January 6, 2010: Goa, India

I’ve arrived in Goa, the legendary summer place on the southwestern shores of India. I made the bold decision while in Varanasi, and with unstoppable determination I began laying the groundwork for my flight from coldness to Goa.
For three months now I’ve been cold. Shortly after arriving in Nepal I realized I’d need some warmer clothes. Since then I’ve been wearing my second skin of thermals and down—I sleep with all my clothes on and I spend all my days freezing my ass off, despite my ridiculous puffy blue down Michelin Goodyear jacket. My jacket is the butt of many jokes and has become quite filthy, but I can’t imagine life without it. I’ve been seeking comfort and was aware that decisive action was necessary if I were to escape the winter of northern India and Nepal.

Of course, I knew I had to go south. But I haven’t found my groove in India yet. The country is so huge, I feel disoriented and overwhelmed by possibilities. I hear many intriguing stories of interesting places, but every destination requires a serious commitment in India. The only thing I felt sure about was that Goa had nice beaches and was summery. That’s all I needed to know.

After the standard dizzying adventure of various transports, including rickshaws, taxis, a 15-hour long train ride to Delhi, and more taxis, I hopped on a flight to Goa. The flight was two hours long, during which time I intently studied Lonely Planet trying to figure out what I would do once the plane landed. Nothing was clear to me, though. I felt like I was gonna puke, hadn’t slept in a very long time, my head was cloudy, and I was concerned about the amount of effort that was required of me before I would reach solace. Two Russian girls were sitting beside me on the plane, and after chatting for a little while they told me they were headed to Vagator and invited me to share a taxi with them. Problem solved.

I arrived feeling half dead, paid too much for a beach hut, crawled into bed, and slept for the next fourteen hours.

When I awoke the sun was shining brightly, casting speckles of sunlight on the walls of my bamboo hut. It was warm, it was nice. I grabbed my book and headed on down to the beach to explore and see where I’d arrived.

My hut was set upon a cliff that looked down upon the beach lined with banana plantations, coconut trees, and temporary bamboo restaurants. It was a beautiful summer day and the ocean wind blowing through my hair felt heavenly. I hobbled on down the rocky hill to the beach and found a nice beach chair with a sun umbrella overhead.

It was still early, but as the day progressed I quickly began to figure out what was happening. First thing that struck me was how many Russians vacation here. Indeed, it felt like I was in little Russia. Second observation: techno is the beloved music here and is blasting out of speakers at all hours of the day. Third: everyone is drinking and rolling hash cigarettes morning noon and night. I had arrived in India’s famed party destination.

The beach is an endless strip of restaurants and bars—all of them are crowded with Russians and dreadlocked hippies lounging on beach chairs. Smoking and drinking all day long, these types don’t seem to really be the backpacker-types, but rather the fun-loving types seeking endless summer. As I look around I sense that many of these people have been here for a very long time.

It is nice here, but is not really my style. I realized that soon after arriving, but was ok with that because it fit my needs perfectly. For me, this is a retreat, as I seek refuge in summer’s grace. I lay peaceful in sunlight, melting in this blessed warmth, eating occasionally.

I have spoken so few words lately that I don’t even bother to wear my hearing aids. This is my silent meditation. I see around me large groups of English and Australians, Germans, and Russians drinking, laughing and rolling cigarette after cigarette. I think they are probably having more fun than me, but I don’t wish to join them. Occasionally I step out of this silent place and reach out to someone, but they are usually Russians that don’t speak any English, and so with a friendly shrug and a smile, we agree to remain strangers.

The few people I have met here all seem quite eccentric, and definitely fit in the alternative category. There was a 51-year-old French guy I met who was sitting near me in a little G-string bikini bottom. He was ardently sanding a piece of sandalwood for hours, which intrigued me and inspired me to approach him. He explained it was a box to store his hash, and then in his very-French accent launched into conspiracy theories about the Indian police, and how they are undercover and arresting hash smokers here and killing the Goa scene, where he’s been living for the past 35 years.

Naturally drawn to hippies, I have reached out to a few, but have been surprised by my experiences. The hippies here—they are hardcore hippies that make most Deadheads look like wealthy fraternity boys. Their dreads are enormous—and they are very proud of them. Most of them that I have met, however, seem very lost and angry. I feel no kinship and rarely see them smile. The new modern hippie seems to be a sad sort, finding their identity in dreads, piercing, tattoos and hash-cigarettes. I don’t see much spiritual inclination, nor do I feel that wonderful liberating come-as-you-are mentality that always made the Dead family so warm and encouraging. Instead, it’s a dark energy that repels me.

