Long Journey to the East - Asia 1986-88

Long Journey to the East Asia 1986-88

Long Journey to the East Asia 1986-1988

CHAPTER ONE

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Midwinter Stockholm, February 1986, my friend Mikael and I boarded the Viking Line overnight ferry to Helsinki Finland. We were heading for China on the Trans-Siberian Railroad from Moscow. It was a cold afternoon and my parents and sister dropped me o almost as it was a school run, quick and without any greater ceremony waived their goodbyes. On the boat we settled in on the budget airplane seats with a beer congratulating ourselves to the beginning of an adventure that would last over two and a half years. Mikael and I had met a few years earlier on a skiing trip to Chamonix, France, a favourite activity for both of us. We hit it o immediately and became lifelong friends. Now we both had nished school, done our one year mandatory national military service, followed by a winter season being a ski bum in Verbier in the Swiss Alps. Life couldn’t really be any better. During my year in the army I had been nurturing an idea since I’d heard my older sister speak of some of her school friends returning from Asia, spending as much as three four months traveling. I had never imagined being on the road for so long? A new world of possibilities opened up for me. Asia had been a dream for me growing up, not just because of the in uence Aikido had had but my father also continuously traveled there due to his work. Dad had always came home with exotic artefacts that I loved displaying in my room. His father before him had lived in Congo, Central Africa as a young Swedish Baptist missionary, so travelling was in the blood already so to speak. The ancient Silk Road and the Himalayas had a special appeal to me. So Mikael and I hatched a plan. With a large world map spread out on the co ee table at home we marked every place we ever dreamed of visiting. We thought, let’s do it all! We connected the dots between each destination and calculated roughly how much time we’d spend in each place. We sat back in the sofa when we realised the whole thing would take a minimum of ve years to complete. In 1985, a student-fare train ticket on the Trans-Siberian Railway was as cheap as chips. Eight days through the Soviet Union, Mongolia and to Peking, the capital of the People’s Republic of China. The one-way ticket price included the ferry to Helsinki and the overnight train to Moscow. That’s all we bought. The rest would have to be sorted along the way. There were two trains per week leaving Moscow, one serviced by Russians and the other by Chinese sta . We opted to travel on the Chinese train mainly because knowing the food would be better. Travelling by train through Russia in winter is absolutely beautiful. Changing snow landscapes seen from the warmth and comfort of the coal heated train carriage. We settled in, cosy with a four-berth compartment for the two of us. Not many people were

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travelling across Eurasia in midwinter, we only had three other Swedes on the train, a lovely couple from Gothenburg that became our friends for years to come. Gorbachev had recently banned the sell of alcohol on the trains so we’d brought our own special brand of Russian vodka with us. Safe to say it didn’t last all the way to China. Six days and nights we journeyed through Russia, Siberia and Mongolia, leaving our past behind, entering a new and unknown world. We spent the days moving between the the dining cart and our compartment, meeting for meals and long conversations, excited about what we were about to experience. We would dash out onto the platforms when the train took its brief stops, run into the station buildings looking for anything eatable to munch on. The adventure was on. Long before setting out on this journey of discovery I had been asking myself what the meaning of Life was? Growing up, in my teens, I had always wanted to know what the Truth was, for myself and with that in mind I had bought a book to read on the long train ride before us. I felt as if for the rst time in my life I could wholeheartedly give myself to this inquiry. It was really the beginning of a lifelong conscious endeavour to nd my own real Self. The book that I began the journey with was the autobiography of CG Jung and I found it fascinating that he was thinking in a very similar way to myself, wanting to nd answers to his questions about life. This interest of mine hadn’t come from nowhere as I had recalled my earliest memory from childhood: “Even before I was one year old, sitting in the lap of my father in front of our open replace, warmth coming from within and from without, I knew who I was. I was conscious of myself, knowing myself as the timeless awareness that I always am.

Completely calm I enjoyed my present state as a baby, fully conscious of all things around me, knowing it all without fail. Awakened by the tranquility and peace of the situation this clarity never left me. Growing up I did have the memory of this rst impression of mine but failed to recognise its signi cance. As a teenager I had a vision; I was falling in space but no matter where I fell I couldn't fall out of the universe. This took away all fear.

Intimations of being part of something completely whole”. With this living memory in the back of my head we had set o on a life changing journey with no return ticket.

CHAPTER TWO

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Arriving in early March to a springlike Peking, present day Beijing, was like stepping into a new world. Two young foreigners among a sea of Chinese.

We thought the station was crowded with people but as we walked out into the street nothing changed. There were as many people there as on the inside. We eventually found the way to our budget guest house thanks to the guidebook we carried, ‘China o the beaten track’. We spent a week in the capital, visiting the Ming graves, the Great Wall, and explored the Forbidden City. Learning to eat with chopsticks and playing table tennis with the neighbourhood kids on cement tables with bricks as net. Through our friends we’d met on the train we were invited to lunch at the university and being well behaved Swedes we made sure to try to nish everything that was put before us. Only later did we nd out why our hosts looked at us with big eyes and kept bringing out more and more food. Finally we couldn’t swallow another bite and our Chinese students could breathe a sigh of relief, the table still full with food. It’s bad manners in China to nish o everything being served while in Sweden it’s seen as the proper way to behave. Cultural di erences discovered. Having gotten used somewhat to our new environment we were ready to move on. We took the train south to Shanghai, with a day stopover in the famous classical stone gardens of Suzhou, and continued to Shanghai where we stayed in a humongous large building turned hostel, near the harbour waterfront. Exploring the streets and alleyways, nding new exciting things around every corner. Every smell, taste and sight was new and unknown. Traditional old tea houses, Tai Ch’i, bicycles everywhere, and getting used to the constant sound of harking, clearing ones throat and spitting, and learning some useful phrases of the language; ‘sheshe-ni’ thank you and ‘meio’ don’t have, were by far the most common expressions we encountered and learned besides knowing how to order a cold beer. We visited the famous Jazz club in the evening and went to the park in the morning to watch the daily Tai Chi classes. Having had enough of big cities we took the bus to the famous West Lake of Hangzhou just south of Shanghai. A pleasant beginning of an arduous 10 day trip down China’s east coast by local bus. But before we set out on that leg of the journey I had read about a famous Buddhist mountain area at nearby Tiantai Shan. This would be our very rst encounter with a real living Buddhism with a long traditional background. Finding our way into the mountains we choose the rst monastery we came across and asked if we could spend the night. Completely new to us, the incense smells and interior of the temple with its huge Buddha statues lled us with a sense of unease rather than with excitement. We were shown our quarters and fell asleep a bit unsure of ourselves. At four o’clock there was a knock on the door. Bewildered we opened the door and the monk asked us to get up. We bluntly refused and asked him to come back later. We had no idea why he would wake us up that early. At ve there was another knock on the door and now he insisted

we’d get up. We were made to bow in front of the big Buddha and then given some rice porridge with vegetables for breakfast. We were out of there as soon as we could pack our rucksacks. Out in the sunshine, travel weary but happy to be on the road again we smiled at our overnight ordeal. The next ten days became a test of patience and resilience. Each day a 7-10 hour bus journey on dusty gravel roads. Going from local town to local town all the way down to Hong Kong. We grew in toughness every day. Packed buses and whose drivers didn’t care for life or limb, hardened by the life in rural poor China. Farmers and peasants travelling short and long distances, leaning out of the windows to catch some fresh air as they got motion sickness from the extremely bumpy ride, only to take their head inside the coach to throw up. Enough said of that. The country roads were lined with labourers, men doing the heaviest roadworks while women and children much of the gruelling job of crushing big pieces of rocks into smaller pieces only with the help of hammers. The dust that the buses stirred up enveloped them as thick clouds of smoke. We stayed in bus depot guest houses, ate at the street vendors, explored every day life, often to the glaring eyes of kids that never had seen a foreigner before.

