Kyanjin Ri

Looking down on the village below,

Little square blocks with scatterings of coloured dust.

Dusty movements washed still with distance,

Sounds absorbed by space.

In a city I feel insignificant,

In the mountains I feel overwhelmed.

Even up here I am also still a speck of dust,

My Life not even a centimeter of movement of these climbing rocks.

A growth barely comprehensible.

Invisible.

The Stillness of the thinning air,

Carried by the ice kissed wind.

The lost echoes of my aching footsteps,

Leaving imprints for today,

Camouflaged by those to be trod tomorrow.

Colours of prayers fly around me,

Kissing my ears, warming my eyes and filling me with thoughts.

My climb is witnessed by a mountain bird,

She is gliding above me,

Leaving me staring at what can surely only be an eternal Sun?

Trekking in the Sky

An incredible twelve days. A bumpy bus ride to Syrunbensi, with the roof so full that the window next to my inside seat cracked and fell away, discarded and without surprise. Arriving in the dark, as electricity shortages continue to rival the hours with power. A cheap room of 50 rupees, and the only night where an accommodation charge was paid, with other nights being satisfied with a promise to eat freshly home cooked daal bhat and Tibetan breads.

The first days walk began with an interaction with a jolly Tibetan monk who was teaching at the local school and treating us like long lost friends after learning about my time in Dharamasala. Bouncing over one of many suspension bridges to turn around and see a maroon robe flying down the road as a kamikaze buffalo enjoyed the chase.

The days trek led searching feet through bamboo forests and across streams a million times over. The night was spent huddled around an iron stove, the centre piece of all of these small little tea houses, and a small fortune of warmth carried upon backs up vertical paths from the capital many hours drive away and even more days walk. Fires fuelled with wood, leaving a taste of timber in the evenings tato pani, while higher up yak shit provided a more ecological fuel.

Rimche and then Chamje: Small Tamang villages, established upon subsistence farming and surviving on a so far erratic and seasonal tourism. Sherpa women with their Tibetan striped aprons worn the 'wrong' way around as they camouflage their behinds with bright multi colours, in contrast to the women of Tibet who wear their aprons tied around their laps. Grubby tiny toddlers are strapped to working backs with old pieces of cloth; their young faces are filthy and already scared red from the wind, sun and below freezing temperatures.

Living becomes harder as more distance is put between the roads and the dwellings, while every few hundred meters climbs brings harsher nights and thinner airs. Young mothers deal with their herd of children while following the bells of their dzo cow-yak cross breads. They walk hours away from their village to collect yak shit, which they pile into a bamboo basket and hang around their foreheads. They walk hours back to their mud stove, where they then cook the crops which they have managed to harvest in arid soil. Working in groups of friends, never alone, and always with a witty remark to try and persuade the few passing trekkers to spend a night under their two roomed 'Hotel'. Friends are made through jokes and the limited vocabulary of smiles and touches, but money keeps intervening. We shy away from the groups of catered tourists with their too many porters carrying their imported food and guides from far away.

A community project in the town of Langtang: A yak cheese factory. The factory is hydro powered and shares its electricity with Langtang each night. Its profits are invested in a local project after a community meeting. And who taught them to make their tasty hard cheese and delicious 'Italian' bread. "Japanese volunteers" comes the proud reply.

Ancient rows of mani stones lead the way through open hills and towards full bred hairy grazing yaks. Newly constructed prayer wheels revolve in the middle of streams - blessing the water and sending their whispers down to lower elevations. Their singing and squeaking following our wet footsteps, and leaving me wondering who still builds these ancient forms of hydro power?

The Japanese connection becomes more apparent as entire fields are filled with Japanese trekkers, trekking each with two cameras, tripods and even at 4000 meters, protective face masks.

Silence and stillness greats my resting ears at the top of Kyanjin Ri - a 4773 meter peak, which is dwarfed by the 7000 plus meters of the Langtang range, calling our eyes towards the skies. I leave my kata - from Dharamasala to the Himalayas pointing home towards Tibet. I say a Thank you to Tashi and a Thank you for the cycle of Nature.

A long way down, passing ice cold water and rolling rocks, trekking down in blissful happiness as the sun falls behind the soaring peaks just after noon, leaving us walking narrow paths in a never ending dusk. Washing in basins of tepid water and sleeping too deeply under piles of well worn clothes and heavy dusty precious blankets.

The porters keep coming: A never ending stream of supplies for villages too remote to be naturally self sufficient, and for 'trekkers' paying dollars for bottles of beer and packaged chocolates. I observe my leather gortex boots as they carry me through mud and keep my ankles straight across piles of scree. I watch the flip flops of the porters, carrying 50 kg each for 600 rupees a day; sweat pouring from their foreheads as they smile a 'namaste'. I feel the lightness of my own backpack, and wonder why I need so many 'things' for the rest of my every days?

