the Maoists are coming

They stopped the bus just as we left a small town check point, five miles away from our drop point into the Kali Gandakai river in Nepal. We were going rafting. The man whose job it would be to extract our money boarded first. He smiled widely, with his eyes as well, and he looked at us with great friendliness, as if we'd been waiting for him a long time. "Hello," he said, "We are Maoists."

He proceeded comfortably down the center aisle, introducing himself to each of us individually with an out-reached hand. He had the well behaved and welcome demeanor of distant cousin who we'd enthusiastically invited to dinner, and who had finally arrived.

We all sat squarely in our seats, leaking disapproval through our postures. Those who had already encountered Maoists on their treks and had been taxed heavily per day, grumbled. But he held his hand out to each of us indiscriminatley, and we limply placed our fingers in his palm. There seemed, strangely, nothing else to do.

He rode with us to the drop point, holding a crumpled receipt book in his hand. A receipt is given to tourists when they are taxed, so if they are stopped again within the same locality they can avoid being taxed again. A second Maoist had also boarded our bus. He was young, angry and on a power trip. But harmless all the same.

At the drop point, those who had already been taxed during long treks began to complain. Even though this was a different locality, they had already handed over thousands of rupees to a cause they didn't support. Now each person was being asked for 300 rupees more for a three-day rafting trip.

The angry Maoist stood behind the smiling Maoist, and repeatedly barked "no discount! no discount!" to the complaining trekkers.The smiling Maosist ignored him completely, and with twinkling eyes offered 200 rupees as a good, and final, compromise. An act of good will intended to show us the inherent fairness of their cause.

We all paid up. And knowing we were in no personal danger, (Maoists almost always remain very polite and non-violent with tourists, but they are firm, and if we don't pay, the guides who accompany us are held responsible.), we gathered around the smiling Maoist and took turns asking our questions and expressing our indignation.

The Dutch couple wanted to know what exactly was being done with the money, and why after destroying Nepal's infrastructure for seven years, the Maoists were taking such pride in building it up again with extorted tourist money. The Canadian couple attempted to debunk the Maoist's insistence that they had the support of the whole country, and argued that by extorting tourists and threatening hard-earned family businesses, they were doing far more damage than good.

The Poles argued that communism in practice does not, and never has, worked. But their English was not good enough to drive this home. They walked away exacerbated. Spencer, a Londener who looked more menacing than the Maosists by far, listened in at the rim, interjecting occassionally with: "You're just a bunch-a bandits, arechnt ya?"

I simply wanted to know why the smiley Maoist thought he could demand money from tourists, despite our opposition to their movement. Why did he feel it legitimate to raise money in this way? By way of example I invited him to Australia, and mentioned I was a staunch conservationist. I then demanded 500 rupees so I could save trees that would provide oxygen to my children. "You are in my country, you must support my cause," I said. "I will follow you until you give it to me."

Of course, all of our reasoning and posturing was entirely futile. Our Maoist cousin smiled and with great patience attempted to answer each question. He claimed that if we knew what they stood for, we would support them of our own free will. For this reason, taking our money now was legitimate. If we would read their manifesto, we would give it to them freely.

This logic made complete sense to him, and as his unhappy cadre pulled him away towards a newly arrived tourist bus, I thought to myself, this is what happens when people stop asking questions, when the end justifies any means, and when a goal or a belief is accepted hook, line and sinker.

When we stop asking questions, we lose the power to reason, or more precisely, we lose the desire to reason. Our only security is in our convictions, and so all else becomes black and white, either for or against. You're with us or you're with the...

I put on the life jacket and helmet that had been handed to me, and proceeded to the rafts for the safety briefing. All the while I thought of the Dalai Lama, of his advice to the Tibetan people, and whether it had any place here. In the face of great injustice, which Nepal's rural poor certainly suffer at the hands of the corrupt monarchy, their nobility, their inherent goodness as human beings, is in many ways squandered in their representation by harsh Maosist policies. Unfortunately, they do not have a Dalai Lama, or even a politician, to provide them with an alternative way, an alternative vision, so these people have not a speck of hope outside of the promises made to them by Maoists. For these reasons I understand and empathise with their choices.

