Impressions of the Middle East

People get ready for that [taxi] to Jordan.

Lodged between the rugged cliffs of the Jordanian desert is Petra, a valley that was home to a B.C. city and that now bears the remains of hundreds of deep and sometimes ornate tombs carved into the rock.  It's dope, I'm into it.  I'm especially into the long day hikes up into the surrounding mountains during which you might stumble across the occasional Bedouin goat herder who invites you into his simple home for tea.  Some hot tea, some soccer with Bedouin kids, some goats, some fantastic views across the rocky desert landscape... like I said, into it.

I don't have much else to say about Jordan.  Really, the point of this post was to drop the Curtis Mayfield references I've been storing up for months in preparation.

Since this is the Middle East, I guess I can provide some political commentary.  You ready for it?  Ok, here goes...

That there are entire swaths of the planet that I can't just stumble around meeting people and exchanging handshakes and smiles is stupid.  That there are whole portions of the city of Jerusalem or entire villages in Israel where I can't go without fear of getting harassed is stupid.  That I can't even come to a tourist center like Petra without experiencing (very slight) undertones of fear and animosity is stupid.  Hey world, grow up.

Really took you to school there, didn't I?

Anyway, tomorrow I leave Jordan to do what any respectable JewBu (Jewish-Buddhist) does after a pilgrimage to Asia and Israel.  Travel through Ethiopia, duh!

Here's a (long exposure) picture of the Treasury at Petra at night.  That shit's just carved right into the rock face.  Not bad, huh?

Talk to you from AFRICA!

This is Israel

"Allahu Akbar."  I stir on Friday morning, awakening to the sound of the muezzin's call to prayer, the Muslim's voice booming from the loudspeaker sitting atop the spire of the nearby mosque.  This is Israel.

I am in Cana, an Arab village a day's walk out of Nazareth along the "Jesus Trail", a Christian pilgrimage route stretching across the Galilee, the land of Jesus' ministry.  I am nervous and excited as I have a lofty goal for the day: to walk thirty kilometers, turning the hike from Nazareth to the Sea of Galilee - normally a four day trek - into a three day trek.  Rolling out of bed I pack up my possessions into the bag I am to carry on my back, and walk into the living room of the Arab-Christian guest house that lodges the various hikers and pilgrims who pass through Cana as they walk the trail.

"The Kingdom of God is like a Jesus Trail marker.  If you know where to look, it is always there to guide the way."


Entering the living room of the home-stay guest house I am confronted with eighteen Christian pilgrims, seventeen students and a professor, from Eastern Mennonite University in Pennsylvania.  Sitting in a circle of couches, the class conducts their morning session as each student takes a turn to complete the sentence "The Kingdom of God is like..." with something they had seen on the first day of the walk.  Grabbing my breakfast of hard-boiled egg, pita and hummus, the professor kindly asks if I would like to join, and though I politely decline the invitation, I continue to listen as the students share their analogies.

"The Kingdom of God is like a field in the Galilee.  It may be obscured by trash and pollution, but the beauty is always there if you know how to look."  

I smile to myself.  This is Israel.

By 8:30 a.m. I am on the trail and hiking out of Cana, into the beautifully forested hills of the Galilee.  Seeing the Arab town of Tur'an after less than two hours of walking, I note with pride that I am making great time.  Pleased with myself, my mind begins to wander into complacency and when I return to mindfulness, I realize I haven't seen a trail marker in at least ten minutes.  Time for some navigation skills!  Looking at a map, I realize I now have two options:  (A) backtrack at least ten minutes uphill and pick up the trail wherever I had lost it or (B) hike towards the highway I can spot in the distance and walk along the road until it crosses the trail, a route that will shorten my total walk for the day.  Option B it is!

Hmmm, I soon realize.... walking along a busy highway is not fun.  And, those clouds... yep, and now it is less fun as it has started to rain.  So, okay, we're at a crossroads.  Do I to continue to hike in the rain, for another two kilometers on a busy highway, and as a reward for making it off the highway, possibly have to trudge my way through the mud for another twenty kilometers, or is it better to cut my losses, swallow my pride and hop a bus to Tiberias, the nearest Israeli city of significance?