More night time arrivals, and discussions of Tourism. Contradictions of looking for wilderness and finding 'development'. Fears of neo colonialism verses naive dreams of a lost Shangri-la.

The indulgence of a solar powered hot shower, the surprise puja for Buddha's conceptions as people of all ages, sexes, nationalities and beliefs hold candles of light towards their own ignorance in the musty warmth of Thulo Syafru's Tibetan Nepali Tamang Sherpa Gompa. Five local families working together to feed their neighbours and us 'strangers'; an annual privilege we are told.

Walking past wild monkeys and wild marijuana plants. A strange night in Sing Gompa where I fight with a Nepali tourist about an Indian pilgrim with frozen feet. She could be me. Now she is no one. Soon she will 'have been'.

Up to Gosaikunda - Shiva's Lakes. Frozen stillness, echoes of Hindu pilgrims as scared strings lay discarded on black stone cold rocks. High in the Sky lay pockets of transparent glacier water, worshipped through lines of piled rocks and invisible footsteps of bare frozen feet. An outsider, I take a photograph, I read a description, I wonder and then I walk. Up and over Lauribena Pass (4610 meters) and then a very very long way down. A roller coaster walk, testing stamina and yet basking in novelty.

Fresh mountain air, a tired body, aching knee, contentment and extended time. Twelve days feeling like an Eternity - wishing that this could be an eternity as the mountains remind us of our human impermanence and inevitable insignificance despite our desire to conquer and to control. Happiness seems to come from the air, from the routine instinct of walking in the natural nature.

Following a trail leading back down into a 'civilisation' whose disregard for the wild leaves me feeling a revolution towards. Passing working farms, littered villages and packs of other tourists until my feet take me to a bus whose rusty wheels leave me in the middle of Kathmandu...

By Chance: A passing piece of pooh

"A fly sat on a crumb of cow dung being carried away by the rainwater flowing down the street. The streamlet took it to the end of the village where a stupa stood. The streamlet took it to the end of the village where a stupa stood. The streamlet then went around the holy structure taking the fly on a circumambulation and finally joined into a nearby tributory. The fly was born into a human being in its next life, blessed with an opportunity to hear the words of the Buddha. Thus a scripture says."

Extract from 'Kora' [Full Circle], by Tenzin Tsundue

Keep Listening

Impermanence surrounds us. As much as we trick ourselves we will all disappear. And yet we are one of so many. So many beings. So many lives. So many moments to think. So many opportunities to change, to live, to search.

I have just returned to the Himalayan Buddhist Meditation Centre in the middle of Krazy Kathmandu. The monk leading the meditation began with vocalising my thoughts. I am not special. My thoughts are not unique. His words made me feel Happy simply because what he had to say was so simple. His words gave me one hour to try to quieten mine. To listen. To hear my breath. To silence the mind which keeps telling me this and telling me that.

And where did this and that come from? Who put them there? Who created the reactions which I despise? Who instilled culture within me? Rules and manners, assumptions and beliefs?

Parents, teachers, friends, films, magazines, newspapers, the books which I try to absorb, the laws which it took me years to question, interactions, expectations, conversations? There is so much noise, and so much confusion. Emotions rise and fall, excitement, happiness, sadness, anger, judgements. There are so many thoughts which appear, disappear, reappear and then change. And then where? Where do thoughts transpire and expire?

When does the Self transpire?

Krazy Kathmandu

Another bus journey. This time leaving from the 'tourist' bus station. This pre-fix of 'tourist' not only means that your bus ticket will be twice the price of a ticket on a local bus, but it (in theory) means that it will take half the time or maybe one third of the time, or at least much less time. Arriving at the bus station was another reminder of the ability of peace time Nepal to develop and adapt to the new influx of tourists: Hot croissants and apple filled rolls loitered in front of me on wooden trays, as mobile baker boys frantically tried to sell their fresh produce before the buses departed. And 'buses' refers to over twenty buses. I was amazed at the amount of tourists. Backpacks piled with expensive trekking gear, or inexpensive copies, were stacked onto roof racks (no outside perches on these buses) while lines of touts tried to match tickets with vehicles.

The Ali Ba Ba Bus was found. Although it was the same price as the rest, it was also half the size and seemingly twice as old. We all piled in. Treeeeeeeeedle Tri Treeeeeeeeedling around every winding corner. The commission racket with the bus driver and the fancy road side restaurants were emphasised after an almighty three stops in under six hours: Pokhara to Kathmandu – upwards and downwards and with as many toilet and fried food stops as your wallet would desire. A beautiful journey, and although it is not quite as spectacular as a flight on a clear day, it is definitely far more conducive to meditation as the hours combined with the views of daily life trundle past the window revealing nature and its colonisers.

