Lesson Six: Just Dance

Just Dance I've enjoyed dancing for most of my adult life, though it has never been a passion of mine. Just an activity saved for concerts and weddings, always in the company of alcohol. Just moving around to some good music, having fun, it releases a lot of energy. In general though, I reserve my dancing for music that can actually move me, primarily hip/hop, R&B, funk, and ironic choices like ABBA (actually, I do enjoy dancing to ABBA, I just feign pretending to like it in some sort of convoluted ironic irony). The pulsating, regular electronic beats just leave me bored. One of the most beloved past-times on the bay was dancing at one of the many parties around the island, the most popular for my area was Guy's Bar, a party that began around 11PM on a Friday night and finally stops around 3PM the next day. When I arrived, I was told of the wonders of waking up early, around six o clock, and dancing through the sunrise. The thought of waking up with the sole purpose of dancing at sunrise sounded silly, especially when the chances of six beers was a little slim. My first Friday, I just stayed up all night instead, this made much more sense than going to sleep, during the biggest social event of the week then dancing in the morning when the party was likely to be petering out. Oh how wrong I was. Right before the sun came up, mobs appeared from nowhere: caves, treehouses, hidden bungalows a kilometer into the woods, all dressed in crazy costumes, tearing up the floor with a a dancing energy that seemed impossible at such ungodly hours. They were so free, so confident, yet I was so tired, I could barely move. I left that first week, wondering how some people could live in such a state, not caring what people are thinking, dancing in the morning, no drugs, no alcohol, looking so silly, yet beautiful at the same time. I learned quickly that staying up all night was not the correct method anyway; doing the same as the long-termers: waking up on Saturday mornings, before my breakfast and having a good dance to start the day, was fantastic. It left me so energized for the whole day. I began to quite love dancing, spending most of the day Saturday, just hanging out at Beam and walking over to Guy's Bar whenever the music got good. When my restaurant became the place to party for a while, going off most nights with the funky R&B I played, I was required to dance; this was my preferred style though, so it didn't take much to get me moving. After a while, I stopped caring what others thought; I stopped caring if the music was terrible or not, I just danced, because it felt good, because it was fun, because it left me surging with energy. My terrible little two step with shaking hips and that weird off-rhythm thing I do with my right hand, which JJ dubbed as "shaking the dice", didn't seem stupid anymore: it was just how I danced. Cause when you think about it, all dancing looks pretty stupid, but that shouldn't stop people from doing it. So, the most important thing I learned on the island was to just dance, no matter what. And yes, this is a metaphor for life, not really about dancing.

Great Chinese Firewall

Well, I am in China now, stuck behind the wonder of the Great Firewall, blocking me from any access to Facebook.  If you would like to contact me, I still have my email at popomaticbubble@yahoo.com  Drop me a line, since I don't really have emails for anybody.  Also, I will be returning to the United States on August 9th after a quick visit to see Michelle in Norway and a couple days in London, England for good measure.  See you then.  I will start posting a flurry of blogs I've writen on my computer, but couldn't post since I broke it. The screen is working now, kind of. I have about a 8x8in space to do things,  but sometimes it stops working all together.  Cheers, Aaron

Letter to the India Board of Tourism

To whom it may concern:

I didn't know exactly to whom to write this, but I hope it finds itself in the right hands. My name is Aaron White and I recently visited your large nation for seven weeks from the beginning of December until the end of January, right in the heart of winter.

Fresh off an amazing two months in Nepal, I arrived in India quite excited about my time, planning to visit Sikkim before traveling across the North to Amritsar and back. Many people had told me stories not only of the hardships of traveling India, but also the rewards; I understood some of this from my time in Nepal and I felt ready to tackle the culture of India.

My first stop was Darjeeling and Sikkim. I noticed the great kindheartedness of the Indian people. Ethnically, the people were quite similar to the Nepalis, comprised of a mix of Hindu and Tibetan cultures. Everyone I met was amazing; locals would befriend me in a moment. They were so welcoming. I then headed down to Kolkata which I also loved. The Bengalis lived with such zest and passion, it was hard to not feel it as well. I formed a strong positive impression of India and I failed to see why so many people couldn't handle it. Yes, even in the first nine days, I had moments where I lost my cool. It is easy with lack of sleep; I'm sure you understand.

Place after place, I met more wonderful people and saw a little bit of the more negative sides of the culture. In Varanasi, I was assaulted by two men who claimed, falsely that I had photographed the burning of bodies. I defused the situation, but it left me shaken. It was so confusing to see such utter dishonesty and love all at the same time. It was not until I entered the “Golden Triangle” that I really saw why so many people hate the country.

Agra was horrible, there was no break from the hassling. Delhi was worse; I've never hated a place in my life more than Delhi.

This letter is getting quite rambling, I understand. If you are still with me, I would like to get to the main purpose of this letter. I would like to file a formal complaint to the Indian Tourism Board. Despite all the wonderful experiences I had, I was not completely satisfied, especially with the service of your country's workforce. Your employees do not have proper understanding of Western culture and how to deal with us on a business end. I am not so narcissistic to believe that you should cater to our culture and not the other way around, when it is we, who are the visitors, but I feel that with a slight change of approach, you could in the long run make more money for your business. Why am I writing this? Well, I see some real potential in your country and hope that you can improve on your business. I am not going to ask for a refund, but I may not return again unless some things change. So, I would like to leave you with some points to consider:

-No, Thank You, I do not need a rickshaw, I'm fine walking.

-Please refrain from calling me friend for the sole purpose of gaining my trust, this is a title reserved for people who at least know my name.

-Swiftly demolish the Pahar Gange area of Delhi immediately.

-No, I don't need a rickshaw! If I need one, I'll wave you down.

-If make a bowel movement into a bowl and try to sell it for 100 rupees, then cut the price 50%, then continually lower until I am selling it at a 75% discount, only 25 rupees, is this still considered a good price?

-When a customer says yes, quit selling your product. Further selling shows a lack of confidence.
-
I'm not ignoring you because I don't see or hear you, I'm ignoring you because I DON'T WANT A RICKSHAW!!!

Sincerely:
Aaron White

A disaster area

It started with a dark cloud in the horizon, slowing coming towards the bay from the sea. The open-air house I shared with Pink and JJ had a wonderful view, sitting high up on the jungled hill. We'd lived there for four wonderful days, but seeing the clouds made us worry. A house with no walls is great on sunny days, but we knew not how it would hold up in a storm. We aroused from the lethargy of our great music and conversation to put down the plastic flaps, which are surprisingly good at keeping things dry. Our two open walls were covered fine, save one section of the front that was broken; leaving a small opening in the top right corner.

The rain hit, but it wasn't too bad. Our house stayed dry and it let up to a light sprinkle by the time I had to walk to work. It was raining the next morning as well. Normally, I head down to Beam shortly after my cup of coffee, but with the steady rain, I chose to finish my book and have a couple extra cups. The second day's rain kept me inside, chilling with my friends, which was really not too different than any other day. Work was dead; few chose to brave the rain. That night, I could feel something building though. The peaceful rain became more ominous; the sky darker than normal. I'd heard rumors of a storm, but on a tropical island, there are always rumors of a storm with any drop of rain. It vacillated between steady rain and downpour, and during one lighter stretch, I asked Gae if I could leave early to not get too wet. He complied, but the rain picked up immediately. I stripped into my underwear and walked home, soaking.

I awoke in the middle of the night; the wind was howling, but it wasn't the wind that stirred me from my slumber; the plastic flaps were slamming against the wall of the hour furiously. I sprung up and tied them down the best I could. The rain was falling at rates I'd never seen. Fat drops like from exploding water balloons were falling so fast, I wondered if it was possible to swim through the air. I tried my best to sleep, but found it impossible. The rain didn't let up the next morning. I procrastinated breakfast as long as I could, hoping the rain would stop. Eventually, we lost power, so no electric kettle, and even with the windows shut and flaps down, the wind kept blowing the out flame of the gas burner. After my fourth cup of cold, instant coffee, I was too jittery to survive without food and braved the short walk to Beam.

I'd never seen the restaurant so filled. Every resident of the nearby bungalows were entrenched, some wrapped in blankets, all wore sweaters. I'd never seen most of the people wearing more than beachwear. A man I'd never met had set up a few bongo drums, which he played with wild vigor. Many were dancing around the restaurant to the beats, smiling, making the most of the insanely rainy day. I took my normal seat and prepared for another day inside. It seemed less fun than normal though; even though I did the same thing on sunny days, I liked having the option of leaving. None of us went to work that day; word from one brave soul said it was closed anyway.

