Wysypka i ...

Sometimes living gets in the way of blogging. Hello friends, for the first time in a long time. At the present moment I’m in the city of Gangtok, in the state of Sikkim, in the country of India. I’m staying put for a few days and waiting for an uncomfortable allergic reaction to go away. I’ve got a crazy rash all over my upper body. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it? It’s not. Aside from feeling slightly mutant, the rash has given me the opportunity to witness firsthand the ease and efficiency of the healthcare system in India, at least on a small scale. I showed up at the dermatologist’s office unannounced, ten minutes and eight dollars later I left with a couple of prescriptions and piece of mind. After only one day I’m already healing, and happy. Smile.

I had a similar experience on a visit I took to Italy years ago. Like now, I had an almost identical reaction to detergents and starches on sheets I was sleeping on and ended up in the Italian ER with a swollen face that looked as though it had been hit with a potful of boiling oil. I spent eight hours in the hospital while the doctors mulled over the circumstances. They injected me with some cortisone shots and sent me to the skin doctor who loaded me up with prescriptions. My total bill for these services was forty euros. In the past, an uninsured visit to a U.S. Dermatologist with a couple of prescriptions has cost me five hundred dollars. I’m no expert on this stuff, but with a simple comparison it seems like something funky may be going on here… OK, done now. I’ve been boring my traveling companions with rash talk for the last two weeks. I will not also sour our relationship with my self-centered obsession.

Other than itching, I’ve just been skulking around the northeastern tip of India, and haven’t done a whole lot beyond just wandering, drinking masala tea, and staring at pretty colored jewelry, sparkly saris, and other assorted junk that tourists might be fooled into buying in order to feel their touring experience is complete. The best example of this in Asia is poofy pants. There’s a very specific style of poofy pants that women in India wear, but somehow the whole of Asia has decided that travelers love to buy and wear brightly colored poofy pants when they’re on vacation, that bear almost no resemblance to the one style worn by women in the one country. Amazingly, we have agreed to this decision, en masse, and you can see travelers from every country around the globe trekking the streets of every Asian city in garments that they would otherwise only consider wearing as jammies.

I met a young man from South Korea on the train to Tibet. We had a pleasant conversation about our travels and his life in Korea. He fit a very general observation that people have made about South Korean people; polite, serious, studious, and conservative. Two weeks later I spotted him from the window of my hotel in Kathmandu. He was walking down the street in what appeared to be a pair of trousers tailored for a circus clown. They were composed of many brightly colored patches, all of a different pattern, huge and flowing, but tightly cinched around his ankles. To this he also added a purple t-shirt, a native style woven fanny pack, and a multi-colored fisherman’s cap to complete his look. I couldn’t help but wonder if the ensemble would go immediately into the trash upon his return to South Korea, or just get tucked away deep into a closet somewhere. I have to admit, I love losing my mind just as much as the next person, but I haven’t caught poofy pants fever… yet.

I did, however, fall prey to another style of consumerism, custom made clothing. In my defense, I’ve been traveling around with a bag full of impractical clothes for the last seven months, Since June I have been dreaming of the perfect pair of pants, that will allow me maximum comfort, while functioning in a number of circumstances, rolling all pants into one and letting me throw out a few pairs I’ve been hauling around. I hope I haven’t aimed too high. We’ll find out on Tuesday.

I visited the tailor this afternoon, and they put on quite a show. Every time I would express the slightest interest in a certain fabric someone would yank it from the shelf and grab the end of the roll, causing the bolt to go whirling into the air, landing stretched out and on display in service of my curiosity. I was feeling indecisive and the place was quickly turning into a disaster, with bolts of fabric strewn all over every inch of the showroom. The visual chaos was revving my OCD into high gear. I quickened my pace and tried to remain two steps ahead of every shop boy, pulling the fabric out on my own, without all the flourish, and replacing it neatly in hopes of maintaining order. This only served to free them up to create other forms of mayhem. If I would hold a corner of fabric up to myself to check the color, they would pull every yard from the bolt and wrap me up in it. Their ingenious technique inspired the perfect combination of awe and guilt, and when the time came to haggle I couldn’t do it with any amount of conviction. I talked the price down by 648 rupees, and then gave up. Those guys are good.