The fields were full of women who from an outsiders impression still seem to be the backbone of manual labour – building the roads, carrying bundles of wood with the help of a piece of cloth tied around their foreheads, working their khukuris at the side of the roads with tiny tots strapped to their backs, culling entire harvests with one old machete. When I have asked the opinions of Nepali friends as to why the it is the physically 'weaker' sex are the ones doing all the 'hard' work I am told that it still comes back to the 'hunting and gathering' division of labour: In the modern Nepali world they tell me, the men are more likely to be receiving an education and therefore finding employment in the cities where they will work in factories, offices or restaurants. So while the men are working their 'brains', women are left working their muscles and from the very young to the very old work by filling the roles of the farmers, construction workers and manual labourers. However, I am still not convinced, as I seem to see a highly disproportionate number of men sitting drinking Nepali cheya at the road side, working very hard at day time gambling...

Driving through the mountains while keeping an eye to the sky for a glance of snowy topped peaks, I really feel amazement at how so much of Nepal seems to be built on a carved piece of hill. The landscape is a patchwork of makoi, baat and alou fields, which seem to pile one on top of another, with terraces jutting out from each and every woman-made corner. Just like in Dhramasala, it seems to be defying the ethos of the mountains to cut them horizontal, and I guess nature has a way to rebalance gravity with the help of the monsoon rains and seemingly surprise landslides. Meanwhile, designer concrete houses stand newly constructed and complete with a tiled social statement of a roof. They stand in contrast to the landscape, and in contrast to the mud walls of the small traditional Nepali houses, which are often left looking unfinished – as the optimistic owners leave the 'roof off' in case future funds allow for the building of another floor.

There are potted flowers everywhere – standing outside window ledges, above doors, in rusty tin cans lining shop fronts. Their brightness distracts from the piles of discarded rubbish, and black plastic bags which seem to be trying to return to nature rather unsuccessfully, as the mix and mingle with the mud or stick to the concrete of the roads. The irony of the wave of environmental awareness which has washed over Europe and North America but evaporated over Asia, continues to make ripples even in the Ali Ba Ba Bus: Rows of educated and eco friendly tourists tut tut at the lack of waste disposal which spoils their view and pollutes the nature which we have all traveled here to see. Rows of educated people, spending money to explore the wild while listening to music powered by piles of non degradable batteries, and buying packets of imported Mars Bars, Kit Kats, Walkers Crisps and of course bottles of Coke, which all come wrapped up in plastic before being placed in another plastic bag. As a continuous traveller I am very conscious of my ecological footprint. But I wonder how to reduce my consumption as I watch women my age who will return to live in a room for a house and a whose entire life's wardrobe would fit into half of my rucksack?

The approach into the Kathmandu Valley is marked by a glance of the peaks from Lang Tang, which circle the ever growing city, leaving it sitting like a pile of eggs in the bottom of a great big eternal nest, perched high up on a tree, the branches of which are usually hidden by low laying clouds.

I notice many new factories lining the road, but the shops still look the same – with doorways so small that it must take a magician to manipulate the massive modern furniture inside. The heavy scented air is as cold as it is thick with dirt and incense. Back in the tacky tourist centre of Thamel, the onslaught of senses continue. Sounds surround me as men bellow in my ears advertising their 'cheap cheap' guest houses, trekking trips, chess boards and of course, tiger balm. Children high as kites cause havoc on the non existent pavements, climbing three at a time on stationary motor bikes, or entertaining themselves by running rings around frustrated security guards and every now and then running to a tourist to beg for money, water or food, or maybe just to have a cheeky hug/grope of an under dressed female. Rickshaws, taxis, mopeds, bikes and people all fight for their space on the tiny narrow lanes. These mobile beeps and shouts intermingle with the constant playing of Kathmandu's theme tunes of 'Om Mani Padhe Hum', while is accompanied by the whistles of the flute touts trying to tempt a buyer for their palm tree of instruments by playing them persistently from dawn to dusk. As the light fades into evening, these day time vendors are replaced by glassy eyed guys following you with whispers of 'Hashish' and 'Smoke'.

The buildings seem to have risen higher than three years ago, many have also acquired glass for their previously wooden and window-less frames. The walls and road sides are crammed full with signs, prayer flags and posters which sway in the cool breeze; a reminder – in case it was forgotten – that the mighty mountains rise above and around, waiting and seemingly intransigent to our frivolities and temporary lives at the bottom of a nest, on top of a tree in the middle of somewhere called the Himalayas.

Street Monkey

Nuts? You want nuts? Very cheap? A little head rises from a pile of monkey nuts, his feet standing on a small bamboo stool. The little boy is sleeping. Or at least he was, until his street instinct alerted him to my presense. His body emerges from his mobile wooden tray of a shop. His question is loaded with anticipation. I shake my head. His falls back down to his edible lumpy pillow.

