb6_a6a3_d271_14a7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mnZyA97CQBI/WjhjUWjiW_I/AAAAAAAAYn0/CuHi3eeFRcEXj66ZHZkq60WkmcYttBgXwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 477px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Stoned Saddhus (holy men). </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_69f8_5c4d_67ad_c6b6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5sVCbYaLWfQ/WjhjVPYXyRI/AAAAAAAAYn8/ZoYXEcslfR0CGLsbBErPIlEWVKG4OXV_wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 484px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And on the path a few beggars minus hands or feet (chopped off in India, Deepak is saying here, and bused here to beg).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7b98_8b5c_2995_cd20" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YzbWU35rRFY/WjhjTlcJ67I/AAAAAAAAYnw/I-0Z51CfnuYdDZTiSoOn5vtW6v05yj4GwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 484px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div>A murky holy river, and …the burning ghats. I wasn’t quite prepared for them and told Deepak it was quite OK if we watched from a distance. (I was planning to go to the burning ghats in Varanasi, India but now have been spared the necessity.) </div><div><br></div><div>We watched as a yellow draped body was partly moistened by the river, feet in it and water poured into the mouth. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b530_38ee_def2_9407" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Tpok6w7s4j8/WjhjU5bQaFI/AAAAAAAAYn4/tm6l3U69VQAje75QSo3YV3qL4lvHPWtqQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 490px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then it was pulled back and covered with flowers by the family and transported to a concrete ghat where wood was placed underneath. Numerous of these pyres burned, with acrid smoke billowing, infiltrating the air and me.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_87de_3459_cb95_2af2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JuSitW0pbjw/WjhjXsHs0PI/AAAAAAAAYoA/ErnTWjMQc_ojHfPu_nRQie7xjtzMbBDbgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 474px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">What was is like? Sacred. Reverent. A saying good-bye. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>(Supposedly the bodies are brought here within hours if the family can be assembled.) Lovely and final. Expensive and therefore precious. But with a smell that I was anxious to be rid of!</div><div><br></div><div>I couldn’t wait to wash my clothes, body and hair! Feeling purer, however, I couldn’t wash away the memory. I thought I’d done due diligence with death in my life. Medical school, cadavers, hospitals and patients. But I had never seen a body burn. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So now I got to deal with the reality of mortality again. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>And not just the obvious, like I could fall off a mountain or get hit by a motorcycle in Nepal. More like, in the shower thinking, “This hair will burn. This belly-roll I obsess about will burn. This poor knee replacement won’t burn! This body will be no more.”</div><div><br></div><div>So I’m not sure why I came to Nepal other than I like the Nepalese people and there are Tibetan Buddhist monasteries and permaculture projects here. I guess it was partly due to needing to see death again, and again, and again… until I finally learn to appreciate this body and this precious life as both holy and temporary. Thank you Nepal!</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-77438520871880066682017-12-14T18:37:00.001-08:002017-12-14T18:37:44.578-08:00 Delightful Cacophony! Kathmandu.<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I’m at at roof top restaurant in Kathmandu Durbar Square</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"> after being shown around by Mr. D. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f2a_8b89_d052_c7be" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-tqt7ClOsHHk/WjM1KlBmNgI/AAAAAAAAYfQ/p0eq0UG34LUH9V4I9wzYPJn62GU2uRnpACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 470px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>This persuasive 25 year old guide found me buying a ticket, remorseful that I’d gotten there late at 4 PM, and assured me that for $15 he could easily explain all I needed to know in one hour. Since I was exhausted from at least 4 hours of walking there, I took him up on it. Let’s stop wandering and get to those darn temples! </div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I had initially wandered through the crowded, dusty and colorful streets of Thamel, </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">the tourist section of Kathmadu. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Somehow I’d managed to keep heading in the right direction, towards Durbar Square. Forget looking at the map! Absolutely irrelevant since there were no street signs. Or traffic lights, Or stop signs. Or toilet paper or soap … but there I digress into complaining. It was my first day in this lovely but developing country… Lots of things to buy cheap but fortunately I can’t buy anything with “too much luggage!” (Except experiences, I told Mr D.) Except… a compression sack, meant for sleeping bag but I use for packing clothes. $20 in states, $2.50 here. And an outlet adapter for Asia for $1. $1 for mixed fresh fruit juice.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9414_51eb_c6fe_46c3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-phSlxB59U2g/WjM1NLCVT3I/AAAAAAAAYfY/sQ09zs3yLxIpbS5d4U1C2zZae-gj5_5swCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 453px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_6d3b_dcb7_739a_89b6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Bn-c1SlYREE/WjM1Mtv6Q6I/AAAAAAAAYfU/KMG3Rq8olasUW0Qq44RtPzhzoLKXJV5LACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 444px; height: auto;"><br><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The streets of Thamel were interesting, to say the least! Full of color and sound. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>Various bands with drums, trumpet and sax following the winding narrow streets, but when the sounds collided with another band—cacophony! Compressed humanity, motorcycles, dogs, dust, goods for sale… Jumble of power cables, offerings and gods...</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_8e2a_2ce9_810_8a56" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-a6Hj6J5cuGU/WjM1IrRsDmI/AAAAAAAAYfM/yrkB6z14G1IlTxxkLxXTwS4LferizylxACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 596px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c6f3_98ed_593_2ac7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--i7qoO3SL80/WjM1OfoInHI/AAAAAAAAYfc/-qLTR0Xc8awtgPakaeGO2okrCwaIvs_zgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 461px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fe34_93ec_c769_e553" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-D8zhsqDhVgo/WjM1QkESO1I/AAAAAAAAYfg/llW9zyWotkwdWc73KFCXqe7edZmlssY0QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 445px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ce28_6134_fa80_9eec" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EaDalMqKgnY/WjM1X4b7qVI/AAAAAAAAYfw/rSq7EJRPf041nbPZvBAs3TwFxGhgKqhLACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 451px; height: auto;"><br><br></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_fbcf_f1bc_1ab3_3ecb" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Y3C5S3A3kKI/WjM1RKNm_dI/AAAAAAAAYfk/yztarst-cn4JbLNYwlGMOMf9XV9YUGl2QCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 448px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Trying to get organized in the midst of chaos.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I even found the Nepalese Band ATM that the hotel clerk advised me to use. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>But yikes! I waited behind another couple while the security guard looked on and to our horror the machine sucked in the card and wouldn’t spit it back out! Nightmare! And being Sunday the bank was closed. The security guard couldn’t help at all and motioned for me to use another one in another building. No card eater there, just the standard card reader. Got my money but found that no machine will give more than $100 at one time. A bit cumbersome but at least I got my card back! One more thing to be on guard about.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I then found the entrance to Durbar Square and Mr. D. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>He remembered it all before the earthquake, murmuring “sad.” Here is a pic of before next to the after of just one temple. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_c911_9201_399f_955c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HPELCR2MEZ4/WjM1SDeoxFI/AAAAAAAAYfo/YWp_gwzg40IuEQvMOf9m5D8B76Ima6K7gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 378px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">It must have all been beautiful. But in the midst of reconstruction there were still bricks and broken materials galore.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_50f5_bb9c_c2dc_f07e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LVZ4ltv1s1I/WjM1W02WY2I/AAAAAAAAYfs/ACUiHXW5NkwKceY9XGSg20d_CvGTCkVVQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 389px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">The most untouched was the Kumari Temple. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7f84_2c92_a8f9_fdb4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3vwM6aA2Zj4/WjM1YektdAI/AAAAAAAAYf4/ao0Asx_uTFQE87V9s06fsw2AG6HKQ46GQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 403px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>I read about that interesting tradtion in the National Geographic! It all came back. They take a 3 year old girl and raise her in the temple, she shows her face daily to devotees, she is released back into “normal” life when she first bleeds. Did I get to see her? No. Because the Dasain festival is still going on so ordinary rules don’t apply. The Nepalese can line up to climb the stairs but not us foreigners. Why not? “Because you eat beef. A cow is a reincarnation of Goddess Laxmi. It would be bad for the Kumari to see you.” OK… </div><br><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I did just miss the blood and gore of Dasain festival. Two streets over scores of goats had there heads lopped off. Why then would they care so much if I eat beef? It is all so complicated. Such as why the Kumari girl came into being. Apparently the goddess Kumari came in human form to the King and they played dice together while she protected his kingdom.He made the very big mistake of lusting after her, after which she fled and bad things started happening to his kingdom He was deeply repentant and begged for her return. “No. But I will become myself into the body of a special girl. That way my protection can continue.” </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Interesting that this one building was not destroyed by the earthquake. She can’t let herself get hurt—no scratches or blood- so she is carried out on her infrequent sorries into town in a golden chariot. See it behind closed doors with a motorcycle ingloriously parked in front of it.</span></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ea24_b8e9_ec1b_5d65" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-LtCn-5vfbVI/WjM1X8Kj_UI/AAAAAAAAYf0/ycY9m0g9Mws6vQu2hHLFcYwnW11V4HeZwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 469px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And how is this Kumari picked? She needs 32 aspects—perfect beauty including the right shade to her skin and fearlessness... Just how do they test the fearlessness of a 3 year old? Easy. Lock her up in the dark all night, surrounded with buffalo heads. (Not skulls, heads.) If she is a normal 3 year old, out of luck.) Above is the window she usually appears in and there I am, normal imperfect and appropriately fearful me.</div><div><br></div><div>And statue of the Garuda who is protecting Vishnu. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ffef_439a_7b1_5945" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qvZmd3FHeZg/WjM1YzCs_-I/AAAAAAAAYf8/HRQjpgxJ5ykPY8uDodIpeJFyAQCH7VRDQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 445px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And a fearsome statue with devotees.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_7d2a_1c5d_b959_a28b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rRhvK3XsYvg/WjM1a5zOi_I/AAAAAAAAYgE/AMHMGwFEBJI8c8XjsD9h8dYKrWdSpwYBgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 461px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And a fearsome mask that the Nepalese Airlines uses as a logo, behind iron bars, who works his magic once a year when holy beer is pumped out his mouth and the crowd lunges forward for a gulp, to be cleansed.</div><div><br></div><div>(I do apologize for the poor details, folks, but I couldn’t keep track and there were no signs. A visual cacophony.)</div><div><br></div><div>The royal palace had two distinct wings of two styles, and the Chinese and US government have each taken on a wing for reconstruction after the earthquake. Impressive was a guard—evidently there is a famous section of the Nepalese army, the Gurkhas, and I was impressive by my ignorance.</div><div><br></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_2454_7f85_ff21_9636" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kEZG3_4P32o/WjM1c26cjiI/AAAAAAAAYgI/H8p2d1hQeosBIaDqSf3RBRCBf7vZKxUtACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 453px; height: auto;"><br><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">A great if overwhelming tour.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">But finally I ended up above it all, at this roof-top restuarant, watching a sunset, </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">kite floating above a pink cloud, vultures soaring. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4803_1b72_5c84_9538" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TF9TwpSud8Y/WjM1aai52JI/AAAAAAAAYgA/1_fJ6E0NIjcxNSrjNKrzqg27OSBdD6PnQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 476px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div>One hill has monkeys on it. It would be good to get that far away, maybe find some peace… I’m drinking mango milkshake because they don’t have yoghurt for mango lassi. And eating buffalo “mo mo” dumpling because they were out of vegetarian. But they have pleanty of cacophony – bands below with sounds colliding, a palanquin carring some representative of God.