The next day offered no relief. The downpour had now been going on for 36 hours. I couldn't comprehend that the air could still drop precipitation. When I walked to Beam, even more people crammed in. Some of the hermits who lived on the hill found their homes flooded, unable to handle so many days of constant rain. The morale had sunk only a little; many were just annoyed, especially those on two weeks vacations, finding their beach holiday spent inside. JJ had brought his guitar from the house, so we spent much of the day singing songs, doing our best to stay happy. We had one customer that night at Spice.



The next few days all blurred together. The downpour slowly let up after the fourth day, but the rain continued for a solid week. On day four, the food started running low; not that we were going hungry, we just didn't have many choices...potatoes were the first to go, followed by fresh coconuts and most disastrously, Oreos, but the coconuts were not a loss: cold weather yields little desire for its magic hydration. Nobody was going anywhere. I only left to attend work. Even the short walk to Spice was dangerous, trees were falling everywhere. My coworker Stu had missed being creamed by a coconut tree on the way to work by inches.


We all became quite close those days. One day, we started a massage parlor. Michelle, Cara, Rob, and I were all taking turns giving each other rub downs. It was quite a nice experience on both sides of this deal. We weren't the only ones. With a bay full of massage therapists, the upstairs area of Beam always had somebody face-down on a mat for most of the storm.

One night, trapped by the rain and the late nights socializing, I was invited by my friend Michelle to spend the night on her giant bed in the big dorm; all others were taken by the refugees. We awoke holding hands and finding it quite nice, we decided to start some romance. Given my new lack of fear of being close to other people again, it was quite lovely to find some physical closeness in such depressing circumstances. Everyone seemed to be cuddling anyway, a natural reaction to the close quarters and cold weather. Michelle and I continued to date until we both left the island and we plan to meet in Laos in the near future.

It was impossible for laundry. In a bay void of luxuries like dryers, we were all forced to were our dirty clothes. Most of things became moldy, including my hiking boots which I needed to chuck. The day before the rain started, I was already down to my last clothes. We all played the game of finding our least damp sarongs and shirts, after a while, we just got used to the smell of dampness and feeling of being wet.

I abandoned the house for good after a point; the small hole in the plastic flaps were enough to saturate the whole house; it happened slowly, but after the third day of downpour, Beam was a much better option for sleeping. The beds were all wet; there was precious little floor room that was not waterlogged. The dorm was slightly better, though many people had ceased even walking the few steps to the toilet, choosing to urinate in a bucket that lived on the balcony.

When the rain hits the bay, even slightly, the internet and phone reception disappears. We had no contact with the outside world. For all we knew, there could be nuclear war; we also didn't know how bad the storm truly was or how long it was going to last. Our best hope was it wasn't a crisis that would worry our families at home. The boats were not running for days; the road had washed out. We were all trapped. Many missed flights. Every once in a while, we'd hear rumors that the military was evacuating the neighboring islands Koh Samui and Koh Tao.

Finally, exactly one week after it started, the rain stopped. First the downpour tapered to just a steady drizzle. Some people tried to escape, only to return, finding that nobody was leaving the islands, except by the emergency helicopter and aircraft carriers that had evacuated the nearby areas due to massive floods. If they could have caught boats to the mainland, they'd find themselves trapped in Suratthani anyway. The mainland was devastated, roads flooded, all transportation halted. Thailand had been declared a disaster area.

We were lucky to be in such a secluded bay, because the damage was quite minimal compared to everywhere else. There was no flooding except for some odd houses. My first walk in the post-rain through the familiar palm grove was surreal. A large percentage of the trees had fallen, I lost count after forty. Some huts had been destroyed by the falling trees, but most were fine. We were lucky.

Saturday was the first day of sun and there was no better day to usher the warmth. The whole bay convened on Guy's Bar for the weekly morning party. We all had so much energy to blow, nobody stayed sitting. The dance floor was a mass of wiggling bodies, loving the first good sweat in a week. We were all alive in our disaster area.

Lesson Five

There might be something to this whole “energy” thing

It seems as if every person living in Haad Thien fits into one of four categories: yoga teacher, massage therapist, energy worker, or a student of one of these three disciplines. Of course, given that Koh Phangan is one of the top destinations in Thailand for yoga and eastern medicine studies, aimed at foreigners, this is not too surprising. I've been practicing yoga off and on for years and have noticed the positive effects on numerous aspects of my life. With regular practice, I found I had more energy, ate less, and in general felt happier, added to the expected increase in flexibility, strength, and svelteness. Despite this, I never really bought much of the philosophy surrounding it, merely practicing the assanas as a physical exercise; this is a common practice in the West, where as many from the East buy into the philosophy, but look at the west's obsession with assanas as quite silly. I never really found chakaras to be total b/s, though merely ways of visualizing the flow of blood through the body and the different centers blood flow seems to effect.

Meditation for me as an activity typically bored me. If I found myself stressed or finding difficulty sleeping, I'd use breathing exercises and meditation techniques to relax myself. For the most part, I considered myself as one who didn't really like meditation. After taking a few yoga classes in India and actually doing some meditation, I realized that I meditate all the time! The type of relaxed state of mind and focus I feel with my eyes closed, focusing on my third eye is same feeling I get from hiking alone in the woods or cooking a complicated dinner. Meditation is not an activity, it's a just a state. Of course, this was no new lesson for me, just merely a change in vocabulary.

So, once I accepted that I've been in fact meditating for a long time, I actually opened my mind to the practice of sitting in half lotus or savasina for fifteen minutes after my yoga practice to see what happened. Sometime, I'd try to focus on the energy of the jungle, attempt to block out everything but the insects and birds or I'd focus on the energy of ocean, only hearing the sound of the waves. This was typically before work and I found that putting myself in that relaxed state paradoxically gave me a burst of energy for the night, as if the forces of nature were entering into me. Again, I attributed this to an increase in blood flow, since both meditative poses keep the body more or less lined up. Surely, it had nothing to do with the fact that the world is comprised of particles, and at a microscopic level, air, trees, people are all made of the same things and in this mindset, there is a transfer of atoms between it all. Definitely not.

But then, suddenly, when I opened myself up to these ideas that energy can be shared, pushed around between people, that negativity can swirl and envelop others in the same ways as positivity, I noticed that it was there. When visiting Guy's Bar, first thing in the morning every Saturday, dancing among the crowds, under the beating rays of the sun, everybody happy, sharing a single feeling, happiness. I knew that there was something there. By this point, the drug heads from the night had left, leaving only the long-termers, the yogis, the hippies, all getting high on togetherness, smiles. I know it sounds cheesy, like a bunch of flower-power BS, but we share energy and we can harness it. Taoists, Hindus, Buddhist, they don't see this as hokey new-age thinking; this is just the world.

Living on Haad Thien, a person needs to be careful differentiating the real world from delusion. One drawback or positive, depending on your open-mindedness, of the place is that many new-age hippie types are actually insane. And in a loving, open place such as this, insanity begins to seem quite normal. People just let themselves out with no worry of judgment. A friend of mine on the island was a veteran of the Iraq War, disabling underwater IED's for many years. Simply put, this damaged him immensly, and he went deep into the rave scene and all that come with it; this may or may not have caused delusions, it's not my business. He was an extremely gifted massage therapist and energy worker who was getting rave reviews from everyone. I've always believed in the therapeutic powers of massage, but energy work always seemed a bit hokey; a closed-eyed person with hands hovering two inches above somebody's body for half an hour hardly seems worth the money.

Well, the day before he planned to leave, I decided to hire him for a massage. At first it started as a pretty normal, better than average massage. It then changed tone, less to muscle work, to more light touch and stretches. Apparently, I wasn't surrendering though; I didn't realize that I had to surrender to anything; he seemed not to be doing much. So, I just stopped thinking about what he was doing and let him do his work. Next thing I knew, I...well, I can't really explain it, but I entered into the deepest meditative state I've ever experienced in my life. Images, dreams, memories from the past, maybe things from the future all flashed before me rapid succession; all of it so fast, I couldn't even grasp it. I knew I wasn't asleep; I could still hear him occasionally convulse from a surge of energy he felt. I know not how much time had passed, it seemed forever and instantaneous at the same time, but I came out of space, lying in savasana, feeling quite dazed. I've gotten into relaxed, meditative feelings during massages before, but I've never completely left my body before, especially when I was barely even being touched.