Reasonableness wins this battle (don't get used to it fella!), and within a half hour I had found a bus going my way.  Sweaty, wet and muddy, I pay my eleven shekel fare and sit down next to a green clad Israeli soldier, passed out in his seat and clutching an automatic rifle in his lap.  This too is Israel.

Ok Noah, time to regroup, here's the new plan: arrive in Tiberias, rent a car and drive north exploring my way through the Galilee until I reach my friend's couch in the Golan Heights, then spend the next day hiking the Golan.  Thrilled with the new itinerary I send my friend a text message and then drive to the Christian holy spots I had hoped to hit on the trek.  First was the Church of the Multiplication of the Loaves & Fishes, a small and tranquil church commemorating one of Jesus' supposed miracles.  Next, a short walk over to the Church of the Primacy of Saint Peter, a Franciscan church set right on the shore of the Sea of Galilee on the spot where Jesus transferred leadership of the church to Peter.

It's a beautiful walk downhill through gardens towards the water and the church.  The sun is bright, the weather is warm, and, well, I begin to hear heavenly music.  Okay, I know I'm visiting some pretty holy sights here, but really, am I having visions (hearings?) now??  As I round a corner the chanting grows louder, and nearing the church, I see that the singing is coming from a group of Franciscan pilgrims, fifty or so Catholics dressed all in white, performing an outdoor mass in a shaded area overlooking the Sea (sanity, you are mine again you beautiful son-of-a-bitch!).  Backed with two nylon string acoustic guitars and a softly tapped conga drum, the Christian's voices drift across the grass and out into the sea, speaking out wonderfully moving and beautiful minor melodies giving praise to the Lord.  Does the setting sound too good to be true, too fantastic and idyllic, out of a movie or a story book or a Christian propaganda film?  Well, this is how it is, I swear, it's true! (unless I really am crazy).  The service is mesmerizing and beautiful and I sit until the mass culminates in the Eucharist, the priest distributing the blood and body of Christ directly into the mouths of the followers.  Uh-huh, this is Israel.


I hike up to the Mount of Beatitudes, the overlook where Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount  ("Blessed are the..."), to see unparalleled views across the Sea and hills of Galilee.  And then to Capernaum, the home base for Jesus' ministry over two thousand years ago.  It's now 4:30 and I check my phone to see my friend in the Galilee has responded to say that her couch is not available for the night.  So once again a decision must be made.  Looking at a map and giving it little thought, I decide to go to drive north to Tsfat, a hilltop Orthodox/Hassidic/Kabbalistic/Artsy/Bohemian Jewish community and spiritual center.

My trusted Lonely Planet recommends a place called Ascent as the most affordable option in Tsfat, so, not reading past the price line, I head there looking for a place to spend the night.  Walking into the "guest house" at 5:15, Ascent is a whirlwind of activity, as the staff and guests prepare for the town-wide (and country-wide) shutdown that is to come in a few hours as Shabbat begins.

"Hi, do you have a bed available."
"No reservation?  Um, ok, it will cost 195 Shekels for a bed in the dorm."
"195 Shekels?!?  My book says 45...."
"It's Shabbat.  It includes meals and services and the courses."
"Oh, I don't need all that.  Just a bed is fine."
"....um....  no.  You do need it.  You want it.  There is no option."


So it turns out that had I read further in the guidebook, I would have seen that Ascent is not really a hotel, but a Chabad house, a Hassidic center for housing Jews and teaching them in the ways of the Jewish tradition (and in Ascent's case, the Hassidic and kabbalistic traditions).   And so it is that by the time night arrives, I find myself in the center of a circle of orthodox Jewish men, holding hands with a black-coated, black-hatted, bearded Hassidic rabbi, spinning each other as we dance to the sounds of the Jewish mystics.  Oh yea, I laugh... this is Israel too.

My last stop for the night is Shabbat dinner at the home of the Leiters, a Hassidic family of eleven children (to date) and thirteen grandchildren (to date).  As Rabbi Mordechai walks me to the home of my hosts, he asks how it was that I heard about Ascent and ended up in Tsfat that night.  I begin by telling him it was an accident, and then relate my story about the hike, the lost trail, the rain, the text message from my friend, and at the end Rabbi Mo laughs, slaps me on the back and with a smile in his eyes like he was party to his own private joke, tells me it was "quite a fortunate accident."

