Landing in the Land of Smiles

Today I asked The Kinks, "This time tomorrow, where will we be?" And they replied, "In a space ship somewhere, flying over an empty sea." That Ray Davies is a frickin genius. I assume that he was referring to my long-awaited journey to Thailand, which commences tomorrow after surviving and enjoying two months in India.

It's been a few weeks since I've written in my blog, mostly because I've been having the best time I've had on my travels thus far. I've noticed that there is an inverse relationship between happiness and writing. Thus, I'm hoping the next few years of my life don't produce a novel :)

Actually, happiness can produce lots of writing, you just have to wait a while for some free moments. Last we spoke, I was leaving Gokarna, hippie beach paradise. My only problem with the experience was that I mostly experienced it alone. There were other people everywhere, and I'd meet people while eating occasionally, but I didn't really get to know anyone or do anything that could be correctly classified as "hanging out". But that all changed as soon as I got to the train station en route to Kochi.

My train was delayed 5 hours, but that was fine because I had the greatest achievement of mankind in my pocket injecting musical medicine into my ears, and a few new acquaintances who would later be upgraded to the category of friends. I met an Irish-Italian couple, a Russian couple, and an Israeli guy while waiting. Actually, I never met the Israeli guy, but I witnessed him meeting the I-I couple. This is important, because when I got off the train, the three of them happened to meet up at the same spot where I exited the station, all bleary-eyed. We decided to find a hotel together, and the four of us checked into a nice homestay run by an old man who was too friendly. I say this because after breakfast we were hanging out on the roof when he came up and literally force fed us rice cakes, which I think strictly violated the "growth and maturity" goal of my travels. Anyway, the Israeli guy (named Ilan) and I split a room next to the Irish-Italian couple. The next couple days we wandered around Kochi, a nice quiet town at the northern end of the Keralan backwaters. I've never been so happy to be surrounded by Christianity, because unlike Hindus, Jesus taught that cows can fuck off for all he cared. Thanks to that nice man hanging out on a plus sign, I was able to enjoy a delicious three dollar steak for dinner my first night.

After a few days Ilan and took a trip on the backwaters, first taking a bus down to Alleppey, then renting a canoe paddled by a friendly old man. For lunch, we "randomly" stopped at a restaurant on some side canal, where we ran into two older Norwegian women I'd met in Varanasi. The last time I'd seen them was the day I was horribly sick. They said I looked much more "in the groove" this time. Even if my whole trip had been terrible in between, I would have looked this way anyway as all I had to do was lounge in a nice long canoe and enjoy the scenery. Even so, it was a nice reminder of how I'd adjusted to things in India.

Originally, I'd been planning to go to Madurai next, a large temple city further south. But after a few days with Ilan I noticed it was much easier to meet fellow travelers when you travel with an Israeli, because Israelis are all over India and tend to travel in groups when they meet up, even if they start as strangers. After having dinner with the first girls not attached to boyfriends since I got here, thanks to Ilan, I decided it might be a good idea to follow him to the next point on his itinerary. Plus he's a cool guy.

So that's how I ended up in Munnar, a place I'd never heard of, but certainly felt like destiny as I raced around its mountain curves on a moped, avoiding buses, motorbikes and stray cattle while I took in the breathtaking views and the breathtaking views took in my breath in a happy exchange. Munnar is a hill station (elevation 1600 m) developed by the Scottish a hundred years or so ago, and I've never seen anything like it. Due to the tea bushes or plants or whatever they are (hey, I'm not a botanist), all of the hills are so GREEEEN. And the weather is crisp and clear, like the third week in April in upstate New York.

On the way to Munnar we met another Israeli named Yohai (pronounced with a throat-clearing "h"). The three of us split a double-room for 500 rupees, roughly $2.50 a night each. I slept on a mattress on the floor. After hanging out in the fields for a day, we rented bicycles and traveled to a waterfall, where we met a Belgian named Eric. We got tired on the way back, and it was getting dark, so we paid some guy with a truck to take us back over the mountain while we rode in the back, which was almost as fun as biking (more fun since it was uphill).

The next day we rented motor scooters, which obviously aren't as cool as motorbikes, but if you've never driven any motorized bike of any sort, or on the left side of the road, or in the chaos of India, let alone its winding mountain roadways, it feels pretty bad ass. We rode up to the highest viewpoint the first day (where we ran into Eric again) and made it home just after dark. The next day we all needed some alone time, so I zoomed around wherever I felt like going, which is probably the most free I've ever felt in my life. I recall shaking an elephant's hand at some point during my travels.

