Author: Meg Noble Peterson Page 26 of 31

I’m still hoping for news from inside Myanmar, or Burma, which is what the exiles call it. There are fewer and fewer articles being written, due to a total news blackout in the country. No internet, no newspapers, no cell phones allowed, and, of course, no emails. I’m torn between wanting to urge people not to go there as a statement against the junta, and the need for people from the outside to get to the struggling Burmese and let them know they haven’t been abandoned. This is why I waited for ten years before going there. But I made sure that I only stayed at small guest houses and bought from independent merchants—not wanting to give one cent to the government. During one of my recent hikes I talked with a woman who works in human rights at the UN. She felt that this time the world would take notice because of the slaughter of monks—a fact that further enraged the exiles. This is not students and ordinary citizens, but the sacred Buddhist tradition that is being attacked.

After writing these words I opened up the NYTimes and found an article about Laura Bush and how she, not the president, picked up the phone to call the UN Secretary General, Ban Ki-moon to protest the crackdown on the pro-democracy demonstrators in Burma. She seems to be keeping up the pressure, having met with both Senators Dianne Feinstein and Kay Bailey Hutchison. This is good news. According to the report in the Times today, Oct. 15 (p.1, p.A9), “The First Lady is becoming much more public, and more proscriptive. She’s not just following, she’s leading.”

Another less positive, but very realistic view of what is happening in Burma comes from The Wall Street Journal weekend edition, Oct. 13-14. The front page story, THE BURMA CONNECTION, continues on p A6, DESPERATE BURMESE LABOR IN THAILAND. It poses the moral dilemma of those companies just over the border in Mae Sot, Thailand, who hire impoverished women to labor in their brassiere factory for as little as $3 take-home pay a day (the lingerie is sold in the U.S. under names like Maidenform and Vanity Fair). They come from the border town of Myawaddy, Myanmar, and are so desperate for any amount of money that they do jobs few others would want to do. “They have no food, no income, no nothing.” I recommend this article to all of you who want to know more about the background of this formerly rich, prosperous country now facing such appalling degradation.

In a lighter vein, there was a moment last week when I thought autumn was upon us. I could breathe, again, and put on long sleeves and a polar fleece, but, alas, by midweek I was back in shorts. Is this global warming, or wot? Then, suddenly, the weekend arrived, the wind kicked up, temperatures plummeted and there was a rush to bring in the house plants, put up the storms, and remove the air conditioners. Hooray, we’re back on track and Fall has arrived. I’m grateful. Each season brings with it such beauty and such renewal. And, I hope, will get the creative juices flowing.

Our first concert of the season was a smash hit at the Plainfield Symphony, the premier community orchestra of New Jersey. I say this in all modesty, because it’s true. We had a guest conductor, Cesar Ivan Lara, from Venezuela and all the music was from south of the border. These rhythms are new to most of us ordinary Americans and fascinating as well. And difficult! We played selections from Alberto Ginastera, Antonio Estevez, and Ricardo Teruel (Argentina), Heitor Villa-Lobos (Brazil), and Jose Pablo Moncayo and Antonio Marquez (Mexico). You never heard such percussion! The tympanist was almost dancing, as were some members of the audience. The brass and winds nearly blew the roof off Crescent Avenue church, and the applause was thunderous. Did I have a good time? You bet.

Another top flight musical experience was a superb concert by the Madison String Quarter, in which exciting new pieces by Charles Griffin and Arcangel Castillo were played alongside Dvorak’s popular “American” string quartet. This is a quartet to watch. We’re lucky to have them in New Jersey.

The opera and theater season is in full swing. I was able to get tickets for Lucia di Lamamoor with the fabulous French soprano, Natalie Dessay. Lest you think me extravagant, I was able to find a $15 ticket in the last row, which, by the way, has the best acoustics in my opinion, and, with my new opera glasses, puts me right on stage. You don’t even need oxygen. Can hardly wait to see the famed mad scene, which I glimpsed  on Charlie Rose.

I thought I had gotten my theater addiction in check until I hooked up with Phyllis Bitow, a percussionist in our orchestra, who is a fellow addict and even drives to the city after work, sparing me those late night returns by train. We have quite a coterie of enthusiasts, including Paul Sharar, Carol Goodman, Silvia Lowe, and Suzanne Roghanchi. The company is swelling, so we may have to get an SUV. Oops, that would NOT be environmentally sound, so we’ll just use the roof rack.

Of the many plays we’ve seen on our Audience Extras, Play-by-Play, and TDF accounts, I recommend: The Overwhelming (Roundabout), Sive (Irish Rep), Mercy Thieves (crazy play from Australia with excellent acting and dialogue), and American Sligo (Rattlesnake). Coming up is The Ritz, Mauritius, and Is He Dead? By Mark Twain, starring my neighbor, Norbert Leo Butz.

For the last two weeks I’ve been hiking in the woods of Harriman Park, a gorgeous area in New York State about an hour from my home. The hikes range from five to twelve miles and are filled with enthusiastic nature lovers from Jersey and the New York metropolitan area. Two weeks ago I was privileged to be a guest at Thendara, formerly the Green Mountain Club of Vermont, owned now by a group of Harriman hikers who use the two large cabins and a section of Lake Tiorati as their headquarters and overnight hangout. Three of us hiked in the woods, stopping at natural old caves used by early settlers, and exploring two of the iron mines that provided armaments in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. Only the steep sides of the mines and deep, water-filled holes were left. Orange and black striations on the walls, and holes where dynamite was used, were all that remained of these massive pits. A few stone foundations marked the houses of those who worked the mines.