But for us, in our own lives, is there something to learn here? Is it better to stay true to your personal ideals in choosing what to stand for and how, even if it means that your goals may not be reached as fast, or maybe not even in this lifetime? Is there tangible benefit in not relinquishing the ability to act in hard times with as much integrity as we do in good, and according to the same principles? Is this even possible? Or at least worth striving for? And if by doing so we can inspire one other person to do the same, have we done anything important?

Do we partake in the injustices of our aggressors and lose ourselves while gaining a victory? Is there any victory if in the process you have lost yourself, and provided the war grounds for the next generation?

Our raft slipped into the Kali Gandaki river. The morning sun glistened playfully in the swaying green waters and I dropped my fingers into the icy stream. The memory of the Maosists was already receding. My questions sighed deeply, and shuffled reluctantly to the back of my mind. My five rafting partners smiled at each other expectantly, and I joined in.

"Forward all!" yelled Setu, our rafting guide. We heaved forward and pushed our paddles back. We slid deeper into the river, excited for the rapids we could see just ahead.

hate in the morning

Kantipur Temple, Kathmandu

Early morning and how I hate the black crowe outside my window. Relentless, hoarse, negative, dark in spirit too. Croaking indefinitely, barely a breath between croaks, taking away all the surrounding silence and its possibilities. Early morning, and how I hate that black crowe.

buddha dharma

From the temple outside the
Dalai Lama's residence...

Never commit any evil deeds.
Accumulate a wealth of merits.
Completely tame one's own mind.
This is the teaching of the Buddha.

against these rocks

Kasol, Parvati Valley

The Parvati River roars. We sit on ancient rocks, half wet from Parvati's thrashing, half dry because the monsoon has come and gone. On the rocky banks of this river, with its wild unrestrained energy, its desperate gush, the water flows from the peaks of the mountains that lift up the sky, running, falling, freezing, melting, touching tree and rock and grass and cow, and then finally finding the river the water goes mad. Unleashed, it becomes fast and free, its most unpredictable self.

Over and around massive rocks it triumphantly smashes against every obstacle, never less determined to continue its wild, wild roaring race.

The Parvati river spins past me, tumultous and loud, violent and loving. It could never be anything other than what it is. This is the true nature of water and god. We men, we try to change ourselves. And so against these rocks we break.

The river spins. Magnificent and wild, forever seeking self-realization through beauty, fury, freedom and truth.

One day this water will find an island of silence, but in that place noone should forget that if you followed it back to its source, there you would see the water crashing over endless rocks that make and break the path to tomorrow, and threaten death while promising life.

Follow the rush of all things back to their source, and there you will hear the roar.

fucking lariam

In the morning Erez told me all about it. i didn't at first put all the pieces together. my creeping anxiety that day, my unnervingly disturbed efforts to fall asleep on the bus from Delhi the night before (leading me to consume a large pack of spicy tomato chips in under 4 minutes during our pit-stop in bumblefuck, india), and the extremely strange dream I had just awoken from minutes before of my brother Michael purposely torching what was apparently my dog while I was on vacation. for the entire dream i screamed at michael and made him change the dog's bandages, while Michael laughed and rolled his eyes.

So I hadn't really put all the pieces together yet when Erez, sweaty and frightened from a night of feverish paranoia said, "hey, do you think it could be the malaria pills?"

Fucking Lariam.

Like we hadn't been warned by friends. So now I decide to actually look it up. Here's what it says in the Lonely Planet: "serious side effects are rare but include depression, anxiety, psychosis and having fits. anyone with a history of depression, anxiety, other psychological disorders or epilepsy should not take Lariam."

So basically it says, Ilana, if you're reading this, seriously, don't take Lariam.

But poor Erez. He was just another of those "rare cases" I suppose. And even now it will probably take him a few days to believe it was the pills and not his precious mind buckling under the pressure of the past few months.

So in the morning, desperate for a panacea, we decided to move out of our bright Sky House room and into a burgundy number at The Akash Deep, a hotel overlooking the plunging misty valley. The room with the view wouldn't be available for one or two more days, but we moved into a temporary room there anyway. Just to get away from those crazy thought monsters lurking in Sky House.