CHAPTER THREE

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Hong Kong, city of lights, was a welcome respite. Dirty and unkempt we stumbled into Chungking Mansions in Kowloon, the hostels hostel. On the 16th oor we camped with hundreds of other shoestring budget travellers from all over the world. Now back in civilisation we still maintained our daily budget of US$5.00 including transport, food and lodging. We planned to stay in Hong Kong several weeks as the World Cup soccer games were on, so besides sightseeing we looked for paid work. Mikael got a waiter’s job in a restaurant while I learned of something called ‘milk-runs’. In short it was a way traders got around paying customs duty on goods they peddled between Taiwan, South Korea and Japan. By using couriers carrying one item of each brand-product they’d be exempt paying any tax on import. Over the course of a week we ew to Taipei, Seoul and Tokyo and return. Got a free airline ticket, accommodation, and a few dollars more for pocket money.

On our return leg we stayed in Taiwan a little longer and hitchhiked around the beautiful island. People were fantastic, went out of their way to help us. I remember travelling through Taroko Gorge, that cuts straight through the islands mountain range and spending a night high up in a Buddhist temple perched precariously on its cli s with monkeys climbing all over. The next day we got a lift with a tour bus lled with Taiwanese pensioners that made us sing songs in Swedish for their entertainment and for our embarrassment.

After a week in Taiwan we returned to HK and learned that the Silk Road passage from China into Pakistan over the Karakoram mountain pass would open later in June. I remember fondly watching the BBC television series ‘The Silk Road’ with my mum as a young boy. The music of Kitaro still bring up images of far away places that have etched in my mind. When the BBC was there the border between the two countries was shut and the series ended as they approached and lmed the border crossing high up on the Karakoram Highway. I remember telling mum I would one day cross that border. And now, four months in on our journey this door opened. We did a few more things to conclude our stay in Hong Kong, including visiting a bird sanctuary in the New Territories, a volcanic black-sand beach, donating blood for a few dollars in Macao, watched dragon-boat races and visited the Aberdeen harbour on the Hong Kong islands south side. Ahh, one thing stands out in my memory; I’d been wearing my fathers gold watch with a worn out leather strap and I needed to change it. So I went in to one of the very many watch and gold shops in Kowloon, laid the watch out on the glass counter and watched as the clerk began to try to remove the strap. We both stared as the watch suddenly exploded, the back opened up and everything went ‘ping’, ‘pong’, ‘peng’. All small springs and levers ew and landed on the counter in front of us. We both looked on with disbelief, the clerk in a very Chinese manner acted like; Karma man, what to do? and behaved like it was none of his business. I scoped the pieces o the counter into my hand and walked out of the shop. I haven’t worn a watch ever since.

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We were excited to continue our journey back into China, now equipped with much more knowledge and experience of the land and its people. We took the train to Guangzhou on the mainland, spent a night, and found a ferry barge that would take us up the Li River to Yangshuo. Sitting on the at roof of the barge heading into southern China through beautiful countryside in a setting sun was magical. The famous Karst mountains lining the river valley is one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited. We spent a few days hanging out in Yangshou’s laid-back atmosphere and visiting among other sites a school with wonderful children, playing and singing their hearts out.

We left for Kunming, a major city in southwest China but we had heard about this little town called Dali, o the beaten track very few visited. Mikael and me had hooked up with three friends we’d made along the way and we all decided to go. We were travelling west on local buses toward the Burmese border, inhabited by hill tribes and I realised we were mere sni ng distance from the border to Tibet, the land of my dreams. Dali was a spectacular, wonderful, magical and remote hamlet. Probably the most far away place I’d ever been to at the time. Time stood still as we visited the weekly market that saw all the di erent tribes come down from the mountains to trade their traditional goods and handicrafts. We could have stayed for ever but now an idea had been brewing. I wanted to go to Lhasa.

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We split up in two groups so not to draw attention to us, me and Andrew left rst, taking the local bus north out of Dali. At Lijiang we would have to jump o and take the split in the road heading west towards Markam in Kham, eastern Tibet. Quickly we walked away from the junction heading out of town now trying to hitchhike further. We were on forbidden o -limits roads. Tibet was a no-go for tourists without special permits acquired beforehand, and Kham, Eastern Tibet even more so than any other part. We were lucky, we got rides on tractors, trucks and sometimes even on a local bus. We stayed under cover as much as we could, hiding our faces under hats and by now dressing like the locals. Only our backpacks gave us away. When we didn’t nd a ride we walked long stretches. Encountering villages and people that were not very helpful. We knew locals could get into real serious trouble helping foreigners so we didn’t blame them. We wanted to stay low key anyway. We just walked north towards Tibet. In four days we managed to reach Markam on the Chengdu-to-Lhasa road. We got up early the next day and stood on the crossroads to see if we could get a ride straight west into Lhasa. We stood there for three hours and not a single vehicle came.

Something must be wrong? We walked back into town and learned that landslides had taken the road out at several places and no tra c at all was getting through. We didn’t dare to walk as we had no idea how far it was to the next village. Our hopes of reaching Lhasa this time around fainted fast.

The next day we managed to get a ride in the back of a lorry packed in with some 20 villagers heading east, back towards Chengdu. Kham in Eastern Tibet is so remote and the gravel road wind its way high up on the mountain side with terrifying drops on the side of the vehicle. The scenery is spectacular and breathtaking. Three days later we found ourselves in a large hotel in central Chengdu where a shower, food and a good night’s sleep made us feel reborn. Aching muscles and suntanned faces the only remaining feature from our adventure. Mikael and I had decided to meet up here if we didn’t make it to Lhasa but we got word he was delayed. So instead of hanging around John (who had parted early with Mikael and Robyn) and I made our way to nearby Leshan, nding the worlds biggest Buddha statue carved into the mountainside on the banks of the Min River, a tributary to the mighty Yangtze River. We boarded a Yangtze riverboat to take us through the Three Gorges into the heartland of China. Cruising down the river, together with a group of Japanese pensioners drinking the local brew and singing Japanese folksongs on the Karaoke machine while watching the odd dead animal oating by. After two days I parted company with my friend, debarked and headed north for the Longmen Grottoes near Luoyang. These are 1500 year old Buddhist cave carvings not far away from the renowned Shaolin Temple. Next stop was Xi’an, where nearby the Terracotta Army still hold up after 2,200 years of history. Here I waited for Mikael to arrive from Chengdu. Once reunited we bought a second class train ticket, hard seat, to

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CHAPTER FOUR

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the far northwest corner of China, Urumqi. Three days on a slow train heading west following the ancient Silk route into Muslim territory. We slept on the oor underneath our seats. The landscaped changed, now arid and dry, skirting the Gobi desert to the north. From Urumqi we boarded a buss to take us the last stretch, three more days ahead, to Kashgar, the end of the road in Xinjiang prefecture. Travel weary, tired and dusty we arrived in a new culture. Uighurs, the Turkish related population, with its Muslim Faith make up the majority of people here. Camels, donkeys, atbread and spicy lamb kebabs was a welcome change. We rested. Went to the market and bought a curved Muslim styled knife and I found a beautiful fur-skinned hat worn by the local herders on their horsebacks. The inside lined with sheep wool and smelling of my childhood cat. I was ready for the Karakoram. The Khunjerab pass at 4,693 metres over sea level was a real daunting challenge. We had had no altitude acclimatisation when we boarded the local bus destined for Gilgit on the Pakistani side.