I told him what happened and he wasn't surprised, apparently this is common when he does energy work. I asked him exactly what he was doing; he explained that he was realigning my chakaras and making the energy in my body flow freely; certain points in the body are connected to memories and emotions by removing energy blockages, streams of visions will come. Whatever went on, it was crazy and changed the way I thought about energy work!

Many of my fears involving a budding romance with my good friend Michelle evaporated that night and went into it with no fears. Since the massage, I have felt as if there was some major blockage in myself that was lifted. It's quite hard to explain.

I'm still not a complete believing in raiki and many other forms of energy work, but as I get older, I begin to see that is some sort of energies that we maybe could once grasp, but somehow over time, we've lost our ability to see it...or believe it. Whatever it is, be it just blood flow or a real, mystical seeming power, many Eastern traditions of thought provide pretty easy to grasp models of what's going on. I know I'll definitely look at these models with a more open mind in the future. Besides, I'd rather listen and believe some robed people right here on Earth than some white-robed thing that lives in the sky.

Lesson Four

Open your heart

My last two serious relationships have left me simply...damaged. I followed my heart, moved to Australia and got dumped; left in a strange country alone and heartbroken (ok, it wasn't like that at all, Jess's family graciously let me stay with them after the break-up, I just chose to venture off alone, cause I couldn't figure a better way to deal with my emotional instability). Then a year and a half later, I found the situation reversed and I had to knowingly break the heart of another person I did not love, but cared about about immensely, a friend of eight years, which was oddly enough, even more painful. So, suffice to say, I avoided all forms of intimacy with other women for a long time; I just couldn't take any more potentiality of pain, which I'd begun to associate with romance. It wasn't just romantic love, but love in general. I was afraid of feeling.

Over the last few months, my desires for romance had started creeping back. When travelling, it's easy to ignore and simultaneously indulge on romantic urges, people pass in and out with little chance of real connection. I'd met a few women that had struck my fancy along the way, but the situation was not right or I was just too afraid to make a move with somebody I knew I'd probably never see again. Within my first week on Koh Phangan, I was all but propositioned by three different women, but I've never been one for random sex myself (though I do love a good snog now and then!). I prefer real connections.

Well, with nearly all of my needs being met on the island, I opened myself to the idea of romance once again. The second I chose to do this, I found myself falling for an older Dutch woman who herself was recovering from some past romantic smut. Our intense one-week romance was passionate and lovely.

Wading in the crystal clear water, flat, still like glass. The saturated sand under my feet is so soft with every step. She's floating on her back, supported by my right hand, eyes closed, shining under the sun. I lean down and place a salty kiss on her cheek. Soft skin, green eyes, the warmth of another person. This was the root of all my fears? Love?

I take a large spoonful of the tan paste, a ground mix of oil, onions, garlic, tomatoes, ginger and masala, and wait for it to sizzle, releasing the smell that will always transport me one place, North India. This was not a pure Indian curry though; once the paste melted to a thick bubbling liquid, I pour the thick coconut mix and mix them together into a yellow soup. Next comes the fish sauce. One mistake many make when cooking Thai food is fearing the fish sauce...never fear the fish sauce. I add equal amounts of light soy sauce, being careful not to put too much of each: both are so salty, an excess would overpower the delicate flavor of the crab meat, which I add five minutes later after slow, thickening boil. I crack and egg and the yoke sinks into the curry, I use the side of my spoon to break it open and mix the orange into the rest, letting it all heat to boil three times, stirring in between. Then I remove the heat and let it rest for a few minutes, trying my best not to stare in anticipation. The egg thickens the curry and makes the taste just a bit more rich, but not overbearing. Finally, I take the lime, chop into quarter wedges and squeeze three right in. The fourth, I squeeze more carefully, stopping just when it feels right. I take the spoon and sip the curry, but put one more dab of fish sauce then dip for another taste. Perfect flavor balance is rare, but this dish has it. I always know I've hit that point when my legs shake a little upon hitting my tongue. I jump up and down, exclaim, "woo!" My Burmese coworkers always laugh when I reach this point...they know it's finished. I quickly bring it to the table so I don't find myself grabbing another spoonful and another. I'd forgot how important cooking was to me in the months on the road...Love

A perfect chunk of ripe mango should melt in the mouth. They often all look the same, a light orange color, but you never know if its a good mango until you place in the mouth and press it against the roof and feel it give under the slightest of pressure, not stringy, not powdery, not crunchy, but creamy. By the time the feeling of the mango hits my tongue, the anticipated taste always follows...Love

I walk through the grove of coconut trees and feel the wind blow gently across my face, wet with sweat, an air conditioner that uses no resources. The plethora of birds sing their own individual songs, but they never clash, they build upon each other, not fighting, not together, but not entirely separate. Mixed with the cicadas, crickets, and the hiss of the sea, this is the symphony of the jungle island. This is only one thing...Love

Cara rolls another joint, slowly, the night is still young. We've been laughing for hours, our chests hurt in pleasure. Zach says another statement, both naive and insightful at the same time as Michelle wipes the tears from her eyes just enough to see the notebook as she preserves another memory in the short tome of quotes she'd been collecting for the last month. It's now three AM, but nobody seems to care as we try to have clear vision through the haze. The frogs are laughing with us...Love

It wasn't just being in love with a woman as much as I was in love with life. Every day filled with moments when I felt like I would explode. This is why nobody leaves the bay; we're all in love. For me, it just took a woman to make me not afraid to feel it. And I continue to feel love for every day, now even two months after she boarded the ferry. Thank you.

Transportation in Thailand

Thailand is easily one of the top tourist destinations in the world and with good reason. It's gorgeous, charming, the people are friendly, it's diverse, has the greatest cuisine in the world, and the tourism industry is streamlined into a science. Now, I love Thailand; if I didn't, I wouldn't have stayed here so long, but it is way too easy. That said, just because it's easy, does not mean it's simple or makes much sense. This is shown in no better way than the way tourists are herded around.

When a tourist buys a ticket through a private company at booking agent, it is typically a combination of various modes of transport, taxis, buses, some walking, and if it involves an island, but exclusively, a boat is thrown into the mix. These are lumped together into a single package, with promise of arriving at a destination. Once the process starts though, many begin worrying, as it seems a little strange. As an example, I will breakdown my trip home to Haad Thien from Penang.

It starts with a sticker. Sometimes it's handwritten with a magic marker, listing the place, sometimes it's color coded. My sticker said Koh P, for Koh Phangan. A van picked me up from my hostel in Georgetown, then drove around, picking up one other white tourist and a mob of loud, yet friendly Indonesian grandmothers. After crossing the border, I was dropped off at a booking office in Hat Yai, main city in Southern Thailand. Given enough time to order a coffee, but not drink it, a pickup truck pulled up and I was herded into the back. The pickup drove in a big circle, I swear I passed the booking office again two more times and I was finally dropped off at a train ticket office, even though my trip did not involve a train. A bus pulled up, the driver yelled out, “Surathani!” which was my ferry's port. I stood to board, but a man motioned for me to sit back down and the bus left. I was then picked up again by a taxi and taken back to the original booking office. Eventually, a van full of happy Thais, either returning from shopping with all their bags or leaving work arrived and I was told to hop on. The van seated nine, three in front, including the driver, and three in each of the two rows in back. In reality though, we crammed about thirty.

This is the part of the trip I like to call the joyride. The van drove all over Hat Yai, the cast of charcters for the van changing frequently, but the number of passengers staying static; our first stop, the train ticket office I'd just come from. After an hour of circling the town, hitting markets and various other businesses, the van basically a taxi, it finally headed up north toward Suratthani.

After playing the taxi game again in Surrathani, I was dropped off at another booking office, which I recognized from the way to Malaysia. It always played Jackass the Movie and served disgusting, yet expensive food. It was a random little place in the middle of a bunch of warehouses, selling bulk amounts of toys and other useless trinkets recently shipped from China. Even though I was in a room full of people with stickers for Koh Phangan, I was singled out, ushered into a taxi and driven a block away, where they dropped me off alone. I stood there for about five minutes with my backpack, feeling stupid. Locals strolled by like there was nothing odd going on. Another Thai man showed up, telling me to follow him; I really had no choice. He walked me through an alleyway and suddenly I was filled with the fear that I'd offended the Thai mafia at some point on the island and they just wanted to wait until I had new visa before offing me; it'll take longer for the US gov't to notice I was gone. Then we popped out onto a busy street where I was instructed to wait.