Fewa Lake

So I am sitting in Mike's Restaurant, at the Lake Side, Pokhara. It is more expensive than when I was last here, and it now has a path built through it. There are many more tourists. Richer tourists. I last sat here three years ago. When I had absolutely no idea what the future would hold. Now I again have no idea what the next three years of my life will reveal.

Watching as a square flat peddle 'boat' is being maneuvered backwards and forwards. Filled with Nepali tourists who laugh as they keep arriving back at their starting point. Now a group of kids have just arrived. A straggly haired girl is asking for my pens, picking up my tea, opening my bag, shaking my book. She is tough. Too Tough. Her friends come. One has a bloody elbow. A small graze. It turns out he fell off his bike – riding on the stony dirty road too fast. “Next time go slowly” I say. He wants money “to clean up my arm” he tells me. I laugh at him and tell him to be a “strong man”. Another shows me a tiny cut on his knee and once again asks me to “fix it” with his palm out turned. I work my Magic. He is unimpressed. I give him some more 'tickles' as he stifles a smile.

This is something which has changed in three years. I am no longer scared of these pushy little street wise, life wise people. I have a new respect for them as well as a new barrier against them. Laughing and Laughter.

The small terrorists move onto the next table to terrify a Northface clad North American couple. The elderly couple look dressed in preparation of a safari rather than for a cup of tea by Fewa Lake, but then again, maybe their uninvited guests are providing them with adequate adventure. I stop watching their obvious discomfort and instead find myself staring at their Nepali counterparts: A traditionally dressed elderly Nepali couple who are skillfully climbing on board a rowing boat. The bent woman bends further to slowly release the rusty chain, freeing their little boat from the muddy root covered shore. The topi topped man sits at the back of the boat and slowly maneuvers the shabby wooden vehicle 180 degrees to face the distant bank across the flat calm of the lake. Slowly – so slowly – they (he) paddles across the dark liquid water. Their rehearsed controlled movements are in such a contrast to two small pirates who have just hijacked a tin yellow peddle paddle boat and are mercilessly ramming it backwards and forwards into the row of rusting tin yellow peddle paddle boats.

A little further along the lake shore gathers a group of women. Their vibrant pink sairees shout out at my eyes; a strange but beautiful juxtaposition against the dark brown of the soft mud they are squatting on. Their gold piercing dangle along their ear lobes and travel up their ears. Their golden noses glimmer in the equally golden afternoon sun, as they tilt their heads backwards and forwards in rhythm to the movements of their working arms. If you focus, if you really isolate your ears, it is possible to hear the rangle jangle clang clung clink of their rows of bangles which they bash together as they rub their piles of bright washing (what appears to be) clean. I sit and gaze and stare and wonder what happens during the time they pick up their wet clothes stamp them next to the muddy soil and then lift them back into the air - washed?

Another woman appears into my field of vision. She walks towards the water with her back to me. She is wearing a printed batik lungi pulled up to her armpits. She stands knee deep in the clam still water and bends towards the liquid lake, sending velvet ripples outwards from an equal direction all around her. She washes her lengths of hair as the other women scrub their clothes, the children play in the paddle peddle boats and somewhere between the muddy soil in front of me and the shadows of the same muddy shore fading beyond my vision, drifts a small wooden boat, with two ageless figures, who are silhouetted by the sun; suspended by the water.

The word 'suspended' triggers an association. This makes me look upwards. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the sun, my eyes finally focus and latch onto what my thoughts were searching for. Sure enough I spy a rangi changi multicoloured parachute bellowing up and around, outwards and contained, with two gliding bodies suspended below. Lifted by the warm air currents, circling the town. Further in the distance the same distinguishable dots appear to be circling the clouds. Clouds which pad the beautiful snow covered peaks of the Annapurna range.

Again – if you listen carefully it is possible to hear the 'Whaooo' of excited floating screams, which echo down on the same living air which carried them on their wonderful journey to no where in particular.

Pokhara's Peace Pagoda

Peace Pagodas. A visit to another one. Another hike up another hill. But this time rather than overlooking the cooling clouds hugging Darjeeling, the Peace Pagoda was surrounded by the white fluffy clouds of the Himalayas, warming the 7000 plus meter peaks. Below in the green terraced valley stretches out the city of Pokhara. Is it really so massive? Where do all the houses hide when I walk past the green hills and muddy lake? Does Fewa Lake provide so many crooked corners for all of these little concrete blocks to pile unseen by those strolling along the main tourist trail? What spreads out before me is one of the largest cities in Nepal – a tourist hotspot, that continued to attract backpackers during the conflict while at the same time reeling in thousands of internally displaced nepalis throughout the region. People travelled to Pokhara looking for employment or to escape the fighting in the more rural regions.

