Earthrise from Apollo 8

Whenever I see this photograph - taken on Christmas Eve, 1968,  by Apollo 8 astronaut Bill Anders – I think about the now-classic sci-fi film Men in Black. Planet Earth, suspended in space, reminds me of “Orion’s bell:” the bauble around the neck of an alien’s cat, containing an entire miniature galaxy. There it is: the home planet, shrunk to the size of a Christmas ornament.

As many times as we’ve seen this iconic image, how often do we really get it? Do we understand, viscerally, that everything that has ever happened to humanity - to every living thing ever known - has occurred on that glossy blue-and-white marble?

In the Hindu and Buddhist traditions, much is made of a phenomenon called satori: the moment of illumination, or awakening, that makes the delusional nature of life melt away like a sno-cone in the Sahara. Satori can be evoked by a simple phrase, feeling, or gesture. The emaciated Buddha attained realization when served a bowl of rice milk; the teacher Byron Katie awoke in a halfway house to the sensation of a cockroach creeping across her foot. For others, illumination comes with the contemplation of a koan: a mystifying paradox which short-circuits our rational thought process.

It seems to me that this astonishing photo – disarmingly simple, yet impossible to fully comprehend – might serve as the collective koan for every human being alive on this world. It is a portrait in which we are invisible, yet fully contained;  a point of view that portrays reality in an absolutely unadorned, yet utterly radiant, state. It is a vision available to non-visionaries; a miracle that requires no faith.

It is a view of our dizzying isolation, and proof of our total interdependence. And whether our Earth is just one of a billion populated worlds in this spiral galaxy, or a trinket around the neck of some alien’s cat (or both), it’s pretty frakkin’ gorgeous.

Here’s wishing all of you a wonderful New Year - on a planet that seems just a little more wonderful than it did last year.

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p.s. – A marvelous essay about this famous image, by Nature editor Oliver Morton, appeared 12/24/08 in the New York Times.

Nearly half my lifetime ago – in October, 1983 – my friend Bill Geary and I took a taxi to the Kathmandu’s old Tribhuvan Airport and boarded a sturdy Twin Otter for Lukla, the gateway to the world’s highest mountain range. We trekked for nearly four weeks, exploring the three main valleys of what would soon become Nepal’s Sagarmatha National Park. Our adventure climaxed atop Kala Patthar: a “black hill” which, cresting at 18,200’, affords a panoramic view of the Khumbu Glacier, the saw-tooth face of the Lhotse/Nuptse wall, and the commanding anvil of Everest, towering yet another 11,000’ above our struggling lungs.

I didn’t know if I could do it again. I’m in my 50’s now — fit enough for sea level, but cashing in on my genetic inheritance: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and a hardwired risk of heart failure. This year, in fact, I outlived my father, who passed away in September 1984 – less than a year after my first Everest trek, and mere days after his 54th birthday.

There are no guarantees in the mountains. I would not have been the first “healthy” trekker to collapse in the thin, cold air, struggling up flagstone trails that climb as much as 2,500’ a day, into an atmosphere that holds only 50% of the oxygen at sea level. And if that had happened – had I died on the trek, surrounded by impassive yaks and single-minded lichen – it would have been all right. By the time the Dakini and I began the long, slow climb up Kala Patthar, we had seen visions of such breathtaking beauty that it might seem almost selfish to wish for more.

You know the ending of this story. I didn’t die. We stood atop Kala Patthar just after noon, the sky high angstrom blue, the sun a bleached yellow star of halogen brightness. My ears beat in the wind. Crows hovered alongside our perch, hoping for power bar crumbs. The shifting Earth, with its myriad expressions of DNA, lay all around.

We tied a string of multi-colored prayer-flags at the summit. I dedicated their blessings to the memory of my father, and his good heart.

Indra Jatra is one of the Kathmandu Valley’s most treasured holidays. In shorthand, the 10-day celebration commemorates the capture and ransom of the rowdy god Indra, who was caught stealing a bunch of the Valley’s famous jasmine. The trussed-up god agreed, in return for his freedom, to provide the morning mists of late autumn, essential to the cultivation of winter wheat.

On a recent Friday afternoon, the city’s Newari population was gathering for the climax of the beloved festival. I parked my rented scooter, strolled past the saffron merchants and copper smiths, and took my place with the celebrants flowing into broad Basanthapur. The square soon filled up in anticipation of the evening’s traditional dances and rituals. Hundreds of women, dressed in brilliant saris, covered the temple steps like spilled confetti. Men milled around three worn wooden chariots, lifting their children for a better view. Soon, the ancient vehicles — festooned with flowers and fitted with thrones for Bhairav, Ganesh, and Kumari, the Living Goddess – would be pulled through the streets. Here, the old Newari spirit of Kathmandu was very alive — though the old palace square is now surrounded by cement high-rises.

