Adventures of Kristin & Ethan

Journey to the Remote Angkor Temple: Preah Khan

onenuss — Fri, 18 May 2012 22:57:04 -0400

“Unless you enjoy traveling by ox cart, it is extremely difficult to get to Preah Khan between May and November.” The Lonely Planet guidebook warns…“Only very experienced bikers should attempt to get to Preah Khan on rental motorcycles, as conditions are extremely tough from every side. Take a wrong turn in this neck of the woods and you’ll end up in the middle of nowhere.”

So, of course I had to try.

I just spent the last 4 days exploring the popular Angkor Wat Temple complex in Siem Reap that attracts flocks of tourists every year. However, very few ever make it to these more remote locations.

In route back to Phnom Penh to return the Honda 250cc motorcycle I rented for the week I knew I wanted to see something off the “beaten path” and from the limited information I could find online, Preah Khan sounded like just the ticket for a real adventure.

I arrived in Kompong Thom, the nearest jumping off point, to ask the locals about this inaccessible ancient temple. I drove around town until I spotted a Western man in cafe and approached him on a whim. Turns out I found the right guy. Rich is a clever, chain-smoking Kiwi who came to Cambodia several years ago on a mission trip, married a beautiful Khmer women, Tettra, and now runs a local hotel. After several hours of lively debate about theology and social politics (Rich doesn’t get to talk to many native English speakers) we agreed to rendezvous the next morning at 6:30AM and head for the jungle.

The next morning the three of us headed north on Highway 64 off of National Route 6 to Preah Kahn Kompong Svay, aka Prasat Bakan to the locals. The scenery was some of the most gorgeous I’ve seen in the entire country, with tall trees towering on either side of the road, and lush water-filled rice paddies dotted with palm trees and water buffalo stretching to the horizon.

About an hour into our ride we hit some heavy rain. (After all May is the first month of the rainy season.) I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden in the rain on a motorcycle, I know I hadn’t, but it feels like a thousand little needles pelting your body. After the rain finally passed I was convinced that the temple road would be nothing but pure mud and suggested we might need to turn back. Undeterred Rich wanted to push on. Several kilometers north of a small village, Phnom Diek, we found our turn marked with a signpost for the temple. The route was paved for the first few kilometers but quickly became a grated sandy dirt road, which was better than I expected, but slippery when swerving in the mud to miss the depths of the frequent brown water potholes. At the first major fork in the road Tettra asked the villages in Khmer for directions and we took a left. (I’m including the directions so other travelers can find it).

Finally after four hours of riding the road dead ended in the jungle with four ancient stone Bodhisattvas smiling out at us through the overgrowth. It felt like a scene from Indiana Jones. Of course, the Hollywood magic quickly melted when a quiet police officer who was lounging in a nearby hammock asked us for the $5 entrance fee. It was clear that he hadn’t seen any visitors in a while and enthusiastically showed us around the ruins with Tettra serving as a translator.

Out of the dozens of Angkor temples I visited in the last week this one had it’s own very unique carvings and stories. Below are the best photos I could get with my iPod (my camera broke earlier that morning) so apologies for the poor quality. These images don’t do justice to these majestic ruins and the serenity of having this hidden place all to ourselves in the jungle, miles from the nearest souvenir shop.

Ruins in the undergrowth

Unique, well-preserved carvings of some mythical swans I’ve never seen before. These lined the Princesses Bathhouse before she was tragically eaten by crocodiles. In retaliation the King had the nearby lake drained.

The once grand entrance now leading through the jungle once stretched across a vast moat.

Spong tree roots crowding a doorway.

Elaborately decorated ceremonial door.

Hindu style lintel piece with Naga (three headed serpents)

Tragically many of the best sculptures have been carved out by looters. The police officer said they don’t guard this remote location at night because “the looters will be forever cursed.”

This guy was everywhere.

This Cham Temple used to be on an island and is now only accessible by a bumpy dirt tract that cuts through the jungle. It was my favorite temple in the entire country. This picture doesn’t come close to capturing the elaborate carvings but you can make out the three headed elephants holding lotus flowers flanked by winged devotees. Above it is a Garuda-type statue of a half man-half hawk.

***

That night Rich and Tettra generously let me crash at their house after a long day of riding. We at rice porridge and drank stout on ice through a straw, (because thats how its done in these parts.) Since the electricity was out we chatted over candles as the rains thundered on the corrugated metal roof into the night.

