India II, part I: Why India?

The view from the mountaintop may be amazing, but it’s the climb that...  

___[your thought here]___.

For decades, the cliché has been that travelers go to India for soul-searching.  It’s been said, it’s been observed, that many Westerners from countries whose spiritual aspects are muted by materialism flock to the vast land with hopes of discovering a deeper meaning of life.  If the process is “finding oneself”, the travelers are seekers.  The initial assault on the senses, continuation of surprises, and beautiful flow of the unexpected must be experienced to understand how a trip to the subcontinent can turn one inside out.   Spend some time soaking it in and then, there it is: your soul.  In the midst of positive transformation, spinning around brilliantly before you .  Why India? 

So long as the traveler has a heart, a trip to India will tear it wide open.   Be ready for surgery of the soul.  Sadness, pity, awe, and shock may be the first emotions to flood one’s being. Upon their arrival, tourist seekers from the West are immediately confronted by India’s poverty.  The widespread in-your-face occurrence of slums, beggars, crippled, diseased, and homeless pierce the heart like daggers.   In some areas, the pollution is suffocating and the streets are lined with trash.  On the scene, one cannot help but think about materialistic attachments, the meaning of “luxury”, and the means of an individual’s mere survival. After some time, the place and its people will fill that heart with compassion, appreciation, and love.

Then there’s the God aspect.  The country overflows with rituals of religious devotion.  In the West, the politically correct manner of practicing worship is to do so behind closed doors.  Such is not the case in the land of Hindus.  Prayers, parades, pujas, and other acts of worship openly occur on the streets, at the ghats and in the flowing waters of the holy rivers, and around the various temples found in every nook and cranny.   The sound of chanting layered with drums and bells permeates the air intermittently, adding joy to the backdrop of beeping traffic, mooing cows, and revving machinery, as one passes through any city.  Images of gods, goddesses, and gurus are found everywhere one turns:  in taxis, homes, restaurants, hotels, and bus stations.  A shopkeeper starts his day by lighting incense and saying a prayer before the flower- adorned shrine set up behind the counter, unconcealed.  In every corner, in every way, the polluted atmosphere is blessed over and over again through the devotion of India’s billions of inhabitants. 

The air of India’s spirituality has spread like wildfire.   The Beatles’ George Harrison brought the maha mantra (Hare Krishna, Hare Ram) mainstream.  Devotees of Lord Krishna donning saffron robes and shaved heads are seen the world over.   Their International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) temples have been global for decades.  Along with its wide-openness of religious practice, India mothers the ancient roots of yoga and various types of meditation.   It was yoga that drew me here from the beginning and, for a large percentage of travelers, these “new age” practices are the main attractions. 

With so many ancient ruins, holy sites, temples, gurus, ashrams, and meditation courses, it’s easy for one to get lost in this enormous show of the sacred.  Seeking out the ultimate spiritual experience, travelers go this way and that, from ashram to temple to guru.  The search itself brings immediate yet temporary satisfaction.  As long as one is seeking, there is denial of the divine that lies within us at all times, in all places.  Only when the effort is dropped and the seeking has ceased, one is able to see the beauty, truth, and supreme energy in each moment, in each living being.

“So long as the traveler has a heart, a trip to India will tear it wide open”.  Within that open heart, divinity reveals itself without having to be found.  Layers upon layers of veils, which prevent us from seeing things as they are, gradually fall away.   At the end of the day, the spiritual awakenings end up occurring, perhaps not at the temples and holy sites, but on the long and winding roads that lead to their doors.

Heaven and hell

On the overnight, 14+ hour bus ride from Mumbai to Goa, I asked myself why I'm taking this time to see another part of India.  It's not that I don't absolutely adore this hunk of a nation. It's just the crappy feeling I sometimes get about being a tourist on "holiday".  What's the purpose of it, really?  I end up feeling like a jackass, walking around some strange town, occasionally taking photos in the attempt to capture a snippet of a moment I perceive to be beautiful.  I'm not contributing much to these strange places, maybe some good energy through smiles and light conversation, and dollars besides.  On the flip side, I've selfishly realized the benefits that I reap as my heart gently leaps through the mazes of waves from darkness to light.  Here in India and a few other places I've been through, travelling becomes a twisted game of 'heaven and hell'.  


Hell is the hour it takes to get out of the hot, grimy, loud, thick city of Mumbai by bus.  Stagnant air meeting my face at the window that longs for the breeze brought only by greater speed. Heaven is the infinite number of amazing scenes that pass through that window: colorful markets, holiday lights, interesting buildings, traffic jams, goats, cows, families in poverty living on sidewalks among vendors and dirty happy children.  


Hell is trying to stay light and fun with the travel partner I don't really know, the travel partner who didn't seem to be as easy as I think I am... while walking on eggshells around her mood swings.  Heaven is when she gives thanks to me for being a great companion, when I see her smile with childlike wonder at animals and all things cute (fondly reminding me of a dear girlfriend), when I know she's well-fed and content, and she ends up emerging a strong, fun, wise, helpful, delightful travel buddy! 