My companions were heading on to Kodaikanal next, another hill station (2000 m) further south in the state of Tamil Nadu, so I decided to go with them. Three chaotic bus journeys later (the third of which imitated that scene in The Simpsons with the crowded train where all the Indians are running on and throwing their bags through the windows, and involved Ilan and I riding on the stairs by the open doorway as we wound around more mountain curves), we were in Kodaikanal. But the Israelis don't stay in Kodai, they stay in Vattakanal, an area 20 minutes away that isn't in any of the guidebooks. It's the side of a mountain where Indians rent "apartments" (very cold rooms) to mostly Israelis since they're the only ones who seem to know about it.

Our first night we stayed 1 km down the mountain steps in a large room with an attached space called a kitchen, sleeping on rugs passed off as mattresses. I cooked noodles in a metal cup heated on a candle because the firewood in this area has a strong held belief against combusting. After two days, we upgraded to a spot further up the mountain next to apartments with other Israelis. The three of us shared a room again, and I got used to cooking on a gas cooker and washing my clothes by hand in a bucket. The mornings were clear, but by 10 am white mist would cover everything, only to clear out once the Cheshire Cat Smile in the sky was triumphantly at its apex soon after dark, complemented nicely by some stars. There was a clothesline and spot for a fire out front, which was convenient save for the exceptionally stubborn firewood (even newspaper doesn't like to burn here). My last day I explored waterfalls and valley views with an Israeli girl I met the day before. On the way back up at the mountain at nightfall, we met a man from Bangalore who was wearing a shirt that read "I Smile Because I Have No Idea What's Going On", summing up my life philosophy perfectly. By the time I left Vattakanal, I knew many of my neighbors and oddly felt my first sense of community since I came to India. Yet I might as well have been in Israel.

On the 22nd, I bid farewell to Ilan and Yohai, with whom I had been traveling for 15 and 12 days respectively. It was great to have friends during the journey, even if at times I got sick of organizing things in a group. On one hand, we had much in common as we were Westerners experiencing an Eastern land as outsiders. On the other hand, we were very different, as I'd already been to college and working for 3 years, whereas every Israeli male I met had just finished mandatory military service and was enjoying the much expected voyage abroad before going to university ("you're an American?? But Americans don't travel anywhere! I haven't met any Americans! i thought India was an Israeli thing!"). Thus, although many of them had experienced dangerous situations which I can't imagine, there was a strange college freshman partying mentality that surrounded the area (as evidenced by the atrocious trance/techno music that other groups blared, disrupting the mountain peace that I assumed most people would come to Vatta for). But Yohai knew how to play Beatles and Bob Dylan songs on acoustic guitar, and we all sang Sweet Baby James by James Taylor around a campfire two nights before we all split up.

On the way to Madurai, I traveled via bus with an American-Israeli girl. She was on her way to Kerala by train upon arrival, but the bus ride was a nice methadone to ween us off constant companionship, as she had been traveling with another girl for 6 weeks and was now on her own. In Madurai, I met another American guy as soon as I checked into my hotel. By the end of the next day with him, I was starting to look forward to solitude again. Not because of him, but just because I realized how nice that can be when you're traveling the world. Some alone time does you good. It's all about the variety. Keep mixing it up.

After seeing an enormous temple complex in Madurai (my first temple entry since coming to India), I took a bus to Thanjavur, which most people don't know about. It's a decently sized city with a popular temple, but not many tourists come here. For me, it was a fitting way to end my travels in India.

You see, I have this thing about personal myths (see Joseph Campbell). And pyramids have entered their way into my myth (I'll explain this more some other time). And this temple had a pyramid-shaped top to it's main building. So I hung out within it's walls for about 5 hours until the moon and stars came out. While Tamils connected to the mystery of awe through organized chants, I did the same through watching the mostly-full moon align with the top of the pyramid, singing along to Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots as I listened on my iPod.