The conversation turned to the history of the region. I had not known of Tom Brown, Jr, who has a Tracker School in the Pine Barrens, and wrote a book about the famous Native American, “stalking wolf,” entitled Grandfather. It’s a true story about this remarkable Native American and his lifelong search for peace and truth in nature. Tom has written several other books, including his own emotional journey, The Quest.

At the end of our hike we were so warm that we swam in the lake at sunset…an amazing experience in October! I’m certain that this was my final swim of the season.

I’m remiss for having left out an important visit I had with the other Exley family on Mirror Lake this past August. I had mentioned Chris, but also enjoyed a visit with his older brother, Paul Exley, wife Lori, and children Charlton, 13, and Kile, 11. Also, Beth’s husband, and the grandfather in residence, Jim Exley, was with us. It’s always great to dip into the lives of my outstanding second cousins and their families every summer.

 Lori just wrote and asked me if I’d be interested in coming to her book club, if they selected my book to read. This reminded me to mention that I do, in fact, visit book clubs in the area and discuss my book at their meeting. I have a Reader’s Guide that is used during the sessions. (You can see it on the Reviews page of my website in the lower righthand corner.) So if any of you readers are members of book clubs and wish to use my book, I’ll be glad to attend your meeting, or, if you’re too far away, answer questions on a conference call as I’ve done in the past.

Every day I wait for news of Myanmar (Burma), the country whose people I fell in love with last January. I keep hoping that the UN envoy, Ibrahim Gambari will have news of a lessening of government repression, or of a return dialogue with Aung San Suu Kyi. Or that somebody will have gotten through the internet and news blackout with pictures of the current situation. But there seems little hope. Maybe the West will put pressure on China, India, and Russia, the three countries who are supporting the military junta and have the most to gain from the oil and gas reserves so plentiful in this little country. Even Thailand, its close neighbor where so many exiled Burmese live, seems to have turned its back on the plight of these people, afraid it will lose its natural gas and electricity. It has now become Myanmar’s biggest trade partner, surpassing China. Trade seems to trump human rights. What has happened to the human race?

 I find it appalling that India, a country that gained its freedom from the powerful British Empire by non-violent means should have forgotten what it went through and not come to the aid of its neighbor. Do they think that there won’t be any more oil, gas, or precious gems if Burma is allowed to have its democracy, which it won by an overwhelming majority in 1988?

Look at YouTube reports over the past two weeks of peaceful protest. There are some excellent videos and speeches, and a message from Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, the winner of a 1991 Nobel Peace Prize and the leader of the democracy movement. As you know, she has been under house arrest most of the last 18 years. I look every day, hoping for some kind of positive news.

The world mouths platitudes about the horror of Myanmar’s repressive regime, but the countries that have leverage are doing nothing. And China blocked any concerted action by the security council. I recommend that you read (available on line) some of the reports in the NYTimes, especially those of this past week. October 2, p. 8, will give you some idea of the rape of Myanmar by the money-hungry junta and those governments that benefit from special status. Here is a country with a proud heritage, rich in resources, whose people are sinking deeper and deeper into poverty. Just seeing newspaper pictures of the empty square of the Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon made me want to cry. I have hundreds of pictures showing the beautiful faces of these people and the squalor of many of the makeshift homes, as well as the decaying infrastructure of the cities. I kept my counsel while I was there, for everyone knew of the internet censorship and every visitor feared for the safety of those he or she spoke with…but now that I am home my photos will speak for themselves.

 I’m in the process of mounting some of these photos. As soon as they’re on Facebook I shall let you know. There will be a link and it will be accessible  to all. I traveled extensively and was able to communicate with a range of people, from members of the Hill Tribes in the mountains to intellectuals, monks, and teachers in the urban areas. They are a gentle, religious people, but the pent up anger caused by the injustices of the past twenty years can only be contained so long. It takes a lot of determination, faith, and courage to stand up against bullets and bludgeons.

At this writing nobody knows for certain what atrocities are being perpetrated by the military government. Speculation is rampant and chilling. I urge all of you not to let the campaign for a free Burma die, but find out where you can help and how you can help.

I received a copy of the Sept. 4 issue of the Christian Science Monitor, where my book was mentioned in the Readers’ Picks section.  Jean Blesh wrote a glowing report of my adventures, ending with the comment, “Meg is naïve, but fearless. A most enjoyable read.” I loved it! And she’s absolutely right. I had always thought of myself as practical and realistic, but, really, I wouldn’t attempt some of the things I do if I weren’t a bit of an idealist with a sprinkling of naivete. Danger or possible pitfalls are the last things that come to mind when I plan a new adventure. In fact, when someone says you can’t do it, that’s crazy, that’s when I decide to do it. And I still believe that there’s a guardian angel hovering over me in tight spots, assuring me that if I just approach people and situations with generosity and candor and optimism I’ll survive. Every time I approach a new mountain I say to myself, “Is this trip necessary? Do you want to risk falling on your face and breaking your wrist, again?” (shades of my 2004 Mt. Washington disaster) Then a little voice inside me recites the old refrain, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” and I barrel ahead. And that’s what makes me really happy, in case you were wondering.