Hell is trying to sleep during the overnight bus ride, full of potholes and hairpin turns, not able to stretch my long-ass legs, and wondering why the passengers had to shut all the windows, enclosing us in this grimy interior.  Oh, I never felt so filthy.  Heaven is the midnight pit-stops for toilets, chai, and a strrrrrrreeeeeeetchhhhh.  Heaven is waking up to see the lush, palm tree hills of Incredible India covered in layers of fog as the sun lazily emerges from behind low lying clouds.  


Hell is wandering around, bags in tow, in search of a suitable hotel.  Heaven is when we always seem to find a larger than expected room with a clean bathroom at a reasonable price.  There's nothing even remotely hellish about the food here.  Even unsure of what we order, every meal seems like the best EVER.  Here, the food, sweets, and chai are heavenly.  


Hell is where my mind goes when children follow me down the street, begging for food or money.  Heaven is in the smiles that come from those kids after simply taking their photo or slicing up a guava to share with them.  


Hell is feeling like a tourist.  Heaven?  Being invited into the home of a couple, around my parents age, for a special Diwali dinner.  Their two daughters are settled in the States, they were especially delighted to have us, and the food and stories were outstanding.  Life is a blessing, the beginning of heaven.  


Hell is a twisted, dark, imagined place that lies in pockets within the perception of my privileged, fortunate mind.  I don't think I've ever experienced hell.  Even the bout of traveler's diarrhea, which left me feeling as though I'd been hit by a truck, feverish, nauseated, and ready to die... was rapidly alleviated by neighbors and the ever-surprising travel buddy. This wandering that seems so silly at times will eventually lead me home, which still remains to be that undetermined physical location... where my heart is, where my sea-bag is.  

France by chance

PARIS NEVER CAME CLOSE to topping my list of “places to go”.  Actually, it probably wasn’t even in the top 100.  But here I am, boarding a flight at Charles De Gaulle.  Paris was four days and nights of ideal weather- plenty of sunshine, yet not sweltering hot.  From what I’ve heard and what I perceive to be true, many regard the city of lights as a most romantic city to spend a holiday.  Why are people so charmed?  Is it the art, the literature, and the music?  Is it the café-lined streets housing a most diverse crowd of inhabitants enjoying gourmet delicacies and seemingly warm conversations?  Perhaps it’s the common sight of embraces hello, and long kisses goodbye.  The politeness of Parisians is apparent all day long.  There are hellos in the elevators, held doors throughout the metro stations, and greetings in the bakeries and markets.  The wine flows like the River Seine, cutting through the city, keeping her alive and moving, gracefully dancing.  The architecture is magnificent, with each building carrying beauty.  Impressive columns, statues, monuments, gardens, fountains, carvings, and churches are so common that it’s almost too much.  The structures and spaces are all so nice that the individual beauty ceases to stand out and we’re left with a single, breathing, and gorgeous hunk of elegance that is the city of Paris.  And that's just the surface.  
[J-Pa with a guidebook, near the Pantheon]:

 

Yes, there’s the Eiffel Tower, which does tend to stand out.  Seen from various points in the distance, it pierces the hearts of so many with that cliché of romanticism.  I do appreciate big pieces of metal, and seeing so much metal up close wowed me.  I was over it after a short time.  It didn’t hit my gut, and I never expected it would have.  It didn’t disappoint, perhaps the lack of expectation being why.  The tower is quite unique, with a great merge of phallic height and feminine curvature.  As the last bit of daylight finally faded after 10 p.m., it was illuminated with a soft amber glow. 
[the Eiffel Tower]:

The grassy stretch to the south made for an ideal gathering of picnickers.  Large circles of friends and intimate pairs spread out comfortably upon blankets fill the lawn.  Facing the tower, one can watch the sun’s slow descent as the sky darkens and clouds turn from white, to pink, to grey.  From the base to the tip of the tower, white lights occasionally sparkled and danced to the cheers of the lounging, drunken crowd.  Champagne bottles popped as vendors made their rounds offering wine, beer, smokes, and souvenirs. 
[a woman, as seen from a boat along the Seine]:

 

As darkness settled into night, the crowd also darkened, emanating that wild, fake drunken energy.  It was during that hour that my dear companion, Jen, left to find a restroom.  I sat on the blanket, watching and listening to the others around me.  A moment turned into an unreasonably long time for her to be gone, and I began to worry.  In the meantime, I packed up our trash and leftover foods.  After more than half an hour, she finally returned and we were ready to go.  I hit the toilet in the way out, in the form of a squat among a dark patch of bushes.  To get back to our room, we rode the ageing, sturdy metro alongside some drunk, some quiet, interestingly dressed others.  We rolled into the space after midnight, and that was my last of four evenings in Paris.  I was exhausted and relieved to be through with such a splendid monster of a city.  
[the church @ Montemarte]:

on Toilets

IF YOU EVER BACKPACK in Tunisia, be sure to use the bathroom before stepping out of the airport, as it may be the nicest you’ll use for a while.  The restroom ladies might expect a tip, but it’s impossible if you haven’t yet done the currency exchange.  Each time I thought it couldn’t be rougher, the next toilet proved me wrong.  And each time it was necessary to use the bathroom, the more grateful I was for all of the little things in life here to enjoy.  My first two nights were spent in the capitol, Tunis, at a decent hotel.  The shared toilet was right around the corner from my room.  At times, a puddle accumulated on the ground where the right foot stands while on the toilet.  But, there was always toilet paper and the flushing mechanism worked. 