So I stood again on a random sidewalk for about ten minutes, trying to fight the fear that I'd been forgotten. A taxi arrived, beckoned me and I entered without questioning it. We drove around a bit more, passing other random tourists, standing on the side of the road with their backpacks, looking scared, but not picking them up. Finally, I was dropped off at the port and was told to wait again. I was glad to finally had made it to my boat.

But then, a bus arrived! The driver came out, saw my sticker, looked at his clipboard and told me to get on. The bus then took me away from my port. I looked around the bus, noticing it was filled with the very people I'd been separated from at the booking office. They looked as confused as me.

The bus hit the same highway I'd taken from Hat Yai and I was worrying if at some point they'd gotten confused; maybe the handwriting on the sticker looked like Kuala Lumpur or something, but then we took a left and I deduced we were heading to Don Sak, another port town. I was correct in my assessment. Finally, twelve hours after leaving, I was on my ferry. Penang is only an eight hour drive from the port.

The rest of the way was straightforward. I only had to take a taxi back to Haad Rin, then another longtail boat back to my bay. I thought maybe my experience was an anomaly, but upon talking to others, my trip was business as usual for Thailand, even in other parts of the country. I'm sure there is a reasoning for the madness, most likely competing companies that are utilizing the same vehicles or something, but really, I think that it's a joke, a little reminder that even though the tourist trail is so worn in Thailand, we are still in fact, in Asia.

Pulao Penang

For the countless number of people who love Thailand so much they get stuck for long periods of time, like myself, there comes the inevitable, undesirable chore: the visa run. Just the combination of those two words induces sympathetic eyes from all the foreign residents. Basically, Thailand offers free visas for most people upon entering the country, thirty days when flying in, fifteen when coming overland. At various places, you can go to a consulate and get a free sixty day visa, with options of extending for thirty more in many major cities throughout Thailand. So, eventually, everyone who stays long enough has to leave the country for a couple days. When living on a secluded island paradise, nobody wants to leave the bubble for any amount of time; even the three mile trip to the atm at Haad Rin is worse than a paper cut.

On Koh Phangan island, the most convenient place for a visa run is Penang island, also known as Betel Nut Island, in Malaysia, just south of the border. Thankfully, it's a popular tourist destination in its own right; I just didn't want to bother leaving. With a different mindset, I would have really enjoyed my time there, but I was so islandized, I had trouble liking it. Now, I understand that Pulao Penang is an island, but it is the home of one of the larger cities in Malaysia and I was resenting motor vehicles and everything really. When I arrived at my hotel, I left to tour the city, barefooted, clad in my sarong, and quickly realized after all the stares that I had become one of those weird hippie guys. I put on some pants and shoes then tried again with more success.

Malaysia is a food heaven; amazing Chinese, Indian, Thai, traditional Malay can be found all in the same food stall. Within Malaysia, Penang is called Food Heaven (and yes they capitalize the F and H when they say it). So it's a Food Heaven, within a food heaven. This is no exaggeration. Georgetown, Malaysia, mark it on a map with an icon of chopsticks, because this is the epicenter of food in Asia. Most tourist information centers have building to see; in Penang, they have brochures of all the specialty dishes and where to find the best stalls. In the one whole day I spent there, I ate six meals. Now, I didn't like all of it; it was fish centered, and at that point, I was still merely accepting of fish, but after being in the food business for so long, I know if something tastes amazing, even if I don't like it. Highlights: Assam Laksa, a fish soup that is to die for; Ice Kachang (aka ABC), which is a snow cone with beans and corn, topped with ice cream; and hokkien mee another soup which was amazing. I met a local at a hokkien mee cart, who informed me that I had stumbled upon the single best bowl of soup in the country; in Asia, masses of locals never lie: they always show you where to eat.

The rest of the town is quite lovely, with a lot of British colonial architecture that was quite nice. Malaysia was so modern, I felt it lacked the type of charm for which I was searching in Asia. Still a nice town. I met a two assholes at the hostel that inspired the closest thing to hate I'd felt for other people in long long time. I thought that was an emotion that I couldn't feel anymore. On a side note, my belle Michelle had arrived there a few days later and became good friends with one of them, though she admitted that she was the only person there that seemed to get along with him.

I wasn't really ready for civilization when I went to Penang, but it was a nice enough place. I think a person could spend weeks there just eating if they wished. The food makes it an essential stop for anyone in Southern Thailand or Malaysia. Malaysian visas are free and it's only three hours from the border.

Haad Thien Lesson Three

Being alive itself is intoxicating

Life is actually a drug in itself. Many people are constantly drinking alcohol or using drugs to induce euphoric states in themselves, not realizing that drugs just trigger our body to use neurotransmitters that are already in our body. The euphoria comes from yourself and a person can trigger those feelings by just recognizing how amazing the pure act of living can be. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't keep myself in a constant state of sobriety, but I do know that drugs are just a little bonus. In general, I feel quite good all the time. To see this in effect, just take one moment every day, drop everything and feel. Just smell the air; the world is full of wonderful smells everywhere. Just let the wind blow against your skin or savor the feeling of your morning shower. Just taste, truly taste your food, even simple fried eggs with salt and pepper can be blissful. Just look at the color of a simple tree leaf. All it takes is a bit of awareness and not taking life for granted. If you do this, you can actually live your life being high. It's simple.

Once I eliminated the stress of trying to leave the island, I became incredibly happy. Not like the normal, slightly better than content I normally feel, but truly happy. Admittedly, it is quite easy to feel super happy in chilled-out island paradise full of yoga-crazy hippies, but I knew it was more than the place, something inside of me was changing.

In general, Haad Thien is one of those rare places in the world that amplifies emotions, be it happiness or sadness. This might because it sits atop a bed of quartz. I'm not a big believer in crystals, but there was something weird going on there. Much like in the Byron Bay area of Australia, it's the type of place that stirs up emotions and teaches people lessons. These places always seem to draw hippies as well. I was never able to figure out if it was the people that occupy these places or the place itself, but there was something interesting going on there.

The first weeks of properly living on the island were all great; writing everyday, doing yoga, socializing with friends, swimming, walking through the jungle, dancing twice a week at Guy's Bar ad Eden. Just the fruit museli yogurt I ate every morning threw me into a state of bliss, and that was the first moment of everyday.

The happiness was cut short suddenly when I had to leave for a visa run to Malaysia, but it didn't take me long to get back into the groove. I got into the swing of my job at Spice, which is the highest end restaurant in the area, serving mostly seafood. My first few days saw few customers, maybe about three tables a night. Suddenly, after a rocking party, Spice took off. It was the place. Every night was packed and I found my job description getting a bit...eclectic. My manager went crazy and the owner Gae took over, leaving me as the main employee. Suddenly I found myself helping with managing duties, bartending, waiting, cooking and DJ'ing the spontaneous parties that were happening most nights. I had taken the recipes of the restaurant, tweaked them a bit and suddenly, eveMy social status rose in the bay. Every day was getting better than the one before.

Overall, my life was perfect, except for one thing.

Lesson Two: Thoughts are but one way your mind communicates

My bag sat packed at the edge of my bed on my eighth day on Koh Phangan. I came downstairs for breakfast and Kate was there, just returning from her yoga class.

“Still here?”

“Yep, but I'll probably leave today.”

“Oh sad. Are you really leaving today?”

“I don't know.”

“You won't leave.”

I didn't leave that day, instead, I spent the day talking to my friend Adam about philosophy. In fact, I was finding myself discussing philosophy with someday nearly everyday here. This was a topic I seldom visited since my teenage years, sitting on the swings in the park until 5 in morning with Becky, April, or Danelle. I never really gained much from it; my beliefs have always just come to me, independent of outside influence. Stealing other's beliefs seemed like cheating. At Haad Thien, I found myself really being influenced and influencing others. It began to be apparent that I was wrong when I assumed I had no big life lessons to learn on this trip. I couldn't figure out exactly what I needed to learn, but I felt that something was keeping me here because I had something to learn; I just didn't know what it was. True, I was burned out from traveling. This was evident. If not for the group I met in India, I doubt I would have enjoyed myself much in the last month. Every temple was becoming just a temple. Every mountain a mountain. Every beach just a beach. This is a bad mindset for traveling. I didn't need philosophy to figure this out. But there was something more and the fact I found myself for four straight days strapping on the backpack but not leaving showed that I didn't want to leave. I just couldn't shake the guilt of staying static at such high monetary costs of seclusion.