CHAPTER FIVE

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Mostly locals and a few hardened Western travellers squeezed into the bus.

Equipped and dressed for high altitude weather we set o from Kashgar, quite happy to be leaving China behind. It had been hard to travel in China not knowing the language but also many times nding the attitude tough and unwelcoming. Yet our experience had been enriched beyond our wildest dreams. We were slowly beginning to wake up from the cushioned lifestyle of the Western world. We had by now become ‘real’ travellers, no more mere simple tourists but intrepid explores worthy to be listed next to any one of our renowned past heroes like Marco Polo, Sven Hedin etc. At least we thought so. We were walking where few men had treaded before, we fancied ourselves. So on the bus exchanging stories of our travels with other Westerners was a great pastime. It also was the best source of information for what lie ahead. Places recommended and hidden gems not yet in the guidebooks. We suddenly were jolted awake, the bus stopped and the driver asked us to get o and walk. Landslides and steep and rough terrain was part of the normal timetable, describing our arrival anything in between two or three days time. A little further up the road there was broken down bus by the wayside. All their passengers piled into our bus and suddenly we were packed full. The sharp and glistening peaks high above us gave us an indication how far we yet had to ascend. The weather was fantastic and we were all in great spirits. The border crossing was just before the pass, on a plateau over 4000 meters. Over the pass we descended to our overnight shelter not having markedly been a ected by the loss of oxygen yet. So we, the brave-hearts hatched yet another plan; to scale the nearby massive Batura glacier. The next morning we found a guide in a local shepherd man willing to show us the way. We bought enough provisions to last us a day and a night, tinned clementines mostly and biscuits, and set out on foot. Up up and up we went. Breathtaking scenery all around. The jagged peaks of the Karakoram studding the skyline. Finally we scaled the last crescent and stood before the mighty frozen river of the Batura glacier stretching far away into the mountains like a prehistoric extinct giant snake. Exhausted we made camp in an old Shepherds stone hut. I was completely exhausted, I could not move and bedded down in my sleeping bag. I felt sick, headache coming on. In the middle of the night I needed to relieve myself and got up, just to stumble like a drunk man in the dark. I’d lost all sense of balance and by now my head was splitting apart. The stars were out and the mountains were all lit up by the moon. If I would have been able to appreciate it I would have marvelled at its beauty but now I could nothing but to wait for daybreak.

Mikael and the Shepherd probably had no great insight to what was happening. Mikael, just as me, had never encountered altitude sickness to any great degree before and our guide who was brought up in these mountains probably never had su ered it. The moment it was light enough to see our way I stumbled downwards, over the glacier and descended as

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rapidly as my legs would allow. Our guide carrying my rucksack as well as his own gear. Every meter we descended felt as a relief and after a few hours of being really worried and scared we ended up on a road. I was in pieces but alive. After paying our guide in American dollars with which he had no idea of what to do, we thanked him profusely and hitched a ride down the mountain into the thriving town of Gilgit in Baltistan north Pakistan. The small hamlets and villages we passed coming down the valley were so pretty and their at roofs were lled with bright orange apricots drying in the sun. Now I must admit a compromise we made. We decided to y domestically to Rawalpindi instead of over-landing it by bus. Partly because it was so cheap but also after the recent ordeal we were tired of ru ng it, and people were carrying automatic ri es slung across their shoulders in town. We needed a break. From Rawalpindi we got the train to Lahore and took a bus across the border to Punjab India.

CHAPTER SIX

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Entering India, arriving in New Delhi. Now I was home! Everything greeted me as a homecoming, the people, the food, the sounds, the climate, the children, the birds and animals. Delhi was an assault on the senses, we loved the street scene and quickly found ourselves at home. Yet we hadn’t had enough of the Himalayas so we headed north again. First by bus to Dharamsala where the Dalai Lama and his Tibetan community lives in exile in McLeod Ganj, then onwards to Kashmir and Srinagar’s houseboats on Dal Lake. Time to chill in this most beautiful corner of Indias far north. Well rested after a week chillin on the lake, we set o again, hitching a ride on top of an oil-tanker lorry driving to Leh in Ladakh, the Tibetan region still within India’s borders. Once again we drove up onto the Tibetan plateau, onto its arid dry but fresh open landscape. Now thoroughly acclimatised we encountered no problems with the altitude. We spent a week visiting di erent Buddhist gompas or temples. We visited Likir Gompa among others. This lovely monastery was within easy reach of Leh, a bus ride and a pleasant hike up a narrow river valley where we had a quick icy dip before joining the Buddhist monks in their temple. We were invited in for traditional Tibetan salted butter tea (yes it’s an acquired taste) while the Lamas were preparing a large sand mandala on the oor. Four ve monks were working sitting cross legged, facing the circular mandala. There were several young novice monks there as well, helping and learning the craft. The temple was dark inside, lit up by butter lamps and a kerosene lamp it gave not only a soft light but gave o a scent particular to Tibetan monasteries. It was as if we’ve been transported back in time. We didn’t do much conversation but as we were a novelty the young ones were excited and played up a little bit like Tibetan kids can do. Good humoured and jovial. They tried their english skills on us. As we bantered the elder monk did something that has stuck with me since. He leaned slightly towards the teenager, put the gentlest hand on his arm, gestured and said something very softly. The boy changed his cheeky expression to one of a genuine smile, his eyes beaming. Still very much with us but now also aware of the Buddha Dharma and his peers and teachers.

The care and love I learned there was immense. With a gentle prod we come back to who we are. No need for big remonstrations, and equally important, we see the helpfulness of guidance. Sila, the moral precepts of Buddhism is the cornerstone and foundation for all further attainment. It is its Path and its Goal simultaneously. This being September it wasn’t long before the high passes would shut for winter. We visited Hemis Gompa before getting on the last bus going south over the Keylong pass into the Kullu valley and Manang in Himachal Pradesh. We got out of the bus on the pass to walk the rest of the way down into the Manang valley into Manali. After so many days stuck in a bus it felt wonderful to walk through mountain pastures alongside horse herders and ocks of goats. Our journey had turned into a pilgrimage to holy places and our next place of worship would be the Parvati Valley with its

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natural hot springs. We hiked up the narrow valley, stayed in an ashram for pilgrimages, sat next to Shiva sadhus in the hot steaming natural baths while they were smoking their marijuana under star clear evening skies. We realised that staying in temples and ashrams was very budget friendly and meals were included. So all in all our spiritual pursuit started to take shape.