Moving on to the city of Sousse, the toilets went downhill.  Among so many switches, the bathroom light switch was nowhere to be found.  In the raunchy closet of a bathroom whose size required strategic entry, I left the door cracked open allowing the outside passage light to enter.  Judging from the smell, it was probably a blessing to not have seen the facility flooded with light. 

The next morning, enter the chic, sunny café.  After indulging in a café au lait and a croissant whose center revealed a creamy, subtle dab of chocolate, nature called.  Although the kind waiter had just given me a napkin for my hands, I forgot to take it with me to the restroom.  Crap!  Seriously.  Instead of stocking the restrooms with toilet paper, there’s always a water hose.  In India, it was often a faucet with a mini bucket for water.  The greater thing about India is that the toilets were usually squatter-style.  Set into the ground, they require one to squat down.  In my opinion, they’re brilliantly cleaner.  No tissue?  No problem.  Squatting always allows for a naturally clean break.  Here, it’s a rubbery or metal hose, fastened to a faucet, hanging beside the toilet.  Rather than wasting paper and clogging the toilets, simply spray the area to be cleaned with water from the hose.  Hahahahaha!  Oh, how I longed for a squatter style throne.  So there I was, having to spray this water hose between my legs and all around.  The gracious mirror was big and low, if needed, to ensure everything was washed.  In the end, my ass was a little damp, but at least it was clean. 

I’ve already written about the shower in Kairoaun, so now I’ll move on to the toilet of Khazazia.  Joking, I asked Nadhem if I’d need to go outside for the toilet.  Indeed, I did.  Among the roaming poultry, not far from the fenced-in sheep, the aunt led me to a small door less, barn-like structure.  In the corner were old sheepskins piled onto other things.  In the middle of the dusty concrete floor was the toilet bowl, just a bowl.  No back, no flusher.  Beside it was a large jug of water with a bucket.  Auntie lifted a 3-feet-high slab of wood and propped it up against the doorway for privacy.  I was truly understanding and living the “right hand is for eating, left hand is for cleansing oneself and using the bathroom” aspect of being in that part of the world. 

In Kairoaun, at a café, I used a toilet in a back room where there was no light.  Gotta appreciate those flashbulbs on the mobile phones. 

At one house, I had to ask someone to show me how to flush by pouring water into the toilet.  I didn’t realize it required such a great amount.  It wasn’t just any toilet; it was a filthy toilet in a bathroom that smelled like a Porta-Jon.  The next day, I had the luxury of showering in that very bathroom.  At the time there was no hot water, so they made some for me.  In the shower was placed a large plastic tub, filled with warm water and a small bucket for pouring.  The bathroom may have been below my standards of cleanliness, but it wasn’t mine.  And that day, the dwellers of that house went beyond all expectations to accommodate me and make me feel at home.  In the midst of a nasty toilet, my ass was still grateful.  

t.g.i.f.

FEELING UNDER THE WEATHER, Sana apologized for not being able to accompany me to the Friday prayers.  As we entered the mosque’s wide courtyard, Nadhim beckoned a woman walking in front of us.  He asked if she wouldn’t mind guiding me in, as this was new to me.  She agreed, and Nadhim made his way to the men’s entrance.  Shorter, older, and with a few gold teeth, the gentle woman led me to the women’s section.  She showed me where to place my shoes, on a shelf near a large pillar.  The prayer hall was full of women of all ages, and a few children.  Some wore dresses, some wore skirts, with every kind of hijab one could imagine:  black, black with rhinestones, busy patterns, subdued solids, striped, flowered, bright, paisley, some with silvery strands of thread, others modest and blending with the skin.

We found our places in the last row, near the open entryway to the courtyard.  As I faced forward for the first rounds of prayer, I was overtaken by this amazing, new experience.  I stood there.  I didn’t try to remember, nor did I forget, I just stood.  I was in the Great Mosque in Kairouan, Tunisia, and it was beautiful.  After a few moments, I focused and prayed.  We sat for several minutes, waiting for the Imam to speak.  I couldn’t grasp all that he was saying, but did understand the reference he made to Mother’s Day, noting that mothers must be celebrated each and every day.  Following his words, the worship began.  Shoulder to shoulder, we prayed in unity.  It was yet another great day to be alive, and a moment I’ll not soon forget. 