The next day with not moving, my friends sensed the disease many seem to have at Haad Thien. Kate gave me a dice and encouraged me to write six choices of options, roll the die and see what happens. This seemed like a good idea; I choose the options, so whatever comes up is my choice anyway. The dice told me to stay until my visa ends, two weeks later. I was not sad about the outcome.

Later that day, I felt the urge to write a short story, so I walked to Haad Yuan, the nearby bay for lunch and quiet. The man at the next table was smoking a pipe and offered me a hit, which I graciously indulged. With one puff, I had the most complete flash of creative inspiration of my entire life. Suddenly a whole novel flashed before my eyes. The characters, the themes, the lessons, the story, everything. Time truncated. There were so many words floating around me, I couldn't even grasp them. I furiously wrote, trying to get everything I could on paper before I lost it. Next thing I knew, three hours and six pages of notes were sitting in front of me.

I walked back to Beam and found Kate hanging out. She wasn't shocked to see me still around. Sadly, I was not in a social mood and dove back into my notebook, writing the last chapter of the first act in one sitting.

Shanti, a fellow writer, strode in and saw me immersed. “You look like a man in the middle of inspiration.”
“Yep. Whole novel, just came right in front of me. I've never had this happen before.”

“What is it about?”

I explained the concept. It was a horror novel set on the island. The bay is filled with hippies and crazies, reigning free in a non-judgemental place. In the nine days I had spent there, I've had my share of odd conversations. I realized that if I looked at some of the things people said with the filter of horror story, it is quite creepy. The novel was semi-autobiographical; basically exploring my fears of embracing new philosophies, since my current ones were leaving me at a dead end.

Later that afternoon, Rob, the manager of Spice, a local restaurant entered. On a random impulse, which I indulged, I asked him if he needed any help.

“In fact, I do need an extra person. Can you stop by tonight?”

I began telling him of all my experience in the business, but he stopped me mid-sentence.

“I've got a really good vibe coming off of you, this just seems right. Don't worry about a resume, just come in.”

And like that, I laid the foundations to stay longer. I had a job, I had a novel to write, and I just laid down a two and a half month commitment. My backpack sat at the edge of my bed; there was no more pretense, no more fighting. I was staying.

The novel writing petered out after a month (though I do intend to finish it). Once I stayed, I realized that I had been telling myself I needed to stay for days. If I really wanted to leave, I would have left. I ignored myself though, still trying to force myself to move on. So, next thing I know, my brain threw me novel and reason to stay at me. Once I listened to myself, the stress disappeared; I was happy.

We are constantly communicating to ourselves, through actions, through choices, through intuition, through emotions. If we only listen to our thinking, we'll miss a very large percent of our wants and needs. If you are hungry you want to eat. If you eat and stay hungry, you've missed a nutrient you body needs. Similarily, if you can't leave someplace, you've missed an experience you need. Now, there are limits to this, sometimes a person is fed the wrong feelings as well. That's when you use the brain as a filter. Every time I've trusted my instincts, it has resulted in positive changes and events in my life. They may have hurt me in the short term, but over time, these choices have become the defining moments of my life. I will strive to listen to myself for the rest of my life.

Haad Thien Lesson One

Live your life according to what you do, not what you don't do

My plans had enough time for me to visit Koh Phangan for about three days before heading to Krabi to see the magnificent limestone karsts and cliffs of the Andaman Coast of Thailand.

I arrived to Koh Phangan during a rainstorm. Koh Tao was rainy for the three days I visited. As I boarded the ferry, the skies cleared, revealing one the most beautiful days I've ever seen. I was sad to leave, but I'd already booked the ticket and I was invited by Brian, Cathy, and Jose to party that night. The rain seemed to be following me.

I had some hassles with the boat drivers who seemed immune to any form of bargaining. They were charging 300baht since the waves were too high. I caved, agreeing to pay the money; there was no way to get to Haad Thien save a two hour hike up a mountain. The waves were insane and the ride was frightening. We stopped at Haad Yuan first, the bay before my destination, but the waves were so strong, we had trouble getting off the beach. They took me back to Haad Rin, refusing to move on. On the way, crashing waves soaked all of my things, including my camera and mp3 player (which did turn out to ok.). About an hour later, they agreed to take me back to Haad Yuan, but not all the way to Haad Thien. This was fine since it was only a ten minute walk.

They suggested I stay at Beam, the backpacker hub for the area. It was a lovely dorm, open air, large, clean, with a great balcony for yoga overlooking the sea. I was in love instantly. The bay was quiet, no roads, hippies and yogis everywhere. Within minutes, I'd met a group of fun Fins who occupied me for much of the afternoon.

The party was great and I was happy to spend time with friends. I was warned when I arrive that people typically don't leave, most staying for at least a month, despite any plans. I didn't think this would happen to me, but I ended up staying a couple days later to experience the weekly social event of bay, Guy's Bar on Friday. I was too tired to leave Saturday, so I planned to leave Sunday, with Brian, Cathy and Jose.

My bags were packed, I was ready to go, but then I met a lovely woman, Kate, on Sunday afternoon while I was waiting for my laundry. We started talking and next thing I knew it was dark. Suddenly, I realized that Krabi was not a practical stop; why go someplace for only a day. I decided to stay until Tuesday, then head to Malaysia. It was hard to abandon a plan to see something great on the other end of the world, but I was enjoying myself too much. Why search for other paradises when I'd already found one? It was the perfect balance of sociality and rusticness.

Koh Tao

Everyone told me to go to Koh Tao, Daan, Tara, and many others. "It's amazing." "Best island I've ever seen." So many great reviews, I had to see it. Was this going to be the island paradise I needed after months of intense travelling?

Apparently not. The island was beautiful! Incredible. Really, it was a great place, but I didn't like it. It is most famous for being the place to dive. I'm into to diving, so I found myself on the outside.

I was expecting an undeveloped, quaint little island, which it most was. The main drag was an eyesore, hugging the beach so closely, during high tide, there was no sand on which to stand. My first night was free, I was staying with a woman I met in transit who was taking a dive course, with a free bungallow. I moved on the next day since I didn't want to freeload on a complete stranger. To escape the development, I walked to the other side of the island. I love quiet, but I also love socializing, and the other side was deserted! Completely. Nobody at all. So I went to town again, to find everywhere either booked or too expensive. Finally, I found a dorm above a noisy bar that was bumping until late in the day.

I left after two days. I got a good snorkel, some nice hiking, but I couldn't connect to the place. On the boat there, I met three really cool people who were heading to a secluded bay on Koh Pha-ngan; seeing my hippie nature, they suggested I come and see it; a whole bay, filled with hippies, yogis, ravers. Liberalism and love. Sounded like my thing. So off I went to Haad Thien. I didn't realize this choice would change me forever and trap me for three months.

Three nights in Bangkok

Bangkok surprised me in its modernity. It just seemed like another city; and I'd yet to see a modern style city for months. Everything seemed so clean, litter was not to be found; the buildings were neat and spread out along the river.

Julien and I found a room at My New House Guesthouse, just a block from the tourist ghetto of Kho San Road. The whole place was an overload of senses. Western music pumped from every place, tourists were everywhere, drunk. Hawkers sold everything from trendy t-shirts to wooden frogs that when a stick is rubbed across the back it sounds like a frog. People were getting massages every few feet. Women were wearing next to nothing; there was so much skin, my head felt like it would explode. I could understand why Indian men seem to lose their cool at the sight of western women. India was so oppressive compared to this. The biggest change was the 7-11's all over the city, selling everything a tourist could need from toiletries, to cigarettes, to beer, snacks or an iced coffee. And they were everywhere. In India, I could search for an hour to just to find a bar of soap. I couldn't help but love the convenience, the pure catered quality of it all.

Daan arrived the next morning and we all spent the days lounging around, eating wonderful, cheap Thai food and drinking Chang Beer and iced coffees over games of billiards. It was the type of town where 5AM came easily. I did not go to bed even a single time early.