I’m getting ideas and itineraries for our family sojourn to Africa next year, the highlight being a climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro. I had tried without success to get from Dar es Salaam to Arusha twenty years ago, but the roads were washed out and there were no available trains, planes or automobiles, so I went on to South Africa instead. Now my dream of climbing the mythical mountain is about to be realized. I just want to hit the summit before global warming has completely melted the snows. If any of you have suggestions or know of reliable companies that could help me plan the trip, please write me an email. I’d be grateful for any information or helpful hints as I begin my research.

Chicken, you say. No, the friend I marched with, an old camp buddy from Silver Springs, VA,  Jean Lyman Lanxner, and her friend, Becky Diass, had paid $50 and $250, respectively, the last time they got arrested. That’s a lot of theater tickets, and, besides, the crowd was so dense that I couldn’t reach the Capitol steps where the police were handcuffing those who walked past the barrier (I believe about 180). It was symbolic, of course, but I did my share of chanting, holding my banner high, proclaiming an end to the war in Iraq and the return of our troops before any more bloodshed. And the impeachment of the president. I also took part in the “die-in,” where you lie down on the pavement in honor of a soldier or an Iraqi civilian who has died in this terrible war.

 We started at Lafayette Park in front of the White House and walked down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol.  The day was sunny and bright (I have a sunburn to prove it). A perfect Fall day. Our numbers were reported to be from 10,000  to 100,000, but I’m afraid it would have had to be much, much more to make any real difference. There were two hours of speeches before the marching began…far too many…but Jean said that you have to suffer a little when protesting. You also have to have a sense of humor! There were very imaginative signs and skits along the way. I may just post a few. Those opposed to the march did a bit of yelling, calling us communists and pacifists and defeatists, but there were lots of policemen present, so nobody started swinging. We left around 6 PM, having started at noon. It was gratifying to see so many people willing to speak up in this time when the government is painting any opposition to their policies as unpatriotic. And it was gratifying to see so many young people present, willing to take a stand against the escalation of the war.

Later I heard reports of some scuffling and of pepper spray being used, but what I experienced was an orderly, at times joyous, and at other times somber march. After Jean and I left we passed more police cars than I’ve ever seen in one place, lined up along the wide lawn leading to the Capitol. We were holding our placards high as a dozen Japanese tourists happened by. Naturally, they all had cameras at the ready and asked if they could photograph us. It was a scream! I can just see them showing their friends these two prehistoric valentines, a symbol of American opposition to the war in Iraq. I suddenly felt like one of those Asians I so cavalierly photograph on my travels. I shall be more sensitive in the future.

 Another highlight of the weekend was staying at the charming Tacoma Park home of my friend, Judy Wyman, her husband, John Kelly, and their two children, Leah and Sarah. This was a treat, since they weren’t able to come to the cottage this year for our traditional summer visit.

On Sunday morning I was treated to one of the folk festivals held throughout Tacoma Park, this one sponsored by the Washington Post. Jean’s daughter, Wendy Lanxner, one of seven children, performed an hour of songs composed by her and members of her group, Shosho. The instruments and instrumentation were varied and exciting.  She has the same glorious, nuanced voice Jean had as a young woman, when we sang together in summer musicals. I highly recommend her latest CD, Shosho, Days and Years. Wendy plays a number of instruments, among them mandolin, guitar, and flute.

Getting back to New Jersey was a nightmare due to construction on 95 North and my failure to see, in the dark, the turn-off to the NJ turnpike. I just kept bopping along on 95, oblivious to the fact that I was circling Philadelphia and headed for the Jersey shore with an almost empty gas tank. The worst part was wandering around by the ocean until I found the Garden State Parkway (not near the ocean), and driving in five lanes of speeding traffic up the parkway at night. But I did it, and I’m here, and I may just take the train next time. Watch your maps, folks.

No sooner had I returned to broiling New Jersey than my sisters called and suggested another ten days together at the cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee. What a bonus this was! The weather was perfect, the lake heavenly, and the three of us enjoyed a special time of laughter and relaxation before the onslaught of another year (all of us consider the Fall the beginning of the year…a left over from the time when the children returned to school).

I can’t seem to get enough of the lake and the mountains. On my last day I was determined to return to Franconia Notch and hike up Falling Waters

Trail to the ridge, traversing Mt. Liberty, Lincoln, and Lafayette, and heading down by way of the AMC Greenleaf Hut…a nine-mile circuit. The day ended at sunset as I made my way down the Bridal Path. I went alone, but, as always, bumped into Canadian climbers from Quebec and as far west as Vancouver, B.C. This is a climb I’ve taken with my children many times. How come it gets steeper and longer every year?

Yes, I’m back in New Jersey, fresh from the family cottage on beautiful, wild Lake Winnipesaukee, where one day it’s calm as a mirror and the next day ushers in a three day “blow” that is reminiscent of the ocean. Breakers crashing over you as you stand on a ledge of rocks way out in the water. Kayaks and sailboats dipping and nearly capsizing. Winds blowing warm air during the sunny days and cold air during the night. This is my special heaven, where I swim early each morning way out to greet the sun as it pokes through the row of pines above the cottage. No matter where I go, nothing can top this.