Following the prayer, I thanked the lady and made my way out to find Nadhim.  We walked around the corner and sat on a bench in front of the mosque.  Scores of tall, blonde, summery-dressed tourists flooded the plaza, taking photos of the holy site and its dispersing crowd of worshipers.  As the day-trippers hovered around the big, luxury buses, I was grateful to not be one of them.  For the rest of the afternoon, Nadhim & I walked around the city, ending the evening enjoying a sheesha smoke at a roadside café.  He and a friend walked me back to my hotel, and tomorrow we would be off to a Land of Olives… Khazazia. 

 

A holy city, a stranger, and a peculiar shower

THE SUN LOWERS, presenting a rainbow of hues from orange to blue along the horizon.  The cotton-ball clouds nestle themselves among snow-covered peaks.  By now, we’re probably flying over the south of France.  The fresh, cold appearance of those clouds below is such an extreme contrast to the days of dry, warm Tunisia. 

Without any contact, without using the Internet, having lived solely among Arabic-French speaking Tunisians for six days, it seems I’m reentering the modern world.  I don’t know if I want to, but that’s the way life goes. 

From the seat pocket in front of me, I remove the airline magazine and peruse the articles on the small gem of North Africa that is Tunisia.  I read about the fourth most holy city (behind Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem), the new capitol of the world of Islam, Kairouan.  After having spent the last four nights under the great care of one of her families, it was so strange to read a formal article, from a tourist perspective.  I intended on wandering the streets of that old holy city, visiting her great mosque, and staying there for just one night.  It is easy to say that the meetings and events that took place there changed my life, but it’s important to remember that with each moment, we can be changing ourselves.  ... ... ...   

So there I was in Kairoaun, Tunisia.  After a divine season of learning as much as I could about Islam, here was the perfect opportunity for me to connect with others, to know Allah, through prayer in a mosque.  The ride in the shared taxi (louage) lasted just under an hour.  I arrived to the hotel, recommended by a fellow traveler, before ten in the morning.  Just as Eugene described, the rooms were set around a gorgeous courtyard.  The man at reception gave a warm welcome, offering the choice between two rooms.  After settling in, I headed back down to settle up.  I inquired about prayer time at the mosque, and we talked about Islam.  The man at the desk congratulated me for having accepted this religion of truth, this beautiful way of life, and advised me on the appropriate time to get to the mosque.  It was still mid-morning, and I felt like stepping out to see the city and grab a bite to eat. 

 

I passed by a few small restaurants, not having any idea of where I was going or what foods would be found.  Across the street, a young stranger greeted me in French.  I greeted him in Arabic and continued down the road.  Turning around a corner, we met again and he accompanied me as I glanced at a restaurant’s sidewalk counter.  He asked me what I wanted.  This food was unfamiliar, so I told him I’d eat anything without animals.  Seconds later, an egg and vegetable chapati sandwich was made for me, though I forgot to emphasize “no tuna”.  As Nadhim sat across the table from me, I happily ate.  I wanted so badly to share with him, but he refused.

After lunch Nadhim suggested we pass by the house, and then he’d show me around.   I met his cousin, Sana, a trained English teacher who is currently employed at a factory.  She and an aunt welcomed me to the kitchen where we chatted about Kairouaun and the Great Mosque.  As I was too full to eat it, Sana insisted I take a packet of yogurt with me as Nadhim and I were leaving to stroll around town.  We walked north to see the huge, round Aghlabid Pools and made our way through the narrow streets of the city.  

 

Among the many interesting sights of Kairouan, we stopped by to see a camel who walks a circle around a well to provide spring water for the drinking.  Rounding back to the hotel, Nadhim dropped me off and promised to return to take me to the Friday Prayer. 

I had thirty minutes to get ready, and the shower in my room was abnormal.  The water wouldn’t come out, so I tried the adjacent sink.  It took a minute, but water finally began to flow.   I rushed to turn on the shower and it worked… for mere seconds.  I left it on and further loosened the sink’s knob.  I went back and forth from the showerhead to the sink, trying to suds up, trying to rinse off, as the water dripped, stopped, and flowed alternately and simultaneously from the showerhead and the sink’s faucet.  Where was my camel to get the water flowing?  This was a most ridiculous bathing experience, and it was cracking me up. 

Finally, I was rinsed and ready to dress.  My clothes from the backpack weren’t exactly the finest, but they would do.  Pink pants, flowing floral purple long sleeves, and sandals.  Time to try the hijab.  It was my first time wearing one, and I wrapped it the best I could.  I dashed outside to find Nadhim waiting for me.  As we walked toward the house for Sana, I tried to explain the feeling of having happy butterflies in my stomach.  First day in hijab, first time to pray in the mosque.  Off we went… 

The Echoes of Islam

(dessert: the best for last in my religious buffet)

It’s a little after nine, and I’m sitting on a too-soft hotel bed in the coastal town of Sousse.  After a two-hour train ride, followed by long walks of continuously losing my bearings in the labyrinth of the medina, it’s good to be in this run-down hotel room.  The further the sun goes down in Tunisia, the more Tunisian males decide to walk beside me asking me the same scripted questions that lead me to lie and tell them, “Yes, I do have a boyfriend here in Tunisia”. 