Every year during the climax of Indra Jatra, dozens are water buffalo are sacrificed in a ritual to honor Kumari, the Living Goddess: a pre-pubescent girl who serves as Kathmandu’s protector deity. This year, though, the recently elected Maoist leadership decreed – at the height of the ceremony — that this year would be different. The secular government, citing extreme financial pressure, claimed they would not allocate government funds to buy sacrificial animals.

The reaction morphed instantly from disbelief to violence. Riots erupted. Police posts and tourist ticket booths were burned, and tires set on fire. The usually jubilant festival turned into a melee. The first wave was led by the kusain, the traditional butcher sub-cast. The yearly festivals of Indra Jatra and Dasain (a bigger and far bloodier event, starting October 4th) are their Thanksgiving and Christmas, providing most of the year’s revenue. By Sunday, though, a large part of the Valley’s indigenous Newari community had joined in.

Eventually, the government capitulated – but it was too little, too late. For the first time in living memory, the festival ended prematurely. There was no blessing from the Kumari to the nation’s new President; no procession of god-bearing chariots through the crowded streets.

What fascinated me most about this debacle was that it ignited a passionate debate about ritual sacrifice. This occurred last Dasain, as well, though on a much smaller scale. During the past week, emboldened or inflamed by government’s decision, Op-Eds and articles have filled the local dailies, addressing both sides of the argument. Is the ancient tradition of sacrifice – during which the heads of goats and buffalos are severed with a mighty stroke of a long-bladed kukri — an essential expression of Nepalese identity, or a primitive and barbaric display of animal cruelty?

The discussions that followed Indra Jatra (and that will no doubt greet Dasain) were diverse, but all paid homage to the obvious: ancient customs die hard. Even those adamantly opposed to animal cruelty were careful to hedge their views – admitting that such festivals are an indelible part of life in what was, at least until last April, “The World’s Only Hindu Kingdom.”

Even after 30 years of visiting Nepal, sacrificial rituals make me queasy. But I have to be fair: the meat is brought home for supper, or distributed, and the feasts that follow are a much-anticipated event. Yes, the animals are decapitated in a fearsome, bloodthirsty ceremony. But “barbarity” is a subjective term, and the Nepali method of slaughter (even on a day-to-day basis) is no worse than what you’ll find in… well, many Western abattoirs. One might even argue that if you are going to kill an animal for consumption, ritual sacrifice – where there is first-person awareness of the act, and a spiritual motive – is preferable to mindless butchery.

Someday, such large-scale animal sacrifices will likely end, and symbolic gestures will take their place (in Sri Lanka, for example, coconuts are smashed at the foot of holy shrines). But the transition will not occur overnight. For now, Nepal may be the only country in the world where Cybercafés and animal sacrifice share the public square, and angry Nepalese text message each other to report that the chariot of the Living Goddess has been stalled by protests.

The Nepalese may be enchanted by iPods, cell phone cameras, and other modern gadgets. But they cling savagely to tradition. Gods and goddesses will long remain central characters in the life of Kathmandu – and they like their meat raw.

Gairidhara is one of those little neighborhoods where you can find just about anything, from skin lightening cream to motorcycle seat reupholstering shops. This suits me well – because whenever I return to Nepal, I prepare myself to take advantage of a quality that has not changed a bit since my Buddha-shopping days: the Nepalese ability to fix anything. In the late 1980’s, I delighted in snapping photos – admiring photos – of umbrella repair stands and disposable lighter refilling stations. For a few years I sheepishly brought my old lighters back to Nepal to be reconditioned, though I never got as far as umbrellas.

Since then, I’ve abandoned all pretense of shame and generally fill a suitcase with items that would have to thrown out, or replaced, in America. Among the personal possessions rehabilitated on this journey: a $65 ThermaRest pad, leaking at the seams (repaired at a bicycle tire mender for 15 rupees, about 20 cents); my Timberland expedition hiking shoes, which, though incredibly comfortable, are separating at the soles (20 rupees), my carry-on computer case, in need of a new leather carrying handle (60 rupees), and my $125 Sennheiser collapsible noise-canceling headphones, with amazing electronics but wires so cheap they’re worn down to a few copper threads. The minimum repair charge for these babies on the Sennheiser site is $55, plus postage. I paid my friendly Gairidhara electrician (who fixes everything from toasters to laser printers) 50 rupees, no bargaining involved.

All of which brings me back to my long-held conviction that millions of dollars could be saved if the United States government got a clue, and started a variation of what the British did with the Gurkhas in the 19th century. The most ingenious and efficient Nepali street repairmen should be found, and recruited – not as soldiers, but as astronauts. Launched into orbit, they could repair absolutely anything — from faulty space station toilets to the Hubble Space Telescope – using needle nose pliers and few paper clips, for a cost of about six bucks a pop.