I’ve found this flair for customer service to be relatively consistent in most places I’ve visited in India so far. Almost every interaction is accompanied with a smile so sweet you instantly feel like forgetting all propriety and embracing them in a giant hug. In restaurants the servers gently place all the tableware and take extra time arranging your forks and spoons in a parallel manner. They trim little fringes into napkins and place them neatly on serving plates and address you as Sir and Madame. I feel wholly unworthy. I end up wanting to abandon my dinner so I can wash the dishes and serve them some hot tea after giving a foot massage. What a bunch of teddy bears.

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I’d be participating in a ten-day retreat at Bokar Monastery. It was interesting and refreshing to land myself in a community of Buddhists after associating almost exclusively with travelers. It took me a minute or two to adjust my speed. After months of residing in the mindset of move move move, swapping crass stories with kids, and engaging in daily arguments / negotiations with business owners and taxi drivers I came in like a bulldozer, talking loud, swearing, and wiggling around a lot. Suddenly I had to be up at 5am with my mouth closed, minding my Ps & Qs, and ready to sit on a cushion for eight hours a day. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, but I was slightly surprised by what my mind was saying to me. To me, Buddhism seems less like a religion, and more like a cool way to look at things. It’s not a punitive and fear based doctrine, but rather a suggestion, like, Hey, why don’t you sit on this cushion for a few minutes and take a look at what’s been running through your mind all day / week / month / your entire life. I took this suggestion and you know what was running through my mind? Food.

I became ravenously hungry from literally sitting in one place. In the morning meditation I would find my focus shifting from my breath to thoughts of donuts, toast with peanut butter, and sugary milk coffee. After breakfast I would worry all through our second sitting about whether there would be cookies with our mid-morning tea. Every meal was a buffet, and we never came close to running out of anything, but still I would rush to be the first out of the meditation hall for lunch, and every meal really. I started to become a little embarrassed as the monks who prepared our food recognized me and were flashing me knowing smiles that seemed to carry the subtext of oink. I began to visit the restroom before rushing down to the cafeteria, which was placing me at about fourth in line by the time I got down there. Am I more desperate than the average human to stuff myself, or am I just fast? I’m not sure, but I do know the buffet system is no good for me. I gained about five pounds. Those monks really know how to cook.

The ten days I passed at the monastery were pleasant and calm. In the mornings I would wake to a rooster crowing contest, and in the evenings I would fall asleep to the sound of the local dogs holding their nightly barking contest. Our schedule was very full, 6 am to 7 pm. After dinner I would return to my soggy room in time to watch The Dog Whisperer work his magic. Cesar would tame the wild beast in big dogs, small dogs, hungry dogs, all kinds of dogs, and then I would curl up in my moldy blankets, wearing every article of clothing I own, and work on pretending to feel snuggly and warm. It’s cold in the north, and the monsoon season has just ended, so everything is wet, and so far I have not seen a heater in any building I’ve visited.

A source of excitement during my visit was a ceremony I took place in where I was given a Tibetan name by Khenpo Lodrö Dönyö Rinpoche. The ceremony felt very formal to me, but I was absolutely clueless and acting giggly and goofy, completely uncouth I’m sure. I was probably doing everything wrong, but all involved were kindly pretending not to notice. When the time came for the name to be given Rinpoche looked at me twice, apparently appraising whether he had chosen correctly, then announced, Jampa Lhamo, Goddess of Love. It was much more dramatic than I expected and I inadvertently exclaimed Ouuuuu!! Luckily Rinpoche burst out laughing, keeping the mood light, and the ceremony ended on a good note. So, I’ve got this name now, and I feel some responsibility to live up to it. Do you think you can help me?

For the next week or so I’ll just be hanging out in Gangtok, soaking in the customer service and waiting for the itch to go away. Next week I’m probably going to head into the farthest northeastern states of India, where there are supposed to be lions and tigers and tribal folks, who may or may not have any interest in meeting me. Hopefully I can lay my Tibetan name on them and impress the heck outta of ‘em. Fingers crossed.