And my dinner with the Leiter clan....?  Delicious food, noise, confusion, family, prayers, caring, more delicious food, stories, interruptions, spiritual discussions, even more delicious food.  Everything you might expect, plus an extra dose of intensity.  This is Israel after all.

  

I Get My Kicks Above the Waistline, Sunshine

Ladies and gentlemen, do not, DO NOT, adjust your monitors, you have in fact just witnessed a Murray Head reference. I usually find big cities kind of whatever - you know, being the big, bad and jaded New Yorker and all - by I'm pretty amazed by Bangkok.  And I gotta say, being back in real civilization, well, it ain't so bad.

I don't know what it is about Thailand - the beaches, the lady-boys, the massage parlors, the all-but-legal prostitution, the 7-11s - but something about this place attracts a very unique kind of tourist you don't really get anywhere else.  I typify the guy I'm talking about as muscular dude with a ponytail, wearing a tank-top in order to show off his tattoos.  He is EVERYWHERE.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  "Noah must dig the shit outta that place, it's just his scene, man."  Well, at least that's what you're thinking if you're one of my seven regular readers - my parents, my sister and my four grandparents - all of whom know all too well about my affinity for Thai prostitutes and regularly use the phrase "dig the shit outta, man."  Well, yes, but somehow I was able to pull myself away from the brothels and into an eight day meditation retreat at Wat Umong, a forest monastery outside Chiang Mai.  On the Saturday of the retreat the Wat became flooded with Thais whose sons were being inducted as new monks that very day.  The families were picnicking, talking and laughing, visiting the temple's lake to feed the fish and release turtles, as all the while the new monastics smiled on with excitement and nervousness.  It was a day of celebration, like a summer graduation barbecue we might have in the states.  It was a joy to be around and made me remember, riiiigggghhhttt, this place ain't totally twisted after all.

So yea, Thailand, I can dig it.

Writing this post reminded me of a party I was at in New York a few years ago.  We were all having a great time and one of my friends - let's call him Andy - well, he had a few drinks.  Waking up the next morning remembering only bits and pieces of the night before, Andy checks his phone to see he has a missed call and a voicemail from his grandmother who lives in Florida:  "Andrew - did you send me a texting message last night at 2:00 in the morning??"  Uh-oh, Andy thinks,  he has some vague memory about his phone going missing the night before, and so he looks back into his text history.  Sure enough, text to Nana at 2:34 a.m.:  "Let's get weird!".

Now Andy has a good sense of humor, so he couldn't help but smile, but still he was slightly irked that someone had crossed this line with his family and wanted to know which of his jokester friends was responsible for the offending text message.  So he starts an investigation.  I don't think I'll ever forget the time I was subjected to the inquiry:  "Noah, did you ask my Nana to get weird last night?"

Andy asks around, but none of his friends will fess up.  Confused - I mean, who wouldn't want to take credit for that brilliant piece of texting - Andy finally gives up the search.  A week later, Andy is relating the story to a female friend, when the truth comes out.... "Um, Andy, I was there in Peter's room with your phone when this text message was sent.  And so were you.  You sent it.  And you thought it was hilarious."

Yep, it turned out that the prankster who sent the enticing invitation to Nana to get weird was none other than Andy himself!

I'm pretty sure that story isn't  funny unless you know Andy, or you're the kind of person who enjoys a good Murray Head reference, or you've just spent eight straight days in silence staring at your navel.

Anyway, big news in terms of the whole trip thing I'm doing.  Tomorrow I leave Asia.  That's the bad news.  The good news is that the trip isn't over just yet, as I am flying not back to the US of A, but instead to the biblical land of milk and honey.  ISRAEL!! The great news, at least for you my dear reader, is that perhaps this means that I'll be writing about something other than Buddhism/monasteries/meditation, trekking and death.  Maybe.

Also, I don't actually have an affinity for Thai prostitutes.

Peace out Asia!  Stay weird!!

Or...

Method #3:  Just get the fuck off the main tourist route.  Big fan of northern Laos.  Huge.

From the Rubble to the Ritz to the Rubble

Hi.  I used to blog.  Here's what's been going on.

My wonderful, amazing, supportive family (minus a few key members) came to visit and together we traveled through Cambodia and Vietnam for a couple weeks.  Life was grand!