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bXpmrjyan18" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_98b7_ba3c_f6cc_6774" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/bXpmrjyan18</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">After this rooftop peace, I had to get home somehow! </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>“Easy,” said the waiter, “Head that way, go to the entrance of the Square and get a taxi.” But the view from the roof and from the front door were entirely different. It actually got terrifying! Darker and darker, crowds going both ways on the street, no street lights, motorcycles lunging out of the dark with headlights directly towards pedestrians and each other. Yikes! </div><div><br></div><div>A shopkeeper told me to turn around, go to the temple (Right! Which one?) and find a taxi. I talked him down from $4 to $3 because Mr. D said that was a fair rate and he looked at the address on the card and off we went. Down a bigger street arriving at a square I had never seen in the middle of Thamel. He actually expected me to get out! Nope! He obviously didn’t know how to get there! So he asked a shop owner and looked at my map and off we went again, down narrower lanes, him asking me the way. I did recongnize the final turn and voila! No tip buddy.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">So now I’ve tried to decompress from overwhelming sights, sounds and dust. </font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Tomorrow a driver for $40 will take me for a full day to places I couldn’t walk to.</font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">As long as there’s a seat-belt, I’m game! One day in Thamel is enough for me!</font></b></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4880709441044881742.post-3177791345606122062017-12-11T20:44:00.001-08:002017-12-11T20:44:19.746-08:00 Arriving in Nepal.<div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><font size="4"><b>“Why, oh why, did I choose Nepal?” I was asking myself when stranded in the airport.</b></font></div><div><br></div><div>I can’t trek — or as I say to those who ask if I’m doing the Anna Purna Circuit— “My trekking days are over.” Makes me sound a little less feeble with these gimpy knees that actually have trekked for 40 years.</div><div><br></div><div>Well, my good friend Elwood in Florida had stated he was going to Nepal, sharing part of his time there with a friend, but that he’d enjoy having me along. Since he and I are both independent, I doubted if we’d spend the whole month doing the same things, but he made it a possibility in my mind. Initially Kathmandu sounded too foreign and a little scary. But knowing he’d be in the same country allayed my fears. Plus, every Nepali I’d met in the States was just so nice! Sort of like my reason for going to Portugal. Full of nice people.</div><div><br></div><div>Then when he had to cancel because of some minor surgery, it was already a done deal. Plus I had an air ticket, a hotel in Kathmandu and a promise from Govinda Sharma at Hasera Farm that I could volunteer there. It was a beginning.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">But first to get there. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>When people complain about long flights I just glibly reply, “Well, it’s easier than a stage coach.” This one promised to be an ordeal — three airplanes— but if you want to go to Kathmandu you just suck it up and go. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_24ae_68fa_7c80_db69" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VX3OPrTVq9U/Wi9eLWbz8ZI/AAAAAAAAYJI/jC1GyBJpErMsII_9aKHWvVqhQWm3fyRfQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 481px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>But where exactly were we exchanging planes? Yes, I got the Lisbon to Madrid connection. But the next leg said DOHA. I assumed that was an abbreviation for an airport but which city, which country? I really didn’t care when I booked it as long as I got to Nepal. So, as intelligently as I could, I asked the gentleman next to me — Where are we going? To Doha. OK, and what is Doha? It is the capital of Qatar. And what is Qatar? A country. At this point I had no shame in my ignorance…</div><div><br></div><div>I read the Qatar flight magazine and was looking forward to meeting a Sheik. Or seeing desert or the beach. We couldn’t see much in the dark and no sheiks! But I did meet Nepali’s working in the airport. And yes they were nice. </div><div><br></div><div>The big tip-off that I wasn’t in Europe anymore were these lines from the Koran scrolling behind security. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_9096_6c3f_2739_8b8f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lun0465C-tY/Wi9eSHQZbXI/AAAAAAAAYJQ/HCkAt6aMIN44Anfc-7-eiX6GugJiuPfYgCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 435px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then the flight to Nepal was made absolutely wonderful by my companion Sanjeev Pandey, a Nepali who had spent a lot of time in the US and patiently answered my questions about their culture, religion etc… even inviting me to call to if there were problems. </div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">And here are the impressive Himalayas!