So now we're here. No pills, better view. It's all good. As long as we don't get bitten by a malarial mosquito in the next three months.

day 2 or 3, not sure

We are in the mountains now. It is quiet now. We also talk in quieter voices. We are settling into Baghsu.

After arriving by beaten-up mountain cab, we look for our hotel. I had booked several on "Bagshu Rd," but we soon learn that while Baghsu Rd is a path that leads to Baghsu, it is not actually in Baghsu. So, we begin looking for a room door to door.

I would not say I am extremely picky. Particularly needy. But I do have an idea in my mind of where I would like to settle. It should not look like a prison basement or an escapee hideaway. There should be hot water at some point in the day. I prefer a view of a mountain to a view of a tin roof. The walls should be painted a happy color (I am open to any in the spectrum of happy colors). And I should feel like I am in the Tibetan village of Baghsu, living in harmony with my surroundings. When I find that for under $10 per night, I'll take it.

One hour later we're unpacking at Sky House. Bright yellow walls, bright green window frames, strong smell of cow shit at the entrance, mooing, side-mountain view, rather obstructed but by local houses, and all that for 200 rupees ($5) per night. Home.

nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

Towering, towering, towering, towering, towering, towering Himalaya, peaking at me from behind the Dhauladhar Range. Peaceful, peaceful, peaceful, peaceful, peaceful, peaceful monks, gliding along stone paths in their burgundy cloaks, drinking chai and eating vegetarian dumplings. Falling, falling, falling, falling, falling water, cascading down wet rocks, once ice on the mountain's bald head, now making rainbows and filling our ears with its rush.

more rain

all silence. some laughter. some spoon against glass. some boot against wet gravel. some pages turning. some cow. some bird. all silence.

and when the rain begins to recede, we all stir from our waking dreams. sit up just a little higher. take a deep breath.

it rains in the Himalayas

It rains in the Himalayas. And when it does you are wrapped in nature's wetness. Before it rains the clouds move in. First the white ones, they breathe in, like nature's frosty breath speaking to you, releasing puffs of white mist in your direction. And then the grey clouds come. All peaceful, all beautiful.

The dark clouds usher you to cover. "Find somewhere you like," they say, "and order some Chai. It will rain for a few hours now. Bring a book. Bring paper and pen. Bring the Lonely Planet. Watch how the mountains become mystical and wet. You are so high up now. You are part of the sky. So if it rains a little in your heart too, do not worry. You are nature, and you are nature's seasons. Birth, death, rebirth, you are this too. Your thoughts are this too. Some thoughts are peasants and beggars. Some thoughts are kings. Some live always in the dark clouds, and they bring the rain. Some look always for spring and bring you hope of new thoughts from the sun. New life is born in new thoughts."

And then the rain comes. Everything is white, but also silver, but also green.

Soon you will pay the bill, your toast with jam, your fruit porridge, all your teas, and you will walk into the dripping morning. You will look out into mountains and through your eyes your soul will also look out into the mountains. You will love their soft silhouettes, because in their elusive distant beauty is your metaphor for hope.

couple at the next table

And so she starts saying "maybe you are right."

Maybe you are right that the monsoon doesn't close roads. Maybe you are right that we should have gone right instead of straight. Maybe I should have used tumeric instead of chili powder.

And through his inflating sense of manhood and victory, he fails to sense the dark and lonely foreboding in her surrender.

Coach

All but the coach were on board. We had driven all night and now as the sun rose we were a couple hours away from Dharamsala. We had stopped for tea at a make-shift street kitchen, built of corrugated iron and with rusty metal seating kicking up sand and earth from the ground. Our driver, some passengers and a few locals had eaten something liquidy with their hands from metal tins, and now everyone was back on board. Except for the coach.

The bus revvs its engine, slides forward a a bit, signalling it can leave at any moment. But the coach remains in his place on the sidewalk, looking into the middle distance down the waking village street. His glance is not sleepy. It is sharp. His milky coffee moves slowly to his pursed lips, and then the warm biscuit.

The bus again revvs its engine. A request and a warning. If the coach noticed, he does not care.

Here is a man who knows his importance in the world, I think while pressing my forehead against the window. His entire cricket team is sleepy and silent in the back of the waiting bus. He knows no bus driver will separate them. So the coach will have his breakfast. Finish his morning thoughts.