Since stepping o the Trans-Siberian train in Peking seven months prior and having nished reading Jung’s autobiography, I had taken every opportunity to buy spiritual books and read everything I could get my hands on. In Hong Kong I’d come across Bertrand Russell’s ‘History of Western Philosophy’ which I devoured naming Spinoza by far my favourite thinker. In Delhi I had picked up the Chinese Classic the ‘I Ching’ with a foreword by CG Jung. An instant winner that would become my permanent travel companion.

Wherever we would go we would encounter religion and spirituality.

Buddhism and Hinduism was the major in uence. Slowly slowly my interest grew. We returned to Delhi and began our love a air with Indian trains, rst heading to Varanasi via Agra and the Taj Mahal. Once in Benares, present day Varanasi, we saw the mighty Ganges River and felt transported back thousands of years. Never in my life had I seen anything like it. Death on the doorstep to eternal life, the burning ghats lit up the evening waterfront.

Benares is to India its holiest city where if you can choose where to die is where you’d go. Cremated and pushed into the river. The smoke, the smell, the sounds, the constant life, the poverty, the devotion, the cruelty. Hindu India in its greatest costume. To nd any respite we had to go to the outskirts, to where also the Buddha chose to go; the deer park in Saranath, where he had caught up with his old friends and convinced them of the Dharma he had found. Calm, cool and relaxed is how the Buddhists appear while the Hindus are all over the place, worshipping everything under the sun. Hinduism is de nitely a feast for the senses while the Buddha Dharma a sobering hand. The re and water of religious expression. So we took a bus now, towards Nepal, spent a night at the border point and continued the next day to Kathmandu. Climbed up on the roof to be free. The coach ying through the Terai region of southern Nepal into the foothills of the Himalayas beyond where we knew Mt Everest was waiting for us. To join us on the roof suddenly a young Thai man climbed up while the bus was in full career.

Huddled in between the luggage on the roof-rack we exchanged greetings and big smiles. Ting would become our very dear friend for years to come.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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Kathmandu, unquestionably the very centre of the Himalayas, the village turned town turned city, o spring and child of the highest mountain range in the world. The epicentre and meeting ground for all its people and tribes where myth and reality live intertwined. Don’t let the tra c put you o . For seasoned travellers and fresh o the plane shoestring newbies alike Kathmandu is our Mecca. It is hallowed grounds. Sun scorched muscles, trekking boats and sunglasses, hippie hair and tie dyes, smells and bells.

Palms together in Namaste, children’s laughter and smiles blew us all away.

Humanity in a cauldron. In a hot pot spicy mix we all blend as one. Of course we would get sick. Amoebic Dysentery and Giardia. Thank God for relaxed drug laws and a lab in every pharmacy. Soon enough we were treating all of our water with iodine. Hooking up with seasoned American mountain guide Je , who we’d met on the houseboat in Kashmir, and our new wonderful friend Ting from Bangkok, we let go of time and drifted. Weeks passed and Mikael was not getting better, he needed to y home to get proper care. We all decided to meet up later in Thailand so we parted ways and I would now focus on Sagarmatha, the highest mountain in the world, 8,848 meters over sea level. Let me remind you that Nepal’s Terai is as low as 67 meters. By myself for the rst time, I cherished the aloneness. Je traded me his GoreTex trekking trousers for my mini electric shaver and wished me good luck. I bought myself an ice axe, I was getting so ready. In November I took the bus to Jiri where the road ended and I began walking. I took ten days to reach Namche Bazaar, in the heart of Solu Khumbu, Sherpa country. Throughly acclimatised we started going higher, 4000 metres and upwards. Tengboche Gompa is the religious home for this region where Tibetan Buddhism ourish with its colourful ceremonies and rituals drawing crowds of trekkers and tourists alike. First stop, Gokyo in the valley leading up to Cho Oyu 8,188 metres. Earlier, three days into my trek coming around a corner I saw the peak of Mt Everest for the rst time from afar. Now as I scaled the lookout point on Gokyo peak I saw the ‘Holy Mother’ up close. Instead of backtracking to Tengboche and head up the Everest valley from below I decided to climb the pass between the two valleys. I made camp underneath a rock at the foot of the ascent to the pass. The next morning I scaled a steep snow eld to get me up on the saddle and crossed over and after an eight hour hike I reached the upper Everest valley’s last trekkers hut at Gorakshep before the glacier and Base Camp. The next day I walked over the glacier to the Base Camp all climbers use as their starting point to ascend Everest. I believe there were two climbing teams there at the time.

We continued up to the Kala Patthar peak nearby to gain a grand viewpoint over the surrounding mountains. It is the highest point on the trek at 5,643 metres above sea level. Having no timetable to stick to nor a ight to catch, I lingered. Walking with the clouds, drifting high. Legs very strong now, skipping like a mountain goat, all downhill for hours on hours. Spending time,

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enjoying the normal life of the locals; kids running to school, men and women tending livestock, toiling the land. Skin like hides, bronzed by the sun. Eyes and teeth glistening. Strong people and the nicest and warmest we ever encountered through our whole journey. Sherpas. Back in Namche Bazaar I took stock, rested, mission completed. Didn’t want to return the same way as I’d come so looked on the map and found a small air eld ten days walk east. Tumlingtar supposedly had weekly domestic ights back to Kathmandu. O the beaten track, I found the little path leading o the main trekkers route coming up from Jiri and Lukla, and at once I was alone. I walked eastward crossing one ridge after another, going from village to village. Following school children home as they took you by the hand and asked their parents to put me up for the night, often next to the re where they cooked their Dal Bhat, rice and lentil curry evening meal. Makalu (8,485 metres) looming as the compass north to my left as I walked by myself and felt God’s presence by my side. Arrived in Tumlingtar with a few days to spare before the plane was due. After ve weeks of solitude in the mountains and ying back to Kathmandu I could not stand the chaos of the town and immediately set o to Pokhara and the Annapurna range. My legs were strong. They’d never been stronger. I trekked up the Kaligandaki River valley towards Jomsom. Turned right at Kagbeni and spent Christmas eve in Muktinath, at the foot of the Thorung La 5,416 metres. Sang Christmas songs with my new Japanese friend sharing a few beers. The next day the two of us climbed halfway up the pass and made camp in an abandoned stone house. The next day my friend struggled with the altitude after having crossed over the pass. He sat down exhausted enjoying the scenery as if out on a stroll. We still had hours to walk before we were in safety. There was no marked route. We only followed previous footsteps in the snow. I had to grab him by the arm and walk him down the mountain. The sun was just setting as we stumbled in to the lodge. I don’t think we understood the seriousness of the situation. The next day we recuperated in Manang, a Tibetan village on the north side of the Annapurna range. All but abandoned but for the children and women, their men having left for the harsh winter months ahead. Soon the upper reaches of the valley would be inaccessible for outsiders because of the snow. We learned the Tibetan males had all went to their winter abodes in Kathmandu, Singapore, Bangkok and Hong Kong.

They were traders like so many nomads still are on the Tibetan plateau.

