SEE YA USA!!!!

STS9 Eulogy

STS9 Eulogy

There were so many ethereal moments that seem only fragments of a wonderful dream that was the ephemeral nature of their music. They were Sound Tribe as much as Sector Nine so we were all crushed when they cancelled the Pow Wow when Murph walked out on his band. How could I explain to the layman the arcane bliss shared by those who celebrated STS9. Here are a few moments flaked from the paste off the mural of memories. New Years Eve at the Regency Ballroom in the frenetic midnight, Morgan came out of her tag and slipped away into the maelstrom leaving me holding nothing but a brown patch with the Levi’s logo. Eventually I found my elusive lover groping the monolithic crystals at the foot of the stage. Back then the boys still adhered to the Mayan calendar and favored more effervescent jams and on that particular evening our souls were flooded with tranquil turquoise light, after the show we walked the streets of San Francisco in the rain. There were many similar nights where we came together in ecstasy evolving simultaneously with their music. At its core it was always gathering with the community, especially my loved ones that defined the STS9 experience. In the fathomless trance pocket one could shuck their ego and rejoin the totality of existence. Flash to High Sierra 2003 when Morgan paid a bouncer to get us all in the side door (no hippies use side door jokes please!) where we nestled in the corner all night as translucent sonic waves crashed over us until dawn. After I split with Morgan it was difficult to see the band but eventually I went on to catch their sunrise set in Japan and Regeneration in Oregon with my brother. What hurts the most about the break up is that the fellows were also brothers and after Murph beat cancer the future looked bright, another lesson in impermanence and the transitory nature of form. 

This is a poem written after Regeneration…

Regeneration

Dedicated to Tyler Grossman and David Murphy

In Memory of: Phyllis Rossman, Matt Rossi, and Cynthia Barton Rabe

“Life is a never ending process of letting go” Julia Butterfly

Re-Emergence from

pods in

emerald fern forest

we

assemble together

below a sundog

clutching

the dream molecule,

rolling in the sand.

When The Dust Settles

around my green cloak

Moonsockets

pound the pines,

a tsunami of

pain

revealed in the scars

on Murph’s head.

fear collects

in murky pools

a cancer in my soul,

but Hunter’s guitar

pierces my dark bubble

reaching my origin

with a peculiar smile

that glows

while the boys play

telepathically

for the maitreya.

dancing with a goddess

under Ursa Major

I am caught between

birth and death

Regeneration was a festival hosted by STS9 at Horning’s Hideout in North Plains Oregon, June 23-26 2011. Sundog is a rainbow ring around the sun. Maitreya is the future Buddha expected to come to earth. Ursa Major is the Big Dipper or Great Bear Constellation.

The Heroes Return

Happy New Year Everyone!

I’m back where it all started in my bedroom overlooking the glorious San Pablo Bay in San Rafael California. Since returning your author has resembled a Cyclops since I landed at SFO with a severe eye infection and Santa left me a fatty face for Christmas. For my birthday I got the swine flu or some affliction which I’m still recovering from. But today was a California cornucopia stuffed with seals and miniature migrating birds, ducks, seabirds, seagulls, ravens, geese and the silver San Pablo Bay, the smell of the salty ocean, the bridge, the umber wetlands, and beauteous Mt. Tam cloaked in mauve mist. Seaside shades and Tam exudes power over the land seeming particularly conscious today. On the edges of my fever dream the world seems lurid and new a gentle voice reminding me this is California this is your home, you belong here among the new Target that looms across the almost pristine wetland, still a refuge for geese on long haul migratory journeys. This is how it is supposed to be a refuge for me on my long transmigratory journey. Here are some of details that may have become skewed through delusional fever interpretations or the ravages of time on memory.

