Kickstart The Book!

Aloha!

It’s been about 2 and 1/2 years since I started this blog about my wanderings, romances, and spiritual reflections through Europe and India. Many of you have asked, “Where is the book??” Ha! Actually, I’ve been working on the book and the 1st (rough) draft is nearly finished. Another remark a number of people have made is “Keep on going! I’m living vicariously through you!” It’s a flattering comment, but sometimes mildly frustrating. I’m touched that some considered me a source of inspiration (especially, as my life flows with no plan and little ambition, but follows the whims of my heart). What I’d really love, though, is for people live vicariously for themselves! That, is perhaps, my main motivation for writing about my adventures in the first place. That and to bring these philosophical questions that plague us all to the forefront.

At this point, I have a few chapters left to finish, a load of editing and gap-filling to do, and…PUBLISH! I’ve decided to self-publish while I’m looking for a traditional publisher. In order to finally finish the project, I’ve submitted it to www.kickstarter.com: a site where artists post their projects, and donors help bring it to life. (A truly ingenious idea. Check out the site!). Rather than continuing to post-pone the completion while I spend another 6 months slingin’ drinks in a ski bar to support myself with no time or energy left for writing, I’m hoping to raise the money that would allow me to finish it off this winter, and publish in the spring.

Here’s the Kickstarter link: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/thewanderlustlover/bring-this-wild-life-to-print-the-wanderlust-lover

In order to give an idea of the adventures in the book, I’ve included this short video. BTW – as I plan to publish under a pen name, rather than slander my good one, I’ve introduced myself as “Sireya Valentine.” I haven’t yet decided on either a title or a pen name, but for now, The Wanderlust Lover by Ms Valentine will do the trick. Have a look:

The Wanderlust Lover

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Coffee Meditations

“To say ‘yes’ to one instant is to say ‘yes’ to all of existence.”

- Waking Life (a movie by Richard Linklater)

When I left San Fran for Italy, one of the motivating factors was coffee: I wanted to enjoy my coffee each morning. To sit with it, to be with it, to take in it’s flavor and essence. Coffee is one of my biggest loves in the realm of food and beverage, and in the typically rushed American lifestyle, I was ploughing through it, slurping it down from a travel mug as I trotted to work or whatever “important” thing I was anxious to get to.

Now, 2.5 years later, I’m sitting by the lakeside in Pokhara, Nepal, contemplating the essence of my coffee. I clap my hands and wiggle my bum in excitement when the man brings it to the table. The coffee here is organic, strong, and damn tasty. It’s the beginning of another day in which I’m attempting to find the balance between the holiday-like relaxation of just being and the focus and motivation of taking the steps towards my goal. (I wonder, is there anything more difficult in life than finding this balance?) In light of this, I put down my book, arrest my conversation with my friend, and take the time to dive, open-eyed – fully present – into my coffee. The bitterness hits my tongue and I simultaneously see and feel the chemicals shooting through my taste buds, registering in my brains, and lighting up my neurons. I realize this deep love for the bean is simply a neuronal pattern that’s been carved out: the association of this particular taste with the energizing effect of caffeine and years of coffee-moment memories.

The book I’m reading is called The Joy of Living by Yongey Mingur Rinpoche. It’s blowing my mind, expanding all I learned and experienced in the 10-day Introduction to Buddhism course I recently finished. Rinpoche describes meditation in a way that makes it so much more accessible and enjoyable than the way I’ve been accustomed to thinking of it. Meditation is, quite simply, being aware. It is not about stopping thoughts from arising, maintaining a blank mind, or some kind of blissed-out feeling. It is about being aware of the mental processes, whatever they are. The whole purpose of formal sitting meditation is to practice this awareness so that we can bring it into our daily activities. This means we can practice meditating in whatever we are doing, whether it’s writing an email, washing dishes, or…drinking coffee. Meditation then, becomes not a chore that we feel obligated to undertake, but a lifestyle in which we practice saying “yes” to every moment just as it is.

