Author: Meg Noble Peterson Page 27 of 30

March came in like a lion here in Dharamsala, but now we have clear skies and balmy weather and absolutely no complaints. This is a magical place! Picture thousands of monks in maroon, orange, or yellow robes, depending on their country, and add to that hundreds of people from Tibet, Asia, Western Europe, the U.S., Canada, South America, and every country where there are pilgrims eager to hear the Dalai Lama‘s teachings. And imagine all these people sitting on mats in the vast open-air piazza of the Namgyal Temple with yellow columns separating various groups, a bright yellow canopy on which is woven many replicas of the endless knot (one of the eight auspicious Buddhist symbols), fluttering over one section, and the Tibetan flag waving proudly halfway between two sturdy trees. More trees, huge firs, grace the remainder of the open area.

I walked three times around the second level of the temple early this morning, doing the kora. The sun glistened dramatically on the Himalayan peaks, which looked close enough to touch, but a bit too threatening to climb just yet. The monks were chanting, producing a low, rich sound so different from the Hindu chanting in Lakshmanjhula. The deep guttural bass boomed forth intermittently, followed by repetitive prayers, which ended with a heavy downward slur, like a record winding down. Then it would begin again, in a slightly higher key. I walked past several banks of large bronze prayer wheels. Shoes were piled next to the monks, who sat cross-legged on the floor. An incongruous sign in English and Tibetan caught my eye and I smiled: Make sure your shoes are not stolen. In a temple no less.

We were all searched and had to show our identification badge, which had been obtained at the security office beforehand. This was a thorough search, for security was tight. Once inside it was a sea of color, and amazingly orderly and quiet. We were all grateful for the good weather where the multi-colored umbrellas could be used for the sun, not the rain.

At 9 A.M. the Dalai Lama appeared and walked slowly down the center aisle flanked by monks. He bowed slightly, gesturing to friends, smiling, and greeting the throng. There was no elaborate pomp and circumstance. Just silence. The crowd was visibly moved and acknowledged him with their hands in a prayerful position. The same thing occurred at the end of each session, sometimes accompanied by low chanting and once with some kind of reed instrument. It was a quiet, dignified procession.

His Holiness sat on a large raised seat and talked without notes for two-and-a-half hours in the morning, and, again, in the afternoon. Butter tea and rolls were dispersed both in the morning and in the afternoon by monks carrying large tea kettles. Sometimes milk tea was substituted.

People had selected their “spaces” four days in advance and taped their names to the floor. A very old Tibetan lady, creased, toothless, and bent, muscled into my space, but we all managed to accommodate her and she has now become somewhat of a mascot. We move around, however, and today I sat very close to the Dalai Lama and watched, with utter fascination, as he moved and gestured, punctuating his speech with highs and lows and the deep laughter the West has found so endearing. His delivery is animated, powerful, and mesmerizing. He is, indeed, a great teacher. The interpreter, a young monk educated at Oxford, is brilliant and, to my delight, sits near my space. I’m fascinated by how he can simultaneously translate the complexities of Buddhist theology so eloquently and interpret the non-stop commentary, which is based on the teachings of the Third Dalai Lama (being used as our text). There are also French and Portuguese interpreters.

It’s now the fifth day of the teachings and I’m profoundly moved and inspired. These are not simple concepts, nor is this beginning Buddhism. It deals with 2500 years of history and the application of the Buddhist message of compassion and love in this troubled world. The Dalai Lama is a master storyteller and sometimes I turn off my FM radio and just listen to the timbre of his voice. The repetitions, the change in tone, the inflections. For me it is high drama and every moment is electric.

Outside the temple it’s a carnival. Food vendors, honking taxis trying to shove their way through intransigent crowds, beggars under foot, hawkers. Cary and I have found some fabulous Indian and Tibetan restaurants and some interesting new friends. At our guest house just up the hill from the temple are three Canadians, Doris, Jan, and Louise, two captivating Hollanders, Trees Muijlaert, and Joris Broeders, and an occupational therapist, Laura Simonian . Close by is a friend we met at Majnu Ka Tilla in Delhi, Tamara Blesh, who is a high school library technology specialist in Gardiner, Maine and is on her way to Ladakh to set up a library at Siddhartha School in Stok, 18 Kilometers south of Leh. A talented and interesting lady, who also sponsors a Tibetan student inside Tibet.