Trading in gemstones, silver and artefacts. Hiking in the high valleys of the Himalayas and living with the local tribes people we had became very aware of the women folks bracelets, arm rings and necklaces, often hidden under layers and layers of traditional clothing. Over time we would come to understand and appreciate the value of these very beautiful items, often passed down from generation to generation. Turquoise, coral and amber as single pieces, strung together or embedded in silver or gold in rings and bracelets. Having our pot-noodles breakfast on the at of the roof in the sun overlooking the snow landscape and glistening 7000 meter peaks all around

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us, we were literally on top of the world. Now we just needed to follow the river down the valley back to civilisation, about a ten days walk. We headed for the hot springs. Doing the Annapurna circuit in three weeks over Christmas and New Year 86/87 we experienced summer warmth in the Jomsom valley with tangerines and clementines hanging o the trees in Tatopani, a snowstorm on Poon Hill, high altitude colds on Thorung La and spring melts in the lower Manang valley. My time in Nepal was coming to an end, for this time. I took the bus, down to the Terai and east toward the Indian border and Siliguri. Part of my overall big plan of travel was to circumnavigate the whole Himalayan massive and to enter its heartland of Tibet if possible. Still in the late eighties this was a di cult thing to do; Visas, permits and restrictions besides the sheer physical extremes of travel, made it a rare occurrence. So far I’d skirted around it and made incisions wherever I could. The next stab was to visit Darjeeling, maybe the most famous of the English hill stations, where during the colonial era they escaped the summer heat of the plains. Famed for its tea plantations it is also a large resettlement for Tibetans living in exile. Situated on a sharp edge of a ridge, having grandiose views over the Himalayan peaks in the far distance, with comfortable guest houses, good restaurants and shops, a place to recharge your batteries. Almost a year into my travel I was still considering my journey being simply a reconnaissance trip for future in-depth expeditions. I had only skimmed the surface of what was out there. Visiting as many places as possible, taking note, making a shortlist for the most incredible sites to be revisited. Gangtok and Sikkim in the north had to wait till a later date.

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I made my way down to Calcutta and bought my rst international one-way airplane ticket to Bangkok with a stopover in Rangoon, a stretch of land I was not allowed to traverse by land. I’d managed to secure a one-week Tourist Visa to Burma (Myanmar) and without delay got on the train north to the Buddhist area of Pagan. From the cultural changes of mainland China to subcontinent India, I now entered the distinctly di erent region of Southeast Asia. The sounds were di erent. The smells, the food, the people were di erent, everything was di erent. I fell in love. The Burmese alongside the Nepalis were the most pleasant and wonderful people anywhere. The heat struck me, constant and unrelenting, the backpack had to be lightened. All winter gear discarded; long johns traded for swim suits, trekking boots for ip ops. Scarfs and sweaters left behind. Bangkok, the heart of Siam, was another revelation. Khao San Road was the backpackers neighbourhood and I spent my rst anniversary there on February 22 1987. Thai food that blew the top of your head o , women so beautiful you’d melt on the spot, temples in gold and tra c to die for. Thailand became all travellers favourite destination no matter where you came from. The ease, the service, the standard, the helpfulness, the openness and their kindness made us all feel at home. We never wanted to leave. Living Buddhism in its bright orange drag, its quiet assurance never far away compelled us to wonder and question. Ajan Chah’s little handbook on meditation, a gem for the mind to sit with. Everywhere we went, the monks would quietly follow us on their morning alms rounds. Now Bangkok aside, the real reason why anyone would come to Thailand, is their beaches. Lamai became mine for years ahead. The recurring phrase ‘you should have been here ten years ago’ rings true for all of us that have returned on numerous occasions. Yet the beauty remains although a little more crowded than back in the eighties, or seventies for those who were that fortunate. Time stops for no man and we have to accept the changes and love and respect our present moment. Every generation can experience the beauty of the land and its people. Just open your eyes, ears and hearts and you will be transformed. After a brief trip to, and spell of Chiang Mai where a strange mix of American ex-mercenaries, opium trade and cultural heartland blended in the north part of the country, we all met up again on the island of Koh Samui. Mikael ew in from Sweden feeling better, Je from who knows where, and Ting had set up shop on Lamai Beach selling his own style of beads, gems and silver spread out on his sarong. He charmed the socks of every one that came near him, his smile very infectious. Bob Marley, Pink Floyd and Santana was the beat we moved to, three months of laid back party time. Cold Singha beer and Mekhong whiskey, ice and coke for the sunset drinks. Having learned to drive on 185cc dirt-bike in the Kathmandu valley six months earlier we were pros on our rented 250cc Yamaha motorcycles. We explored the islands inland mountains and all its beaches in shorts and t-shirt. Reading Siddhartha by

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CHAPTER EIGHT

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Hesse in the daytime, swimming in the ocean and eating heavenly fruits simply and cheaply. We were slowly learning the art of doing nothing. But as all good things must come an end so did our sojourn on Koh Samui. Before uprooting and beginning a new phase of my travels, Mikael and I had time to visit Krabi and Koh Phi Phi on my way south to Malaysia. Then ‘Micke’ had to end his trip and go home as his medical condition needed attention. We had been travelling for more than a year together and it was sad to part ways but his health demanded it. So I set o by myself to the Malaysian border.

Penang was my rst stop, very pleasant and relaxed but had no will to stay long so hitchhiked my way south, but not before noting down that Penang had a boat service across to Sumatra, where I much later would continue my journey south through the islands of a Indonesia. Now my lift took me to the Cameroon highlands then across the Taman Negara to the east coast. I’d heard about the Perhentian Island’s unspoilt beaches and got a lift out there on a local shing boat. Sun, sea and beach, and quiet. Not much more to do so I hitched all the way down the east-coast to Singapore. Very easy to get a lift, good roads, friendly helpful people. Singapore is clean and nice, fantastic Indian food but not much more. It is a great hub for air travel and I wanted to go to Borneo but the ights were too expensive. I fondly remembered when I had visited Tokyo over two days as part of my trip from Hong Kong the year before so I checked prices. Unexpectedly cheap! So suddenly I was making a colossal left turn and ew to the land of the rising sun.

CHAPTER NINE

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Once in Japan I called my fathers joint-venture business partner to pass on his greetings, I introduced myself and was promptly invited to dinner. This lead me to stay in Tokyo for the next three months working as an o ce assistant doing simple tasks for the company director. My reason for going to Japan was mainly Aikido. I had a letter of recommendation from my teacher from home to be able to visit the founders dojo in Ibaraki prefecture, an hour and half by train northeast of Tokyo. It hadn’t really been included in my low budget plan, in my shoestring adventure through Asia, but now securing a paid job in downtown Tokyo I could relax and enjoy my time here.

So I went looking for a dojo and found one in the Meiji Jingu park; the Shiseikan dojo. I walked in and spoke to the girls in the reception. They asked me to come back in the evening when the classes began. I returned at the outside gates of the park at nightfall where I was stopped by the guard.