Mishary Al-Afasy’s recitation of the Qur’an soothes my tired soul, and the nightfall call to prayer echoes powerfully through the opened, screen-less window.  I was gently awoken around 4:00 this morning by the call to prayer, and it was nice.  Though it proclaims, “prayer is better than sleep”, I chose to resume my slumber.  Despite this morning’s lack of prayer, for the past few months I have allowed Islam to enter my heart.  It began with a bizarre moment of realization.  It was something like a renewal of the wonder and awe that I’ve felt for the life force behind everything, that great energy that keeps the world spinning around.  Since that moment, some divinity has guided me to learn more about Islam, to further contemplate the concept of God, and to learn proper methods of ablution and prayer.  This hasn’t made me any weirder than I already am.  It’s made me more grateful for every moment and more acknowledging of the uncertainties of anything beyond the present. 

So I purchased a hijab and have no idea how to pin this thing.  The scarf wraps around the head, for the purpose of covering the neck and hair.  I’ve almost figured it out, needing only to perfect the strategic placement of a pin or two.  It’s not that I’ll wear it regularly, but I need to enter the holiest site in the country, the Great Mosque in Kairouan.  I need to pray there, and it’s open to Muslims only.  The city ranks among the holiest in the world, after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem. 

Besides the never-ending hunger for new experiences, I’ve had a thing for religion.  Growing up Catholic gave me the appreciation of rituals.  Perhaps more importantly came the appreciation of fantastically divine art and ornate stained glass windows.  Frankly, the religious aspect of Catholicism didn’t compel me to continue my practice beyond the age of about fourteen.  Since then, I’ve visited other churches, including Presbyterian, Lutheran, and Episcopalian.  I’ve participated in a Buddhist temple stay, which included the completion of 108 proper bows before most people wake up.  I’ve chanted in worship to the Hindu Lord Shiva while gazing at the flames of burning ghee and cow dung.  I have, on the inside, at times ridiculed others who seemed to take religion too seriously.  Now, here I am, the eve of a journey to a very holy city for my first experience of prayer in a mosque.  God willing. 

Out in the hallway, there are about six light switches.  Not one of them turns on the light in the shared, smelly toilet room.  Good thing the sun comes up so early these days.  Pardon me, but if I were a man, I might be tempted to piss out the window.  The adventures of solo travel end up being tests of the self.  Rather than allowing things to become bothersome, one ideally learns to be appreciative of the little things we mostly take for granted.

First morning in Tunisia

IS THAT REALLY a packet of fig jam on the breakfast tray?  I may be seated calmly in post-yoga bliss, about to enjoy my first breakfast in Tunis, but my inner being has been jumping up and down, shouting HELL YES, as the first 19 hours spent in this sunny North African country have been outstanding.  As I savor the hard roll, Arabic music videos play on the TV.  The mustached man behind the modest counter steams milk and serves out trays of rolls and cafés au lait to the steady trickle of morning diners.  In this hotel dining room, watercolor and oil paintings adorn the upper part of the walls, the lower half being tiled with geometric patterns of yellow, green, black, and white.  After 19 hours of travel from Korea to Tunisia, last night’s slumber on the yoga mat on the tiled floor was deep and refreshing… …

The seats of the Turkish Airliner were a shade of turquoise that reminded me of the freshness I had just left in Jeju.  The snack of hazelnuts and sour cherry nectar gave me the false impression that the upcoming meals might be slightly pleasing.  As I settled into my place, an aisle seat with two vacancies to the left, the air’s heavy fragrance of jasmine perfume was a prelude to the symphony of sweet, musky, floral, smoky scents that would continue to seduce my being for the hours to come.  Thankfully, the meal on the connecting flight from Istanbul passed as flavorful spicy tofu and curried potatoes.  On that flight, I was stuck in the middle.   The man to my right, who had been studying what appeared to be the script of a play in French and Arabic, fell into a deep sleep after his second cup of wine.  The Tunisian to my left enthusiastically suggested an itinerary for the next week, to include a delve into the South. 

Upon arriving, I found the airport to be clean, humble, and elegant with cool tiled floors, and quick yet non-smiling security inspectors.  I attempted to use a pay phone to call a hotel, but was unable to hear or understand anything beyond the surrounding bustle.  Of course, the reservation office only booked mid to high-range hotels, but the man kindly showed me to the bus stop, as the area was under construction.  Because of luggage, I opted for a taxi.  I checked out a driver-recommended hotel, but it was too expensive for me and too far from the center of town.  Though initially pushy, the driver appreciated my attempt at Arabic and even began speaking to me in a ridiculously proper form that I once knew so well.  There was no more English between us, and it was good.  I had him drop me in the center of town.  He asked if I knew what I was doing and pointed to the area of cheap hotels.  As I confirmed my inner compass was working, I assured him I’d be fine.  Pulling my over-stuffed suitcase, backpack in tow past the lunch peak of outdoor cafés, up and down sidewalk curbs, I was so very happy to be warmed by the Tunisian sun.