Marble floors and staircases!  Then my family left and I went back to the slums.

It's unfair for me to really make any assessments on either Cambodia or Vietnam since I was in each for such a short period of time.  But I think Vietnam is winning thus far for both quality of food and craziness of traffic.

(If your desire for some feedback on the Cambodia/Vietnam experience isn't satisfied by the above, well you can blame Steven, Dale and Sarah, all of whom were offered an opportunity to guest-post on the blog, but none of whom took the bait).

The reality of traveling through Southeast Asia (with the exception of Myanmar) is that there are a lot, like A LOT, of tourists.  This fact is especially pronounced in Laos - where I currently sit - which has a much more back-country feel than its neighbors.  Right now I write to you from UNESCO World Heritage protected Luang Prabang, a magical old riverfront town of beautiful Buddhists pagodas, wats and gardens -- and guesthouses and restaurants serving hamburgers and pizzas.  There are a lot of safron-clad novice monastics wandering the streets, but they are vastly outnumbered by tourists.  I like to pretend I have some special justification for being annoyed by all of this, though of course I'm no different than anyone else.

My biggest gripe with the situation is that the local people are so jaded by all the travelers, that it makes it difficult to actually interact with them as real people, since they're usual content to play their role of "local" and stick you into the role of "tourist".  But I've developed two mechanisms for breaking down these roles and getting a little more of what I want out of the travel experience.  The first is to occasionally sit down and play some music with one of the acoustic guitarists that are ubiquitous throughout Southeast Asia.  I've yet to find an Asian who doesn't get a kick out of a strumming/singing white boy, so sitting down to play is a good way to open them up to hang.  Although I've discovered that for the most part the only song I know how to play that they recognize (and as far as I can tell the only American song they know that isn't sung by Justin Bieber) is Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours".  So I've tried to be chill, but been so hot that I melted many many times in the past months.

The second way I'm able to really break out of the tourist box (though here this aim is really secondary) is to go dharma bum.  This, by far, is my favorite thing about Southeast Asian traveling.  The way this works is that I show up unannounced at the gates of a monastery and with my bags piled on my back I charade to the first monk I see that I would like to take up residence.  This monk than goes and finds an "English speaking monk" who speaks no English at all, and again I mime that I would like to sleep and meditate at their temple. I am then transferred to a third monk, this time the abbot, and after assessing my acting skills, he gives the okay.  The monks then set me up indefinitely with food and lodging free of charge (though of course you are expected to take on some daily chores and I always make a donation before leaving).

The most recent of such stays was at Wat Nakoon Noi, a forest monastery burried in the woods about forty minutes outside Vientienne, where approximately twenty monks, ten dogs, fifteen cats and fifty chickens make their home amongst the various wooden huts sprinkled throughout the trees and dried leafs.  The monks were kind enough to offer me a space to sleep on the floor of the main pagoda, although I must admit that between this simple "bedding", the monastic food, the outhouse toilets and the bathing facilities (or rather the complete lack thereof), this was probably my roughest accommodation to date, which is saying something.  But hey, it's good for the soul.  The all-expenses-paid package also included a daily 3:30 am wake-up call that began with the banging of a gong, and lasted a full half hour as every one of the seventy-five or so aforementioned animals responded to the gong and each other by howling, barking, screaming and crowing in their loudest voice.

Unfortunately, language is usually a significant barrier during these stays, and the problem becomes most pronounced during the time for meditation instructions.  The first reporting/question session at Nakoon Noi provides a pretty typical example of how this normally plays out:

Noah:  When I'm sitting and I feel discomfort or pain or agitation, I notice that my mind then adds another layer of irritation onto it.  Like all there is in the first instant is this not-yet-labeled sensation, then my mind creates an entire storm of agitation around it that very quickly manifests as actual physical discomfort in my chest. Actually, I see four separate moments that happen very quickly:  First, the sensation, second, my mind doesn't like it and labels it as pain, third, irritation arises which creates a physical manifestation and fourth I physically remedy the situation or squirm trying to fight the urge.  Although if I'm mindful enough sometimes I can catch the mind before it develops through the entirety of this process.  My question is, when I see the pain or discomfort, what should I do?  Should I make a mental note of it?  Should I continue noting it superficially until it dissipates?  What if it doesn't dissipate?  Should I dive into it deeper and really investigate what the sensation is itself, what it consists of?