I rented a scooter for the week like every other tourist in the area. At first I was timid and had to keep reminding myself that in India you drive on the left side of the side of the road. Soon, however, I was buzzing around here there and everywhere, enjoying the wind through my hair and seeing how fast these things can go. My favorite place to go to is a hill overlooking Anjuna. I go there at sunset with a nice cold 20oz of Kingfisher and enjoy these moments immensely. The ride down the mountains through darkness is tricky, but it’s not too far and I take it slowly.

The Russians here are quite a spectacle. I am fully aware of the folly of making generalizations, but here in Goa I feel secure in saying every Russian guy is a bodybuilder. These guys are huge—enormous, powerful types, and they wear these funny banana hammock swimsuits. Their girlfriends—most of them seem to be petite vipers with skimpy-to-none bathing suits and seem fit for swimsuit edition magazines. I was sitting on the beach minding my own business when all of a sudden I’d look up and see a photo shoot underway. Needless to say, I was significantly distracted but enjoyed watching their lusty poses.

Side note: I’ve been told that it’s common for these Russian “couples” to go on vacation, and that what’s really happening is the guy pimps his “girlfriend” out. Unconfirmed rumour, possibly…

Nighttime here is all techno. Raves are the craze, as are Extasy and other pharmaceutical drugs. I went to Nine Bar, the most popular bar in Vagator, after sunset to check out the situation. The place was a great venue—a large outdoor space that overlooks the ocean and is lined with candles and coconut trees. Talking with a couple dudes swaying to the groove, I learned that “Goa Trance” is a popular genre of techno music that was born here. I wasn’t much impressed with it, though. It’s a constant in-your-face drumbeat, oscillating whirring of wind, and occasional abrasive sound effects. Nobody seemed to be all that into it though, so maybe I just caught a lame night. There was talk of an all night rave happening down the road later on in the week, which intrigued me but not enough to make me go there.

I feel I should go. This isn’t my summer home. This isn’t the beach I know and love. It is a European perversion of something that used to be unique and Indian. Today, there are no Indians here, except the ones bringing us beers or the ones that disturb my peace, trying to sell me DVDs, bongos and beach towels. These wandering vendors walk back and forth in mobs up and down the sandy stretch—they arrive every 30 seconds and get right in your face until you either lose your temper and say some things you wish you hadn’t, or you succumb and buy something. I regret that these vendors taught me that the only way to deal with them is to ignore them—which inspires much tension in my heart to treat anyone like that, but it was either that, or spend the next twenty minutes trying to convince them I wasn’t interested in buying their crap.

December 30, 2010: Varanassi India

The Nepal/India border is practically invisible. There is a bustling road from here to there, and it’s busy with countless samosa vendors, produce wagons, and merchants of all kinds of stuff. To my surprise, the crossing of the border is transparent and, in fact, consists simply of checking in with a couple of semi-official looking guys sitting in patio furniture on the side of the road.

From Lumbini, I had taken a bus to the border, and then once in India I hopped into a Jeep that would take me off to train station four hours away. This small Jeep was transporting 13 passengers, and while it was uncomfortable for me, I was grateful that I wasn’t the guy whose seat was literally under the driver—yes, the driver of the Jeep was actually sitting on this guy’s lap for the 4-hour journey.

From Gahorakpur to Varanasi, I was to take an overnight train in a sleeper car—my first experience of this sort. Having lived through it, I can say it was a jarring experience, but I know that when traveling in India, it’s one that you need to get used to, as sleeper trains are the preferred mode of travel here.

The train station was very chaotic, extremely dirty, bodies laying everywhere—it’s hard to know how many of them are homeless and how many were, like me, seeking comfort while waiting for their train to arrive. I had about 6 hours to kill in this station. Not a single tourist to be seen—just me drifting around in a sea of commotion. I was trying to find a place to sit that wasn’t filthy with pee or crap or sludge or who knows what, but I wasn’t succeeding.

Their was significant anxiety in me, that I would err, or that I might not find the right train, and miss it. There were no police, no railway personnel, no information booths, nor authority who could assuage my concerns. I asked a couple of people which track my train would arrive on—but not understanding English, they all just wagged their heads side to side and looked at me with a hopeless empty expression, pointing elsewhere. I was directed to one guy who seemed official somehow, like maybe he actually worked for the railway—but when I repeated my question, he looked at my ticket and summarized in just three words: “Ticket no good.” Initially I got worried, fearing I’d bought a phony ticket, but then I just smiled and assumed, correctly, this guy didn’t know what he was talking about.