24, October, 2011 – Pokhara, Nepal

Pangong Lake

Pangong Lake deserves direct experience, not words, not even photos. But I’ll give ya the photos anyway. It’s a high-altitude, brackish lake in Ladakh, 2/3rds of which is in Tibet. I rode with Matthew and his Enfield friends the 6 hours to get there. We camped 2 nights by the lake. The last morning I woke up just before dawn to pee and saw….OMG. The result was that of the 900+ photos I’d taken on this bike trip, the last handful of shots were perfect, untouched. Enjoy!

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Motorcycle Diaries: Around Leh

Pictures say more than words. And for the moment, I’ve got bigger writing projects to work on. So here are the pictures:

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** The last 3 photos at the prayer flag bridge were taken by Raz Rosca**

Day 11: Lamayuru – Alchi

29 July, 2011       70kms, 2 hours

After spending 1 more day in Lamayuru relaxing (hence the reason Day 10 was not included in the blog page), we headed on to Alchi – the site of another ancient monastery. This stretch of road was some of the worst we’d traveled, with a lot of construction, dirt and loose stone patches, and tight corners. Half way along, the route was blocked where the workers were mending the road. We stopped and waited while the bulldozer took care of it. Matthew struck up a conversation with one of the workers. The man, like many who take on this hazardous line of work, was from Bihar – a state in East India with one of the highest unemployment rates in the country. He told us of his recent health problem: coughing up blood. It’s a condition that affects many of these road workers, as they spend their days breathing in dust and diesel. A significant number of them die at a young age, having no other employment options and no access to decent health care.

After about half an hour there was enough space on the road for us to squeeze by on the bike. An hour later and we arrived in Alchi. The town was tiny: a handful of guesthouses and restaurants, the gompas, and fields of grain and apricot trees.

After checking into a room, we went off to explore. The 11^th century monastery is small and without the view the Lamayuru had, but the walls were decorated with tiny, intricate depictions of the Buddhas, more than impressive in their detail. I don’t get into museum-like visits, and though I appreciated the artistry and skill, I was far more taken with the mundane details: the way the carved door hung heavy on its hinges, the loose floorboards, the crookedness of the leaning buildings, a stone step smoothed out from centuries of devout footsteps. Somehow these things hold more life for me than the paintings on the wall.

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Day 9: Around Lamayuru

27 July 2011, Wednesday

Lamayuru was so beautiful we decided to stay a few nights, take it easy and wander ‘round. There’s not much to it aside from the magnificent monastery (which is more than enough), but the atmosphere is such that just being here satisfies.

We traipsed up the hill to the gompa in early afternoon. The path held wind-blown houses and wooden prayer wheels, decayed beyond recognition by weather and fervent use. The carvings had long since disappeared; stacks of paper prayers reading OM MANI PADE HUNG peek out of cracks in the wheel. The gompa’s white-walled, red-framed buildings sit high on the mountainside, held a lot by pinnacles of eroded rock. Along the eastern edge of the grounds are walls of prayer wheels, more recently restored.

Inside the main gompa the floors are laid out tile-like – worn to a well-loved softness by the feet of monks over 11 centuries. Long, low tables run along either side of the room where the monks study their texts, red carpets lining the spaces in between. At the front an alter drums, oil lamps, images and offerings: money, biscuits, and dough sculptures: intricate and colorful, symbolic of life’s impermanence. Along the eastern and northern walls are glass cases in which statues and images of previous Dalai Lamas and emanations of the Buddha had been placed. One window holds a bookshelf of Tibetan texts. In the typical Tibetan style, they’re loose-leaf, in foot-long rectangular shape, and rather than being bound, are held together by wood slats, wrapped in orange cloth. Another window looks into a cave where Naropa – a human embodiment of the Buddha in the 11^th century – had meditated in the Tantric tradition. Tantra – a tradition I’m only just beginning to learn about – is not some sort of sex cult. The explicit images found in the Buddhist Tantra tradition, represent the union of wisdom and method, or of great bliss and emptiness (emptiness being the unity of all things). Tantra, in fact, is about subduing the ego through transmutation of desire into spiritual energy, and in Buddhism at least, sexual union is only used in the rarest and highest of practices.