I spend one day sightseeing. Kho San is so close to the old city that a good day is all one needs to walk through the main stuff. I skipped the Royal Palace because of the cost, but visited the fantastic Wat Pho, home of the world's largest reclining Buddha. The whole grounds were incredible; it may have been the most fantastic temple I've ever seen. I walked around Chinatown to try to find some good food, but I managed to get trapped in the Indian district, a place I needed not spend any time. Eventually I found some fried tofu dish that I didn't care for much. I stopped by a few more temples, including the hilltop Temple on the Mount, where I could see Bangkok stretching forever in all directions; all looking the same except for scattered wat.

I hung out with Nat one night, making plans to meet in Malaysia in a couple weeks. It was great to see Nat as a man in his home city.

Daan encouraged me to hit up Koh Tao next, so I followed his advice and booked a bus and boat combo from my guesthouse. It took mere minutes to have everything planned. No cues, no language hassles, and an empty seat. Thailand is so easy.

Farewell India

It was more economically viable for me to take a train across the length of India to fly from Kolkata to Thailand, than to fly directly from Delhi, which was fine by me; I much prefer Kolkata.

I bid farewell to the group, planning to meet Daan in Bangkok and boarded my 35 hour train after a short tour of the Haridwar Ghats. There was a point in my life when seven hours of any form of travel was excruciating, but after Australia and this trip, anything less than twelve hours registers no dread. I actually hoped the train would take longer than the 32 hour scheduled; it was to arrive at 2AM, four hour delay would put me in Kolkata at sunrise. As common with the unreliable Indian train system, I got my wish.

Most of the hotels on Shudder street were booked out with my arrival, but a room opened up at the 10 o'clock checkout. I had no real plans to see anything. I only needed to spend less that 500 rupees and eat some Kolkata egg rolls. This was not too hard: most egg rolls will cost around 20 rupees. I managed to eat three, one double egg, double chicken, one with paneer and chicken, and one on classic egg roll. Strange that with the delectable quantities of Bengali food around me, right at its delicious source, I chose to eat the most common of street food for my last meals in India.

In my hotel I met a man Julien who had the same flight, so we shared a taxi to the airport and boarded my first flight since my arrival in Beijing.

Though Nepal and India were both markably different, they were similar enough that I needed a complete change. I'd been in an Hindu society for nearly four months and I did not even know what to expect once I landed in Thailand. I was sad to be leaving, but also relieved. India was tough, though there hasn't been an easy country. Even the simple lifestyle of trekking in Nepal involved intense physical work, but India really tested a person emotionally. Indians are quick to perceive the weaknesses and strengths of people and they use this intuition to challenge. I learned to hate a persons actions, even if I liked the person. I'd had a great time with those who'd ripped me off. The easiest way to keep many Indians from bothering you is to make a joke. We'd developed a method of defusing beggars by begging from them first; you quickly learn to identify them.

I'd learned to embrace enough of the culture as I could. I ate with my right hand; it is amazing how much more sense Indian food made when eating it properly. The tastiest ratios of sauce to rice was the point where it became just right for picking up. I also used my left hand for...I stopped buying toilet paper. I tried paan, smoked beedies, tried every sweet I could. India is a hard country to crack, but there were ways to have simple connections, mostly chai and beedies.

I was befuddled by the eccentricities of the people. How holy temples show explicit images of many uncommon sex practices, yet husbands and wives may never see each other naked. People will shower with their clothes on, yet not think twice of defecating right on the sidewalk with others around. Being able to have instant love for a person, complete devotion to help, yet at the same time, able to lie with a straight face about anything. It was a land where begging isn't desperation, it's a profession that people train to do. Dirt floor homes will be immaculate while the streets are trashed. Discrimination is so open it is not worth thought.

It is easy to understand why people either love or hate India; it is a polarizing place: it's a polar place. I can't decide where I fall. I liked India quite a bit, but I wouldn't say I loved it. There were moments when I wanted to just leave, but I wouldn't say I hated it. It did change me somehow, and maybe not in a good way. At first I was so shocked by human suffering, but now, it doesn't really touch me anymore. I used to openly talk to anyone who seemed friendly, but in India I learned to close myself in. It is such an oppressive place in so many ways, but it makes you stronger. I've heard many say they hated India and would never want to go back, but nobody has ever wished they'd never gone.

A Tool of Love

Yoga, meditation, and spiritual enlightenment are the main activities in Rishikesh, though there is the pothead and backpacker subculture who could not care less in their haze, merely enjoying being stoned in a pretty place. I didn't commit myself to an ashram but I spent a few days at one offering free classes.

I was privy through a glass door of a dancing meditation group. Swarms, eyes closed, float around the room, flailing arms to shanti music. They looked silly, but most seemed to feel something. On the outside, we all laughed, but I was intrigued enough to want to try it the next day. Sadly, they didn't offer it in the following afternoons.

We all did want to give group meditation a chance, especially Daan, “I want to learn how!” he said on numerous occasions.

Nam and I, the only two who engage in any form of intentional meditation, didn't know how to explain that you just do it. I never confine meditation to sitting in a half lotus with eyes closed, humming “om”. I meditate through cooking or hiking; meditation is a state, not an activity. Either way, we joined in a group, sat cross legged and surrendered to the energy, some what. Mark sat and photographed those with closed eyes. Daan and Maartje drifted in and out with various levels of seriousness. Nam was lost in it, singing to the peaceful songs she somehow knew. As you can guess from my journalism, I couldn't maintain the state for the whole time. A woman was crying, raising her hands the the heavens as the music consumed her. Some sat in each others' arms stroking hair and arms. Most sat cross-legged, eyes closed in concentration. It was easy to find the humor from the room, so many people singing, clapping, playing instruments with an excessive level of seriousness. Despite this though, when I did settle down, close my eyes and surrendered to it, I did feel something and I did reach a meditative state. The room had so much energy, the silly songs growing higher and higher to a climax. I found it easy to get lost in it. After a point, it all stopped; it was time for the guru to speak.

I noticed him enter during one of my more lucid states. He quietly entered, a white figure in all ways—robes, hair, beard, presence, all but his Indian brown skin—and sat in the front and merely closed his eyes without a word. Some started to stand at his entrance, but with a simple wave of his hand, he instructed them to remain seated and ignore him.

Finally in the silent void left by the abrupt cessation of the music, he opened his eyes slowly and began to speak in Hindi, a young woman translated in only a slightly less peaceful voice.

He explained how the goal of life is to purge the heart of all negative thoughts, all anger, all sadness, and fill it with love. Upon reaching this point, we can then love even those who hate us. Our love will become like the rays of sun, radiating indiscriminately onto all.

When this happens, we will all become tools of love, great big tools with only positivity. Once we all accept that the love has made us all tools, we can help spread the love so everyone can have the chance to become a tool. And this all starts by embracing the theories of the biggest tool of all, the guru.

He spoke with a half-smiled smugness, hanging on his every word, loving his every word. He loved the captive power he had over the audience. He loved his importance. He was so filled with self-love, he truly was a giant tool.

His sermon sounded good and well meaning, but it stated that negative emotions are terrible things that need to be pushed out, not embraced and controlled. If a person loses their ability to accept and love the negativity in their own heart, how can they love and accept it in another person. His whole theory ignores the importance and need for the dark side of the human spirit. How can love be positive without it having a polar nature with hate? The love would have no meaning. Then we're all smiling zombies. He was right about one thing though, if we all have only pure love in our hearts, we would become a race of tool.

The Sober Psychedelic Experience at the Maharishi Ashram

In 1968, The Beatles, their partners, and Faye Dunaway, made a famous trip to study transcendental meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. George Harrison had been dabbling in eastern Thought and religious practices for years and he encouraged the other three open-minded Beatles to join him. They all stayed for a few months, save Ringo who, sick of bringing in his own food and not interested much in mediation, left after a couple weeks. During their stay, they wrote most of the White Album and expanded their consciousnesses. Eventually the rest left after an alleged molestation of a female tenant by the Maharishi and learning of the Maharishi's profit driven business practices.

With a few years, the Maharishi moved his Ashram to the United States where he gained further notoriety, starting a controversial religious community someplace in rural Iowa. His Rishikesh ashram is now in disreapair, but I wasn't sure of the state when I made a plan to visit.