One year ago, I was organizing Super Bowl hotel reservations for over 100 different employees of Sirius Satellite Radio and enduring verbal onslaught after onslaught from my boss about how important it was, even though I never made one mistake (the year before they outsourced the job to a specialized company who screwed things up). In 2010, I'm sitting barefoot by a pyramid temple in southern India, singing my favorite Flaming Lips song and posing for pictures with Indians who think they're the first person to tell me I resemble a popular picture of Jesus (I'm going to get a trim when I go to Thailand). I think this is what Joseph Campbell meant by "follow your bliss".

After Thanjavur I took a 9 hour bus to Chennai, India's fourth-largest city, endured a two hour wait at the train station, and boarded a 29 hour train to Calcutta. The train ride was actually really cool, because I had a window seat and great view of the landscape all day. No worries or distractions, just staring. When it got crowded in my berth, I stood in the open doorway near the end of the car and let the wind give me a Jesus-to-Cousin It makeover.

We arrived at 4 in the morning today. I split a cab with an older American from New Mexico and found a place to stay some time around 6 in the morning. Tomorrow I go to Thailand, which is where I wanted to go the whole time. But for some reason things drew me to India, and I'm happy they did.

So India is almost over for me. The first month was both awesome and hard as Hell, and the second month was just plain great. Let's go see what the Land of Smiles might bring. The scar on my arm is getting excited.

Peace

This place is an oasis

How's it going?

I've been hanging out at the beach for 10 days now. It's funny how an oasis can suck you in for so long without your realizing it. I arrived here on December 30, strung out from travel, lucky to find a thatch hut with clay floors (often visited by strange animals and insects) on the main beach so close to New Year's. I figured I would move into a real hostel as soon as I could, yet here I am ten days later. I'm pretty used to the environment, which is great because this is the first place I've been in India where I didn't have an urge to move on or my daily activities didn't require it. Until now, India had been culture shock, train rides, hiking and pesky stomach troubles. It's been great to just withdraw for so long while still being surrounded by a different culture, plus people from all over the world (mostly Europeans). It's almost an enforced laid back culture here, as footwear is not allowed in any of the restaurants. So I've gotten pretty skilled at walking barefoot most everywhere. Since my hut is a decent (5 minute) walk from the beach, over a rocky gravelly surface of some sort, this has given the bottoms of my feet...character.

New Year's was a fun celebration. I saw my first sunset on the ocean, although I'm not sure if it counts because there is some sort of cloudy area in the distance that always covers the sun right before it hits the horizon. From what I've heard about places in California, this last minute cop out isn't essential and can be avoided, so my pristine sunset will have to wait until another day.

Some hippies built a large (about 12 feet high) Burning Woman, which they set on fire shortly before midnight. Everyone danced around it and chanted, and then ten minutes before midnight the local cops poured water on it out of nowhere, and one guy (not in uniform but carrying a large stick) even pushed a few bongo players with no warning. I'd hate to get paid specifically to ruin other people's fun. I found some other circle to sit near when the clock actually changed, although I had to base that on my iPod clock since there wasn't any kind of formal announcement or anything.

Since then, I've been doing whatever and the time goes somewhere. A few boat rides and adventures through the jungle and cliffs to get to other beaches. A few trips into town (or barefoot back from town because my boat was no longer running) for basic supplies and money. Lots of swimming.

I've had a few decent conversations since I got here, mostly with people who happen to be sitting at the same table during a meal, but the connection lasts only as long as the meal usually. It's fun to be in a place that one could describe as paradise, but after several days on your own, it gets a little boring (which seems like some horrible sin on my part. I just try to remind myself of this time last year in the office each time I find myself slightly bored or homesick...)

Tomorrow I'm moving on, catching an overnight train to Kerala. I was about to buy a bus ticket to Bangalore, and a British guy who happened to sit at my table for lunch planted the Kerala idea in my mind at the last minute, so I changed my mind. That flexibility is one of the most fun parts about this journey. Kerala is well known for its lazy boat trips on its backwaters, so hopefully it will be fun. After that, I should probably start heading north, since I have three weeks before I need to be up in Kolkata.

Peace

Hero Journey in the Himalaya with a guide named Buddha (if you see this Buddha on the road, please don't kill him)

"In the West, you have the liberty and the obligation of finding out what your destiny is. You can discover it for yourself. But do you?

Of course, it doesn't hurt to be blessed with the accident of money, and a certain amount of support, and a margin of free time. But let me say this: people without money very often have the courage to risk a life of their own, and they can do it. Money doesn't count, it's not that important in our culture. It really isn't."