The park had shut for the day and I needed a special pass to enter. I tried to explain I needed to enter the dojo to enrol to get my pass but the guard would have none of it. After much wrangling and pleading I managed to get him to call up the dojo and inquire. I was let in. Once in, the girls signed me up and sold me a uniform, I was set. Living, working and eating in Japan is itself an experience, plus to train a traditional martial art in the Japanese way is a wonderful fortune. I almost forgot about my destined trip to Iwama. So when my time in the o ce came to an end I had my landlord help me call Saito Sensei in Iwama to let him know I was arriving the next day. No. I could not come was the shocking reply. I hadn’t let him know of my postponement after getting the job in Tokyo so now three months later my invitation and welcome had severely lapsed. But I pleaded and begged, realising my mistake and utter irresponsibility. At last Saito relented and I was allowed to come. A new chapter began, living in the dojo of O Sensei, the founder of Aikido as an ‘uchi-deshi’, a live-in apprentice. Training morning and evening, chores and free time. Rural Japan, summertime, it’s such a wonderful experience. I can’t say enough about it. I knew this was the beginning of a long spell of returning to Japan to live and train in Iwama over the coming years. After a month in Iwama it was time to continue my travels. Having learned in China the previous year that there was a ferry service between Osaka for Shanghai, I decided to leave Japan by boat. My goal was once again Lhasa. I managed to acquire the necessary travel documents and visas to travel into Tibet after a lengthy hassle. Three days and two nights took the crossing to Shanghai. I spent the night in the same hostel as the previous year, and the next day got a train straight westward, via Xi’an three days ride to Xining and Golmud in Qinghai Provence, as close to Tibet as we could get by railway. There I boarded a local bus to take me up on the roof of the world. After two days on the road we nally arrived in Lhasa. We literally fell out the bus, all our things unpacked, dirty and in an array came tumbling out with us, together with Tibetan nomads on pilgrimage to the Potala, the

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former palace of the Dalai Lama. I had shared a seat with a large man with braided hair and a ee infested fur coat. As we’d drove through the night on the extreme altitudes the ees jumped over and took hold on me. I was sweating, itching, tired, hot, cold, aching and sleepless. I stumbled into my designated Tibetan guest house near Barkhor square and slept for three days. Eventually coming to, I found myself in an enchanted Tibetan hostel. I explored the streets around the Jokhang temple and visited the Potala Palace. Tibetan Buddhism was on the menu now. Nothing in Tibet was outside of their religion, everything connected somehow to their Faith and culture. Thoroughly loving my time in Lhasa, it was time to explore some more of Tibet. I traveled southwest to the oldest monastery of Samye-ling where I spent my birthday on September 26th, drinking Tibetan home-brew and eating tsampa. The next day hiking up the valley to the gompa, nding the stream perfect for washing o the headache and travel grime. I continued my travels southeast on roads leading toward the Bhutanese border, incredible landscapes all around, vast valleys, giant snow caped peaks. Then the road lead me westward, through to Gyantse and Shigatse, seeing remnants of Buddhist temples, gompas and monasteries destroyed by the Chinese occupation along the way. I got as far as to Sakya, the main monastery of one of the oldest schools of Tibetan Buddhism, before I needed to head back to Lhasa. I cast my eye lovingly towards the west where Mount Kailas loomed but that trip had to wait for now. I returned to a Lhasa that was feeling the aftershocks of a small uprising/protest that occurred in October 1987. The Chinese authorities clamped down hard on the citizens, imposed curfew, jailed many, and yet again persecuted the Tibetans. We left the Tibetan plateau with a bitter taste in our mouth. The leaving on a local bus the same way I’d come would just reinforce our views of the state of a airs. We had purchased our bus ticket with the help of a Tibetan man, so we managed to pay the local fare and not the excess tourist fee. As we boarded the bus the Chinese police where there checking the tickets, only to delay the departure two hours forcing us to pay the di erence, after an unpleasant interrogation by a Chinese o cial. After a weeks journey by bus, train and ship I was back in Tokyo. Very brie y I met my dad who was there on business before I ew back to Singapore. Back in South-East Asia I picked up where I had left o and hitchhiked north to Penang, Malaysia. Not hanging around I caught the hovercraft across to Medan on Sumatra, the largest island of Indonesia. I was very happy being back in the tropical landscape of beautiful Sumatra. Via Lake Toba, a magical island set in a large volcanic crater lake, I traveled south by bus and train, crossed the equator for the very rst time, and nally took a ferry across to Java. After a day in Jakarta I made my way to the Buddhist temple remains of Borobudur and then further up the steep hills of Mount Bromo, an active volcano within a larger giant crater. On the bus up the mountain I witnessed a very curious thing, a group of men carried a co n coming down the mountain with mourners following. They were running with the co n on their

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shoulders, zig zagging and returning back to where they came from, circling around and continuing on their way like drunk men. I was informed they did this to confuse the spirit of the deceased so he would not be able to return to the village after death. Yogyakarta in Central Java was very pleasant and restful for the senses. Sitting up all night listening to magical shadow puppet plays of the Hindu tale Mahabharata. Giant ying bats lling the twilight sky in the evening dusk. I had just nished reading Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography and was contemplating becoming Vegetarian. I agreed with everything he said about Ahimsa; the non-killing of living beings and I felt I’d be a hypocrite if I could not live what I too believed in so I decided to try it for one week, then for two weeks. It was easy so I simply continued being meat free for the next twenty years. Now Bali was my next stop.

CHAPTER TEN

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Kuta beach became a memorable experience, a near death one. I thought it would be good idea to go body sur ng like I saw so many doing. Beautiful big waves, it looked fantastic. How hard could it be? I swam out, dove under the incoming waves and quickly found myself quite far from land. Ok, so here I go, try to swim in and catch and ride a wave. As it rises above me I realise I don’t have the timing right and will be bashed down. Before I have a chance to change anything I’m smashed by the wave coming down on me and pulled under, everything turns black and I’m inside a washing machine and tumbler combined. I think I’m gonna die, not knowing which way is up or down, can’t breathe, and then suddenly my head is above water and I gasp for air. Panicking I swim for the shore but the next wave does the same thing to me, slams me down and drags me under. I seriously think this is the end.