Thanks to the already useful guidebook (The Rough Guide to Tunisia), I easily found my first choice of hotels, De France.  Before the very friendly reception, the beautiful blue, white and burnt sienna patterns of the lobby’s floor tiles impressed me.  Upon opening the shutters, breezy rays of sunlight filled the room.  Perfect.  Venturing out, I walk past the square, dominated by the old Bab al Bahr (Gate of the Sea) and into the medina where the streets narrow into the meandering mazes of markets.  After making a short loop, I return to the square to sit at an outdoor café table for people watching over a cool citronade.  Eventually, I get to chatting with a Tunisian, who takes me through the winding medina to the Zaytouna Mosque where we sit on the steps. 

I head back to the hotel to meet an English Eugene who happens to be writing a book about everything, to include his experiences across the Middle East, the “ideal” form of the hermaphrodite, and surely plenty of scholarly info across the subjects of history and economics.  We go out to meet a friend of his friend, Sofeen, who turns out to be a well-spoken man who has taught Arabic in the States.  Over mint tea in a cafe, the two discuss economics, discrimination, and French colonization.  I’m open to learning, so I try to listen.  The oil painting mounted above Sofeen’s head, depicting a woman who eerily looks like Kate Moss, serves as a nice distraction.  We head for dinner and Sofeen gives me directions to a school in town that runs an English education program.  The cheese and mushroom omelet leaves me pleasantly full and I’m back to the hotel and sleeping before 11.  Alhamdulillah.

… Breakfast was simple, yet satisfying, and I’ll soon be off for a lovely walk around the capitol city…

Every moment is new

I’VE MET HIM a handful of times, but for him, each encounter is the first…

There are places I love to walk.  Even knowing an area pretty well, there is always newness that strikes me.  There are peculiarities of buildings I’ve not before noticed.  There are gardens and yards whose beauty I’d previously overlooked.  Nowadays, I’ve been winding and wandering the neighborhood with the added enjoyment of roses that are blooming everywhere in pink, red, & yellow.  They even climb the fences that line the highways that traverse this gorgeous island of farms.  

[roses in the neighborhood]

Since living in Jeju City, a particular nearby hill, Sara-bong, has been a favorite.  At least twice, and sometimes five times a week, I ascend her west side stairs, take in the summit view of Jeju City’s north coast, and descend the switchback path on the east side.  Being a regular, there are other regulars that I recognize.  There’s a man I’ve seen about a half dozen times, always walking the opposite direction.  Once, at the base of the hill, he was riding a bike.  Every time we meet, it’s the same conversation.  I’ve met him a handful of times, but for him, each encounter is the first.  As we approach each other, he slows down with a smile.  We greet each other with Good Morning or Good Afternoon.   Standing quite close now, he always says, “Can I ask you a question?”  Knowing what the question will be, I smile with, “Of course.”  It’s always, “Where are you from?”  After I tell him, he enquires about my stay in Jeju:  how long I’ve been here, and what I’m doing for work.  I’ve learned that he’s a retired elementary school teacher.   He seems to be quite healthy, possibly in his sixties, but probably in his seventies with nice aging. 

 

[flowers @ Sara-bong] 

My 84 years-young grandmother’s mind isn’t the sharpest.  She remembers who we are, and sometimes where we are, but couldn’t tell you what she just ate for lunch.  If she’s continuously asking what I’ve been up to, it’s a nice time to jog my own memory.  She might not notice me repeating myself, but I try to fish for something different, some experience I’ve not yet shared with her.

 

[looking West from Sunrise Peak, Jeju-do]

For Grandma and the retired schoolteacher, every moment is new.  Keeping that in mind, we can rid ourselves of unnecessary emotional baggage.  We can move on from people, places, and experiences.  We all have our stories, but they don’t have to dictate the present.  We can choose to listen to our hearts, to live here now, and to do anything we dream.  To stop comparing the present to the past, to take each moment as a new experience… is to live more fully, to be more aware of the beauty of this present life.  It never tires me to run into the retired schoolteacher, who greets the new moment with a new, genuine smile.  

Twice Upon Two Times

ONCE UPON A TIME, in 1935, Yang Chang-bo was born in Korea.  In his mid-twenties, he lost his eyesight.  At the recommendation of Someone, he learned the shamanic techniques from a couple of shamans here in Jeju City.  Soonafter, his vision returned.  Yang Chang-bo is in his mid-seventies, has been a Shaman for 50 years, works as a caretaker of Shamanistic ritual, and makes lovely, whimsical paper art as part of his practice.  I was able to attend his opening at a nearby gallery this weekend.  Oh yeah... he wears pink pants. 

The above image is not my photo, it was hanging at the gallery.  