We’ve had the privilege of spending time in the home of Tenzin Youdon’s family just after Joser, the Tibetan New Year. Tenzin married an American who lives on Whidbey Island, and Cary delivered gifts to her parents and sisters, who, coincidentally, live just up the lane from our guest house. Their son is a rinpoche and two of the five daughters are living in the U.S. It was an emotional meeting as they talked about their absent children. This is a typical, very close Tibetan family.

Our most poignant experience this past week, however, was a visit to the TCV (the Tibetan Children’s Village) school in Dharamsala, a non-profit, charitable institution for the care and education of orphaned and destitute Tibetan children in exile. Cary, Martha, my grandchildren, and I, plus friends in Maplewood and Whidbey Island sponsor students at this school and the one in Suga, near Bir. The stories of their escape from Chinese oppression is well-documented and widely known, and these children are still coming across the border in ever-increasing numbers and at great cost in human suffering.

We met with Cary’s friend, Dolma Lhamo, formerly of the Suja school, and now the secretary for the sponsorship program coordinator of the Dharamsala school, Tashi Lhamo (no relation). Both women are dedicated educators whose lives are spent insuring that there will be a home for these youngsters, while at the same time they are preserving the rich heritage that is being obliterated in Tibet by Chinese persecution.

We met Martha’s sponsored “son,” Lhakpa Wanghal, an 18-year-old physics and biology student whose parents smuggled him across the border when he was only four, the youngest of six children. They wanted at least one of their children to have a future. This young man is extraordinary! He showed us his academic work and his extra-curricular projects. He had designed his own logo. and in large letters incorporated the school motto underneath: Others Before Self.

These schools are run like large families, with surrogate mothers and the children referring to one another as brother and sister. All classes from the 5th grade on are in English and the education is first rate. Many children, like Lhakpa, have not seen their parents since they left Tibet, and many never will.

I urge you to visit their website and find out more about this amazing network of schools. www.tibchild.org

I mentioned before that the owner of our guest house is a young Tibetan man named Pema Yeshe. He is also the librarian at the foreign language section of the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives here in McLeod Ganj. Cary and I walked through the woods and down the steep slopes with Pema to visit this beautiful library. We were shown ancient manuscripts that had been carried out of Tibet at the time of the Dalai Lama‘s escape in 1959. Some were written in simple block print and others were executed with gold hand-lettering. These were long, narrow rectangular pages wrapped twice in orange, then yellow cloth and tied carefully to preserve them. A large room held thousands of these precious manuscripts.

The building also housed a museum with a superb collection of artifacts that have been smuggled out of the country since the Chinese invasion of Tibet. Most of these were given to the Dalai Lama, who, in turn, entrusted them to the museum. Others can be found in famous museums throughout the world. There were two unusual mandelas, one in colored sand and one in three dimensions, as well as a superb butter statue of the Potala Palace in Lhasa.

Pema told us a great deal about the history of Buddhism, and one thing I found interesting was that the prayer flags we so often identify with Buddhism were really flags used by the Bon religion, which was being practiced at the time Buddhism was introduced into Tibet.

After leaving the library, we visited the Nechung Temple of the Oracle of Tibet, which was close by.

Every day we wander on new paths, through woods that are finally heralding spring as trees of blood-red rhododendron blossom on the hillsides. Each morning the mountains greet us, white and radiant. And although we are just above the temple, it’s quiet. We are in a world totally isolated from the frantic bustle of main street.

Greetings from Dharamsala, where it’s snowing, raining, sleeting, and generally pretty miserable, and where Cary and I are pretending we’re on a Himalayan trek or in a cave in Tibet. Just walking down our steep muddy hill is like fording a small stream. Our shoes are soaked, but we’re protected by Gore-Tex jackets and our $1.00 umbrellas. So far we’ve met some great people and are looking at this as a trial of endurance. We bought some tea, coffee, cups, ginger, lemon, and a heating coil, and with some bananas, oranges and cookies, figure we can survive a week if we get snowed it. None of these guest houses has heat, so for 50 rupees a day (a little more than $1.00) we can rent a small electric heater. So far it hasn’t brought our room temperature up beyond 50 degrees, however. Thank God for sleeping bags and comforters!