Lots of hiking this year as well. Daughter Martha Peterson, grandson Thomas Bixler, and I made the usual trip up the Amphibrach trail to Crag Camp (a Randolph Mountain Club cabin), which is perched 4,000 ft. on King’s Ravine on the way to Mt. Washington. This year it was glorious, even when we awoke in the morning. But one hour later…rain and wind. Down we slid, soaked, having enjoyed the special mystery and discomfort of steady rain on the rocks. The challenge was to stay aloft. We did!

Rebecca Magill and 4-year-old Amaya joined Thomas, his friend, Pam Hershberg, daughter Martha and me to go up to Champney Falls on Mt. Chocorua (our family’s favorite mountain). Like crazies, we all swam in one of the mountain pools beneath the Falls. Nobody wanted to be called chicken. Even me. Now that’s a way to get the blood flowing in your veins!

My Godson, Scott Bennett (www.scottbennettart.com), a well known artist, and his friend, Dechteres Lazides, a water colorist (www.yessyart.com), visited, as did additional family members—Martha’s husband, Gary Shippy, Cally,  and her friend, Troy.

The highlight of the summer was a trip up the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail to the AMC cabin, Lakes of the Clouds, just beneath the summit of Mt. Washington. This is where my children and Judy and Sylvia Wyman used to camp…right on the rocks beneath the Falls. No more. It’s forbidden. Way back then we had the mountain almost to ourselves.

No matter how many times I cross the many streams and falls, sometimes hand-over-hand, it thrills me to come up over the boulders and see the cabin, home of hikers and through-hikers (those doing the Appalachian Trail) welcoming me. Martha and Gary went on to Mizpah, the fanciest and noisiest of the AMC cabins, and then down the Crawford Path the next day. Thomas and I hurried back to the car and the usual soft ice cream reward. As I was sliding down some of the boulders (having forgotten my climbing poles and not wanting to fall on my face), Thomas looked up at me and said, “Now I know how you can climb at your advanced age…you do it on your butt.”

“Not so, I replied. I don’t climb on my butt!” So much for smart aleck kids.

This may not seem like a travel-related blog, but there are many people from around the world, and many Canadians closer by, who come to the peaceful and challenging White Mountains to see if they can withstand the world’s most terrible weather (at times, 256 mph winds on the summit of Mt. Washington) and clamber up trails as difficult as anything I experienced in the Himalayas. Just ask my friend, Jon Pollack, with whom I climb in the Olympics and Cascades most years. When he visited three years ago at the time of my disastrous accident on the summit (remember the broken wrist and cut chin?), he was heard to yell on his way up…”Where the hell is the trail, Meg?” Hey, Jon, you’re on it. It’s just a pile of rocks. Get used to it.

So it’s back to the “monkey mind,” the stress of suburbia, and the excitement of the theater and my morning ritual with Jon Stewart (I’m big on taping. Hate commercials). I miss the solitude and the physicality of the lake and mountains, but I’M HEALTHY AT LAST! Goodbye giardia. Hello happiness. I’m working on some new ideas for a book, so stay with me. No Ladakh this September, but it will be there next year…after Kilimanjaro.

For foreign travel news grab daughter Cary’s blog. She has called several times as she comes in and out of Tibet. Right now you can follow her into the caves near Lhasa. How I envy her!

www.carypeterson.wordpress.com.

Who says you need palm trees and rain forests and giant iguanas to feel like Dr. Livingston? I can get that feeling just sitting on my back deck, listening to the crickets—those that haven’t expired from over-exposure—and watching my hair frizz. Ah, yes, it’s the dog days of summer, but, unfortunately, I’m not a dog, I’m not air conditioned, and I don’t know how to make a mint julep. So I solve the heat and humidity problem by immersing myself in the air conditioned theaters of New York City. Yes, Broadway, off-Broadway, how wonderful you are! Since my return from Asia I have had an ongoing battle with giardia, but I have managed to drown my sorrows in some pretty marvelous concerts, movies, and plays, some of which I’ve participated in and most of which I’ve attended. Highly recommended: Journey’s End, which closed, even though it won the Tony (people are tired of war, but nobody seems to be very effective in stopping it), Radio Golf (the last of August Wilson’s plays), Frost/Nixon, which won Frank Langella the Tony this year, Facing East, about a Mormon couple dealing with the suicide of their gay son, A Moon for the Misbegotten, a superb revival starring Kevin Spacey and Eve Best, Coram Boy, the superb British import, Talk Radio, with Tony-nominated Liev Schreiber, 110 in the Shade, featuring the superb Audra McDonald, and Jersey Boys, which I finally saw by getting the last two standing room seats with my friend, Paul Sharar.

 I spent so much time in my last blog entry lamenting the travel-related ailments upon my return that I forgot to mention how great it was to get back to my friends, my family, my symphony, my book club, and my church. Funny how self-absorbed we can become with our petty problems and forget what is really important in our lives.

For the past several years a highlight of the early summer has been the Mt. Laurel Autoharp Festival in Newport, PA. I was lucky enough to stay in the campground with my friends, Carole and Fisk Outwater from Charlotte, NC, and renew old friendships with the greats of the country and folk music tradition. It’s wonderful to see how the instrument Glen and I inherited in 1962 and worked to improve has been modified by skilled luthiers beyond our wildest dreams. And it’s gratifying to connect with the grown-up “students” who learned the instrument from my early method books. This year I was blown away by Will Smith and Ron Wall, of Nashville, and Lucille Reilly of Colorado. Thanks to Coleen and Neal Walters for gathering a superb group of pickers from around the country!