Perhaps we should work our way backwards like that zany Seinfeld, an episodes occurring as mine did in Incredible India (incorrigible India) So set your gear in reverse and here we go. India was as taxing on the spirit as I anticipated. Mumbai was an orgy of humanity, Luxury hotels, beggars, praying Muslims, tenements, traffic, smog, and Subway. I spent my one day in Mumbai in a funky yellow and black cab bumper to bumper. An Indian traffic jam consists of constant honking, shouting, and beggars approaching the window with despairing eyes. A twist of fate and that beggar could be any one of us. What I have learned from traveling is that I am fortunate to travel at all. Most never leave their birthplace and billions live a hard life. The highlight of Mumbai was the harbor scene which was like a carnival and navigating the dark streets lined with bare bulb stalls hawking all wares. Hundreds of Muslims congregated in prayer beneath floodlights and video screen. Late at night I risked my life for McDonalds crossing a roundabout with cars going in infinite directions. I felt like a blind man in a meteor shower as rockets zoomed by my nose. At McDonalds I strut my stars and stripes ass in and ordered me some beef but was denied. Of course they don’t sell beef in Hindu India. HOLY COW! So after my chicken and delicious fries I played frogger huddling near a middle aged Indian couple that eyed me suspiciously. I nervously explained how I was afraid to cross the roundabout so patriarch led us across stopping midstream as tuk tuk’s whizzed by. Thanking him I made the curb and retired.

Goa was a captivating destination with a palm clad sprawling coastline dominated by golden bluffs and the hazy curvature of the earth, a drum overflowing with the sparkling waters of the Arabian Sea. Little Hindu style shrines encapsulated beach Jesus. The big guy was on my mind a lot especially on a sweltering noonday hike with Becky and Ashleigh passed primal tide pools then jagged crimson rocks. It was a difficult scramble scrabbling across shards of sea formed rock, the teeth of our planet. Ashleigh did a great job traversing the terrain in flip flops and we all met safely beneath Old Anguna point. Our first stop in Goa was by far the coolest spot as Becky booked us into the Cuba a groovy resort in a palmed pocket on Beach Street, a quiet hamlet off the tourist path. Despite the perfect conditions very few tourist were around leaving many empty t-shirt and water pipe stalls. But the spirit of Bob Marley was in us as we sipped drinks and listened to his greatest hits album at a seaside shack. I went for the best swim of my life a midday splash with Ashleigh we ventured out into the surf where I swam ahead in open water letting the tepid waves pass through me before they sailed on to Ashleigh. Finally I paddled back but was carelessly riding the waves towards the shore when a rogue wave crashed on my head slamming me into the sand and tumbling me like a sock in a Laundromat. It was actually scary and also funny as the last thing I heard was my friend calling my name then BOOM! I did venture into the water one more time for an epic skinny dip. Set your imagination to sepia and imagine a wavy haired male immerging into the frothy sea frolicking like Adam in an aquatic Eden when two coy Eve’s in bikinis splashed alongside in perpetuity. But all things must end and alas my sojourn in Goa and with Becky frittered away. Becky’s not overtly emotional on farewells but we had a nice dinner of fresh fish along the breezy coast enveloped by inky darkness and the succor of the sea. The waves seemed to echo the mantra “don’t get all worked up about it”

Prior to Goa our team endured an arduous travel day which was probably nothing by Indian standards. We were fortunate to be flying departing from Guwhatti the capital city of Assam and Sweater –vests capital of the world. We did our best to be obnoxious Americans making fun of the locals. On the plane Ashleigh and I were hysterical watching two dudes in sweater vests agonize over choosing a shirt from the in flight catalogue, taking close to an hour often consulting each other. The three of us met a few days prior in Guwhatti apparently the most polluted city on earth sadly only a hundred and fifty or so miles from Trashigang. The city sits on the bank of the mighty Brahmaputra River which looked like the Mississippi of the Subcontinent. Assam sits beneath Bhutan in the part of India beyond the chicken neck above Bangladesh. Guwhaiti proclaims itself to be the gateway to North East India, there’s an old archway in the area near my hotel. Ironically I happened upon the girls while on a walkabout through congested streets crammed with food stalls. I came to a more open area blocaded from vehicles where some demonstration was happening. On the sidewalk I saw Ashleigh and Becky having there packages sealed with candle wax. There was also a street side dentist a block away FYI. The serendipitous meeting was a temporary boon and we all decided to abscond from the city ASAP to the next bizarre movie known as the Jungle Resort ala summer camp. It was however a nice property despite many unusual quirks in services that one can only chalk up to India. According to brochures we were a mere eight hours from Manas but why bother when you could see a chained up elephant in the driveway. I’ll say this Guwhatti was an authentic Indian experience trundling everything I own to the Pizza Hut and then standing helpless as a trio on the curbside until a local lassie helped us to a tuk tuk. We looked like clowns in a clown car with limbs and luggage akimbo sticking out the tiny cab.