This is just another example of what global warming is doing to the weather patterns of Asia. It’s supposed to be spring, but is, instead, the winter they never had. The Tibetans and Indians I talk to are happy about the rain, for a severe water shortage was predicted. So I plan to be patient. But I do miss the wonderful views of the mountains that we could see from our balcony the first two days.

I’ll write more about this lovely place…McLeod Ganj, upper Dharamsala…after I get caught up.

Here’s a recap of my sensational time in the Rishikesh area, a part of Uttaranchal, which broke off from Uttar Pradesh in 2000. I arrived in Haridwar on February 15 after a peaceful ride on the train from Delhi. I had read that Haridwar was a very historic place for Hindus, where the Ganges emerges from its final rapids past the Shivalik Hills, to start the long, slow journey across India to the Bay of Bengal. Haridwar means the Gate (dwar) of God (Hari). It’s 214 kilometers northeast of Delhi, stretching for about 3 kilometers along a narrow strip of land between the wooded hills to the west and the Ganges to the east. This is especially revered by the Hindus for whom the Har-ki-Pairi ghat (the “Footsteps of God,” literally) marks the exact spot where the river leaves the mountains. Looking north along the vast Doon Valley you can see the Himalayan foothills rising above Rishikesh, while Haridwar, itself, faces east across the river to the Rijaji National Park (next time I’ll visit the park and maybe ride an elephant). 

When I arrived in Haridwar I hired a bicycle rickshaw and started looking for a hotel. My driver took me to a wide plaza where I saw the Ganga (the Indian word for the Ganges) for the first time, churning full throttle as it rushed under a large, impressive bridge. People sat cross-legged, watching in silence. No reasonable hotel there.

I really dig exploring a town in these rickety old rickshaws. It’s an exotic experience you cannot duplicate at home. We just don’t have the atmosphere of total abandon and the lack of inhibition that these street scenes embody. Nor the ear-splitting horns of cars and motorized rickshaws jockeying for position on crowded streets. Even our Christmas throngs in Rockefeller Center are subdued compared to the beehive of human activity in an Indian town bazaar. And this goes on from dawn until way after dusk.

I finally found a hotel in the middle of all this chaos, and the singing, shouting, and celebrating didn’t die down until the wee hours (I  found out the next day that this was because of Shiva’s birthday, Shiva Ratri, the night of Shiva).

This whole area is Vegan, so I learned to live without eggs, meat of any kind, and fish. Since I’m allergic to fish, that was not a problem, and I cultivated a taste for curd and its sweetened cousin, lassai. Fruit milkshakes are also very popular, as they were in Myanmar. My meal that evening was a total mystery, since it was only in Indian. As usual, even the non-spicy dishes brought tears to my eyes. I’m looking forward to Tibetan food.

At breakfast the next day I met a delightful Indian family, the Aroras, who are now living in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Pankaj Arora is head of the biggest pharmaceutical complex in India, and he offered to drive me to a small town, Gitahdawan, outside Rishikesh, where I could get a motorized rickshaw to Lakshmanjhula, my hoped-for destination. He was returning home for a visit with his father, K.N. Arora, his wife, Nidhi, and two children, Sara (5, with whom I bonded immediately), and Aryan (5 months). We stopped at two temples along the way, and Pankaj explained several aspects of Hinduism to me as well as the reason for the brightly-decorated poles being carried on the shoulders of thousands of people as they streamed into Haridwar from the countryside. On both ends of the pole were small tin buckets to be used for water from the Ganga. The water would be taken back to their respective communities and offered to a favorite deity, temple, or person in need, on Shiva’s birthday. The small containers of holy water were not allowed to touch the ground. 

It was a speedy, interesting journey with lively conversation. Pankaj’s father had worked for years in a pharmaceutical plant in Rishikesh, which made penicillin, but which had recently succumbed to the vagaries of foreign competition.

Lakshmanjhula is fabulous! I approached it from a hill and looked down onto a narrow suspension bridge over the Ganga. Backpackers, and those who had come to study at the plethora of ashrams in the area, tramped across from east to west, while mischievous moneys harassed those foolish enough to look them in the eye. Scary devils they are. And aggressive.

I bumped into many Westerners from the States and Europe. They were here to study with their favorite Yogi or Guru, to attend classes, or to study yoga of all kinds and the healing arts, including Ayurvedic medicine.