They say that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. I say, if you can drive a motorcycle in Kathmandu, you can drive one anywhere.

Granted, the bikes are small – my 150cc Bajaj Pulsar is about average – but that’s okay, because you can’t really go faster than 40 mph anyway (and that’s when the city streets are clear, at about 3 a.m.). During the day navigation is a surgical skill, accomplished with precision along narrow lanes, many of which were not made for anything wider than a cow. That’s about the width of my scooter; but I’m also sharing the streets with vagrant dogs, taxicabs, the occasional SUV, and a chaotic mix of kids, women in saris, rolling fruit, rickshaws, ice cream carts, balloon sellers, schoolgirls, buses, baskets of onions, and many other (far more aggressive) motorcyclists. All of the above move in what amounts to Brownian motion. The concentration required compares to the most austere Zen practice. There’s no room for error; if I show the slightest bit of indecision, other vehicles roar past me within a hair’s breadth, weaving like drunken bees. If I go down, I won’t be getting up again – one reason why a friend referred to the enterprise as “meditation at gunpoint.”

Twenty-five years ago, in 1983, I arrived in Kathmandu for my first extended stay, and wrote Mr. Raja’s Neighborhood. In October of that same year, I trekked to the Khumbu, the Everest region. A lean, mean 29, I carried a huge pack and spent weeks above 15,000’. This year, I’ll be returning to the Khumbu—this time with adventure travel pioneer Leo Le Bon, who founded Mountain Travel and helped open the area to trekking 40 years ago.

This year is also the 20th anniversary of Shopping for Buddhas – a story based on my search for the “perfect” statue, set here in 1988 against the backdrop of fast-changing Kathmandu. Now, 20 years later, I’m on a mission to write a story about how the past two decades have affected my relationship with Nepal.

I have to say right off: there have been countless changes here, and very few of them have been for the better. “Modern” Kathmandu seems to be the result of fifty years of bad choices, one on the heels of another. Somehow, though, I still love the place, and the crippled sister it has become. As the days pass, I’ll post some vignettes from the Valley. And I’ll try to do some shopping – if I can think of a deity that might be appropriate for this time and place.

So it begins: the 10-hour flight to Tokyo; the 5-hour layover amid the cutting-edge consumerism of the Narita Airport mall, where I escaped the tsunami of irresistible electronic temptations by falling into the pummeling embrace of a coin-operated massage chair; and then the surreal, seemingly endless final leg: 7 hours on to Krung Thep, where the gray cityscape belied the warmth and comfort of Jock and Annie’s eternal abode. Arrived under tumultuous rain, the taxi throwing up sheets of water as it pulled off Rama IV Road and onto Soi 26.

Still amazing, that in a total of 27 hours I was able to transport myself from door to door: from my Oakland, California abode to this Bangkok oasis, the much-loved “Wooden House” that has sheltered so many kindred nomads.

During last year’s visit to Asia, I returned to Kathmandu for the first time in five years - and vowed to make Nepal a regular part of my life once again. I’m keeping my word. After a long weekend with my great friends Jock and Annie - and a road trip to Chaloem Rattanakosin National Park, with its famous cave-dwelling barking toads– I’ll be flying on to Kathmandu. From which point, for some reason, writing this blog seems so much more… essential.

One final note. Just before leaving the Bay Area, a friend took me to see one of the most inspiring and unforgettable films I’ve ever seen. Man on Wire instantly took a place in my all-time Top 20 Films. Beautiful, audacious, maddening and jaw-dropping, this documentary says just about everything there is to say about risking everything for one’s art. Don’t miss it.

And hey… while composing this entry, I came across this cool website, definitely worth a look: “Walking as Art.”

A Dakini – according to the Shambala Dictionary of Buddhism and Zen – is a “wrathful naked female figure,” a benevolent demoness often found in the company of gods. Her job  is to inspire Buddhist practitioners; her nakedness symbolizes “knowledge of truth unveiled.” Dakinis are also known as women who “fare through space,” able to dance across the sky in their muse-like role as collaborators of contemplators. 

 I don’t know about all that. The Dakini I’ve recently connected with is seldom wrathful, only occasionally naked, and certainly not predisposed to hanging out with gods. But she’s a pretty good writer (check out her Flying Hobo Girl blog) and, sure enough, she flies. Someday, I hope, she’ll teach me – but until I’m ready to sign up for paragliding lessons, we have to content ourselves with high-altitude hikes in the Sierra and quasi-weightless dips into mountain hot springs and alpine lakes.