You all know by now my great love of New Hampshire, especially Lake Winnipesaukee and the White Mountains, where I acquired my passion for hiking and camping at an early age. Every year my two sisters and I spend the last week in June together at our family cottage. We brave the freezing water—even this year when the temperature went to 40 degrees at night—and we laugh and reminisce like the WOWs (Wonderful Older Women) we’ve become. Thanks to our parents, Charles and Grace Noble, for bequeathing this magnificent space to us.

It’s always great to reconnect with relatives and this I did with my second cousin, Chris Exley, the youngest of the three sons of my cousin Beth Noble Exley and Jim Exley. I can never be sure what the nomenclature of these relationships is, but I do know that I’ve watched him grow from a skinny kid to a strapping 6 ft. 8 or thereabouts and it sure makes you feel old!  He and his charming wife, Carole, spend part of the summer at their family cottage on Mirror Lake near Wolfeboro, NH. Like the Nobles, they’ve been coming to the area since childhood. The whole family is very active in the arts and the three children are no exception. It was a delight to read some of the poetry of Bryan, 15, and find out that Lauren, 17, will be attending Westminster Choir College in Princeton next year as a piano and voice major. Then there is adorable Sarah, who sings, dances, and paints at age 8. Next year I’ll catch up with the other two sons.

After the week at the cottage I spent several days with Lynne Warrin, the co-author of our play, Thank You, Dear, which was performed in Deerfield, MA, several years ago, and is now being sent out to regional theaters. Like all writers we decided that the time for revision was over and the time for action was NOW.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able to visit Whidbey Island, WA, this year, but Jon Pollack, my climbing buddy from the Himalayas and I are already planning a week in the Cascades for the summer of 2008. After that, it’s Kilimanjaro with the entire family. But I’m getting ahead of myself….

I talked for an hour today with daughter Cary, who has returned from the remote Kilung Valley near the Kham region of Tibet. She tells me it’s very green, with gently rolling hills, so different from the stark mountains and treeless plains we drove through in central Tibet three years ago. She plans to return to Tibet in August for a retreat at the Samya Monastery not far from Lhasa. You can get a fuller picture of her travels at: www.carypeterson.wordpress.com.  

In all fairness to New Jersey, it turned cool and beautiful as I was writing these last paragraphs (I’m a slow writer). Wouldn’t you know…just as I leave for three weeks at the cottage. Hope your summer is full of rest and fun. The kind of recreation that re-creates.  Let me hear about your adventures. I’ll catch up with you when I return from the mountains.

You may wonder why I haven’t written in two months. Remember that all-night bus ride from Dharamsala to Delhi back in April? It seems that I caught head lice from my seat partner, a lovely man who kept throwing up, but, nonetheless, was pleasant and helpful. We traded seats to give him a better shot at the stairwell, and I leaned back onto his headrest, hoping that the Indian music blaring from the driver’s radio would abate long enough to let me dose. Dream on, if you can. I noticed that he was doing a lot of scratching, but failed to connect the dots.

A week after my return I, too, began scratching. Oh, said I, it must be nerves from the horrendous jetlag I seem to be experiencing. I was so obsessed with tearing my hair out by the roots that I paid scant attention to the gross discomfort and nausea resulting from a virulent strain of parasites, which had taken up lodging in to my intestines for what is becoming a lengthy stay. Driven nearly to distraction, I took my bruised head (along with my tired body) to a dermatologist, who pronounced that I had nits, those encapsulated lice eggs that stick like glue to your hair. He explained the life cycle of the little critters and how easy it was to deal with them. Great! I’m NOT going crazy after all, but if any of you have suffered from this problem, you know what the ghastly procedure it is to rid yourself, your clothes, your furniture, and your bedding of the infestation. Thus began a search for cures, since a couple of washings with RID, the doctor’s solution, didn’t work.

Warning to travelers: Carry with you a couple of pillow cases and use one at your guest house and another under your head on public transportation—buses and trains. Don’t worry if people stare at you. It’s better than what I went through. My internet search uncovered more than 300 recipes guaranteed to kill head lice, though some mothers I know say that it can only be done by picking off each nit, using a flashlight and your fingernails. Since nobody wanted to come close to me except my second daughter, Martha (and she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect), I started through the remedies—mayonnaise, hair grease, vinegar, DAWN dishwashing detergent, all squashed on your hair and held in place by plastic. You wouldn’t believe how many there are. During all of this I decided to be Zen about it. After all, lice have been around since the time of the pyramids and eventually the miserable buggers will get tired of being treated like a waldorf salad and drift away. You wish…. By the time I was pronounced cured, I had a good case of dandruff!

I have never had any kind of illness during my 25 years of travel, so perhaps this bout is long overdue. The giardia and blastocystis are far worse than the lice and should be treated immediately. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to flagyl, the drug of choice, so my doctor has had to be inventive and search for other solutions. He promises that death is not an option.

Last warning to travelers: No matter what someone tells you, do not drink lassi in India. It’s made with yogurt and cut with water to make it thinner. I love it and have had it, often, in the past. Even drank it, along with an assortment of milk shakes, in Myanmar in January. But those days are over. Anything that has ice cubes crushed or water added can be dangerous. All it takes is one unwashed hand or one miserable creepy-crawly to do the damage. But take heart. I do not intend to stop traveling. It will take a lot more than this to cool my zeal for adventure in Asia. In fact, I’m looking into a future trek in Ladakh right now.