Hotels, guest houses, and ashrams lined the hills on each side of the river. Most were painted pastel shades, making a colorful panorama. People were still bathing and bands were playing by the shore. Groups of women danced, and the general revelry continued all day in honor of Shiva.

I found a room in Sant Sewa Ashram, with a balcony overlooking the Ganga. What sunsets we had, but after three days I tired of the amplified chanting shattering the stillness every evening from 6 to 7. It was accompanied by harmonium and drums, and mostly out-of-tune. At night it was quiet, and I could hear the river tumbling over shallow rapids as it rounded a bend and headed downstream. But at 6 A.M. the chanting began anew, this time from an ashram on the opposite side. That side was rocky, with white pebbles leading to the water, so most people did their morning ablutions on the sandy side. Brave souls! It was cold in the early morning, as it was in the evening. I was glad for my polypro underwear and fleece jacket.

I spent a glorious week in this quaint town and even visited the impressive, but decaying ashram in Ram Jhula made famous by the Beatles in the late 60’s. On my third day I couldn’t stand the chanting any more, so moved down the lane to a smaller place, The Dev Ganga Guest House, which I highly recommend ($5.00 a day), also with a balcony over the river, and monkeys that loved to startle you as you meditated at sunset. Here I met Rosemary Lamotta (second cousin to Jake), and William Karnett, both attending satsangs and sessions at one of the large ashrams. We spent many hours at the Moonlight Cafe across the street from the guest house, eating vegetarian meals and talking. Germans, Spanish, and English joined us most evenings. 

A highlight of my week in Lakshmanjhula was getting to know the staff and the work being done at Ramana’s Garden (www.sayyesnow.org), a children’s home and primary school in Tapovan Village a few kilometers above the river. I had heard about the school from Judy Wyman, who gave money in my name last Christmas. It was started ten years ago by Dr. Prabhavati Dwabha, an American woman from Marvel,  Colorado, who saw a need to care for homeless and destitute children and designed and built this artistic compound on what was once a barren hillside. Sixty youngsters live at the school and another 180 children from the surrounding area attend one of the eight classes during the day. The classrooms are ample and the teachers all well-educated. There are vegetable and flower gardens tended by the children, cows for milk, a large playground, and charming rooms for the staff and the children. There is an excellent cafe run by Gaba, the profits of which are used to buy food for the children. Some children are orphans, others come from destitute families that can’t support them, and many were street children from Nepal and India. The children refer to each other as brother and sister.

The only financial help Prabha gets is from individuals who believe in the school and its mission and will sponsor children, and from donations she receives whenever she lectures about her work. This is something many of you might want to look into. It is truly an amazing place. Prabha is also very active in trying to get shelters for the many homeless children in the Uttaranchal state.

I met and talked with many of the staff over several days. Volunteers Cass Foste and Jessi Marlott from Colorado; Anna Vercellotti from Italy; and Adele Maze , an art teacher from California. Each one of these talented people has skills she is giving for six months to enhance the curriculum. A summer residence, called Paradise, is high in the mountains, used as a retreat and a place for the children to escape the heat of summer. Prabha thought of everything!

Two days before I left, I took a challenging trek with Anna and Kishan (the cook), 13 kilometers up a steep mountain trail to Kunjapuri Temple, a pristine white Shakti temple at the sharp point of a conical hill, with a stupendous view of the highest Himalayan peak in India, Nanda Divi. It was a beautiful climb through forests of cactus and pine with vistas of the valley leading to the Ganga. It was brutally hot, cooling down as we reached the entrance to the 325 steps (I counted!) leading to the temple. We had hoped for some food, but found nothing but water, one Kit Kat bar, and some cookies.

The sun was setting as we started down a 3 kilometer serpentine road, singing songs and chanting nonsense rap until we reached the tiny village of Hindola Khat, 15 kilometers from Rishikesh. No chance of hitching, and the taxi was way too expensive. Our only hope was the local bus, which wouldn’t arrive for half-an-hour. We were hungry and we were tired. Then a miracle occurred. The jeep from Ramana’s Garden came by, returning from the mountains, and the driver recognized Anna standing by the side of the road. We could hardly believe it. Thus began a wild ride as we descended in hairpin turns, bumping unmercifully in the back of the jeep, but praising Shiva, Buddha, and Jesus for our good fortune.