As I sit in the shade of the stunning white Japanese Peace Pagoda, surveying the city below and the mountains above, an old Nepali man approaches. He is wearing old flip flops which are flip flopping off and on his feet. His head is capped with the traditional Nepali embroidered topi, and he wears a tweed waistcoat over a T-shirt telling all to 'Visit Malaysia'. He squats down by my side and begins to talk. He lives next to the Peace Pagoda. He complains about the number of tourists. I agree. Although I wonder why he wants to talk to me if he has an aversion to tourists? There seems to be a constant stream of people who have rowed across Fewa Lake and then hiked through the jungle to share this view. This popularity is a reflection of the tourist boom which has hit Nepal in 'peace time'.

There are now many more tourists than in 2005. Many more. Since the formation of the new Maoist led Communist Government of Nepal in April this year, there has been a renewed influx of richer, older and even younger tourists. Pre arranged package tours of older 'luxury trekkers' and young rich parents hike around with toddles stacked into new North Face baby carriers. Such groups have flooded the new 'safety' of this imagined Shangri-La. As a result, it is now expensive to be a backpacker in Nepal. As with tourists hotspots throughout the world, the popularity of a destination brings a here massive hike in prices. India now seems incredibly cheap in comparison, and Pokhara is even taking on a resort like feel.

As young little people wearing 'yak yak yak' t-shirts, baseballs caps and faces painted extra white with sun block trek up to visit the Peace Pagoda, I think of the long haired rasta Nepali girl I saw this morning. She was filthy, with filthy dreads and no 'guardian' in sight, only a smaller dirtier child who seemed to be in her care. Such street children have also flooded the city in recent years. During the two decade conflict, children were either trafficked, ran away from forced recruitment or more commonly, were drawn towards its magnetic promise of employment. It is of no surprise that the city seems to be spreading before my watching eyes, and I wonder about the more practical problems of infrastructure, water provision and waste disposal, let alone the cultural tensions which both the tourists and the Nepali youths must be bringing.

These cases of internal displacement will not disappear with 'peace', especially as in the words of my Nepali friend, “the government has too many other problems to deal with right now”. However, these parallel worlds seem to continue as the children staff the kitchens or tout on the streets and the tourists pay triple the price of three years ago for 'original' souvenirs mass manufactured in Pokhara's back streets.

I ask the old man sitting next to me if he ever needs to go to the city – although it is just a few hundred meters below, it seems like it would be quite an adventure for him. He replies 'sometimes'. But he grows his own crops: Ahlu, makai, daal, baat. As if he has read my mind, he confides that his worry this year is 'pani': The monsoon did not bring enough rain, and now as the sun burns down from the clear blue sky, he is worried about his rice. I watch as tourists enjoying the beautiful day, huffing and puffing towards the pagoda, camera's dangling from wrists, dispose of their plastic pani bottles in the burnt out bins that lay around the well watered gardens.

I wish Namaste to the old farmer, who despite his aversion to tourists, does not reveals his original attention for joining in my meditations by asking I would like to buy some of his home grown marijuana.

Baby Mama, Baby Doll

Today I sat with a young girl with her two month old baby brother. The baby was nearly dead, but she didn't care. She just kept playing with it - pinching its nose closed so it would respond to instinct and try - with energy it still had hidden some here within its dirty bundle of being - to open its little mouth.

Riding High

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. But not just a 'beep' more of a 'treeeedle tri treeeedle' as the Nepali buses fly around corners they are meant to be driving around. Beeping a welcoming warming Namaste to the other flying treeeedle tri treeeedling buses. My transition from India to Nepal was marked by a fifteen minute time difference (always trying to state its separate identity while having the geographic mis-fortune of being wedged between two superpowers) and finally a comprehension of communication! After six years of first visiting and working in Nepal, I am actually realising the value of the painful hours of sitting in a wooden icy room, repeating strange new sounds. I remember working just to hold a pencil, willing my frozen fingers to warm up enough in order to copy down the vocabulary which our patient Nepali teacher was trying to share. At the time I felt like I had severely failed to grasp anything more than the most basic of understanding of the Nepalese language. But somehow, now, on my fourth visit to Nepal, my brain must have been teaching my subconscious, as communication is far easier than I remember.

This sort of helped as we sat perched on top of a bus. The sunlight was fading as the Dewali electric lights were illuminating the otherwise invisible houses and shops. Pink, green, yellow, orange – flashing rainbows dangling from every generator powered plug. My fellow passengers on the roof of the tin can bus were all men and young boys. The women and livestock all seemed to be squashed into the creaking carriage below. One pot bellied cheery farmer put his arm around Bruno as he began to explain that the next day was a special day during the Dewali festival when the sisters would 'tikka' the brothers. The pot bellied cheery farmer was on his way to his sisters house in preparation for this matriarchal tikka.