While all of this has been going on, Martha and I were privileged to sponsor Rinpoche Wangdor Lama and his translator Lama Lena Feral, both of whom I met at Rewalsar in India last March and wrote about in my earlier blog. There were three inspirational evening sessions here in Maplewood: compassion and wisdom; opening the heart; and the enlightened being.

Wangdor Lama has been meditating and offering instruction to students in the caves above sacred Lotus Lake (Tso Pema) in the Himalayas of India for over 30 years. He is a renowned Master of both Dzogchen and Mahamudra esoteric traditions. Dr. Lena Feral, is a native of South Orange who became a lady lama after many years of practice as a tantric yogini. She is also a doctor of Chinese medicine. What a privilege it was to participate in these three events.

One last note. I enjoyed a short visit from my Seattle friend, Beth Whitman and her partner, Jon Ingalls, who had also traveled in India last January and February. They had just come from the huge Book Expo in New York City and gave me a glowing report on the health of women’s travel books. Seems to be a burgeoning field, though there aren’t too many nuts out there who still go off the beaten track with no idea where it will lead. Actually, I despair of finding too many places I can go that don’t require guides or a police escort. But I’m looking and would welcome any suggestions you might have.

If you wish to see what Beth is doing, visit her blog and website at: www.wanderlustandlipstick.com

Greetings from wonderland, where it snows on Easter. Whatever happened to global warming? Don’t worry, we’ll get that in June! Honestly, I had never realized how gorgeous and clean the US was until I entered Newark airport after being in Delhi, and then on to Maplewood, with the pristine streets, the sidewalks, and cars stopping to let me cross, rather than seeing how close they could come before I leapt over the cliff. I felt that I was in a movie set. I remembered that only a few days ago I’d walked around Majnu Ka Tilla in Old Delhi and out to the entrance to escape the beggars, and was so appalled at the huge stinking pile of rotting garbage that I didn’t even stop to take a photo. I later talked to an Indian woman on the plane who lamented this appalling situation. So many newly rich people, she said, and still no help for the homeless, no clean water, no reliable sewage system. But lots of government corruption. These are her words and the words of many other Indians, not mine.

Let me backtrack. Cary and I walked our last kora at the temple on Monday morning, after which we were lucky to meet a young English couple at the cafe–Clair Cooke, who works as a financial news reporter for Bloomberg in New York and Bombay, and Navdeep Singh Kandola, who describes himself as a Yorkshire punjabi. They had just come from the Punjab, where Navdeep’s family has a farm. He is returning to do organic farming, having already started a collective. A farsighted couple who sees the need to preserve the planet while improving people’s health. More power to them!

After lunch we were overjoyed to see about five groups of monks involved in more debates, this time much more fiery than on the previous night. There was some good-natured shoving and at times several monks would gang up on one particular opponent. I was amazed at the synchronization of some of the arguments, where several monks would clap and stamp at the same time, as if on cue. Of course, not understanding the language, I didn’t know what led up to the crescendo and finale. And it all happened so fast that pictures were impossible.

At 6 PM I reached the “luxury” HImachal bus near the square and was overjoyed to see that Dolma and Tamara were also there to send me on my way. I had reserved a seat on the aisle, since the drive was very circuitous and if my seat partner got sick, he or she could just hang out the window. Yeah, that was the plan. All went well for the first half hour as the sun was setting and passengers were being picked up. At 10 we stopped for dal bhat and tea and by midnight, after two more stops for smokers, things seemed to be settling down. Then, my seat partner took a dive over me and just made it to the stairwell, where he lost his dinner. His parents, old Tibetans sitting in the seat in front of us, who soothed me with their mantras in the early morning, started upbraiding him for getting sick. Poor fellow, he needed sympathy not a lecture. When the bus began to stink, which was instantly, I suggested that we trade seats, so I could open the window, wrap in a blanket (this time I came prepared) and breathe some fresh air. When the temperature moved close to zero, I closed the window and managed a little sleep before our 7 AM arrival. Remind me never to take another bus!

While hanging out for the day at the Wongdhen House, I met a marvelous English woman, Linda Vickers, who had recently been in a Buddhist monastery in Scotland doing two years of practice. She is a psychotherapist and gave me some welcome insight into the kind of practice Cary will be doing. She said it is strenuous and exacting, but she never knew how clear the mind could be, nor how focused. Sounds like something I should look into? I wish I’d met her sooner. Just before I left for the airport, Anna Sibbald showed up and both women saw me off. Anna had spent the day helping a master Tibetan thangka painter from Norbulingka get papers to visit New Zealand.

The ride to the airport, due to massive traffic, was slower and less perilous than previous ones. When you arrive there, I might add, you are given FREE luggage carts, unlike in the States where you have to pay for them. I stood in a long line outside, waiting to enter. Once there, a policeman refused to let me in, since I had no printout from Continental for my E-ticket. (In three months it’s bound to get lost, but never leave home without one!) “Just go over there.” he said, pointing somewhere, and get a lift and go downstairs and you’ll find Continental.” Yeah, right. After wandering, helplessly, in circles, a sympathetic official took me by the hand and led me to Continental, where I exclaimed to the Sikh sitting behind the counter, “I’m going to kill someone and it might as well be you.” He laughed and, later, sidled up to me at the gate with the question, “Have you killed anyone, yet?” So much for the Dalai Lama‘s teaching on compassion.