I said goodbye to the Ganga, the German Bakery and Devraj Coffee Shop early  in the morning, and boarded a luxury sleeper train from Haridwar to Delhi on February 22. I had to wait one day because of the elections, when no cars or buses would run. The sights along the way took me back twenty years to my first glimpse of labor-intensive India. Shacks and tents lined the tracks. Black shiny cows were tethered in dirt yards. Conical piles of drying cow dung filled the yards and lined every available wall. And women dug in the dirt with their bare hands, putting the soil into shallow dishes to be carried on their head to another location. Three days later, as I sped along the highway to Dharamsala in the overnight bus, I saw great earth-moving machines used to construct the ever-increasing number of roads needed in a modern India. Such contrasts can be seen every day, side by side in this tumultuous country.

It was wonderful to get to Wongdhen House in Delhi, and see Cary, and have a day to visit with Ugen, the nursing student she mentors. We were to meet several more of these students in the next three days, as well as our monk, Thubten Tashi, who caught up with us as we were wandering through the bazaar in McLeod Ganj, upper Dharamsala. He came here to see Cary, not even knowing where she was staying, and found her. But the most amazing coincidence was when Cary, jet-lagging after arriving from a week in Amsterdam, stepped out of Wongdhen House at 3 A.M. and bumped into Dorje, our Tibetan guide three years ago at Mt. Kailash in Tibet. He and his mother were making a pilgrimage and had stopped in Majnu Ka Tilla for the day. Can you imagine the emotional reunion? The next day we put them on the bus for Dharamsala, the same one we boarded  February 24th.

I can’t believe that I’ve only been in India for two weeks. And what a two weeks it has been! The words of an old man I talked with on my last day in Myanmar kept running through my head as I said goodbye to James and my Whidbey Island friends in Yangon and boarded a plane for Bangkok, alone. “The only thing in life you can depend on is change,” he said. It is the letting go of preconceptions and attachments, and the awareness of the impermanence of life that Buddhism teaches. I keep this in mind as I round every corner and am faced with surprises, disappointments, and joy.

This was the perfect time to take a break from the intensity of my time in Myanmar and meditate on the meaning of the past month. But that was not to be. It all started swimmingly. I arrived at Bangkok’s fabulous new airport and hopped into a new cab, complete with seat belts and air-conditioning, and roared down pristine highways lined with shrubbery. What a contrast from the ailing infrastructure of Myanmar. Then the traffic started. Streetlights lasted from two to five minutes as we inched our way through Friday night traffic to the student area in the old part of town. Chaos reigned, and two hours later I was still sitting in the cab, trying to find a room in a hotel or guest house. It was panic time! My son, Christopher, would have said it served me right. He always hated that I seldom made advance reservations. Lee’s suggested guest house was booked and I was stuck tramping up and down Khao San Road, the hippie heaven, which I hadn’t liked ten years before, and liked even less now.

At 9 P.M. the place was still going full throttle. I finally found a windowless room for $2.00 and went back to get my pack and ask the driver to pull up a few yards, when he slammed my door and sped off. “Stop!” I shouted. “I have a room. Let me out.”

He continued to drive saying, “No room. Holiday.” Was I being kidnapped? “Stop,” I shouted, to no avail.

Fifteen minutes later we pulled into a parking garage and the driver announced, “Hotel, Madam.” It looked like a cell block. I staggered out, grabbed my pack, which gets heavier by the hour, and was led to a fourth-floor room, blessedly air-conditioned. The streets were emptying out, with only a couple of restaurants open. I was heartened, however, by the orange juice stands where tiny oranges are squeezed on the spot, bottled, and sold for pennies. This sustained me, along with the almonds I always carry in my bag.

Bangkok was not peaceful, and I had no time to visit Chiang Mai or Songkla, my two favorites. It was noisy, polluted, and crowded. The highlight of my time there was a visit to a female dentist Lee had recommended, who gave me an hour-long cleaning, the likes of which I’d never before experienced. At the end she took a model of a set of teeth and explained the correct way to brush. She also told me to jettison my battery-operated tooth brush. All of this cost $15.00.