I entered India dragging a strip of toilet paper from my heel and that was the state of mind I have been in ever since. The transition from Phuentsholing into Jaigon is dramatic as the wayfarer passes through a flimsy gated doorway and into chaos. Instantly one is met with limbless beggars and bustling commerce that spills out into traffic of the dusty streets. Looking over my shoulder it’s hard to believe Bhutan is only a hundred yards behind me. I walked the main drag several times attempting to get my entry stamp being rebuffed back into the Kingdom for some additional paperwork. But after an intense afternoon relaying between border towns I got my stuff done and even managed to find a working ATM to score rupees. The ATM had a line seven deep of cantankerous Indians scowling and screaming at one another. WELCOME TO INDIA! This line was assembled on a narrow wooden plank stretched over raw sewage. I already missed Bhutan, the week before I had traveled the lateral road and climbed to Tigers Nest. But I was on my way and a lot of moments lay ahead on the trail.

**********************************************************************

It’s a sunny California day and the new teachers just arrived in Bhutan, congrats. As for me I have two more weeks to get organized and fly back to the Kingdom. My first two weeks in the Bay Area were hellacious with a severe eye infection (The eye of the tiger) parlayed into either swine flu or dange fever (flip a coin on that one) since the symptoms are interchangeable. It culminated with me crying in the bathroom wondering if I was slowly dying barely being able to drag myself out of bed to go see my hero perform at a benefit concert. But eventually I did recover and was able to earnestly spend time with my niece and nephew, and entire family. One night my mom pronounced that I was lucky to be born with her as my mother and that god gives people what they deserve. I am blessed with an awesome family including a brother who sponsored my trip home so I could spend time with his children. That has been the highlight of the trip seeing what a wonderful father my brother is and getting a chance to be an uncle. My niece Paige is adorable and my nephew Reed bears an uncanny resemblance to your author. I love them both and already am sad about having to return so soon. Perhaps Marin has softened me up, evident by my expanding paunch. It’s been a rewarding visit getting to reunite with Aunt Mare, dad, mom, Tyler, Beth, Reed, Page, Jazzy, Julie, John, and Morgan. These are the sentient beings that buttress my soul and I love you all for it. At the same time I have been perturbed observing the dichotomy of lifestyles between Bhutan and Marin County and struggling with my own crippling anxiety that gnaws at me 24/7. I also realize that my life in the USA is on hiatus or more aptly finished as I know it. How do you say goodbye all over again? Impermanence and the Dharma are the ONLY realities left. My parents look great but are getting older, my niece and nephew are growing up without me, my true love Morgan is gone, and my beloved music fades away. Life is a tradeoff and the more you sacrifice the more innocence is lost. Metamorphosis comes in many stages and right now I feel like I’m crossing the bay in a cardboard vessel. I know this is the life I chose, a life I can’t wait to get on with but it still stings. It has been hard for me to assimilate and frankly I feel flat and aloof, A distance that was noted by my ex girlfriend and probably others around me. All I can say is that I love you all more than anything! As it turns out I also love the life I’m living in East Bhutan and am looking forward to seeing the kids and villagers again. 