Sure enough the following day we rode past the most beautiful of tikkas plastered carefully onto the foreheads of boys and men of all ages. Pink, yellow and green grains of rice had been carefully placed on the metaphoric third eyes, while the fresh petals of golden carnations lay on top of shiny black hair of youths or the more traditional topi's of their fathers. What was even more entertaining were the many street dances, performed mainly by girls and young women but occasionally by pairs of couples: Live singing, twirling of hands, swirling of hips. The top of a bus was really the best place to view these colourful blessings of Dewali, and it made a change from being the object of stares to now be the uninvited onlooker However, the sun became too hot, and despite the stunning views of terraced fields and the rushing tumbling Kosi river, the grid beneath my bony bum seemed to grow harder, and eventually I relented and tip toed down the ladder to fight for a semi-cushioned place in the bus below.

Down 'below', inside of the bus, squawked chickens fresh for the pot and the wide kohl painted eyes of babies, who were not sure what to make of the blonde haired, teeth baring 'thing'. I wonder when I will figure out how to stop scaring local babus? The driver piled us all out (and down) several times: Twice for daal baat, and once in the dark on a hairpin bend for a toilet stop. I guess the men could have peed around one corner and the women around the other? Since I was wearing trousers I didn't pee anywhere. We all piled back in again and the bus remained intact. Two minutes later the bus would stop again and yet more Dewali travellers would squeeze the doors wider. And then another two minutes later – and so the ever widening spiral would continue, until, just as in the busy streets of India, I began to feel so insignificant. I sat watching a hundred lives interact for minutes or hours before continuing upon their separate web of journeys. Seats or spaces filled by one family would within minutes be replaced by different faces. Lives passed the moving windows, while Lives looked out of the same worn glass. I sat bumping precariously on and off my small seat, thinking about all the buses filled through of Lives moving around the country. I thought about the amount of buses which travelled on every different day, filled with different people or the same people, but different. I am one of so many; I am so little of so much.

Eventually, after covering 128 km in a little over eight hours rattled our way through the valley and towards the dim lights of one of Nepal's prime tourist destinations – Pokhara. Just as three years ago, Om Mane Padme Hum, seems to trill from every street corner, Nepali daal bhat continues to be dished up in incomprehensible amounts and the buses continue to treeeedle tri treeeedle as the laughing passengers wave down to foreign faces (me) from the moving bumping jolting travelling roof tops that speed through this land of hills and Himalayas.

Death

Death. Why is it that we shy away from such conversations? That we celebrate Life, and birth and weddings and a variety of 'happy' anniversaries, but when it comes to Death we are considered morbid to even talk about it? But we will all die. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe today.

Can you imagine being dead at the end of today?

But death is inevitable. Death is Life. And this is why religions flourish - because to imagine YOURSELF DEAD is very difficult, and the more experiences people have with death either through the natural process of aging, or through the death of friends, family or even just dying strangers who happen to be physically near by, people tend to look for 'answers'. We aren't taught in schools what happens after Life; only in churches and mosques.

In the West the most common religious answer is one which contains beauty – an image of a luxurious place called Heaven or one which does not even exist by its very essence of absorption into nothingness - Nirvana. This image helps to balance the pain of Life – of the thought of losing it. According to one Catholic friend, without this, “Life has no meaning”.

There have been occasions during the past few years of my adventures that I have thought seriously about dying. These have not been relaxed musings or depressed daydreams, but rather times when I have been faced directly with the potential moment of my own death:

Once while I was free diving, while I was under the ocean that I worked in, lived next to and love, I had a few long long seconds of forced contemplation. I was diving down into the sea, swimming around feeling the water all around me, above and below me. Then I froze. I heard a speeding long tail rattle towards me. I was about ten meters under the water and had been down for over a minute. It was time to surface. I had no choice. My mind was willing my body to be able to stay down for longer. It was trying to convince my body that it would be more fruitful for its preservation if it could delay the biological need to breathe for just another minute. But my body needed oxygen. My mind had no choice but to concede. I kicked up towards the danger above me, trying to prepare myself for the pain which would come. The sound of the motor was so loud it was nearly on top of me. Now I would die I told myself. My body tensed in panic. As I broke the surface of the sea, the propeller skimmed the water in front of my face. I Screamed and Screamed. I screamed with all my heart that was still beating. I screamed in relief – I was still Alive. Another ten centimeters could have changed everything – that is everything in my small and relatively insignificant Life.