After this Bangkok was a whirl of street vendors and aggressive hawkers. It would have been worthwhile if I could have had a cheap face lift, but the confusion of getting around jangled my nerves, so the next day I fled to Delhi. That’s like going from the frying pan into the fire.

Lines were unbelievably long at the Bangkok airport, but when I finally got through, I spent three hours exploring the amazing new structure. I met a crazy Italian, Carlo, and two American students from Virginia, Morgan and Dwight, and we agreed to share a cab to Paharganj, the Main Bazar near the Delhi train station. I couldn’t get reservations to the Tibetan hotel where I’d been before, and was nervous about finding a room after my Bangkok experience.

Arriving late, we waited in line to get a fixed price taxi ticket for 250 rupees, half the normal price, even with a 25% charge for after 11 PM. I highly recommend this to anyone coming into Delhi’s confusing, broken-down airport. Next it became a scramble to get a cab. They were parked haphazardly around the exit and once you engaged a driver he had to extricate his cab from the jumble. Horns were honking, people were shouting, and I began to feel very sick to my stomach. Must have been some fish in the sauce they served on the plane. How could I ever make it to a hotel?

If I hadn’t felt so bad, the whole scene would have been very funny. Our driver was aggressive, even getting into a cab that was blocking his way and pushing it with one foot on the pavement. Naturally, a wrangle ensued. Delhi definitely needs a new airport and revamped transportation system.

The ride to Paharganj was as crazy as the one my first day, a month earlier. These drivers inch their way into lanes that aren’t there, and tangle with trucks and buses, fearlessly, tailgating, swerving, and honking. I was in misery, trying to decide in which direction to throw up, when we passed the Hari Krishna, a hotel The Rough Guide had recommended.

“Stop!” I shouted. And we got out.

The roof leaked, there was no top sheet, the toilet had to be flushed by pouring buckets of water down it, and there was no sink, towel, soap, or toilet paper in my room. I know, you get what you pay for! All the next day I was so sick that the desk clerk suggested a doctor. He moved me to a room off the lobby and was so solicitous that I didn’t even complain about the mouse scampering about the room. “No, it’s free, and it will give you company, Madam,” he said when I asked if I had to pay extra.

It rained the next morning and, in my weakened condition, I decided that I needed to get far away from Delhi. I didn’t have time to go to Bangladesh or southern India, so would head north. I’d been devouring my guide book, but failed to heed the warning in bold print about “touts” in India. A practiced, slick breed of hucksters I had certainly encountered before in my travels. I hailed a cab and asked to go to the main r.r. station, an easy few blocks away. I realized that we were not going to the station when he pulled into the office of OIT near the East Market. I still did not smell a rat.

“I want to go to the mountains and do some trekking,” I announced. Before I knew it, a sleazy operator named Manu had talked me into a week in Kashmir for several hundred dollars, staying in a “luxury” guest house on Dal lake in Srinagar, with the option to trek if I so desired. He said I’d better book immediately, since it was such a popular area and there might not be any plane tickets left. And he assured me that it wasn’t dangerous anymore. Manu was also proficient in the happiness line (now refined to “Madam, I can make you really satisfied.”}, saying “old is gold,” and he just happened to be free all afternoon. I was laughing by the time I left his office, and exhilarated by the thought of finally being able to get to Kashmir, a place I’d dreamed of for twenty years.

When I told those gathered at the Hari Krishna about my planned trip, they showed me a newspaper clipping telling of the ice blanketing Srinagar, and the inability to get food or people in or out of the city. There were also graphic reports of ice and snow on the TV. Predictions were for more of the same all week. Hell, I could stay in Jersey for that! I also finally read my guide books, both of which warned about the still-present danger to foreigners in that troubled area. I was livid, called Manu, immediately, and cancelled. And wonder of wonders, I was given a complete refund. Nobody believed I could do it. I think he was worried that I had too many connections in the field of women traveling alone. I didn’t even need to threaten. He knew he was wrong, but he still tried to get me to book another trip with him. Some people are totally incorrigible.

That afternoon I bought a second class ticket for 250 rupees (about $5.00) upstairs in the r.r. station where there’s an office for foreigners, and boarded a train for Haridwar at 4:30 P.M. Little did I know what an auspicious time it was to be at the “Mother Ganga,” as the Ganges is called. The next day, February 16, was Shiva’s birthday.