ONCE UPON A TIME, in the 1980's, Kim Young Gap came from Korea's mainland to live in Jeju.  He intended on staying not more than a few years, for the purpose of capturing the spirit of the island through photographs.  He became so enthralled by this place, completely immersing himself in this goal.  He became one with his surroundings... the island of Jeju... her Winds, her Seasons, her Spirit. With the help of friends and locals, Kim was able to spend years in the mountains, following what he realized was his purpose here. In 2000, Lou Gherig's disease crept in.  Unable to continue his work out in the mountains, Kim spent the last few years of his life transforming an old, abandoned school into his gallery.  He died in 2005.  

  

The photos I was fortunate to have seen there this past Sunday were some of the most awesome photos I have ever seen.  The images hit me in the deepest part of my gut, flooding me with an overwhelming urge to shed the kind of tears that only such an immense beauty can produce. Unbelievable depth, magical movement.  There were sparks of life in those images that I cannot begin to descibe.  Moving.  I've always wished there were ways to express the emotions, the elation that occurs while gazing up at the sky.  Kim Young Gap did it. If you're still waiting to experience God, go stare at one of Kim's photos.  

 

on aMuseuMents

Jeju Museum of Art...  

A nice variety of interesting art housed in a sweet building.  I was really impressed and haven't had that much fun at a museum since Dia: Beacon.  Free admission.  

Unbeknownst to us, the tourist magnet of Loveland is situated just beyond the museum perimeter's fence, in the adjacent lot.  We had to check that out, as well.  Worth the price of around $7 just for the laugh factor and seeing the amusement of others gawking at the larger than life depictions of naked people & genitals.  

Had I known about Loveland being next door, I would have done the visits in reverse order.  Then, the impressions left by the beautiful installations of Jeju Museum of Art wouldn't have been tainted.  Gotta go back. 

Props to Jeju Air

The flight from ICN to CJU is a quick 50 minutes.   I awaken from my cozy, window-seat nap to the sound of cheery flight attendants.   Extra smiley, it seems they’re engaging the passengers with some sort of entertainment.  One attendant is donning a Mickey Mouse eared headband.  Another is holding a basket of what appears to be chocolates.  I don’t understand a lick of what they’re carrying on about, but it’s as though they’re saying something to the effect of:  “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, we are commemorating the n^th anniversary of the introductions of Mickey to Korea, so let us celebrate!!  If you pay attention and are swift with your clever responses, we will reward you with these cellophane-wrapped, boxed, gift-wrapped delicious waxy chocolates!!”   They seem to be explaining the rules of “rock-paper-scissors” or, as they say in Korea, “rock-scissor-paper”.  As if anyone on the plane would not have known the rules of this game since they were toddlers.  Here, it seems to be the common way to solve any sort of conflict:  who goes first, who gets the better seat, who gets to (you name it).  So they conduct the most expansive game of rock-scissor-paper that I’ve ever seen.  All of the passengers participate.  Game after game, there are great rounds of applause, and people are eliminated.  Finally, an individual seated toward the rear of the aircraft is deemed winner.  I didn’t see what prizes were handed out, but the game is over. 

I resume my rest against the bulkhead.  Moments later, I realize those silly crewmembers are up to something again.  One passenger is fishing through her belongings and pulls out a camera.  She hands it to the flight attendant who then takes a picture of the woman and the two other individuals sitting in her row.  The woman who fetched the camera is wearing a pilot’s cap; her two row-mates are wearing wigs of multi-colored clown hair.  The attendants are going from row to row, as if it were as standard as the complimentary beverage service, handing out props and offering to take photos.   I’ve seen a lot, but this was so randomly bizarre, I was laughing hysterically.  If only all people had as much fun as those who work in the service industries.  High-five to Jeju Air!  

For Fukuoka's sake...

A “visa run” is no amazing race, nor is it a beer run.  We had two days in Fukuoka, Japan to obtain our proper work visas (E-2 type) from the Korean consulate.  Any native English speaker likely wants to pronounce the first syllable of Fukuoka as that favorite, versatile, descript obscenity.  The closest I can describe its proper pronunciation is:  foo- COKE- ah.  So anyway, off we went to Fuck-ooh-uck-ah to get the magic sticker in the passport that allows one to work in Korea for one year. With all the visas I’ve acquired, the reasoning behind the processes to obtain them is still unclear.  My two beloved co-worker friends & I were required to take the trip, fully paid by our employer (lucky us). 