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_78c8_933c_6ad1_2f8b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Qpwe0qlvx4E/Wi9eJP_okII/AAAAAAAAYJE/tT_fuVh433wBNGNPmXFAZhdUH2IXsRWfACHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 452px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>Then the loud speaker asked if there was a Dr. in the house. There was, me, but 16 years out of practice! The first class patient was sweating profusely and having seizures with her eyes open. A little atypical. No medical ID. The medical resident who also showed up opened the carry-on luggage and found insulin. Hypoglycemic seizures! And fortunately a vial of glucagon for bringing the sugar back to normal. I injected it and the lady recovered, embarrassed, promising to wear her ID and not fall asleep and miss breakfast again.</div><div><br></div><div>Evidently Qatar Airlines wanted to show their appreciation (a ticket would have been nice) so my companion asked for some fresh fruit from first class. Upon landing he did look out for me through customs but left when I said the hotel would have a driver out front for me.</div><div><br></div><div>Here is Nepal welcoming us!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4e21_99ec_d0_a7f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Uf1uqlwOSns/Wi9ePekIdGI/AAAAAAAAYJM/k5w8w2ZYLXQliiuvVfqXmTZNUKeIPQs6gCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 464px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_72a5_9ced_ebc0_b155" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qD1xfnDuq6I/Wi9ef1QuXSI/AAAAAAAAYJU/o-Se-3ZdqFwtwp09QJzWK1IJgVqhA985wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 467px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">Well, Nepal is not Portugal. And Portugal is not Norway. </font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I was working my way down the reliability qualities of countries. All nice but Nepal is not always reliable. Was there a driver waiting for me, my name on a placard. Nope. After awhile the line of drivers started feeling sorry for me as I wandered back and forth muttering, “Nobody wants me,” and advised me to call the hotel. My fancy Google Project Fi phone didn’t work in Nepal. First time in five months. Then I was advised by these sincere men to pay for a taxi myself. I didn’t have money! And the ATM didn’t work!!! I was close to tears at this point. I’d just saved a woman’s life and the hotel couldn’t honor their email? Someone called the hotel for me, speaking to the hotel driver, who was away at his village for festival and said he’d call the hotel. But the line of drivers just shook their heads, knowing Nepal better than I did, invited a taxi friend to drive me, and told me to tell the hotel to just pay up.</div><div><br></div><div>They did. And when I gave the hotel just a little bit of heck they gave me the best room and treated me with profound respect the three times I stayed there. You can’t count on anything during festival!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">First meal in Nepal at Hotel Encounter Nepal.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4325_feb6_2bc0_b4bd" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-puQ5QcP70I0/Wi9eoFDE96I/AAAAAAAAYJg/xN7eeYZ_tT4GK70GX0hMPgl7cNh2sVRMwCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 488px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">An inauspicious beginning? Nope just Nepal — exotic, different, and yes, kind.</font></b></div><div><br></div><div>I took my companion up on his offer. They invited me to dinner at their lovely apartment with his extended family. Introduced me to yak cheese.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_73e1_b945_375e_9f64" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-O0wYyTz02cA/Wi9enRoJ-BI/AAAAAAAAYJc/VZNop28lVgs-p9ZW6BI8vPRqbA1fPbZ6wCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 474px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_d360_ba29_2433_bc0c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-I-uPF7GIAN4/Wi9elJMWJJI/AAAAAAAAYJY/pgJS1o_kJEM1LLMFSt7iB9edMh6fXQTrQCHMYCw/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 472px; height: auto;"><br><br></div><div><br></div><div>And here is their nine year old, Samvavi Pandey, proudly attending a Catholic school, reading Maya Angelou and learning English. She had been disturbed by reports of female infanticide in India and wrote this as a response, spoken from the fears of a little girl fetus. Quoting the attributes of the female Hindu goddesses. She says it is anonymous, but I think she means the child is anonymous. She wrote it! </div><div><br></div><div>Yes, this child will go far— the new Nepal. (This video deserves to go viral, don’t you think.)</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br><iframe src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WFvavOdus7U" width="500" height="281" id="y_id_8a94_7d9f_e047_78fb" frameborder="0"></iframe><br></div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://youtu.be/WFvavOdus7U</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4"><br></font></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><font size="4">I had arrived! And I was ready to explore, even if I couldn’t understand this amazing country of Nepal. Thank you Elwood!</font></b></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>.</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07450943927439951530noreply@blogger.com0