Love Tim

Ancient Bhutan

The spectacular morning sunrise floods Arrunachal Pradesh and spills into East Bhutan. Neighbouring Tawang is aptly named the Land of Dawn Lit Mountains as Trashiyangtse is the Land of Spiritual Awakening. The region sounds like a spot for morning people isn’t it? Yesterday I headed to Zangtopelri to pray, Rinchen Wangmo was attending the alter unwrapping a bundle of incense and pointing to the label she laid on the table, she quipped “Ancient Tibetan” Suddenly a jolt from the Guru’s thunderbolt coursed through my body as I realized where I was standing. Rinchen Wangmo herself was ancient in her simplistic kira and earthy manner and I was in a remote gilded temple in the heart of the Himalayan world. The sweet air filled my nostrils as a stream of sunlight illuminated the supple features of Rinchen’s face, her babe strapped to her back in colourfully stripped cloth. We had a nice conversation under the tantric statues of fierce deities standing on the backs of a three dimensional tiger. (Your author imagines a night at the museum scenario where all the statues come to life after Rinchen locks the door) On my hike home I glided through the cypress grove with its own array of odours to stimulate olfactory delights. Ochre ferns decorated the floor and one hundred foot old cypress and clusters of blue tinted pines rise to the canopy. Through the gaps the eye wanders out into the river valley peering east into India. The grove is set on a steep decline and the trail eventually connects with a ridgeline with an overgrown path. The path is so overgrown that I found myself swallowing strands of spider webs and at one point a large spider with yellow abdomen crawled down my arm causing me to run in the other direction. Eventually I burrowed through the overgrowth to a flat rock where I marvelled at the scenery; parallel on the ridge was Tsenkharla Dzong the ruins of Prince Tsangma’s castle. Looking east over the desolate wilderness it occurred to me how nothing has changed in 1,200 years or since inhabitants first ventured into this rough terrain.   

Tributes

A Completely Appropriate Introduction

The rainy season is over! I repeat the rainy season is over! Well one can’t be too sure but it appears that way as the air is palpably cooler and the skies noticeably clearer.  It’s the kind of view that juices the weary spirit imploring one to bash on regardless.  The view and the community are an unbeatable combo and one I won’t relinquish just yet. If one wanted to surmise why I’m continuing on for a third year I would invite you to class to see for yourself. What a wonderful connection I share with the students, what a joyful experience teaching in Bhutan. At a boarding school I am intimately involved with the boys I teach who stop over frequently for tutoring, to help sir with work, or merely to hang out, it’s a symbiotic thing in Bhutan and the more you give the more you get.  For starters I am so much better with names this year and it’s wonderful knowing hundreds of students and village kids and the longer one stays the more involved one gets. It’s also fascinating watching them grow up before my eyes the ones I taught last year have shot up several inches this year.  Outside the coned pinnacles tower over the scenery projecting Himalayan juju the last in a chain of peaks stretching to Everest and beyond. It is incredibly rare to have this clarity due to seasonal haze or soupy monsoon clouds but the appearance of this 20,000 foot glacial peak broadcasts to the region but even as I write this glancing out my open door remnant clouds threaten to swallow the Shasta style massif and its lesser counterpart.  The definition of the mountains is lurid with each crease and feature illuminated in a gilded spectacle.