Here is a man, I think enviously, who knows that the world always has, and always will, revolve around him.

Day 1 - Accidentally Mumbai

Just a continuation of my many failed attempts at serenity over the past three months. After giving in to Erez' insistence that we go into this three month trip doing no planning ahead whatsoever, we land in Mumbai already tense over our starkly different ideas on what to do next, which had emerged during the flight. Of course, the one thing that we both seem satisfied with, flying directly to Nepal, proves to be impossible. This information attained only after being sent to three different terminals, four different floors, and several dark, dusty employee-only back-corridors. Stuck, we use every inch of spare space in the back of an ancient indian cab to move ourselves and our backpacks to Coloba, 'the backpacker area of the city' our Lonely Planet lets us know, and so full of the travel agents we need. Oh, and it takes two hours to get there, but unfortunately Erez doesn't read that far, and we find out when we're almost half way there.

Anyway. Fast-forward. That was 11 a.m. this morning. It's now 9 p.m. I'm sitting on a plane again, this time to Delhi.

Rewind. After arriving in Coloba this morning, both overwhelmed and exhilarated with the cab ride through Mumbai's endless slums, we do manage to find a friendly, possible reliable, air-conditioned travel agency, and sort through our options there. No flights to Kathmandu until October 13, but Goa or Kerala are tempting 'kick-back' options. Still, somewhat different to the breath-stopping Himalayan views to which we are magnetising. In conclusion, we would leave rest to another day. Instead, we decide to take the 2hr ride back to the Mumbai airport, fly to Delhi, another loud, hectic, swarming, cow-filled city, and then the following day board a 13-hour toilet-less bus to Dharamsala in northern India. We would find mountains, and possibly spiritual enlightenment, there.

That plan made, we had time to kill. Up the street we find Leapolds, the most reliable cafe on the strip, and satiate our gnawing hunger. Then we allow ourselves to get ripped off by the manager of Maria Lodge, which was the only hostel/guesthouse which would rent us a room for just 2 hours so we could catch our breath. (But not before being hassled and hustled by numerous street hotel- peddlers, each pointing in the direction of their own hostels, all of which were "down this street sir, right down this street," but none of which actually were.) Once in the seedy little room, interestingly across a narrow alleyway from a busy make-shift mosque on the second floor of a crumbling building, we peel off our backpacks and Erez lays back and closes his eyes. While he does that, I find a street phone and start making reservations for the two days ahead. Planning is suddenly back in fashion.

Now it's nighttime. I'm back in the air, the cooshy portion of our journey northward. Erez is curled up in my lap. We are feeling better, and are up for the adventure ahead.

The plan is to pass Dharamsala and also the next hill station of McLeod Gange (home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government in Exile) and settle in one of the two smaller towns further up the mountain, either Bach's or deranged. There we will find ourselves a room with a view. A Himalayan view that is. And there we will sit until our energy is restored.

Thus begins our honeymoon. I await what's next with both optimism and dread.

Erez and Ilana...

On September 7, 2006, Erez and I got married. It was the best party I have ever been to. Our friends and family were absolute rock stars, and on this night they shined, and we shined because of them.






The rest of the photos can be seen here. Our amazing love story is there in our eyes.

(editor's note: The rest of our story, of which there will be no more photos, may be told here one day. But not yet.)

...but right now, a month and a half after i stood under the huppa, danced in the nighttime water with my best friends, welcomed hundreds of people, new family and old family, to the colors, sounds, people and love of my life, now, one and a half months later, it feels like too much of a story to tell. so, for now, our wedding will remain unblogged.

i'm now in Nepal, having spent about 3 weeks in northern India on what some might call a honeymoon, but we just call a great big trip through south east asia on our way to Australia to start a new life.







what follows are some of my posts, hand written in my travelling note book (thanks Eleanne), from the past weeks.

around the world (all night long)

sleepless again. no laundry this time.