A few weeks ago I again thought about dying. But this time I had longer to think. I had the entire evening. I had recently had a neck injury, and for some reason on this evening when I laid down I felt as if my throat was closing. It was as if the neck was restricting the own airways it protected. I sat up gasping for air. When my breath had returned to normal, I tried to lay down again but the same sensation of suffocation fell back down on top of me: Booooom. And so it continued. Throughout the night. There was a post monsoon storm raining through my windows. The three month stream of tourists who had been renting the rooms around me had finally stemmed. The landlady and her family lived in a house below, but then when I actually thought about going to ask for her help, I realised there was nothing which she could do. I lay in my bed, trying fight suffocation. Maybe you think I am being melodramatic – unless you have already had a similar experience.

Yet all I could think during this long and painful evening was how it didn't really matter - to me. If I died, I would just pass on. To somewhere; to no where; to everywhere. Either way, the journey from life to death was one I had not yet any experience of, I had no idea what to expect, but what I did have was the experiences of Life. The knowledge which tells me that somethings are beyond ones control, and that attitude can make the difference between something amazing, and something destructive.

In Dharamsala, I attended several teachings at the Namgyal Monastery and the Tushita Buddhist centre. The teachings explored what we know and do not know about Death; about the fear which we attach to it, and about the ultimate balance in life – that of the physical body and the ego disappearing just like it once appeared at a time beyond our consciousness. Associated topics included the fact that we are born alone, and we will also die alone. Buddhism teaches of the importance of being Happy when we die. The importance of this means that the transition to the next life will be much more favourable. If we cling to what we 'had'; if when we are dying we refuse to let go of our attachment to material objects, our family, our friends, our own body, then it will be much easier for the self to move on. This is one of many reasons why Sky Burials were a popular way to return a used human body to nature in Tibet; because the crushing of the dead bones and stripping of the flesh before calling the vultures helped the family to dissociate the 'being' from the 'body'. When supporting a family through the death of a loved one, Buddhist try to encourage the family to tell the dying person that it is ok to 'Let Go'. Because this is the reality; that being dead is far more traumatic for the people still living than it is for you/I. And even if you are not a Buddhist, this advice still counts. Likewise, if your dying and you are struggling to live, it follows that the transition it going to be far more 'painful' than if you try to stay at peace. This is the challenge.

When we are dead we can no longer feel pain, we can no longer have regrets, we are quite simply no longer in the emotional and physical world of the Living. We are fulfilling the cycle of Nature, which blessed us with experiencing the beauty of Life. This is way Buddhist art is filled with depictions of skulls and the Lord of Death - gshin rje chos rgyal, who is the personification of impermanence and the unfailing law of cause and effect. These images act to remind the living of the fact of Death, and although I am not surrounded by these iconology, I still try to think of Death every day. I am not tempting fate because this is my fate – to die. Rather I think about death not only because today I have a good a chance as any other day of dying, but because it reminds me of how thankful I am to be alive now – this second. My meditation on Death remind me of how I cannot not do exactly what I want to, because there might not be another opportunity. Although I can reformulate the past in my mind, it has been lived. Although I can plan for the future – it may never come. All that is certain is Now and I do not want to have regrets. I do not want to form attachments to everything which is impermanent, and I do not want to waste the chance to laugh, or learn, or love - Now.

My mother died seventeen years ago today. I have spent seventeen years loving her Life. She has taught me how to love mine.

To read more about Tibet's Sky Burials see: Tibetan Sky Burial

Transience

"Perhaps by realising the eternality of transience, the impermanence that is truer than any solidity we may seek or imagine. That it is actually the solidity that is the mirage, unattainable in anyone's life no matter how wealthy or powerful he may be. Sooner or later, entropy will take over the seemingly imperishable, and the dance of constant change will play itself out. Once we stop resisting change and the impulse to hanker after any kind of permanence, we can imagine how free we will become. Chains binding us to the destiny we imagine for ourselves, or to an identity we claim as 'ours', will fall away. And then, perhaps, we could be as free as the Dalai Lama seems, no matter what our circumstance are dishing up in that instant - pain, suffering, exile."

Extract from Dharamsala Diaries, Swati Chopra, Penguin Publishers India, 2007.