Tributes: Nancy Strickland, Jamie Zeppa, Mark LaPrarie, Sam Blyth

There is no doubt that the fearless leader of BCF is Nancy Strickland our dignified matriarch. The plain truth is that none of us would be here if it weren’t for Nancy. BCF didn’t immerge from a vacuum the company is an extension of WUSC the agency that initially brought Canadians here in the late 80’s and early 90’s before folding.  That company employed Mark LaPrarie who now works for the World Bank funding schools in Bhutan. Mr. Mark learned Sharshop and parlayed three years of rural East teaching into a career that benefited rural Bhutan in a substantial way.  Jamie Zeppa whose wonderful book still inspires the next generation of Bhutanese learners (I had to ask one girl to put the book away since she was reading it during my lesson) Jamie’s book was instrumental in my choice to apply and I have always felt myself a kindred free spirit. Nancy helped carry the torch through the dark years and rekindle the original mission of Father Mackey the Jesuit educator who established the college along with other institutions of learning dedicating his last years ceaselessly serving Bhutan. These aforementioned heroes live on every day in Bhutan. Whether its students reading Jamie’s book, or a former student of Mark LaPrarie turned Principal who told me that MR. Mark is the reason for his success. Or barber to the stars Deepack who speaks of Nancy like his own mother (Nancy was his fourth grade teacher and still gets her haircut from him and I love having the same barber as HM and Nancy) In fact Nancy is such a legend that Karlos wanted me to ask her if he could be her adopted son and a teacher out in Phongmey where Nancy originally served admires her to the point of writing fan mail. What I learn from my esteemed predecessors is how we conduct ourselves here impacts an entire generation of Bhutanese, and just how important the work we’re doing is. All who have served here past and present have played an important role in developing individuals who influence the world around them. I must also mention our benefactor Sam Blyth whose influence and dedication combined with Nancy, Jamie, Mark and others concluded in the birth of our grassroots foundation. I can’t think of a country that deserves the assistance of qualified ESL teachers more than the Kingdom of Bhutan. I humbly want to say thank you to Sam, Nancy, Jamie, and Mark for opening this door that has changed my entire perception of the universe. Without them I would never have been able to meet the wonderful students that make my life here so satisfying, making the memories that will last a lifetime. As one of the first Americans serving in East Bhutan I feel honoured to be given the charge of enhancing the English skills of Tsenkharla students and taking part in a priceless cultural exchange that benefits everyone.    

Blessed Rainy Days

A wake of clouds jets across azure sky from Tawang to Tibet crossing over my rock at Tsenkharla. In the wee hours heavy pellets of rain sounded like applause, an aquatic ovation for another season passed but I awoke into a sunshine daydream of the clear blue bell of morning. Where am I and how did I get here? Were the two thoughts that assembled from the cloudy delusion of my fledgling consciousness. Another long wet summer fades like red roses from the vine a season that began dancing with pixies up at old Tsangma’s ruin in the twilight and ends in sparkling morning light. I can see clear into Lumla where Monyul lasses toil in colorful flowing skirts of phosphoresce lime and lurid cerise flirting about spinning prayer wheels and chattering in sweet tonal Monpa, Good Morning! On this side of the border it’s more reserved reverent prayer and elegant kiras just another Friday in Drukyal. Blessed Rainy Day is considered a kind of second Losar holiday in Bhutan so we had Friday afternoon and Saturday off. I jetted off to Yangtse town to meet Becky and Ian & Vicky two alumni teachers who returned to the kingdom for a vacation. The two intrepid travellers had spent most of the year globetrotting and re-emerged into East Bhutan last week visiting their old stomping grounds in Rangjoon. Friday was a rainy day with clouds blurring the distant peaks socking in the town and hanging over the chalet style edifices on the ridges. Unfortunately Becky and I were delegated back into room number six in the dungeon of the hotel which also has a far nicer upstairs selection of rooms and wooded lounge. Readers might recall this is the room where we bunked last year where I found blood on the pillow case and mould on the sheets. Well no blood this time but the mould was worse than before on the heels of the monsoon and the Karmaling Dream Moths were still plastered to the cement wall. We spent the evening in the lounge catching up with Vicky & Ian, a pleasant reunion of THE FOUR FRIENDS. Much of the conversation was centered on Martha who passed away exactly one year prior. They had spent their morning hanging a horizontal strand of prayer flags within the white vertical stand of flags that had been planted in honour of the late great Martha on a spot near a Chorten overlooking her beloved river. They ran into some of her students who exclaimed “I AM MARTHA” meaning they were her students but in truth there is a bit of Martha in all of us always.

The next day was Blessed Rainy Day a day of repose for ALL Bhutanese who quit the fields, offices, and classrooms to enjoy special food, dance, and drink with their families. We roamed around Chorten Kora and crossed over the rainbow serpent Kulong Chu on a wooden bridge decked with streaming flags. This is the entrance to Bumdeling a National Park that stretches up to 20,000 foot mountains and the barrier between Eastern Bhutan and Tibet. It was a sparkling day with intermittent sun and showers. The oscillating vicissitudes of natural phenomenon gave a fluid context to the earthly characters moving through the landscape. Another evening of merriment in the lounge and an upgrade to the upper floor since the gang of cyclist who had ridden from Bumthang to Bumdeling had moved on that day.