I was considering a visit before my arrival in Rishikesh, but my plan didn't reach fruition until I bumped into my friend Himalaya. Funded by my last trek, Himalay embarked on nearly the same tour as mine, combining travel with networking for his company. I bumped into him a few times on my trip, but we'd not really traveled together. In Varanasi, he was randomly chilling out at my Guest house restaurant a few minutes before my train to Agra; he'd been in town for the same amount of time as me. We later saw each other again at the Bhang Shop in Jaisalmer and made plans to meet in Amritasar at the Golden Temple. I traveled too fast to see him there, but he arrived in Rishikesh, sharing an autorickshaw with my friends

He had already walked to the Beatles Ashram, as it was popularly called, the day earlier, but the groundskeeper, who had no authority to do so was charging fifty rupees per head to enter. Apparently a backway existed, through an inconspicuous trail through the jungle.

The six of us got direction from a 40-year old British hippie who had snuck in before. “You have to go!” he said as we left in spacey British accent fueled by excessive drug use, “The Beatles were there man!”

We walked in the unexpected heat of the first sunny day in weeks. All of us stripping down from the morning chill, out coats, jackets, thermals, dangling from every chunk strap free in our stuffed day packs. Himalay asked every sardu, lounging stoned in their crude dwellings in the jungle, how to get to “Beatle Ashram”. After nearly a month total of hearing him speak only Nepali and English, I noticed the slight differences in the cadence and words of Hindi. The sardus all seemed to have different answers as to the best route, but it was clear that it lied to the right, through the dense forest. Finally, we settled on a trail that led us to the spooky grounds.

The buildings were overgrown with vines, trees, and other flora. The toilets were smashed. Beer bottles from parties and graffiti were everywhere. It was amazing how quickly a human endeavor Could be degraded by the elements in less than 40 short years. Despite the disrepair, the grounds still had a power, the fading of lost human presence that amplified the unwelcoming air of the place.

There were littered with compounds of dark basement cells, most likely meditation rooms. The sunnier upper floors were dedicated to the also tight, institutional lodgings. We passed through a trashed yoga hall and fought our way through the bush into the main buildings, two multi-floored dormitories with strange, white, egg-shaped structures on the room. We sat in the sun under the eggs and soaked in the feeling . Each egg had a ladder on the outside o, leading to an open hole on the top. The top third of the eggs were a small echo compartment, ideal for “Om shanti” chanting. Daan, Mark, Himaly and I crawled in and sang Beatles songs in the surreal acoustics. The chambers were cool and pleasant in the midday sun, The Beatles tunes helping us connect with the lost energy of the powerful creative presence that composed one of the greatest albums of all time. We descended back to the roof and lounged with Beatles classics. The energy of the place stirred in us an odd mood, best captured by a short video by Nam. She panned around, showing Maartje sunbathing, Daan and Mark composing photos with the egg, Himalay starring out over the trees at the holy Ganga, smoking a beedie, and me, shaking a strange orb on a spring, atop a column, as if putting my whole energy inside, all to the distant sound of “Here Comes the Sun.” Without realizing it, we were celebrating the first day of spring. An outsider seeing the video would question our sobriety, but the energy of the place put us all in a strange, semi-psychadelic mood. While reenacting our favorite Beatles posters for photographs, the groundskeeper found us and asked us politely to leave the restricted area. We all came down and quietly left the way we came, avoiding the inevitable fee.

The Yoga Capital of the World

The yoga capital of the world was slotted to be my longest stay in India. Laziness, lack of space, lack of energy, and other excuses had kept me from my typical yoga practice on the road. Also, having never taken a yoga course in my life, only learning from books, I figured a good week of cheap yoga classes would be a nice stop.

Holy Rishikesh is divided into four main centers, the downtown area, much like any Indian city, but set on the beautiful and at this point, clear Ganges river; Swarg Ashram, a collection of ashrams, restaurants and orange robed sardus smoking chillums on the bench lined streets; Laxman Julla, a tourist ghetto with guesthouses and restaurants, net cafes and a few more ashrams; and finally, where I chose to base, High Bank, a quiet group of lodgings located in the forest on the hill above town. The latter is less pretentious and new age than the rest of town, catering more to the backpackers who came to Rishikesh to see a beautiful river town instead of expanding their consciousness of reorganizing their soul. Like everywhere in town, they offered yoga.

Daan, Maartje, Nam and Mark arrived two days after I; all but Nam had never done yoga before. We planned to enter an Ashram for a few days for the experience but we found a nearby place offering free yoga and meditation, so we stayed the High Bank. My first two classes were one-on-one with a young yogi who led a very basic yoga course, mostly informal ashtanga, that though a good workout, did not teach me any new assana or techniques. The class I took with group was led by a creepy, long-haired, bearded baba with eyes that had the intensity of Charles Manson's; he scared us into pushing ourselves. He did teach me some new techniques, but he didn't make me comfortable, so we moved on. We settled on a free one-hour class led by a cute Brazilian hippie, bursting with positive spunk, accepting whatever we could do, but encouraging us to push ourselves. This had just the right atmosphere and I learned quite a bit. Sampling the courses showed me that yoga has different styles, assanas and variations on each. If the routine is balanced and stretches or aligns the body in the proper ways, it's effective. With this information, I felt much better about my personal routine and added more assanas so I could extend it.

The others, Nam excluded were quite mixed about yoga. Mark just thought it was silly, Daan and Martje, though enjoying it were quite shocked by the difficulty of it; both treated the experience with more curiosity than excitement and neither seemed too interested in continuing, which is a shame. Out of the many exorcises I've done, few encourage weight loss, maintain weight, boost flexibility, build strength and muscle that last and leaves me with a feeling of well-being, quite like yoga. In fact, someday I will get my 200 hours so I am able to work as an instructor. This is a good job for me; I can take it anywhere, it's something I enjoy, I can work with others, and stay fit. Plus, now I can claim to have studied yoga in India.

Amritsar

Located near the Pakistani border, in the heart of India's breadbasket, Amritsar has the distinction of being one of India's holiest cities. It is the home of the incredible Golden Temple, the most revered Sikh shrine in India. The Sikhs are a religious group, separated from Hinduism in the 15th century, it was started by a guru Nanakaman who's image dominates the walls of many places in Amritsar. He rejected the caste system, saying all people are equal, a theme shown by the free accommodation and food at Sikh temples. The Sikhs abstain from smoking, alcohol, and drugs (idealistically anyway) and can be recognized by their uncut beards, long hair bunched in a lump above their forehead and the iconic turban wrapping style. They've faced persecution over the years; the Golden Temple has been destroyed a few times. In 1984, a group of Sikhs, wanting a separate state, hoed in the Golden Temple. Not wanting to look weak to the primarily Hindu state, Prime Minister Indira Ghandi invaded the temple and crushed the uprising. The Sikhs were understandably bitter about their shrine being defaced and tensions rose higher as Indira was shot dead in her driveway by her trusted Sikh bodyguards. The situation has calmed but it remains a painful reminder of religious differences are a major source of conflict in the multicultural India.

Amritsar itself is a busy confusing town. Sikhs are the most predominant people, especially near the Golden Temple. I visited by myself (the others had yet to arrive) and walked the perimeter. The silence of the temple grounds are very relaxing in opposition to the town. Before entering, I had to wash my hands and feet then cover my head with a scarf. Thankfully the beauty of the temple outweighed the feeling of standing with wet feet on cold marble in the middle of winter. The temple itself is a sculpted gold box floating in a square tank of water. On two sides stand giant clock towers, the other two are flanked with an enormous gold dome and a collection of free dorms for pilgrims. The temple itself is fantastic, but standing the middle of the grand grounds is the most amazing. I didn't enter the temple itself saving that for my next day with the others. I did however stop for lunch in the massive multi-floor dining complex, which feeds tens of thousands of people daily, for free. This is a true show of how the Sikhs value equality so highly. A person walks in the door, is given a multicompartmental plate and a spoon, then is ushered upstairs. Lines of narrow carpets span the floors, where people sit down and wait to be served. Beturbaned men stood at the end of the aisles, offering prayers before serving out of giant buckets flavorful dal, the best I've had in India, thick vegetable curry, coconut rice porridge, a ladoo, and chapatis, offered into my two hands held together in a almost begging postrure, filled my plates. The food was fantastic, a surprising feat given the dizzying quantity produced. A middle-aged single mother professed her fast love for me in broken English as I ate and played with her child. When finished, I got up and dropped my dishes in the mass volunteer cleaning area, nearby masses sat on the floor, chopping onions and shelling garlic. It was beautiful to see such well-oiled, large-scale charity, not for the poor, not for the Sikhs, but everyone. I left a donation in the box and went to randomly wander the incomprehensible streets of Amritsar.