-Joseph Campbell

9 beds in 9 nights. This is pretty much what I signed up for in my imagination almost one year ago in Queens, New York when I made that big decision that's put me on the other side of the world. I'd just begun reading the book Pathways to Bliss by Joseph Campbell, a recent Christmas gift. Campbell is the world-renowned expert on mythology, having taught for decades at Sarah Lawrence College and come to national attention in the 1980's after a series of interviews with Bill Moyers on PBS (The Power of Myth). This guy spent the Great Depression in the woods of Woodstock, New York, reading books about mythology for five years. After studying just about every explanation and story that humanity had come up with for why humans are here and how they can lead a worthwhile existence, he began teaching and publishing based on the similarities he noticed between cultures (most of which had never come in contact with each other).

In his words, he noticed archetypes that sprang from the "collective unconscious" (other people call it God). One archetype that popped up in almost every culture was that of the Hero Journey: 

"The basic story of the hero journey involves giving up where you are, going into the realm of adventure, coming to some kind of symbolically rendered realization, and then returning to the field of normal life.

The first stage is leaving where you are, whatever the environment. You may leave because the environment is too repressive and you are consciously uneasy and eager to leave. Or it may be that a call to adventure, an alluring temptation, comes and draws you out. In European myths this call is frequently represented by some animal--a stag or a boar--that manages to elude a hunter and brings him into a part of the forest he doesn't recognize. And he doesn't know where he is, how to get out, or where he should go. And then the adventure begins."

At that time in my life, I had been living in New York City and out of college for two and a half years. Many of my friends were working well-paying jobs with a promising future or just about to finish medical school. A few others were just enjoying not having a serious career to worry about. I enjoyed that as well, but I knew what I wanted my career to be. I wanted to be a published novelist. But not only that, I wanted some answers. I wanted to know why I was here and what I should do to make the most of it. I wanted to know what was going on beneath my skin and out in distant galaxies, neither of which I could see but both of which I knew were affecting the course of my life in ways I can't imagine but will try to anyway. I'd spent most of my post-grad life working different office jobs which I detested for depriving me of my precious time on this ball that floats (FLOATS!) around a bigger more fiery ball in this area called "space" that we really don't know much about, no matter how many telescopes we build. In my free time, I read feverishly about any subject that I though could give me some clues. Fiction, science, religion, mythology, philosophy. I downloaded all sorts of music to get some clues. I even gave myself a crash course in gangsta rap (mostly from the 1990's) so I could understand what the rest of my peers had been listening to since high school, and see if there was something there more substantial than pure Ayn Randian rational selfishness. I wasn't alone during this time. I had many amazing friends who were on their own journeys through life, and many of them were imperative in maintaining my sanity.

Which brings me to last January and Joseph Campbell. When I read about the hero journey, I knew it was time to pursue an idea I'd had ever since I got a taste of the expatriate life in New Zealand four years before: teaching English in Asia. Thailand jumped out immediately because of the ease with which one could supposedly just show up and find a job. I had ten weeks left at my temporary job as a marketing assistant in the sports department of Sirius Satellite Radio, whose office was located in the same soulless computer chip building as the law firm where I had my first soul-crushing robot job two years before. I figured I would move home to upstate New York at the end of the job assignment, and go back and forth between helping out at home and couch-surfing in the city while working temp jobs. I'd figure out my abroad plans once I got some money together. I only had about $800 saved up.

Come August, my savings were closer to zero. I'd learned the couch-surfing life does not coincide well with getting up early to work a different job each day, and that although painting my parents' house and new barn was somewhat fulfilling in a "I'm happy to give back to my family and stay busy" sort of way, it didn't help me get money to go somewhere.

It was at this time that I was visiting Lake Champlain up in the Adirondack Mountains. A few friends and I set out to climb a mountain that day. After conquering the peak, I felt a sense of triumph and adventure on the way down. I knew it was time to get serious about my abroad plans. Sure enough, as soon as the will was in place, the other pieces came together. As soon as I returned, I ended up getting a job painting my friends' parents' porch. Soon I was painting the second story, then the neighbors were requesting my services. Then their neighbors. For three months I climbed ladders, avoided bees, scrubbed mold with slightly toxic mixtures while wearing fogged goggles, and painted, painted, painted. I also collected wads of cash while living a very fortunate rent-free existence at home. I bought a ticket to India after three weeks of painting, and a ticket to Thailand the same day.