At Majnu I was bitten by a lot of little gnats. (I hadn’t wanted to use those coils while I slept, for I thought they might be bad for my health.) I was scratching like mad to the point where I thought I had head lice. Did I get them from the headrest on that crumby bus from Dharamsala? Or maybe it was my fatigue and irritation with the woman next to me on the plane who kept pulling my arm, roughly, to get me to let her pass. I finally suggested, when she woke my only sleep, that she ask her friend to move and not me…we were in the three seats in the middle aisle and she felt it necessary to pee every half hour. Then I felt guilty for my lack of compassion and helped her the rest of the way. I thought she was old, but she was only fifty. I couldn’t believe it.

And then, after 15 hours of acute gastric and hip distress from so much sitting, my son-in-law, Gary Shippy, picked me up and said, “Well, I’m getting to work early these days, since I was here yesterday circling the airport for an hour and now I’ve finally found you.” Can you believe that I thought I would leave at night and get there on the same day, since I thought the US was a day behind. Martha, too, went to the airport and waited, since Gary had to go to work. I thought that was really nice. She felt it was her mistake for not realizing how long the flight was. I owe them big time!

I must say that whatever I ate last week at the Peace Cafe in Dharamsala is still with me and I wonder if I’ll ever be normal, again. (My kids have wondered that for years!) I received a few sympathetic words from my two friends who suggested the cafe, but mostly they said that I had spelled Kamal Mc Gowran’s name wrong and that Melanie was from Valais, the French part of Switzerland, not Geneva. Now I have it right, in case you want to visit. And, just because they like to live dangerously, they had another “delicious” lassi from that cafe. Just you wait….

It doesn’t take long to get into what the Buddhists call “samsara.” I call it the hamster syndrome (all day on that little wheel) or the homecoming bug. No sooner have you arrived before you start with the dirty refrigerator, then move to the plants, plucking all the dead leaves, then lollygag into the laundry, which leads to a clean up of the basement, which leads to the realization that the sump pump is working too hard, possibly explained by the water bill, which comes to your attention halfway through the day, when you discover that somehow 67,000 gallons of water seem to have been used in a house that never uses more than 3000 a month. You call the company and they say it’s not an emergency unless you have a swimming pool in the front lawn and your basement is flooded and, yes, they’ll take a look at it on April 19, by which time you may have leaked another 67,000 gallons. Well, when that gets too heavy, and you vow to return to Asia where life is simple, you go to the super market, hoping that you can remember how to turn on the car and steer the monster without hitting a Mercedes coming up the street (those tiny cars in India can maneuver much better, even, than a small Toyota). At the market you discover that oranges are 2 for $3.00, not 2 rupees each, and the same goes for bananas. You stand at the checkout counter saying to an incredulous clerk, “My, but prices have gone up in three short months,” before dropping a small fortune which could have fed and housed you for a month. Never mind the shock at the gas pump. Or your attempts to remember how to use a cell phone, or where you hid your wallet with all the credit cards in it. (in the sock drawer. But of course!). When it gets late and you don’t want to go to sleep too early, you turn on the TV, which, thank God, is now in English, and trade Bollywood for reruns of Judy Garland‘s last concert or “As Time Goes By.”

I’m thoroughly enjoying the book Cary gave me, Destructive Emotions. How Can We Overcome Them? A scientific dialogue with the Dalai Lama. It’s the compilation of one of his Mind and Life series conferences, edited by Daniel Goleman. It’s very complicated, but good for the tired brain.

My Easter ended with a glorious production of August Wilson‘s “King Hedley II” at the Signature Theater in New York City with Paul Sharar and the Goodmans. The tickets had been purchased long before we knew how bad my jet lag would be. It was the only one of Wilson’s plays about the African-American experience and heritage in America, decade by decade in the twentieth century, that I had missed, and I was eager to see it. The play took place in the 1980’s and was thrilling, but New York was cold, the winds sweeping off the Hudson River and snow flurries giving me a sample of midwinter that I had so assiduously avoided.

Thanks to all of you who have had the temerity to tackle my blog and who have so generously commented on it. Watch for the pictures, which will definitely be coming. And keep checking Cary’s blog for her adventures in India, Nepal, and Tibet. www.carypeterson.wordpress.com

In some way I feel that we’ve come back home…our Indian home, that is. It’s laughable to walk up the dark road at night, once again, and have taxis and motorcycles nearly flatten you. Our friend, Tamara, had to jump into the potato bin of a vegetable stand when one of her feet was partially run over and she feared for her life. I notice that the stand has now been removed to give the drivers more space to terrorize the pedestrians. Sidewalks are totally non-existent. You just move as close to the wall on one side as possible, or hop onto an iron grating next to a store, and even then you can feel the car brush by you. I wonder how I will adjust to being able to walk down a city street in Maplewood without worrying about the side mirror of a van clipping me.

Then there are speed bumps, which cannot be seen in the dark. I had no idea how dangerous they could be…like walking up the stairs and thinking there was another stair and sort of flying off into space. Glad my reflexes are still good!