English-to-Mandarin Translator:  [Smiles and laughs, nods head, speaks for forty-five seconds in Mandarin]

Mandarin-to-Laotian Translator:  [Speaks for twenty seconds in Laotian]

Monk:  [Speaks for about forty-five seconds in Laotian]

Mandarin-to-Laotian Translator:  [Speaks for twenty seconds in Mandarin]

English-to-Mandarin Translator:  "Yes.  Follow breath, in, out".

I mean.... all I want is some real words of wisdom!!  Something like "open up your mind and see like me, open up your plans and damn your free, look into your heart and you'll find the sky is yours, so please don't complicate, our time is short." 

Burmese Days

Why did I go to Myanmar?

The obvious reason was for tourism.  Without exception, every traveler I had met who had been to Burma said that it was one of the peak travel adventures of their life.  Many talked of the amicable people, the rough transit and the traditional dress, describing an "authentic" (read: most closely conforming to idealized imaginations) travel experience.

A second reason I went to Myanmar, or so I told myself, was to bear witness.  In 1962 the military took control of the Burmese government, initially to establish peace in a country descending into civil war.  Since then the military leaders have ignored and/or rigged election results, refusing the Burmese people's wish to self-govern, and have instituted a rather repressive regime, restricting the citizen's freedoms, jailing political opponents for inhumane periods of time, utilizing forced labor, etc.

In 1996 the leaders of the Burmese democratic movement, along with certain human rights NGOs and western governments instituted a tourism boycott on Burma in an attempt to isolate the country and hope that regime change would come from the inside.  Though not all tourists respected the boycott, for fifteen years Burma received few visitors when compared with its South East Asian neighbors.  I myself was torn over whether or not to respect the tourism boycott, as there has long been considerable disagreement as to whether it had been an effective means of instituting regime change.  In contrast, it had most certainly contributed to the suffering of the Burmese people.  But this past November the National League for Democracy, with the support of Aung Sang Suu Kyi, lifted the boycott for "independent" travelers, hoping to inform the world of the conditions in Burma.  For me, the ethical dilemma had suddenly and unexpectedly been removed and I was at the Myanmar Embassy in Kathmandu within days.

A final reason to go to Burma was to study and practice meditation.  Burma has a reputation for teaching meditation as practiced by the Buddha, a kind of "pure" technique.  Obviously there's a lot of dispute about this, but no one argues that the Burmese method has produced some amazing masters and teachers.

Throughout my time in Myanmar these three aims - tourism, a kind of psuedo-humanitarian interest, and meditation - were at play and often in conflict.  Would I spend my days in Sagaing visiting the various monasteries or meditating?  Should I stay and relax amongst the inspiring plain of pagodas in Bagan or go out to a more remote village to meet the people and spend some money?  How much time out of my twenty-eight day visa should I put aside for a serious meditation retreat?  It was a constant and difficult balancing act.

That said, I'll spend just a couple sentences on the tourism aspect, to say that the two major tourist destinations in Myanmar - Bagan and Inle Lake - are absolutely spectacular and it's pretty remarkable how relatively little known they are.  Also, I cannot overstate the incredible friendliness of the people of Myanmar.  I wish I had more time to relate just a few examples of times when someone went far out of their way to make sure I was okay, taken care of and happy, without any hope or expectation of being repaid for their kindness.

I'll spend more time on the second point, fulfilling my responsibility to relate what I could see of the everyday impact the repressive military regime has on the Burmese people.  I was amazed how eager many of the Burmese were to voice their unhappiness with the political situation, considering the danger they put themselves in to do so, with nearly every taxi driver or bus companion mentioning the great difficulty their family and country must deal with on a daily basis.  Since I'm not a journalist and certainly wasn't doing any investigation and am not equipped to deliver analysis, below I pass on just a few stories of the people I met and things I saw along the way.  Obviously these are only the most superficial observations and the sufferings of the Burmese people goes much deeper than I would know.