From the rooftop we could see the valley below and the mountains stretching out in all directions. It is a desolate, dry landscape, that forces one to dive inward. In such a place it becomes clear why the great lamas and yogis choose these high, harsh environments for years of isolated meditation. The sun was low on the horizon casting everything in a golden hue. I took my time circumambulating the wall of prayer wheels, turning each as I went. In most instances of the past prayers I’ve made have been for the benefit of myself or my family and friends. A faint flash passed my mind that rather than praying for those dearest to me, perhaps I should simply send out a positive feeling with each turn. I walked slowly, mindfully, breathing with each flick of the wrist that spun the ancient wheels. The ritual turned from an act of selfish desire into an act of meditation, leaving my mind calm, purified…and the sensation that the answer to our prayers lies not out there with a more powerful force, but solely in our pure awareness.

 

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Day 8: Mulbekh to Lamayuru

26 July, 2011, Tuesday

Mulbekh to Lamayuru (3,390m)  70km, 2.5 hrs

The sun roused us early and offered up a gorgeous Ladakhi morning: full blue sky, puffy white clouds, and red rock mountains. We paused a moment on the terrace to take in the grandeur and entered a traveler’s conversation, speaking about the shift in energy when going from days in a remote, un-touristed area into a tourist town. There’s a hit of ego, sexual interaction, and judgment in the hot spots that you don’t experience when only with locals. Certainly, they stare relentlessly, but it’s a stare of curiosity. They also generally believe western women to be sluts, but beyond that there’s no game of having to prove yourself – a game that’s not usually noticed until you’ve spent time apart from it. The conversation rolled on to returning home and re-entering the world of friends and family who don’t travel. Or, at least, don’t travel in the same style. Matthew noted the effort that has to be made to adjust to that reality and lifestyle. There is no possible way to convey the events and insights of one’s journey in a way that is relevant to the listener or satisfying to the storyteller. The best one can do is skim the surface and move on.

A moment of silence followed, letting that disheartening truth sink in, yet a light rose as well, as I thought of how blessed I am to have a family who loves me whether they understand my life choices or not.

We moved on to our respective duties: Matthew to prep the bike and I to order our triple Nescafe jumpstart.

The road between these two monastic outposts was perhaps the most beautiful stretch yet…though I think I’d been saying that every day. The day held two high passes for us to climb: Namika La (3,760m) and Fortu La (4,147m). (La means “mountain pass”). The mountains rose in purple, green, grey, blue, and red. High peaks capped in snow lay beyond. Never have I seen such an array of colors in the rock! As if the Great Painter were experimenting with his pallet, testing out the tints and temperatures of his pigment, exploring the effects of line and shadow. Faded flags blanketed the tops of the passes. A high wind ripped through them sending tens of thousands of prayers in all directions: towards Tibet, Nepal, India, and Pakistan.

The freshly paved road wound down from Fortu La, weaving back and forth deeper into the valley; yaks and donkeys foraged along the mountainsides. We reached Lamayuru in the afternoon in high spirits. The 10^th century Gompa – the oldest in Ladakh – sits atop a sheer cliff eroded into fat, brown spires and pitted with caves dug by monks for private meditation. The houses here have turned from the Kashmiri style of brick, wood, and clay to the simple, clean Ladakhi style of white washed walls, each with its own orderly flower and vegetable garden: lilies, sunflowers, morning glories; spinach, squash, and beans. The faces of the people have changed drastically as well, from Indian to Tibetan. The women wear traditional clothes; the girls don bright smiles and western dress. The vibe here is far more relaxed, friendlier.