A future/present/past date with Buddhism

Leaving McLeod Ganj has been hard. No where as hard as it was to leave Kolkata or rather leaving all the little buddha's which it held, but hard in the sense that I felt that I was leaving unfinished business. I arrived in McLeod Ganj in mid June. I arrived with aspirations to learn more about the Tibetan community in exile, to do some social work which would provide the opportunity to really gain an insight into the democratic organisations evolving outside of China's dominating grip. I wanted to practice yoga during the day and sit with the nuns and other ex political prisoners in the evenings, participating in a space for them to share their stories and facilitate a dialogue which would not only help me to communicate their reality to you, but where they could develop their English conversations skills. I wanted to volunteer at the Rogpa Baby Care Centre for the children of newly arrived refugees, who still had to find new friends to look after their young ones while they tried to build a new life. I wanted to read every one of the books of writings and meditations by the Dalai Lama, Indian Swami's and Krishnamurti which framed the trillions of bookshop windows. I wanted to go to the Tibetan Library and attended their daily meditation classes, to attend Tushita Buddhist Centre's twice weekly movie seminars led by a truly international group of nuns. I wanted Dr Palden to teach me the 157 Tibetan Pressure Points using his wall of human maps and enjoying the constant interruptions from his four year old son. I wanted to learn Tibetan massage, become a master in Reiki, have a once in a life time Ayurvedic panchakarma. I wanted to teach yoga to the local children and to hike up to Triund the mysterious 2827m peak which hides behind Dharmasala's eternal clouds. Basically I wanted to do to much, and in comparison I did very little.

On the other hand, I know that I have achieved something which has been a very old dream. I have dedicated three months to practicing and studying very little apart from yoga. I have since taught a month and a half of free yoga classes and assisted an Indian Guru every day for two months. I can finally do asana's which I could not even do five years ago. I have had incredible releases of energy which I had no idea had existed. I have found the sense of grounded-ness and connection with the Self which (for me) is the hidden key to Yoga. In addition to this, I have met some fabulous people.

I have talked with young Tibetans who have grown up in exile and have shared 'stories' with Tibetans of all ages who have just recently escaped into exile. I have met with Travellers and seekers from all over the world, who paths I would not have crossed had we not been searching for something in some way connected. I have laughed with Buddhist Monks who I practiced yoga with, who I pushed and pulled and dropped backwards and swung forwards, who would teach me new scientific words for the human body while they practiced their English, between playing with their new mobile phones and after sliding in a snippet of ancient Buddhist wisdom. I actually even think that I might have heard a complement from Vijay while he was saying goodbye. I have definitely watched more documentaries in three months than I have ever watched since Palestine. I have had the opportunity to develop a well rounded understanding (and intense practical application) of 'alternative' medicines. The list continues..

So I am leaving, knowing that I have taken with me a gift of yogic energy while releasing the ocean of learning taking me to new areas of exploration.

My journey began with a blessing from a new yogi monk who I have been working with for six weeks. He approached me apologising for his lack of gift, and then produced a beautiful white Tibetan kata (silk scarf). He bowed his head to mine as he placed it around my neck. He took his hands to prayer and held them there while my instinct overruled my socially instilled respect of convention and I hugged him. The new yogi monk, my new friend and old colleague, told me he would pray for me.

Meanwhile, the Young Wrinkled Man was waiting for me outside of my afternoon yoga class. We walked up the street together. I gave him my last bundle of bandages. He gave me a long Namaste as he bowed his head towards me. Again, I brought my hands together and pushed my palms and fingers next to one another, wishing he could feel the power he had shared with me – not just today but through each of our daily interactions.

A crazy professional sushi chef, snowboarder and base jumper and now Vijay's newest student carried my new Om yoga bag and tattered dry bag to the bus for me. She gave me a hug so tight I can still feel it.

The bus which carried me down the road which a stuttering Royal Enfield motorbike had pulled me up three months ago, was filled with a mini Tibetan sangha. Crammed amongst this maroon crowd was as a French nun who lived on Holy Island in Scotland. The most restless of the passengers were two well dressed Indian tourists complaining about the gung ho attitude of the driver as we careered around each hairpin bend, with the wheels only casually connecting with the rocky asphalt before bouncing back into the air again. I also bounced around on the back row; fighting the will of the seat to inflict me with whip lash.

And then the bus broke down. It was fixed. We stopped for chai in the middle of no-where at some-where which didn't sell chai and then finally, arrived back in the country's capital three hours late and right in the middle of the festival of Dewali. We piled off the creaking bus at Majnu ka Tilla the Tibetan neighbourhood in north Delhi. I verbally fought with a rickshaw driver and then a Royal Ambassador driver over how much they would charge me for a ten minute ride. I remained morally victorious and economically defeated. And then I experienced the phenomenon of Culture Shock all over again.

Coloured powders scattered the bursting streets, flower petals mixed with street garbage, and sticky sweet greasy smells wafted into the humid air around me. Limbless men and children hobbled towards me hands outstretched, and surrounded by the fallen petals of the festive turmeric tinted garlands. I left Delhi and India that same night.

It is three years since I was last here, and six years since I first arrived: I am now back in Nepal. It took three days of travelling and many many hours of pensive perseverance. But at some point in the next month I will try to renew my Indian visa although as always I am still firmly attached to the present and surrounded by a 'new' Nepal – Republic, Communist, 'Democratic', Peaceful land waiting to be re/explored.