The Hindus have their own version of the golden Temple, though less grand. I was glad I saw this one first. Along the outside of their tanks were life-size panoramas of the lives of various deities, primarily Shiva. The Hindu temple that really struck me in Amritsar was the Mata Temple, a theological obstacle course passing idols, going through crawl spaces, trenches of water and fake caves. It was a fun presentation of Hindu ideas through a journey.

By far, the real highlight was the Pakistani border closing ceremony at Attari about 30km west of Amritsar. I don't know the origins of this oddity, but it's quite the spectacle. Guests are ushered to a group of bleachers like in a school gymnasium. Before the ceremony, Indians stand near the gate and dance energetically to Bollywood hits. At some point, the curiously dressed soldiers, in brick red uniforms adorned with large gold buttons and topped with hats that look like a large fan, growing out of their heads, like cocks' mohawk, clear the grounds for the ceremony. It starts with a call to chant by an MC-like character. He yells, “Hindustan!” and the crowd replies, “Zindabad!” This goes on for a few minutes until the mic is held in front of a soldier who yells “Ohhhhhhhhh!” until out of breath then he stands, lifts one foot high into the air like Monty Python's ministry of silly walks, straightens abruptly, turns and speed walks arms and legs in exaggerated motion all the way to the gate. On the Pakistani side, the same things is happening in almost a mirrored competition of pomp. It feels like two pep rallies in a single giant room, each side trying to be louder and more nationalistic than the other, flags waving in the crowds with great fervor. This process repeats for five consecutive soldiers until all are standing in a line at the gate. Finally, the soldiers from each side shakes hands politely, quickly and the flags are lowered with the sunset and the gate is closed. The party stops with this.

I returned home that second night and the group had just arrived, their more convenient route had 15 hours of delays. I, however, not wishing to linger, already had my ticket to Rishikesh. The rest, minus John would join me two days later. Before my train, I went to a great night market and had my best meal in India, mutton curry and tandoori chicken, specialties of Punjab. It was meat heavy since Rishikesh is a holy, vegetarian town.

My walk to the station went passed the bus stands and travel agencies, all trying to get me on their bus.

“I already have a train ticket,” I repeated again and again to any who approached me. Some were even lying. “No trains are leaving tonight.”

“I have a ticket.”

“Trains don't leave tonight.”

They did. The ease with which Indians can lie always astonishes me.

Bikaner

We all wanted to go to Amritsar, but due to some lack of confidence in the availability of transportation from Bikaner on the way, the group chose to transit through Delhi. As you can guess; I broke away from the group and took a night train to Bikaner.

It wasn't a particularly special city, but it broke up the trip a bit. A local told me to skip the fort; it is much like Jodpur's only not as nice. The man who stored my bag and organized my direct ticket to Amritsar touted me to an art gallery featuring a special local school of micro-painting. This surprisingly was a great stop. The teacher of the school held the record for the world's smallest painting, an intricate post card sized nature scene that had so much detail, a magnifying glass was essential. He painted a small bird paining on my thumb nail. It's nice to carry art with you.

The gallery was near a pleasant yet unremarkable palace. A large draw of the town is the Karni Mata Temple in Deshnok nearby. Simply known as the rat temple, it is believed to have the souls of all dead storytellers, brought back from the dead as rats to punish Yama, god of death for not restoring the life of a storyteller's son. Worshiped here, the rats are given offerings of milk and sweets. It wasn't like walking through a sea of rats like I expected. They would just be clustered around, picking off the pilgrim's offerings, some individual rats looking like tiny tailed footballs from their fortunate diet. I wasn't squeamish though, standing barefoot in the presence of thousands of rodents. I quite like rats myself. The plague just happened to give these intelligent, social creatures a bad name.

Camel Trekkin' with Mr. Desert

Nearly every visitor to Jaisalmer goes on a camel trek. Spending the night on a sand dune under the stars ranks as a top experience for most visitors to Rajahstan. It wasn't a part of my original plans, but the grop was game and I'd heard great reviews from fellow travelers.

We left at nine and took a jeep to a village 50km away and waited for the camels to arrive. Then over the hill trotted in six western people on camels, smiles across their faces. The excitement was building.

Without a single rest, a camel was allotted to each of us and we left. Somehow I was stuck with the smallest, ugliest camel with a bald patch on his head. His name was Raju, but I dubbed him Hugh Jackman. I ditched this name since the camel had nothing in common with the handsome Australian actor. John named his Lawrence as in Lawrence of Arabia. Somehow this led me to Alec Guinness and I changed Raju's name to Obi Wan. Obi Wan proved angry, stubborn, and far from noble. Obi Wan would not do for a name either I settled on Danny Devito and called him Louis Depalma occasionally, which was a perfect name. The owner forced me to call him Raju.

I was expecting the romantic experience of riding a camel on top of dunes, but we all walked in a straight line, going slower than my normal walking speed, led on a leash. When I was granted the reins, I was filled with glee, until I realized Raju didn't like me and just ignored my directions. Now, I've riden horses. I've raised dogs. I've managed a staff of ghetto-dwelling gang-bangers. I know how to stay strong in the face of insubordination, but I was no camel man. Before each break, Raju would split from the group, wander off and ignore my steering, eventually stopping, refusing to move. Raju also had the tendency to walk painfully slow, unless I constantly sang to him in Hindi.

The song was more of a call and response between me and the guide who never left my side. He'd begin, “Toro Haha Toro!” Then I'd repeat. “Torro Haha hum!” Repeat.

I deduced that toro meant fast and hum meant go. Haha remains a mystery to me. We went back and forth, combining these three words in various combinations, sometimes with new more complicated words which I uniformly managed to mispronounce to the giggling glee of the guides. The singing worked, with every phrase, Raju would pick up the pace, his rough demeanor fading with each chant. Whenever I bored of this game, Raju would return to his usual pokey pace. Suffice to say, I ended up chanting a lot.

We camped on a secluded sand dune, one of the many scattered around the mostly scrub desert. Mr. Desert arrived in the less romantic jeep to cook our dinner and tell his well rehearsed story of his rise to prominent tour organizer and minor celebrity over the fire.

In short, he was a simple villager and truck driver until he won the Mr. Desert competition, a beauty contest in 1988 featuring men in traditional Rajahstani clothes and facial hair. A friend, seeing the profitablity of his great look, encouraged him to transfer his career to tourism. Unlike most Indians, he felt that bombarding tourists at train stations was too pushy, preferring to let the customers come to him. His buisness was a disaster until one day, a passing photographer, fascinated by his face, took a series of photos, eventually selling some to a cigarette company. Overnight, he became the Rajahstani Marlbro man, and he had never smoked a cigarette in his life. Native Indians would stop in constantly to see the famous face of Jaisalmer Brand Tobacco. Slowly his business grew, solely by word of mouth until he became the most highly respected camel man in town. In the meantime, he won the Mr. Desert competition three more times. To help allow more even competition, the organizers dubbed him Mr. Desert for life, banned him from future competitions and put a one-year limit on future winners to prevent dynasties. He starred in various television commercials and had a bit part in a Bollywood film. He seems to love his status

It was interesting, but I expected a more magical story from such an iconic face. He offered us all a beer before taking his jeep home. We stayed up for hours later, sitting in our warm blankets, spotting shooting stars. As all had told, sleeping open air on a sand dune is a special experience.

The next day was like the first. We stopped at the Sam Sand Dunes, a popular destination in the area, then headed back. I chose to walk the rest of the way by foot. Raju and I were not friends and riding a camel is not particularly comfortable; I much prefer a horse.

It was an interesting experience. I don't reckon I like camels much. The food was mediocre, but filling, the staff, outside of Mr. Desert himself, was not going the extra millimeter. For the whole trip, I felt I was put on a tourist assembly line, given a carefully constructed, ununique venture on a well-trodden trail. John was sick the whole time and his negativity was definitely contagious. I am glad I took part, but it was by no means a highlight of India.