I pause to wonder if it’s the natural energy or my preconceptions that have lead me to feel more on edge in the Muslim towns and at home here…and conclude it’s both. The Ladakhis clearly put more love and care into the daily doings of their lives. Their homes are cleaner and decorated not with the kitsch ornaments you see in the rest of India, but with the ordinary, quiet items of their daily lives. Their faces, too, seem purer – unmarked by the chaos and struggle of their southern compatriots.

Wandering through the village we find a cemetery of chortens crumbling under the weight of time and visitors. In the twilight we climb the mountain to the monastery, ringed by tattered prayer flags. At night I lay two cushions on the terrace and watch the stars with the poetry of Rumi whispering in my ear. Where else have I felt so at home, so loved, but in my solitude with the night sky? These are the moments of unadulterated Truth: utterly alone with the Divine. These are the moments when all else falls away: there is nothing but the purity of mind and the vastness of the Universe, and we are one.

 

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I was sincerely hoping to have all 11-12 blogs up before I set out on my 3+ week trek in the Himalayas. Alas….internet is so slow here, it’s impossible to upload the photos. So consider this the intermission. The rest of will be posted shortly after my return.

A tout!

Day 7: Enter Ladakh

25 July, 2011, Monday                          Dras – Mulbekh          6 hrs        kms unknown

At 4am – 15 minutes after we’d gone to bed – the call to prayer blasted through the rattly speaker from the mosque just next to our hotel. At 7:30am the alarm went off. We had a long ride ahead and very little sleep. Four Nescafes and 100ml of gearbox oil later and we were on the road. 15 kms outside of Dras I heard the unnerving sound of rubber on metal. We pulled over at a chai shack and found the luggage rack had broken and twisted. There was no possible way we could go on with 25kgs tied to a broken rack, tire rubbing on the frame over each and every bump. But how the hell were we going to find a welder all the way out here?? I sensed the beginning of a very long day.

“Namaste, ji,” said a road worker approaching Matthew. He scoped out our predicament. “No problem. There’s a welder there.” He pointed to a compound just 40 meters away. What are the chances?!

We pulled everything off the bike. Matthew rode down to the shop to get greasy and take care of the welding job; I sat under a tarp avoiding the oppressive heat and dust, dressed in thermals, synthetic pants, a tanktop, a hoodie, wool socks and hiking boots. I would have loved to have stripped off those layers of padding in the 37 degree air, but I was a woman alone in the middle of Muslim nowhere, surrounded by nothing but desert mountains, and a handful of road builders and truckers. Instead I sat glowering and making myself unapproachable as I waited for Matthew, trying not to think of how easy it would be for any (or all) of these men to take me behind the chai stall and…

But I’m a believer in mental projections, so enough of that.

An hour later Matthew returned greasy and beaming. All fixed! We loaded up and carried on, passing through desolate beige mountains splattered here and there with lush valley villages, the vegetation nourished by simple, but surprisingly effective irrigation canals. Aside from these oasis – so green in contrast to their barren surroundings that they seemed illusory – the landscape was repetitively stark, yet not in the least bit dull. We passed through Kargil and were happy to find that Mulbekh was only a few hours further on.

We drove into Mulbekh, happy to be in Buddhist country, with the clean, whitewashed houses, neat little vegetable gardens, and a plethora of warm smiles from the locals. Mulbekh is tiny – nothing but 3 guesthouses, 1 restaurant, and a famous Buddhist statue – the Chamba Gompa dating back to 700 A.D. We took a room at the Paradise Hotel. The room was simple with a shared squat toilet, and tempermental water source. But oh! The view! Our window and the terrace looked out into the azure sky; red rock formations lifted from the ground, melding into the Himalayan monsters beyond. It was one of the most gorgeous landscapes I’ve ever seen.

A British couple landed there shortly after us, complaining Mulbekh was the biggest shithole they’d seen in India. Where the hell have you been traveling? I wondered.