I like her July 22nd entry a lot; I was, after all, the friend who came up with the  Constructivist wilderness  moniker. So in a way, hers is sort of a proxy blog for me, in light of the fact that I’ve lately been too busy — or lazy — to produce one myself. I’m not sure that’s what dakinis are supposed to be provide, but hey… I’m  grateful all the same.

It’s unusual for me to do this, but I recently received an email directing me to a website created by artist/travelers Todd Berman and Lauren Girarden. Todd and Lauren attended my show at The Marsh on May 17th, 2008. I thought i’d noticed someone sketching,  front row center, during the performance — but I had no idea the result would be such a playful, kaleidoscopic portrait, which brilliantly captures the spirit of Strange Travel Suggestions. Visit Ephermerratic, and see for yourself!

 “To travel,” Aldous Huxley wrote, “is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.” It’s also a way to discover that you’re wrong about your own country.

 Sort of wrong, anyway.  Sort of right, and sort of wrong. Going in, I had a bundle of preconceptions  about Arkansas. Friends who knew about the trip hummed the theme from Deliverance (the musical equivalent, geographically speaking, of confusing Danny Boy with Frere Jacques).  And despite my own awareness that Johnny Cash, Bill Clinton and Mary Steenburgen all hail from Arkansas, I was unprepared either for the profusion of Barack Obama bumper stickers or the amazing quality of the breakfast burritos at The Oasis.

The most savvy among you will know, from those hints, that I was not in Little Rock, but Eureka Springs: an enclave of  like-minded beings in the northwestern part of the state. I’d been invited there to perform Strange Travel Suggestions at the Grand Central Hotel; itself a strange travel suggestion, kited by local residents Dawn Hagin and Faryl Kaye (owner of the stately Peabody House, which hosted my stay). Dawn and Faryl had seen me perform the show at the Book Passage Travel Writers’ Conference in August 2007, and made good on their threat to bring me to The Natural State.

  It’s two worlds, Eureka Springs: a close-knit literary and artistic community, where local band Mountain Sprout rocks the Chelsea with hillbilly porn and vans disguised as space shuttles smoke up Spring Street during the annual ArtRageous Parade; and a bastion of fundamentalist conservatism, as witnessed by the irresistible Bible park on the outskirts of town. One highlight of my trip was a visit to The Museum of Earth History, where I learned why carbon dating is bullshit, and how dinosaurs were squeezed onto the Ark (see blog title). To the left is a picture of us gaping, enaptured, at the 3rd-largest statue of Jesus in the world (right up there with Rio and Santiago).

Another terrific afternoon was spent along the Buffalo, the first U.S. river to be  designated “Wild and Scenic.” Hiking along the limestone bluffs far above its banks, I was amazed, as I so often am, by the almost inexhaustible number of fabulous parks in this great land of ours. When it comes to vouching for America’s scenic beauty, I’ll wave that flag as wide and high as any Pabst-swilling patriot.

 For me, though, the runaway highlight was the performance itself. The audience was terrific, the Q&A was a blast, and the show witnessed the maiden spins of my brand new Wheel. At 40 lbs, fitting into a 30” x 36” x 6”box, the suddenly portable prop – always the centerpiece of my show, thanks to the brilliant artist, Mark Wagner –now makes it possible for me to take Strange Travel Suggestions anywhere. And I will.
                                                                                    

 On March 18th, just before 1 pm PST, my dear friend Arthur C. Clarke died of respiratory failure in a Sri Lanka hospital. It was an event that his family and  close friends had dreaded for years, though it was of course inevitable. Aside from his advanced age — Arthur turned 90 in December — the futurist and science fiction grandmaster suffered from Post Polio Syndrome, which had confined his lanky, once tireless frame to a wheelchair.

Many of you are aware of the strong bond Arthur and I shared, ever since he generously consented to meet me, a babbling 16-year-old fan, at his writing retreat at New York’s Chelsea Hotel in 1970. Over the past 38 years, I’ve written many stories about our encounters, which usually took place at his home in Sri Lanka (and often included my utter humiliation at table tennis). A story about our last meeting currently appears on the online version of Wired, under the title Sundown with Arthur.

Words can’t adequately express my fondness for this man, or how profoundly his writing, humanism, humor, warmth, and vision — and what a vision — influenced my life. As a tribute, I hope to practice the advice Arthur himself offered me after the death of my brother Jordan, in 1990. "Don’t mourn that you lost him," Arthur wrote. "Rejoice that you knew him."

All of humanity should rejoice and honor the long tenure of this kind, brilliant man, who maintained a crazy confidence in the redemtion—and  transcendence—of the human race. He left us with scores of wonderful books, food for thought to nourish generations to come, and the most useful tool ever placed into human hands: the communications satellite. Farewell, my friend. What we owe you is beyond evaluation.