But just before I think I can’t hold my breath any longer I pop up. Now I realise I can’t swim toward the beach so I turn and swim outwards, following the back current out, dive underneath the next wave and nd myself safe on the outside of the swell. Far from the beach I recover from the shock but now is at loss of how to get back on dry land. I look around me and see some Balinese surfers on their boards not too far away, so I swim over and say excuse me. They look at me and say yes, what’s up? I say, can you please help me get ashore? They, do you have a cramp? Are you hurt? I say no, I just can’t get to the beach. They look at each other, then one jumps o his board and asks me to lay on it and hold on. He swims behind and pushes the surfboard with me on it, timing it perfectly with the next wave, and within it seems like seconds I’m on the beach laughing my head o . He comes swimming after and I thank him profusely for saving my life. I’m euphoric, I’m alive! For the whole next week I have no desire to enter the water, completely happy to sunbath on the sand. Happy to have a massage or two but that’s it, I’m done sur ng. Bali is a paradise, I traveled around the island and stayed another week but then I had my eyes on the string of islands leading eastward toward Timor and further a eld, Australia. Island hopping with small local shing boats, through tropical jungle, pristine beaches, deep blue coral sea where schools of dolphins breaking the glistening surface, mud roads and no tourists. I crossed overland on the islands of Lombok, Sumbawa, then Komodo where the famous Komodo-dragons (giant deadly reptiles) live, and onwards to Flores. This was one of the most wonderful trips I’ve ever made, so utterly stunning. We ew back to Bali onboard a small propeller plane from the small village of Maumere.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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I boarded my ight to Darwin, Northern Territories Australia, planning to hitchhike my way to the East Coast and the Great Barrier Reef. It was a bit of a downer after almost two years in Asia; having fallen in love with the culture, the religion, the food and the people. Now here I was, a new Vegetarian coming to a beef eating land. I hitchhiked straight south to Threeways where I took a sharp left turn, slept on the roadside and caught a ride with a lorry the next morning all the way to Townsville on the East Coast. I think the whole trip from Darwin took at least ve days, it was a long way. I made the short jump over to Magnetic Island where I managed to get a short term job at a local garden centre. My older sister was in Australia on a visit and we managed to meet up on the island for a few days before I headed north to Cairns. In Cairns to save my money I opted to go snorkelling instead of signing up for a scuba PADI course which more or less everybody did heading out to the Great Barrier Reef. I went on a snorkelling boat trip and enjoyed free diving next to great Manta-rays and reef sharks. I didn’t stay long and got ready to hitchhike south all the way to Sydney but before I headed o I met up with some friends I’ve met travelling. I had bought this beautiful handmade tribal embroidered shirt in Nepal. I loved it. One of a kind. I wore it with pride and people commented on it saying how nice it was. I had met two sisters in Indonesia, one of whom really liked my shirt and asked if I’d give it to her, but I would not give it away. We parted company and I continued my travels through to Australia just to run into my friends again in Cairns a few months later. Not before long she asked again if I wouldn’t mind giving her my shirt. I was in a conundrum. I knew that if I gave it away I wouldn’t be able to nd one like it again but at the same time I thought about the spiritual dictum of surrendering your possessions for a higher cause. I believed in these premises and wondered if I’m not even able to part with the shirt on my back how would I be able to part with anything else of greater importance when it mattered? I felt the pressure and questioned its importance to me. I relented and took the shirt o , handed it to her and walked home in the rain shirtless. It was to become one of the greatest lesson and would serve me well later in my journey of life. The the next day I headed south, Noosa Heads, and then onwards all the way to down to Sydney. I felt a little lost in Australia, thrown back into Western civilisation. I didn’t like it. I had grown accustomed to the south-east Asian culture and pace of life. I longed to go back. When Mikael and I had sat down and planned our trip two years prior we thought we would cross the Paci c at this stage. We had hoped to visit New Zealand and then some Paci c paradise islands before reaching America from behind as it where.

But now the ticket prices were too high and my budget wouldn’t last long.

America didn’t tempt me any longer and after a quick roundtrip to Melbourne to visit Robyn, the lovely girl we’d met in China, I bought an airplane ticket

back to Singapore from Sydney. After seeing the sights in and around Sydney I happily boarded the plane back to Southeast Asia.

CHAPTER TWELVE

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Homebound but still a very long way to go. I took a train to KL, Kuala Lumpur, so glad to be back in Malaysia. Continued up the east coast to the Thai border and as fast as I could returned to Koh Samui, Lamai Beach and Paradise bungalows. Things were di erent, my friends were not with me, but the beach, the people, the lovely island still held its spell. There was one thing I was looking forward doing, something I had had in mind ever since learning about it on my rst visit to the south of Thailand, and that was to do a meditation retreat in the nearby Buddhist forrest monastery of Vat Suan Mokkh. The rst ten days of every month there was a silent retreat for foreigners, served by both Western monks and Thais. The retreat was set up by a well known elderly scholar Buddhist monk named Buddhadasa. After now having spent two years travelling and studying Eastern religion I was asking myself what do I do to pursue this inner quest of mine? I had read so much about the spiritual life and had come to agree with much of it, albeit without any deeper understanding and I longed to have my own experience of it. The one and only method that is readily evident wherever you travel in Asia, the method that underpins all of their religion, whether Buddhist, Hindu or Taoist, is sitting meditation practice in all the varied forms. I wanted something simple and meditation practice in the Theravada Buddhist tradition doesn’t come any easier than the Anapanasati mindfulness of the breath practice. Original and authentic, the teachings of Samatha and Vipassana, the two sides to the experience of deep absorption in meditative training goes way back probably even to before the Buddhas time. In Vat Suan Mokkh they emphasised the Samatha concentration, the mindfulness of breathing in and out at the point of the nostrils, making the breath a ne tuned instrument to calm the mind and body resulting in Vipassana, or insight. For ten days we were asked not to speak unless consulting a monk about the practice. We were awakened at four o’clock in the darkness of the morning, had an hour to get ready, wash in the nearby well and walk silently through the jungle to the meditation hall. We would sit in forty minutes sessions and then do walking meditation for twenty, then back to the cushion for another forty minutes crosslegged. This went on all day till nine o’clock in the evening with only a break at morning co ee/tea, a small meal and then before noon our lunchtime. No more food after midday just as the monks live and actually it was ne. The heat and the practice made the fasting easier. Not having ever sat for any amount of time before this became a rite of passage, a test of the will, a torturous excruciating painful rst few days. Sitting crosslegged, without moving or inching, absolutely still for hours on end, did hurt but I was determined to soldier through. I knew I needed to be serious and I wanted to follow the instructions to the letter. I really wanted to succeed in this and I think I was desperate to come to some kind of insight as I didn’t really know who I was and what I was supposed to do with my life. I was seeking for answers and I didn’t want to forego this