“Lonely Planet said this place was really nice!” the woman whinged. Matthew and I looked at each other in disbelief. After 45 minutes of bitching over chai, they decided to hitchhike on to Kargil. Apparently, they were looking for a chaotic, dirty Indian town, rather than this slice of heaven. Fortunately, they took their black cloud with them and we were left to enjoy the quiet of those golden mountains in peace.

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Day 6: Sonamarg to Dras: Our First Mountain Pass

24 July, 2011 – Sunday

Sonamarg – Dras, 67 kms, 5 hrs

Today was another stunning ride. This time so desolate. We were encircled by proper Himalayan mountains. We passed nomads camped out in colorful tents down in the valley, their sheep grazing all around. As we climbed Zoji La – a 3,528m mountain pass – we were granted full view of the base camp for the pilgrims of Amarnath Cave. They come to see the 5,000+-year-old ice lingam, which is only present for a few months during the summer festival, growing and shrinking with the phases of the moon. This cave is said to be the site where Shiva explained the secrets of life and eternity to his consort Parvati. It is such an important pilgrimage site for Hindus, that despite the fact that militants target the yatris each season, 400,000 continue to make the journey every year. The base camp is the size of a small city, but instead of concrete, it’s built of bright, colorful tents.

The section of road leading up to Zoji La was the gnarliest we’d seen yet: unpaved, strewn with rocks, pits and holes, and crossed by glacial streams. Old, sunbaked nomadic men lead their horses along the road. The single-track road (serving 2-way traffic) narrowed and wound its way along the mountainside. We stopped to adjust the airscrew to allow for a leaner mix in the oxygen-deprived atmosphere, and again to adjust the float for the same reason. The bike was parked at the edge of a precipitous cliff as Matthew took off the carburetor and air box. Miraculously, the road still accommodated the bulky delivery trucks. There was, of course, no railing to keep unlucky vehicles from plummeting several thousand meters over the cliff side.

We passed the unmarked Zoji La without ever knowing it, and descended into the valley. It was another hour of riding under the watch of brown, sun-streaked mountains, and sliding by the nomad’s camps, before we came to our first chai shack of the day. We indulged in an omelet and several instant coffees, sharing laughs with the Muslim children who lingered about.

We arrived in dusty Dras at 3 in the afternoon and found a room for 300 rupees, overlooking the mountains and a mosque. Dras is at 3,280 meters and claims to be the second coldest town on earth…because on one occasion, way back in 1963, they registered the world’s 2^nd coldest temperature. It’s also famous for having been shelled in the Kargil War in 1999. Nice place. There’s one main street lined with supply stores, a few restaurants, and 3 hotels. Everyone stares at the white people.

We took advantage of the afternoon and meandered down the road, resting by the river (which aroused the suspicion of the local deputy. I think he thought we’d gone there to get it on in private, and was doing his Muslim civic duty to make certain we didn’t). The walk back into town lead us down quiet back streets where curious children followed us, falling apart with laughter at every photo I took of them.

I can’t say I felt particularly welcome in this region of the world, but I also wouldn’t say that I ever felt particularly unwelcome either. Mathew and I agreed that we felt less comfortable than in the Hindu or Buddhist regions of India, though we couldn’t be certain how much of that was due to our preconceived notions and how much was due to the reality of the place. We certainly never felt unsafe. It was more that the people seemed a bit less relaxed, and a bit less smiley. On the other hand, there were several men and many children who had shown an expressed interest in us. As for the women…we didn’t have any interaction.

I counted over the more important of the lessons I’d learned thus far:

1)    A Royal Enfield is THE way to travel India!

2)    Never trust an Indian driver.

3)    Don’t take a room near a mosque unless you want to be woken up at 4am by an obnoxiously loud, rattly, old voice making the call to prayer.

4)    Never trust an Indian mechanic without years of personal testing.

5)    I’d best know how to fix my motorcycle fully before setting out on such an adventure. There is so much misinformation with Indian mechanics!

6)    All-in-all, best not to trust anything in India – not without adequate testing.

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