My next episode will bring you up-to-date, as I travel back to Delhi and on to Dharamsala, where daughter Cary and I are living in The Kongpo House, a wonderful guest house up a treacherous dirt lane, overlooking the mountains and valleys of McLeodganj, the upper section of the city. This is in the Northern Himachal, at the beginning of the Indian Himalaya. Cypress trees dot this Tibetan section of the city, and the temple where the Dalai Lama resides is at the foot of our hill. It couldn’t be better! We’re now preparing for two weeks of teachings given by the Dalai Lama.

Greetings from Myanmar (formerly known as Burma), and from the best little guest house in Yangon, The Motherland Inn (2). Friendly, helpful, clean, you name it,
they have it…and all for from $7 a night, breakfast included. See,
all you people who thought I was extravagant. You really can’t beat
these prices and can have a huge meal for about a dollar. The other
night, after spending the afternoon at the bazaar, four of us decided
to stop in the Moslem section of town to try their food. We walked in
rather late at night, sat down, and immediately were served a large
bowl of rice apiece. We thought…oh, well, this is a complimentary
appetizer. No. Along came excellent dal in small bowls. So we poured
the dal on the rice and started in with the chopsticks. More dal
arrived. We hadn’t even ordered! Soon we had each had consumed four
dals and more rice. Every time we finished something another helping
would appear. Finally we couldn’t eat any more and asked for the
check. It came to 25 cents per person in Myanmar money (that’s about
1250 kyats). We left, scratching our heads. Were they just trying to
use up the dal or what? When I saw the rice fields some days later,
and people leaning over harvesting by hand, I wondered how they could
ever sell this food for so little. All the farming, as with any
construction, is backbreaking work. Done by hand.

This town is a sprawling collection of ethnic areas. Just walking to
the center we go through Moslem, Hindu, and Buddhist enclaves, each
with its own food and flavor. Even photographs can’t capture the
charm and the smells, some of them good and others, well…there’s a
garbage problem here…but that’s pretty true throughout Asia.

There are very few cars and all of them old, emitting clouds of
exhaust. Gas is rationed at 2 gallons a day in the city and 6 gallons
a week in the country. For those who want more, you can find little
stands of gas in quart bottles around town. My favorite shot was a
seller of old mufflers, each muffler hanging on the branch of a low
tree. Incense was burning inside one of the mufflers.

I’ve gone to the usual sites here in town, like the great golden
pagoda, Shwedagon Paya, and the incredible markets where you can buy
jewelry, textiles, optics, anything for pennies compared to the U.S.
If only I had room in my pack!!

On Wednesday I headed for the famous pilgrimage spot, The Golden Rock
(Kyaiktiyo). Getting there was an adventure in itself, from the local
bus to Bago, to being packed into open air trucks (50 to a truck)
going up a bumpy, winding, hairpin-curved road in the middle of a
bamboo forest…perfect for those who didn’t get enough of roller
coasters as a child. Then came the 5-miles walk to the rock. I was
followed by several men carrying litters and hoping that I would drop
before reaching the top. If it hadn’t been so funny, it would have
been annoying. They just wouldn’t quit, even quoting “five dollars
only” until the very end. Can’t wait to show you the pictures.

Kinpun, where we stayed before and after the rock, had the usual jolly
market place, with a few good restaurants, all open on all sides,
abutting the main walkway. I was there with three friends from Whidbey
Island, with whom I connected at the Motherland–Lee Compton, Yana
Viniko, and Dale Reiger. We made quite a foursome. Dale, being 6ft.
4″ was always easy to find and when I arrived in Bago I simply asked
at the bus station where the tall man and his friends went. That’s
how we connected each time.

Just before we left to return to Bago, we were eating in the Sea Sar
Restaurant, when cameras appeared, followed by a massive crowd of
squealing young people, and buses packed to overflowing with people
hanging off the back had stopped to watch…all because two movie
stars were going to shoot a scene at the restaurant. People seem the
same everywhere. They love celebrities! It so happened that we were a
backdrop (unpaid extras) in both scenes, which was quite amusing. We
did a little horsing around to liven things up. It will probably be
cut, but we had fun!