On December 1, after months of wondering and wondering what the trip would be like and if it would actually happen, I boarded a plane to Delhi, India. The only mark on my itinerary was to be in Calcutta on February 1 to catch my flight to Bangkok, and return to the United States before July 3 when my only sibling gets married at our home.

After traveling for 24 hours (beginning with 3 hours stranded on the tarmac in NY), I finally got into my taxi to my hostel, unaware that the next 30 minutes would provide me with the biggest culture shock of my life. As we raced through crowds of cars without lanes, livestock without owners, families without homes and children without limbs, I asked myself just what I'd gotten myself into. Perhaps Mr. Campbell could help me out: 

"If the call is heeded, however, the individual is invoked to engage in a dangerous adventure. It's always a dangerous adventure because you're moving out of the familiar sphere of your community. In myths, this is represented as moving out of the known sphere altogether into the great beyond. I call this crossing the threshold. This is the crossing from the conscious into the unconscious world, but the unconscious world is represented in many, many, many different images, depending on the cultural surroundings of the mythos. It may be a plunge into the ocean, it may be a passage into the desert, it may be getting lost in a dark forest, it may be finding yourself in a strange city. It may be depicted as an assent or a descent or as a going beyond the horizon, but this is the adventure--it's always the path into the unknown."


My first day was spent figuring out how not to be constantly cheated by just about every person who could see the "stranger in a strange land" look on my face, and not feel guilty about my existence every time I saw someone bathing in a puddle in an alleyway or got approached and followed by old women with babies in their arms (if you give one of them money, the rest will hound you all the way to your hotel). Eventually, I met friendly Indians who weren't intent on cheating me, and fellow solo travelers who had good advice. My second evening I spent dining in the home of two Muslims from Kashmir, along with a Swedish girl who knew them well. The third day was a day trip to Agra, where the awe unearthed by the Taj Mahal, one of the seven wonders of the world, was soon crushed by the attempts of the taxi driver to cheat me and the horde of ten street children (15 legs, 18 eyes, 19 arms among them) that surrounded me while I waited for my train, asking for rupees and eventually satisfied by crackers. I had to remind myself that I didn't remove their limbs, and that there's nothing wrong with trying to live one's life to the fullest when others have been dealt such a shitty hand.

My first overnight train trip brought back the feelings of why I chose this adventure: wind rushing through the carriage as the landscape flew by, friendly companions from around the world and the best traveling playlist that twelve years of obsessive music collecting can offer. Plus, I met a fellow red-bearded 25 year old traveler who's been roaming the world for almost 3 years, beginning in New Zealand (and who was reading a book by my favorite author, Tom Robbins). This provided some inspiration to continue my solo travels as we approached the oldest and holiest Hindu city in India.

Varanasi brought forth mixed emotions. The candles floating on the river at night were hypnotizing, the people on cell phones as they walked around funeral pyres next to ads for Pizza Hut depressing, and the people bathing in the polluted river just plain confusing. My first day in bed from the sickness everyone warned me about had me second-guessing the whole trip. On my fifth day, I met up with my fellow Red Beard to commiserate and felt much better about being a solo drifter. On the ride to Varanasi, he had planted the idea of trekking around Darjeeling in my mind. A hike in the mountains sounded like just what I needed.

I took an 18 hour train to Siliguri, then climbed into a Jeep, ready for the three hour ride to Darjeeling. At this point, a passenger informed me that they were striking for 4 days and that I shouldn't go there. But I did anyway. I found a hostel when I got there, bought a hat and sweater for $9 before everything closed so I wouldn't freeze in this cold and heatless town, and then waited. The strike ended after one day, and I jumped at the chance to go on a hike.

Which brings me to my latest trip update: A week of hiking in the Himalaya Mountains.

"Once you have crossed the threshold, if it really is your adventure--if it is a journey that is appropriate to your deep spiritual need or readiness--helpers will come along the way to provide magical aid."

I woke up one morning, checked out of my hostel ($13 for 3 nights), and got a Jeep to Maneybanjhang, the beginning of a six day trek up into the Himalaya Mountains. My Rough Guide to India called it a "lightweight" trek. I guess they meant that within the realm of people who trek regularly, as opposed to someone who climbs a 4,000 ft. mountain about once every few years. Guides are mandatory to enter Singalila National Park. I shopped around a little in Darjeeling, but they all charged 1200-2000 rupees per day. I was assigned a local guide for 500 rupees per day when I got there. His name was Buddha. He was also 25.