So we returned to our beloved Kongpo Guest House (Quiet, Comfortable, and Homely). Pema Yeshe, the owner, asked me to make a new sign, now that he realizes what “homely” means, but this mistake is prevalent all over Asia. If you ever want a really neat place to stay, with great views of the mountains and near to the temple write to: : [email protected]. He won’t allow his name to be in Lonely Planet or any of the guide books, but only gets his clientele from word of mouth. The price is right and the ambiance wonderful. Oh, and the street is now being fixed, though it’s still perilous. We noted that a new wall had been constructed on one side and men are working frantically to finish a new addition to a hotel. As I saw all over India, these men work until 11 P.M. pouring concrete, carrying lumber and heavy loads of rock. I wonder if they get overtime. I doubt it. They’re a hard working lot.

We really missed our friends from the teachings, but found others of like mind at our breakfast haunt, The Tenyang. Many, like Anna Sibbald from Auckland, New Zealand, come here for several months every year. Anna was here for the teachings with her three adult children. They are artists and silversmiths and their company is Zoe & Morgan Jewelry. They work together, though one lives in Bali, one in London, and one in New Zealand.

It still amazes me to see the changes in communication since my first trip to India in 1986-7. Some of the mystery and challenge are lost, but so is much of the frustration with the convoluted bureaucracy. You may remember my writing in my book about the difficulty just to make a phone call home. Now it can be done on a computer (if you have the right equipment…I don’t). And, of course, we have email. Ain’t it wonderful? I’m glad I’ve experienced both.

Cary and I have developed a routine of walking three koras daily around the Namgyal Temple before breakfast. We walk silently with mostly Tibetans–some spinning the large prayer wheels and others doing prostrations. The sun on the mountains is glorious. One night on our way to the Namgyal Cafe we were lucky to come upon a debate going on with great gusto in the main part of the temple. It was similar to the ones we saw three years ago at the Sera Monastery in Tibet. The monks pair off. One shouts questions while the other attempts to answer them,.and they debate theology and points of Buddhist philosophy with great animation. It is an exciting ritual with the stamping of feet and one hand coming down in a loud slapping sound into the other hand when a point is made. I wish I’d had a movie camera.

Speaking of the Namgyal Cafe. This is one of our favorite haunts. Like all restaurants here, you write down your order on a small pad of paper, then sit and listen to a combination of disco and the rhythmic clanging of the huge prayer wheel next to the cafe, as people walk around it. Quite a contrast!

We hooked up with three friends we’d met at the teachings, Melanie Theytaz (from Geneva, Switzerland) and Kamel McGouran (Irish father and German mother), and Tamara Blesh , who had just returned from a ten day retreat, on the occasion of Melanie’s 21st birthday. Seldom have I met two such caring and informed young people, both doing volunteer work and about to end a long Asian journey to go back to study geology in Switzerland. Melanie is learning German, since Kamel says he’s hopeless in French, but right now they communicate in English, which they’ve been teaching to Tibetans for the last few weeks. More power to them! I will say, however, that Kamel has a strong stomach and takes some wild chances with the Indian food. I wasn’t so lucky. He gave me a suggestion for an excellent cafe (he said), which Cary and I tried two days ago. Yes, it was excellent, except that I drank my first lassi (curd which is sometimes mixed with water to give it a thinner consistency and served with sugar and fruit) since Myanmar, and got desperately sick. Food poisoning. It was probably that water, but we’ll never know. All day yesterday I couldn’t raise my head from the pillow, so missed the audience with the Karmapa I’d been looking forward to all week. Today I’m wobbling around, hoping for the best and drinking lots of bottled water. But I still think Kamel is a great guy, and nobody gets out of Asia unscathed…at least once. For me, this is twice..

If any of you want to get pictures put on a CD or printed here in Dharamsala, let me recommend Click Digital on Temple Rd. Not only did they do a great job (watch for my photos on the blog, but give me two weeks…it will be a tough selection), but they are terrific photographers. The owner, a young man, Vikrant Arora showed me photos he and five friends had taken on a recent climb to Moon Peak, one of the mountains we see everyday. It’s a strenuous five day trek over a glacier, but, typical of young men, they tried it in two, staying at the Lahesh cave. Really whet my appetite and it was nice to see that the locals also enjoy the Himalaya, not just the tourist trekkers. Another time I hope to come here when the snows are less formidable and the trail clear.

I also found a wonderful store for carpets and wall hangings. This is one of the major temptations of India. Many of the most beautiful silk hangings and rugs come from Kashmir, but the best tangkas are, in my experience, Tibetan. I met a really charming Indian, Bilal Ahmed Guna, with a sense of humor and a well-stocked inventory at Paradise Arts on Temple Rd., and spent many hours looking for just the right wall hanging. You can go mad with all the stores and the aggressive merchants pulling at your sleeve, figuratively speaking, as you run the gauntlet from one end of town to the other. But Bilal had the sense not to push me, and he was also very fair. I’m a ferocious bargainer, but if the price goes down too fast I start to worry. We hit a happy medium.

This will probably be my last entry before returning to the U.S. on April 4. On Monday evening I board the bus from hell, stomach willing, and travel twelve hours back to Majnu Ka Tilla and the Wongdhen House in Old Delhi. For one day I’ll recuperate, before spending another sleepless night on the plane. Do I sound pessimistic? No, just realistic. I don’t sleep well sitting up. Please send your sympathy my way and let me know if you’ve enjoyed my travels. My verizon email will be operative shortly after I return home. Or you can still use [email protected]