We opted for a taxi drive both ways from Bago to Kinpun, and this gave
us time to photograph the landscape, a plethora of water buffalo with
their young, and my favorite wooden-wheeled wagon drawn by two
bullocks. Shades of the Middle Ages. It was like traveling back in
time. Everybody, including the monks, let us take pictures (we always
asked first, then showed the subject the pictures, which delighted
them, especially the children). I’m saving conversations and
observations until later. I just wanted to touch base with you all and
tell you what an amazing, delightful country this is.

Next week I head for Taungoo, a little off the beaten track, to see
some elephant farms, if possible. It will take about 8 hours by bus,
and I want to divide up my trip to Kalaw, which I’ll do at the end of
the week. Will write more about that and the trek around Inle Lake
after it happens. In the meantime, I hope Jersey enjoys its first
snow. Think of me slathered with sunscreen.

I'm off to the airport to see what I imagine is a very

different Asia. Will write when I get a chance.

Meg

Wow! My first blog of the New Year and what a lovely year it is…so far. I’ve just returned from a whirlwind trip to Pinkham Notch at the base of Mt. Washington in Gorham, NH, where I gave a slide presentation to 60 local enthusiasts who attended the International Dinner of the Appalachian Mountain Club. This year it was Cuisine of Nepal, so I was a logical speaker. But the food, itself, was worth the trip—never did I eat that well in Nepal—as was the sight of a sunrise over snow-capped Mt. Washington and weather crisp and clear, though not snowy enough to satisfy the skiers and ice climbers. I’m indebted to Lynne Warrin, with whom I co-authored the play, Thank You, Dear, and who stepped in to act as projectionist at the last minute. But she’s a nature lover, too, so it wasn’t too big a sacrifice!

On the return trip I visited the family cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee, usually covered with snow and the lake totally frozen, but now looking like the summer without leaves—complete with rippling water and pine needles. How can that be? We also stopped to see my sister, Anne Magill, and husband, Frank, who have just moved into a spacious condo in the woods of Keene, NH. from their home in Peterborough. It’s laughable that all these New Englanders, who have groaned about the snow and the shoveling over the years are now worried to death that global warming is destroying their winter wonderland. I’m sorry it’s so mild as well, for I was looking forward to a blessed contrast when I hit Myanmar and the tropical forests. Who wants to leave a spring-like New Jersey when the crocuses are poking up their heads to see what’s going on?

The year is coming to an end and I’m frantically pulling together loose ends in preparation for my departure for Asia on January 11, 2007. I haven’t a clue where I’ll end up, since I haven’t had time to do anything but scan books on Burmese history, some of Aung San Suu Kyi’s writings during her house arrest in the years before and after she won the Nobel Prize for Peace (1991), and a cursory glance at three travel guides—Myanmar, India, and the Indian Himalaya. I think paper will be the heaviest item in my pack. After years of collecting clippings about these countries I’m hoping to see as many sites as three months will allow. Do follow this blog as I report my adventures. I may have to wait a month until I leave Myanmar, however, since it is a repressive dictatorship and there may not be many internet cafes. But I shall see….

Christmas would not be so festive without the annual gingerbread-house-making party at daughter Martha’s home, enjoyed by neighborhood friends and family. This year it was on December 23, later than usual, which kept several families from making the trip to Maplewood. But we still have some fabulous specimens to show you.
(click here for pictures)

I just received a call from son Robert and his wife, Gwen, who are excited to see the fruits of their labors (and Tom’s) with the almostGOLF ball over the past two years. It has resulted in rapid growth this holiday season and an expansion of sales into stores like Dick’s Sporting Goods. All you golfers, catch their website at: www.almostgolfball.com

Tomorrow is the opening of the new HannaSomatics office at 89 Franklin St. in Tribeca between Broadway and Church, which will be managed by daughter Martha Peterson, a certified Somatics therapist. I’m excited about attending the first movement workshop, co-led by Martha and Steve Aronstein, the founding Director and President of the Somatics Systems Institute. For more information on this revolutionary therapy visit www.somaticsnj.com

Over the past year I’ve given many slide presentations and readings about “Madam,” which are not mentioned in this blog, but can be viewed on my website under “Meg on Tour.” I could not have done this without the help of a dear friend, Paul Sharar, who became my “projectionist” and advisor during these sessions. In the future I intend to expand these lectures to include past trips to Prague, Tibet, Indochina, and Southeast Asia, areas not covered in my most recent book.