I had my backpack with me, which contains everything I plan to use for at least the next 3-4 months (or whenever I settle into a teaching job). It weighs about 20 lbs. Not exactly boot camp at Paris Island, but still a challenge for me. After 5 minutes I was wondering how the hell I was going to survive the day's hike, let alone five more. But Buddha was patient as his name would indicate, and I persisted through fog and winds. We left at 9:30 and arrived somewhere between 1 and 2, having climbed 900 meters over 11 kilometers to Tumling, in Nepal. There was a friendly hut run by a secluded family. I could see blue skies, and later stars, for the first time since I got to India. In the evening I sat by the fire and chatted with a German couple. The male was an economist who seemed to think America was in a shit storm but at least Barack Obama was in charge. He also joked that they weren't continuing any further on the trek because you can see Mt. Everest on Google Earth. Then he talked about the many applications on G phones for what I'm sure was too long. Not exactly the spiritual communion I came to India for, but a friendly guy nevertheless.

Day 2 involved 19 km, a 500 m descent, and then a 1000 m ascent to 3600 m. I didn't think I had anything left in me the last 20 minutes, but that's when my gangsta rap research paid off. I was lifted to victory by DMX's One More Road to Cross (which is technically about robbing liquor stores, but it was still helpful in getting me to finish climbing the mountain to the lodge...and then steal their liquor).

Once again, we were hosted by a friendly but isolated family. Unfortunately, the vegetable chow mein I'd had for lunch didn't enjoy the last 10 km of hiking, and I found myself spending more time balancing myself over the frozen hole that posed as a toilet than I would have liked. As we watched the sun set on the Indian Himalaya in the distance, Buddha told me he was proud of me for coming this far, but that he didn't think I'd prepared well enough with warm clothing for the following night. I was wearing my cheap new sweater, a hoodie and a cheap army jacket with jeans, plus my cheap winter cap I'd purchased at the last minute. I shrugged. He wasn't aware that I'd slept in a room without any heat during winters that reached -25 F for 8 years.

He was right though, and I was cold. Day 3 was tough, although mostly because I was riding on the heels of days 1 and 2. 23 km of up and down hiking with winds that wanted to eat my face. On the plus side, there were no jeeps or people, as this track was not reachable by vehicle and apparently nobody else was brave/stupid enough to undergo the trek this late in the year. Once again, I thought I had nothing left on the final stretch, but I made myself do it. Buddha was usually ahead, since he does this track almost every week (and also had a much lighter bag). When we got to the top, where there was a single trekkers hut care taken by five young guys, there wasn't a view of the mountains at all. So while Buddha hung out with his friends, I climbed the final hill and at the top I saw...pure AWE. The third highest mountain in the world was right before me, and Everest was to my left in the distance. The sun was setting behind me, above the cloud line. It was like World 5 in Super Mario Bros. 3, when you climbed that vine and end up above the clouds. I rejoiced and listened to the wind, then of course inspiring music, took tons of pictures, and then lay down for the first time all day.

I was on top of the world (kind of). Everything made sense. Every annoyance, cold bath, day sick in bed, strained step up the mountain and night alone wondering why I was doing this crazy adventure ...made sense. The rewards were there. When I started this trip, I had no plans. I certainly hadn't even considered hiking in the Himalayas. I was just going to let the experience present itself to me and see where it took me. And it took me to one of the best views in the world...but not without a whole hell of a lot of effort and persistence and doubt.

And just as I was rejoicing over my little triumph, a sad truth smacked me in the face. Sure, I was on top of the world... but I was alone. What's the point of views like these when there is no one to share them with? Just at that moment, Buddha appeared over the ridge (no, this isn't some Cat Stevens/Yusef Islam conversion story applied to Buddhism). He loved the view too. He said I was very lucky, as most people don't get such a clear view, adding that I received it because I worked hard and appreciated the reward. After the sun set over a plain of clouds, we went down for dinner cooked on a stone oven. Later that night, I sneaked to the top of the hill again to get a primo view of the galaxy.