new york - tel aviv - rome - delhi - katmandu - columbo - bangkok - saigon - melbourne - new york

if tomorrow

will you come tomorrow?
my brother is here for a few days. i'll come next weekend.
next weekend.
yes, is that alright?
yes. but i don't know. you better call first. i'm doing radiation now.
oh, of course. is it going well.
very well.
that's very good.
yes.
so i will see you soon.
yes, but you should call first.
i promise i will call.
it's better with you than without you.
i am with you.
seeing you helps my heart.

my heart too victor.
smile your sparkling smile for me.
please don't die.

uneven flow

so complicated morphs into so distorted. in the mirror, a distortion. before me, a distortion. see it all how it could be. see it all how it is. the gap, is irreconcilable. in the gap, is all of history. the deep wrinkles. the hunched back. hands flying, brows furowed. so hideously ugly. so hideously mysterious, how all that became me. how i became all that. a remedy is unlikely. except perhaps a quieter voice, a better posture, a tan. a longer fuze. a more placid heart. where is all my even flow. where did my even flow go.

seriously though

question. how far should one go to look gorgeous on their wedding day?

despite the answer, i've always found it sad visiting a married woman's house, when she's fat from children and cooking and tired from that and more, and everywhere you look there are pictures of her on her wedding day. thin, flawless, beauitful. "ah, so beautiful" you say, with pity in your heart.

tree

i needed a tree, so my old friends at sposto interactive did some pro bono work for me, like a wedding present they said. their generousity is in its thousands of details. i love our tree.

speaking of trees, genius idea at work on friday. wrote to HR suggesting a new policy be implemented that requires everyone print on both sides of each paper. to help this be convenient, all printers should be sent to double-sided printing as default. for client presentations requiring color, exceptions can be made. this is a policy they have no reason not to implement, and excellent reasons to implement. unlike other environmentallly sound ideas, this one provides immediate cost savings. the stacks and reams of crumpled, unwanted, wasted paper covering every flat surface of each printer room would only be half as messy. paper would last up to double as long. can estimate actual savings with facilities. got a reply within a day. "great idea. i'll speak to management."

it's a start.

i think this could be huge. it's the kind of thing that catches on, because it's easy, has no real downside, and makes people feel good about themselves. the press would lap it up. and companies could actually make a difference if it was adopted on mass.

now i just need a jingle. and a well-connected press agent.

sleepless in sleeplessville

utterly sleepless. let's review possible stimuli. 3 hrs designing wedding invitations, 1 hr in a paper store, 1.5hrs with a dying man, 2 hrs doing laundry (incl. fold and put away), 15 mins watching argentina vs. mexico, 30 mins talking to future brother in law, 20 minutes trying to nap on the couch (brain had other plans), 30 mins talking to brother in australia (turned 18 this week), 15 mins talking to mother & father in australia, some other miscellaneous phone time, internet time, itunes time, bridget jones on tv time. washing fruit, eating fruit. deciding, after years of debate with myself, that yes, hugh grant is in fact quiet cute.

diagnosis is that stimuli could have come from multiple sources.

or, could have just been the laundry. always a traumatic experience.

woooooorrrddddsss

i'm not finding it very easy to get revved up on this blog. i'm sure it's just a matter of it becoming routine. it will go from my last thought to my first thought, with time. from a pressure to a need. the need to write i have all the time. but commiting to words is a difficult task. they skittle around, always on the move. for me writing words has become like herding cats. at most i can get one to go where it belongs. the others escape me, as if the company of other words threatens their purity, and only independence can preserve their true meaning.

rain says write

I've got to start somewhere. And I've got to start with words. The first ones will come hard. Later it will be easier. Easier than not saying them, unlike now, when not saying is the easiest.

Not that there's anything so important to say. Important in the big world way. But words are small things, and they can be huge. And life is like that too. A small gesture, a thought, a moment in time. Very small, but more true than anything else.

And truth is really what I'm after. Which is hard because truth isn't only the opposite of lying. It's sometimes the opposite of silence, or of being in situations where you don't belong, or of forgetting who you are and ending up on the wrong path. The opposite of truth can be weakness.

I'm also starting here because telling the truth helps make knowing the truth easier. (That's because I'm not the silent type. No still waters here.)

My life is very good. I have love and a beautiful home and inspiring friends and my family loves me. But there seems to be some truth missing. So I'm going to start with words.