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opportunity because I knew I was leaving Thailand soon. In order to bear the pain I made up my own mantra in the practice when it got too hard in rst few days; ‘Sit till I die!’ became my refrain. Then on the third or fourth day my mind became still, it crystallised into glass-like transparency and all pain suddenly vanished. I was amazed! I was sitting in perfect composure, it felt like I could sit for a thousand years. I had broken through the initial resistance and from now on everything went much smoother. The Buddhas refrain, “a pleasant abiding in the here and now” came to mind. Tranquil and at peace the meditation owed e ortlessly and I began to enjoy it. I remember, sitting on the oor in the meditation hall where the German monk was explaining emptiness to us. He used his food bowl to illustrate the empty space within. I had this image of him throwing the bowl above our heads across the room. As it tumbled through the air I realised that the ‘emptiness’ within the bowl wasn’t belonging to the bowl. Instead the bowl was hurled through empty space. I felt like this vessel as I walked to and fro on the forrest path doing our regular walking meditation. The walking meditation had never really enticed me and I thought of it more as a reprieve to the sitting sessions, but now I found an exhilarating freedom in walking up and down on my little stretch. One day running a little late to the meditation hall I had a premonition of danger and I abruptly halted my step thinking there was a snake. I stopped and looked around and saw nothing, cautiously I proceeded but soon thereafter when I came close to the hall just in front of me a large green snake crossed the path. Just two meters away it turned to look at me, slightly raising its head above ground. I stood still till it moved on and disappeared into the undergrowth. This retreat had been the beginning of opening a very large and thick book it seemed. I had been blessed to see the rst few pages and it having con rmed to me that what I had been lead to believe actually had substance. I was no longer having any doubts about the legitimacy of the spiritual path. It was real and now it was up to me to pursue it. I caught the train back up to Bangkok, hung out with my friend Ting for a week and then ew to Calcutta, India.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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It was going to be a long journey home overland but now I wanted to visit some places I hadn’t been to the rst time around along the southern slopes of the Himalayan range. So I travelled north from Calcutta after having seen the beautiful Dakshineswar Kali Temple, with train and bus up through the tea plantations into the foothills and to the darling of Darjeeling. I headed onwards to Kalimpong, the capitol of Sikkim and visited Rumtek, Karmapa’s monastery, head of the Karma Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. Bhutan next door was o limits and had to wait. I continued by bus into Nepal and I returned to Kathmandu, meeting up with my Nepali friends I’d gotten to know a year and a half earlier. I wanted to do another Trek. This was June, early monsoon rainy season and warm. My Nepali friend Ram and I decided to go up the Langtang Valley north of Kathmandu. The trail started a days bus ride away and followed a lush river valley for three days into the high country. I walked in ip ops just as the locals did, light backpack on my back and feeling at home in the mountains. Nepal is the most beautiful place ever, it will stay in my heart forever. After the Trek I stayed in my Nepali family’s home in Kathmandu and just enjoyed hanging out with them. I brie y met with Mikael who had own in from Sweden to pick up from where he had to abandon his trip the year prior due to health issues, now had returned to Trek the Everest region. After saying our goodbyes I made my way to Delhi, I can’t for the world remember how? In Delhi, besides completely loving the rest on the roof terrace of the guesthouse, the food and the chaos of the street life, I now had to plan my onward journey towards Europe. I applied for a tourist Visa for Iran. I had to go to the Swedish embassy to receive a letter of recommendation in order to be able to procure one. It would take a weeks time at least so I decided to travel up to Dharamsala again, to the Tibetan settlement in exile, while I waited for the papers to come through. In Dharamsala I visited one of the Tibetan monasteries while they were conducting a day-long prayer ritual/ceremony in the main hall beneath a giant Buddha statue. A steady stream guests and Tibetan pilgrims kept ling in as they payed their respects and bowed in front of the statue. I had sat down to the side taking the whole scene in and I noticed this young Tibetan woman hesitating as she came up to the front of the large hall. She turned to face the congregation of the assembled monks that included many young boys, novices in the order. The monks sat in rows with their prayer papers in front of them on low running tables, chanting away as they were continuously being served tea by several young attendants. Incense, bells and drums created a very impressive atmosphere together with the nonstop chanting. A very in-vocative setting. This woman seemed to be taken by the rhythm and the force of the prayers. She became xed to the oor while many led passed her on their way out. I could see how she began to be transformed in her posture and in her facial expression, taking on the fearsome look of one of the wrathful Tibetan deities we often see displayed

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in their frescos and thangkas. Her hand movements became twisted and turned like she was performing a ritual dance. Her body took on an altogether otherworldly quality and she began uttering noises between her teeth, spitting, stomping, as her eyes opened wide and stared as one possessed. This was now something else, no longer the young woman that had entered the monastery. The elderly monks looked on unimpressed and just continued chanting while this was going on right in front of the whole congregation. Many of the novice boys were frightened and hurried away. I’d never seen anything quite like it. It lasted several minutes before the frenzy abated in her. After a little while she was helped by a few monks to the adjacent room. I went after them to see what happened. She was seemingly utterly exhausted, sitting resting on a chair, eyes closed. I spoke to the monk and asked him what had happened? He said that this woman had had a previous possession of this spirit and that they were in the beginning stages of nding out who it was and what it wanted. Both the woman and the senior monks were well aware of this phenomena and were following it up as a matter of rule. In time they would nd out what it wanted or needed and they would proceed to ask it to leave the woman alone or having to expel it. All in a normal days work for a Tibetan lama in the Himalayas. Who would have known. I walked away intrigued. And just as if to sum it up, I ran into the woman on the street the next day, we passed each other and smiled knowingly to each other. She was back at her normal self, simply a young woman in a hill station of Himachal Pradesh. I stayed in the Zilnon Kagyeling Nyingma Monastery in McLeodganj. The Nyingma branch of Tibetan Buddhism is the oldest of the four schools and the monks are allowed to marry and are known to grow their hair and beards long. They told me about the challenges of their Tibetan Buddhist community moving into a Hindu area where Shaivism was practiced, the lamas had to ‘compete’ with the resident yogis that practiced Shiva Tantra on the same mountain. Seemingly the di erent deities would contend for supremacy. I found the Nyingma lamas full of cheer, easy going and heart warming.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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Back in Old Delhi I had managed to arrange a lift across the border to Pakistan with a Western lorry driver. In Lahore I took a train to Quetta near the border to Iran, skirting south of a closed Afghanistan. The train ride took us into Taliban country and the atmosphere was tough. Pakistan itself is very male dominated, far from the varied richness of the Indian culture where I had come from and it became even more pronounced in the southwest. The last stretch from Quetta to the border was taken on a local bus at nighttime through the desert. The black market exchange rate for the US dollar was 60 times the value of the Iranian currency, so I managed to sell my last American cash back behind a shed not knowing what dangers might have lured there. I entered Iran and was met by an Iranian woman speaking perfect English at the customs desk welcoming me in. What a change! Iran felt great. I stayed a night at the border town of Zahedan and at the hotel the receptionist laughed and said I looked like an Afghani, like a thief he said, dressed in my Indian wear with long hair. He suggested I have a haircut and a change of dress. I went to the barber, had a shave and a haircut, changed into trousers and was back looking Western. We all had a good laugh about it. But it was wonderful to have a proper clean after the long hot train ride through the harsh desert. The next day I took a bus straight north to the holy city of Mashhad and then continued to Teheran, the capitol. I met so many wonderful people on the buses, they spoke proudly of their country, but smilingly not of their government. Iran had recently ended the war against Iraq and there were still damaged houses in Teheran after a rocket attack. I was amazed to see large hand painted wall posters advertising American Winston cigarettes and Coca-Cola next to gra ti declaring Hate USA! I stayed in a small hotel and when I to my surprise realised it didn’t have a bathroom nor shower I was directed to a public bathhouse, a traditional ‘Turkish’ bath where all men went to. There were no tourists at all and people kept asking me where I was from and how I had managed to enter. After I few days I managed to buy a bus ticket to Tabriz on the border to Turkey. I only had one weeks Visa and had to leave very soon. I would have love to gone up and see the Caspian Sea but now there was no time. After the border crossing I headed for Ankara, driving by Mt Ararat on the way. From Ankara I headed south, straight down to Antalya on the Mediterranean seaside. Hitchhiked rst along the coast and then up to Pamukkale and further west to Izmir, and nally I arrived in Istanbul, back in Europe. After seeing the sights I got on the train that skirted through north Greece and then up through Yugoslavia, changed trains in Vienna and headed for Amsterdam to meet a girl I had met on the beaches in Thailand. I did’t have much money left after two and a half years on the road and I needed to get back home. Finally I took the train back to Sweden, at the border the custom o cial looked at my passport, looked at me, and then said ‘welcome home’ with a lovely smile. I hadn’t announced to my parents that I was on my way

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home. I wanted to go and see my grandmother rst and I called on her door without any prior notice. She was readily surprised to see me but when she heard that I hadn’t let my parents know I was coming she made call them at once. They immediately drove the two hours from Stockholm to pick me up.

It was lovely to see them all, my sisters, my parents, my grandma. The longest journey was over but it wouldn’t be long before I returned to Asia.

Six months later I was on my way to Japan again. Now with a purpose, Aikido in Iwama.

Torbjorn Säw travel log