Day one:  go to the Korean consulate.  Give them the application, passport, a photo, and money (around $50 U.S.).  Check.  Done by early afternoon.  Next personal mission:  get to the nearest disc golf course before the sun goes down.  Donae had it in her to join me on what turned out to be an adventure.  This required us to figure out the ways of the ‘regular’ subway system, and then transfer to the ‘JR train’.  Check.  We got there with an hour of daylight to spare, yet the park was closed.  I’m talking ghost town.  We took advantage of the pleasant evening and strolled the coastal grounds of some luxurious resort-y hotel that, in this off-season, seemed abandoned.  We rounded up Stacey at the hotel and headed out for dinner.  Starving, we chose half a dozen menu items to share.  Easy-Bake Oven (as coined by Donae) was the best way to describe the dishes they brought out.  What they called “pizza” was a six-inch tortilla baked with a spoonful of cheeses and a few drops of pesto.  The Spanish omelet was served on a little soap dish, as were the edamame.  Because we are not size zero Japanese, we were still hungry.  Luckily, there was a convenient store conveniently located near our hotel so we could spend $20 on a few snacks. 

Day two:  find a place to have lunch and watch game six, before heading back to the consulate to pick up the passports.  With help from the hotel staff, we learned that all of the nearby pubs and sports bars would not open until dark.  But what do you know; they played the game on the lobby’s flat screen.  So we sat for the first few innings, long enough for everyone to get excited about Matsui’s outstanding performance that put NY in the lead.  For lunch, we dined at Hard Rock Café.  Not bad.  Back to the Korean consulate, our visas were done.  My passport is now full, not an empty page.  I’ve had a blast getting all of those stickers & stamps. At a nearby park, we rested before searching for a cup of coffee. 

To the Starbucks, we did succumb: a reliable brew in foreign lands.  Back to the airport for an overnight in Incheon where I’d meet up with a creative, adventurous friend I hadn’t seen in over three years.  After a satisfying dinner, we found a random rooftop for beer drinking, moon gazing, and nice conversation.  Ending the perfect evening, we made it to the subway just in time to catch the last train that would take us to our Guest House near the airport.  Another night away, then back to enjoy the last weekend before the teaching would begin.  

Day three:  Early morning brought us news of the shooting that had just occurred at Fort Hood.  Fukuoka.  Fukuoka.  For Fukuoka’s sake, don’t ever forget how lucky you are.  And when the day seems bad, when the demons crawl in, when you start to feel a little sorry for yourself… don’t ever forget… Life is Good.    

Where my seabag is...

Across the Fields...

Across the sky, the clouds move,

Across the fields, the wind,

Across the fields the lost child

Of my mother wanders.

Across the street, leaves blow,

Across the trees, birds cry - 

Across the mountains, far away, 

My home must be.

~ Herman Hesse (1902) translated by James Wright 

"Home is where your seabag is."... a Navy-issued mantra of sorts, I've always liked it.  I look at the sky and see the half-moon, a black & white cookie.  I think home is where the black & white cookies are.  Then, I remember where my seabag is.  It's here with me.  Right where we should be.  

Two more days

[I accidentally removed several photos from these blogs... oops].  


This past Friday: Stacey, Donae & I visited Yakcheon-sa, the largest Buddhist temple in Asia. Quite ornate, amazing colors. Noticed great acoustics as the monks chanted and periodically made rhythmic tappings with a stick. At one point, from the third story windows, we could see a man outside heaving a large wooden log into a bell. The paintings on the wall were... different. There was one depiction of a meditating man being decapitated. From his neck, spewed a tall reaching fountain of water, upon which his head floated. Stacey and I are quite curious about this, and would like to look into its possible meaning. I mostly enjoyed sitting in a tiny temple situated on a shady hill nearby. The gentle fragrance of incense brought calmness to our beings, and we three sat in silence before the altar for a few moments. Here's the main temple:

After the temple visit, we took a taxi to the nearby Jungmun Beach, where the waves were high & lovely, the sunshine intense, the water clear & blue, and swimming temperature ideal. The sounds of air-raid-like sirens alarmed swimmers, followed by an announcement suggesting that swimmers get out of the water- as the waves were too strong. How annoying. What ever happened to quiet signs which read "Dangerous Currents, SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK"?

This past Saturday: David invited us to join him to Mosulpo, where he teaches students twice a week. The drive down was hilly & scenic... and included Mysterious Road, the optical illusion of a gravity road. We had the car in neutral and it appeared to be rolling uphill! Kind of like the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, CA. I've googled the phenomena, which occurs in various parts all over the world. Apparently these areas are all optical illusions, rather than areas of "strange gravitational/ magnetic pulls". Worth checking out. We continued on, picked up 5 of David's students, and proceeded to the Glass Castle museum/theme park of glassworks & mirrors... brilliant! It's mostly a sculpture park of amazing glass pieces/installments. In the center, there's a cafe where we stopped for ice cream. The entire back wall is domed glass, and water runs down the outside making it seem like a rainy day. But the sun was out... giving it a gorgeous sun-shower effect. This is one outdoor piece, made of several glass panes, lined up:

After dropping the students off, we went to the Chocolate Museum... but it was closed. We drove on, stopping at a very interesting store/house to buy some drinks. The entire front wall was made of recycled drink cans. Very neat.

The drive home was lovely, as David so thoughtfully drove the coastal road, heading up the West coast at sunset. Amazing views... sun setting over the water... very huge windmills on the edges of the land. Beautiful places... great company... thank you. life is good.