My heart began to race watching the scene that would unfold each time a train approached. Due to stiff competition for a limited number of seats in these severely over-crowded cars, the commotion begins as the train pulls into the station. While the train is still moving, many are sprinting alongside and leaping heroically through the doorways. When the train finally haults, at each door there are hundreds of people, throwing elbows and pushing each other, vying to get in before the rest of the horde. I smile and wonder if that’s what I will need to do as well.

By the time my train comes I’m ready to rock—ready to wield my strength and do whatever it takes. There’s no announcement as to which train it is and with an educated guess and blind faith, I hope my calculation is correct. I jump onto the train, which is pitch dark and has an extremely narrow aisle full of people pushing to get past me.

A strange Indian guy with shifty eyes sees me standing there looking like a deer in headlights—he looks at my ticket and points to my cot. My cot is about 7 feet off the ground, in a small chamber that contains 5 other cots. Everyone is sitting around looking like zombies at this midnight hour—no one is talking. The situation is grim in these crowded, dark quarters—perhaps the best we can all do is just endure this moment and recognize transport is the goal here. Try to get comfortable somehow someway and soon morning will come and we’ll arrive at the destination.

I watch several other passengers, trying to figure how you do this sleeper car thing. I just don’t see how it’s possible to fit my large backpack and all my stuff in the cot beside me, securing all things, including shoes, in such a way that thieves can’t m ake off with anything. I watch an experienced Japanese backpacker putting his shoes under his pillow while wrapping his backpack in a large pillowcase and chaining it to the metal bed frame. Imitating him, I crawl up onto my cot and try to do the same but find it extremely difficult to maneuver in this narrow space—it’s tricky like a Rubik’s cube and I keep bumping my head into the roof.

I set my alarm clock for 6:15am, but wake up in advance. If this train is on time, I’m due to arrive at 6:30. I pack up my stuff and along with the other midnight bandits huddled in dark silence, I wait for the train to stop. At 6:30 it comes to a hault—but again, there’s no announcement. My heart is racing again with uncertainty. I look out the window and see only signs in Hindi. I say to my neighbor in questioning tone “Varanasi?” He nods his head yes and with urgency he directs me to get out while I can. Once outside, however, I feel it in my heart that this isn’t Varanasi, and the train begins to move along.

And so it turns out, I got off at the wrong station just a few miles north of Varanasi. I laugh at myself because this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. Lesson re-learned: trust no one, be self-sufficient always.

It’s 6:30am, I’m standing on the platform a few miles from my destination, tired, but amused by the circumstances. I learn that I am in Sarnath, a town I was actually hoping to visit. The Buddha gave one of his four most important teachings here, and today the peaceful town contains a few temples and monasteries. The sun was rising behind thick grey clouds, and in the still of morning I exited the train station and began exploring the peaceful little town.

After wandering the quiet streets and gardens of Sarnath for a few hours, I hopped back on the next train to Varanasi. While approaching the next station down the line, there was no doubt that I’d arrived. The volume of noise even at this early hour announced it. I looked out the window and saw hectic streets bustling with busses and motorcycles and many rickshaws. The train came to a stop, and with a hopeful heart, I stepped out and greeted the fabled Varanasi.

December 26, 2009: Lumbini, Nepal

It’s nighttime at a monastery in Lumbini, the place where Gautama Siddartha the Buddha was born. Lumbini is in southernmost Nepal, just north of the Indian border. The monastery where I am staying is one of twenty-six in the area that are strewn about a vast peaceful refuge of trees and fields.

Tonight I took a nice walk through misty moonlit fields. All around me I could I hear the mad howling of jackals whose crazy hoots and hollering sounds like they’re having a hell of a great party. There insane celebrations of freedom delight me immensely. And along my peaceful walk the sillouettes of monasteries appear in the midnight fog.

Todays journey to Lumbini was another wild expedition via an extremely uncomfortable little minivan with only one buttcheek on the seat for close to 10 hours, while the busdriver’s assistant basically sat on my lap. And then after what seemed like we’d transcended hell and crossed many mountains, the bus driver explains in grunts and motions that this bus had reached the end of the line and they were going to put me on another bus, the local bus to Lumbini.

The bus was seriously ragged– just dusty metal and seats and glass that has never been clean. As always when traveling in Nepal, I just cross my fingers and trust that I will arrive one way or another, or else someplace else.

But then an angel arrived. A young guy named Govinda sat down beside me and began speaking to me in broken english. He seemed like a good guy and I liked him right away. As this rickety bus slowly proceeded down the dusty broken road, though, nighttime was fast approaching and I was concerned about the journey that lay ahead of me and trying to find lodging for the night. I didn’t know where I was going, but Govinda told me about the Korean Monastery which offers lodging to weary travelers. It lay somewhere among the vast forest of Lumbini and I had no clue how I was going to find it. Fortunately, my angel, Govinda, told the bus driver where to stop and then offered to lead me there.