1. On top of Shwedagon Paya, the spiritual epicenter of Burmese Buddhism, I met a former university history professor.  At the age of sixty-four, after an entire life of in the classroom and one year away from receiving his pension, the professor was fired from his job and was replaced with someone who would teach a revisionist version of Burmese history.  Now the highly educated man, without any source of income or manual skill set, had been forced to sell his Yangoon apartment and was looking to become a monk, relying on alms for sustenance.
2. In the Yangoon bus park a man was kind enough to lead me to the proper bus which would take me to Mandalay.  The Burmese was a journalist and when I asked whether he worked for a good newspaper he responded with an unequivocal "no."  It seems all newspapers in Burma are censored by the government, the people unable to read any news of the world that has not previously been reviewed and approved by the military.  This seemed confirmed when just a few days ago I found a newspaper in the English language that spent two entire pages on various casualties taking place in Iraq and Afghanistan (highlighting the evil of democratic governments), but not one mention of the protests and regime change that have been disrupting the Arab world.
3. In a three-day trek across the northern mountains, my guide was an extremely intelligent man in his early twenties who would undoubtedly have a job using his exceptional mind in nearly any other country in the world.  When he saw my copy of Thant Myint-U's The River of Lost Footsteps, a fabulous book on the history of Burma that had been banned by the government, he was incredibly eager for me to give it to him when I had finished reading it.  It seems that at the risk of perhaps decade-long imprisonment, him and his friends share a small library of material censored by the government, including not only books with a real history of their country, but also titles such as George Orwell's Animal Farm and 1984.

Obviously there are plenty of other examples.  In addition, the results of years of international sanctions and government corruption have led to a  poverty and daily struggle amongst the Burmese which is obvious and pervasive.

Being fairly uneducated about the situation I hesitate to give an opinion, but can't resist saying that it seems pretty obvious to me that calling off the tourism boycott for independent travelers can only help the plight of the Burmese who, without exception, were desperate and thrilled to see both me and my dollars.  Also, it's pretty clear that the international sanctions have not worked and have only served to deepen the suffering of the common Burmese, a position that both Obama and Clinton seemed to be taking during their respective campaigns, but which I don't think has yet materialized into a change in policy.  Finally, while the international political and media treatment of Myanmar tends to focus on Aung Sang Suu Kyi and a call for democracy, there is a lot more going on here including long-running armed conflict in border regions, and I for one am not convinced that a sudden transition to democracy can work in a country with a long history of geo-ethnic based divisions and violence and virtually no educated middle class (sound familiar?).  But what do I know.

I spent the last seven days in Myanmar at Mahasi Meditation Center, the country's most famous setting for the study of Vipassana, the Theravadan meditation method.  The retreat was drastically different than the western-student-oriented course in which I participated in Nepal.  Here it was just two Koreans and me being the only foreign male layman yogis attempting to follow the monk's daily schedule of eighteen hours of meditation a day as best we could (obviously I was not quite able to do it).  While the meditation was extremely rigorous and difficult, it was ultimately very rewarding.  Although I echo my buddy Pete who stated that after his Vipassana experience his body felt as if he had been beaten with hockey sticks (yep, he's Canadian).

So that was Myanmar. I realize that some of the last few posts have taken a kind of heavy turn, I didn't intend it and my trip really hasn't been dark at all, actually quite the opposite, but it's been the most interesting stuff to write about.  I had written a fun post about my stay in Sagaing, but the internet connection in Myanmar cut out before I saved it.  Maybe I will try and recreate, but if not, I promise to lighten it up a bit in the near future.  In any case, I promise not to depress you with today's visit to the Cambodian killing fields.

Here's what some of Myanmar looks like:

Layla

On a stopover in Bangkok to connect flights on my journey from Myanmar to Cambodia I was able to call my parents for the first time in about a month only to learn that they had put my dog Layla to sleep the night before.  There were no signs that Layla was sick when I left the states four months ago, so I can't remember specifically saying goodbye to her, though I'm sure I did.

We don't really do many things with our pets.  We sit with them and pet them.  Occasionally we walk with them.  But we can't really share a meal with them.  We can't have meaningful conversations with them. We can't celebrate or laugh or cry with them.  We must simply Be with them.  For me the deep sadness one feels when losing a pet underscores the truth that what matters most in our interactions with others is not what you do with them, but simply that you Are with them.  Even when you're far away.

Layla, may you have happiness and the ultimate causes of happiness, wherever you are.