Sunday brought clear skies as I said farewell to my own gang at Zongposo and started walking up the grassy slopes towards Kamdung the rocky top of Tsenkharla. After some time I hitched a ride arriving home before noon where I whipped up some Emadatsi before hitting the trail. It was a hot afternoon as I stopped in the village to play with Sangay Dema and bumped into my former student Pema Tshomo who had transferred to Kiney. I was delighted to see a young girl who has matured and grown into her own this year, she even had a new cropped hairstyle and stylish specks. I lugged myself up to Shakshang Goempa where I saw Karma Eden and her father a farmer in dusty gho. The Lhakang is a hundred and fifty years old with bare wood planked floors, dusty cloth wrapped texts, old statues, and faded tantric paintings on the walls. I received a blessing from the toothless lama before moving up to Namkhar Goempa traversing an oaked ridge. Past Namkhar I found some stunning pasture land where a village woman grazed her horses under the protection of Shampula.

Back at home I read some Ayn Rand before outing the light and slipping into a deep sleep exhausted from a wonderful weekend in Far East Bhutan.

Tim from Timbuktu    

UPDATE

“Wake up Maggie I think I got something to say to you, it’s late September and I really should be back at school” Maggie May

Mist swirls in mystic dervishes rising languidly from the shimmering Dagme Chu through the scant pines of Tsenkharla. The cloud break reveals the hinterland of Arrunachal Pradesh beckoning me like a sirens song. The Yin of layered forests blankets the ridges of Tawang while the bare Yang of Kiney pronounces the end of Bhutan. The last drops of the monsoon gleam upon lush grass where insects whir and butterflies flutter about aimlessly. Students are gaily preparing for a three day holiday to celebrate Shakshang Tsechu and I scratch my head and wonder what to do? After delivering my lesson I allowed some free time for the students to practice dancing for the event. Bhutanese traditional dance always recollects images of kelp underwater drifting in the waves, a rhythmic and gentle swaying accentuated by the waiving of hands and simple footsteps. Sonam Rinchen orders the students around monitoring their every movement and making modifications when necessary, this is all done in Sharshop but it is evident that the kids are enjoying themselves. There is a sparkle in a child’s eye that cannot be reproduced by an adult. What have we lost while growing up and can we recapitulate that potent magic? As time rolls on I become more embittered and more attached to my situation here, darkening like the trees of the forest glancing towards autumn. That fresh squeezed elixir has soured but I swig it down anyway like Coca Cola. “Sir you are addicted to coke!” Phuntsho says as I walk by the whole expanse of Eastern Bhutan glistening like Chinese brocade before my shaky eyes.

It’s been a gruelling week on campus with all the highs and lows that punctuate my life here. I just got back from working with a group of last year’s students who I helped with an upcoming presentation. I enjoy working with individual students or in small groups which is a rare treat. Afterschool we had a mock earthquake drill (this is earthquake country) and tonight I’m supervising night study for class ten. I have been earnestly prepping and delivering lessons but have a lot to cover before exams. Hence TIAT has not been active of late. In other local news one of my students was involved in a gang fight last weekend outside my home.  The gang fight constituted one of my student and his two adult peers jumping a student and beating him outside the hostel. Incidents of violence are rare and I couldn’t believe it was my top student in 9C perpetrating the incident. Alcohol was involved and my student was suspended and the two adults were briefly incarcerated in Yangtse. I gave my student some friendly advice pleading with him to earnestly consider his actions.  A boarding school is an organic entity a massive blob of students coagulating into daily life like ema and datse. The beating goes on at school as someone handed me a whip to help control the students during the mock drill which I tossed aside. The second year has proven extremely intense and extremely rewarding, one can only postulate what a third year WILL bring???