We jumped off the bus at an unmarked location and began walking through a dusty dirt road into the heart of the dark forest. Instantly I took notice of the peace in the air– a tranquility that I haven’t known for a while. The air was gentle. There was no buzzing of busses and horns and madness. Just the tranquil meditative air surrounding the Buddha’s birthplace.

The walk to the monastery was a long one and now it was pure darkness. I was so ready to lay down my bags and be free from it all, and finally by 7 we arrived.

Before departing, Govinda invited me to his house for dinner the following night. He arrived at the monastery to pick me up around 5:30. I jumped onto the back of his bicycle and we rode down the dusty street Nepali style. Arriving at his clay thatched roof abode, I learned that his Dad was working in a faraway town and his Mom was out at work. That left Govinda, his sister, and me. Govinda sat me down on a bench while they scurried around cooking seriously greasy scrambled eggs and some rice. They brought the food to me and explained that they’d eat later. And so I sat in the grim flourescent light of their home and ate food by myself. After I was done, he asks…”we go?” And so with that, he drove me back to the monastery and that was our outing. Very strange.

December 21, 2009: Boudha, Nepal

For the past two weeks now I’ve been in Boudha. In traveler time, two weeks feels like two months, or maybe even two years. Indeed, it feels like I’ve lived here for a very long time.

The fact is that I’ve become part of this community and it feels real good. I love how everywhere I go I am surrounded by Buddhist monks and hear the perpetual clanging of bells and gongs, while monks line the road in prayer and rituals are taking place everywhere I look. Also, over the past two weeks I’ve come to know many interesting people around here. I now have a fun group of friends with whom I meet for tea or dinner. I know many great musicians and their performance schedules. I have my daily rituals, I walk circles around the stupa many times per day, and in general, feel really comfortable here. It’s easy to slip into this life and watch days and weeks go by. 

Sometimes I get anxious and think that I should get gone to someplace else. I flip the pages of the guidebook and read about experiences that I’d like to have. But this sense of friendship and community is a beautiful thing and I guess I’m not ready to leave it quite yet. At least not until after Christmas.

The other thing that has kept me in Boudha so long is my cello. I brought it with me on my journeys so I could make music with musicians I meet. My goal is to write and record an album of music during this time that I’m gone, and if this mission goes as planned, I think it will be amazing. The problem, however, is that it’s simply not possible to travel with a cello.  (Yes, I know many of you, along with my gut-instinct, warned me against taking it with me. But driven by crazy dreams, these are the situations Kieran finds  himself in.)  Anyhow, my cello doesn’t even fit in Nepali taxis, and the thought of taking it to India is just out of the question. So I have decided to leave it behind in Nepal while I travel around India. Therefore, I have a limited time to record with my cello before I must leave it behind.

And that is what has kept me busy for much of the past week. I have the mobile recording studio set up in my hotel room and have been working feverishly around the clock, laying down tracks and creating the foundations for a bunch of new songs. So far there’s close to fifteen of them, and the progress is encouraging. My goal is to record the foundations and formulate the structure of the songs before leaving Boudha, so that I’m prepared to begin adding textures and sounds as I come across musicians on the road. I will take my recording gear with me and am hopeful that I will meet tablists, flutists, and many other great musicians who will hopefully contribute to these recordings.

Last Saturday night I had my first “gig” here in Kathmandu. I sat in with a jazz group that jams at a happening little joint in northside of Kathmandu. These guys were only around twenty, but were serious musicians that sounded as good as anything you’ll hear in New Orleans. The audience consisted of Nepali hipsters and my friends Nika and Jasper. We were all gathered sitting on cushions on the floor with candles burning, drinking Nepali beer. 

I was planning on leaving for India a few days ago but nationwide strikes have paralyzed the country. Strikes occur on a regular basis here. Sometimes one day a week, maybe a few days per month– or back in 2001, the country was shutdown for a whole month.  The Maoists, a competing political party, strive to make their voice be heard and they go about it by declaring “bandh” and shutting down the country. On days of “bandh”, they go around telling all business owners to shut down or get beaten down. To get their attention, usually they whack a few people with sticks and kill a handful of dissidents. People take it seriously, but the Nepalese don’t seem to mind that much– they just take it as an unplanned vacation. It’s the foreigners who get all frustrated, because on days of strike there are no busses, no taxis, no nothing on the road, and no way of getting anywhere. I don’t really mind that much though, because I’m enjoying this limited time with my cello.