Day 4 was easier, but challenging in its own way, as the descent was extremely steep at times. But we arrived in Gorkhey after 14 km, a small hill-side village with a sparkling river running through it. We ate dinner in a poor family's one-room shack, and it was delicious. I realized then how much new food I'd eaten in one week, and how repulsed the cheerio/hot dog Ben of old would be. I also enjoyed the company of three cute Nepalese women, although unfortunately I don't speak Nepalese.

Day 5 was the final hiking day, as apparently we combined days 3 and 4 on the hike to Phalut. 21 km later, we were in Rimbik. I took a bucket bath for the first time in 3 days, although I put on clothes that I'd been wearing for a week straight. Downstairs I met a German named David who had been hiking for 3 days and couldn't stand anymore. He arrived in Dehli the same day I did and was roughly the same age. He told me of a decent hotel in Darjeeling where I could stay the next night. Buddha thanked me for being a good companion and a good walker. I was very fortunate to have such a good and laid back guide.

Day 6 involved a 5 hour jeep ride up to Darjeeling, with an hour stuck in traffic because it was the day everyone was rallying to form a separate state. When I got to my hotel, my sense of triumph evaporated in the face of fatigue. My electric didn't work, I was cold, in the dark, and alone yet again...questioning everything.

I prepared to go on a walk when I noticed my new friend David's light on in the room next to me. I knocked, and it turned out he'd just knocked on my door but I had my headphones on. Furthermore, Joseph the Red Beard from Varanasi was staying in the room next to David. They'd met each other a week earlier on the train. We went out for dinner and actually found a place that served good pizza.

I spent the remainder of the evening writing all of this down.

So...what's the point? Why did you just devote a fraction of your precious time on this spinning floating ball around the bigger fiery ball amongst the zillions of other fiery balls reading about my life? Well, first of all, that's the standard contract for reading anything you didn't write yourself. But you already knew that.

The point is the hero journey. I didn't come up with it. Joseph Campbell didn't even come up with it. It's just there, happening to all of us constantly, for whatever reason. We're alive. We don't know why or how. Science has given us a few tools for reasoning, but seems to create ten new questions for every major one answered. Religion spreads around nice ideas and stories to help guide us on the journey through life, but all too often won't even acknowledge the question marks and reduces our collective imagination in the process. We float about constantly in uncertainty. There is no guarantee that a supervolcano the size of Wyoming won't erupt and wipe out half of America before you finish this sentence.

But this isn't anything to freak out about, because it's always been the condition of our existence. As my favorite author, Tom Robbins, points out "security is a delusion, certainty a mirage." Backing out of the driveway every morning is an act of faith.

Thus, in a way we are all constantly on hero journeys, every moment of our lives. Then again, that's a big cop out. I could have stayed in Queens, working unfulfilling office jobs and messing around on the internet or reading books in my free time, and been unhappy and stagnant but still claimed, "But I'm on the hero journey of life!" Nobody else might care, but I would know the difference. And I wouldn't be reaping the rewards: self-confidence, extended vision and plain old fun. I've got 6 months left on this journey, and although I know this one will be broken up into new types of unexpected tests, challenges and bliss, so will the whole rest of my life. As will yours, regardless of whether or not you care about any of the same things I've been talking about or ever dare to step foot on foreign soil.

And I'm quickly losing the illusions of how amazing my current journey is in the grand scheme of things. I haven't been anywhere that hasn't already been well-trodden by tourists or experienced trekkers, no matter how remote or crazy it seems to me. But that's not the point. The point is that I'm testing myself and trying to grow in the process.

So how about you? Are you at all bored? When was your last hero journey? When will be your next one?

It's important to live life with the experience, and therefore the knowledge, of its mystery and your own mystery. This gives life a new radiance, a new harmony, a new splendor. Thinking in mythological terms helps to put you in accord with the inevitables in this vale of tears. You learn to recognize the positive values in what appear to be the negative moments and aspects of your life. The big question is whether you are going to be able to say a hearty yes to your adventure.

The adventure of the hero?

Yes, the adventure of the hero--the adventure of being alive.


What I think a good life is is one hero journey after another. Over and over again, you are called to the realm of adventure. And each time you ask yourself, "Do I dare?" If you do dare, there are the dangers, and the help, and the fulfillment or the fiasco. There is always the possibility of a fiasco.

But there is also the possibility of bliss."


Try something new today.

And thank you for your using your precious time on the magic fun time spin ball to listen to me,

Peace