Vietnam wins Best in Show

onenuss — Wed, 09 May 2012 10:16:00 -0400

After several months of traveling across Southeast Asia we would like to declare that we have a winner for Best in Show…Vietnam! From the majestic waterfall on the northern border with China, to the postcard picturesque island of Phu Qouc off the southern coast, Vietnam was 5 weeks of some of the most dazzling scenery we’ve ever seen. Below are the highlights from North to South.

See our full album of photos here.

Ban Gioc, the largest waterfall in Vietnam. You can see China on the other side.

Lan Ha Bay, where limestone karsts rise from the misty bay like sleeping dragons awoken from an ancient slumber.

Ninh Binh, where stunning karsts jut from a vast landscape of vibrant green rice paddies and winding rivers.

Kahm Duc, small mountain town we reached on our three day motorbike tour through the Central Highlands.

Phu Quoc Island off of South Vietnam where the white sand palm tree beaches make you feel like you stepped into a postcard.

Stanky, Creamy, and Delicious

onenuss — Tue, 08 May 2012 02:38:00 -0400

On her last morning in Southeast Asia, Kristin had but one request: Durian. For those unfamiliar with this infamous fruit, durian is a regional delicacy that is best known for it’s pungent aroma. Some claim it possesses a stank so strong that both curious foreigners and locals alike gag on the powerful smell before the fruit reaches their lips. (High end hotels even have prominent signs expressly forbidding it from being consumed on the premises.)

Fortunately, we love the taste and partook in its deliciousness as a special treat after our weary travels. This morning, before boarding her homeward bound flight Kristin summed up the top three things she would miss most about Southeast Asia: 1) Durian, 2) Street Food, 3) Markets.

The durian experience magically combines all three of these.

Durian is best when purchased from a kindly street (or market) vendor who will happily handpick the rippest choice from a pile of spiny fruit and hack through the hard shell to reveal the creamy-yellow insides.

She’s giving this one the Micheal Jackson effect

Yum!

While Ethan will be staying on for another month, I have just...

profaneecology — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 07:46:17 -0400

While Ethan will be staying on for another month, I have just one more week left on this epic trip. This is the first in a series of photos of what I love most about this part of the world. Today’s pick: vendors selling things from bicycles! The best one I’ve seen was in Hanoi: a bike with a big round basket strapped on top, insulated by a plastic tarp, with live fish splashing around inside.

Thai Flood Survivors Connect the Dots

profaneecology — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 08:15:00 -0400

In the garden of dead flowers, the elderly farmer told me of the flood that ruined his livelihood— yet somehow, he was smiling.

All around us, brown orchids rotted in the debris left from late last year, when the worst floods in half a century ravaged Thailand. Nearly 400 people died, millions were displaced, and two thirds of the country was inundated by October. This canal community near Bangkok, where small boats connect wooden stilt houses, was especially devastated: old sandbags are everywhere, and on many buildings one can see the telltale watermark, a blurred brown reminder of how dire the deluge had been.

This orchid farmer, and scores of Thais who fled the rising waters, know that climate change is real. They’re already feeling the effects.

In an effort to spare some areas—industrial centers, the most heavily touristed and wealthier neighborhoods— the municipality of Bangkok diverted water into poorer communities, intentionally keeping them underwater for weeks. Riots broke out, with residents fighting to dismantle the dykes that kept their homes artificially submerged.

It didn’t have to be this way. The monsoons were heavy, but deforestation, the filling in of canals (by design or by trash blockage), and development in floodplains limited the land’s natural ability to absorb water. The government’s monumental mismanagement only compounded the problem.

While it’s impossible to blame a single natural disaster on climate change, it is part of the global pattern that scientists have long predicted: Increasingly frequent and extreme weather events. What’s also clear is that while climate disasters invariably affect less developed countries first and worst, governmental inability to respond to these disasters can amplify their severity— and continue a pattern of prioritizing privileged sectors of the population, as we saw in Bangkok.

A weathered boatman, who proved his claim to 40 years on the canal by his dexterity in maneuvering his craft, spoke vividly about the floods: the disruption, the evacuation, the destroyed homes.

“When was the last time a flood like this happened?” I asked. He perched on the dock, thinking. “1942,” he said. In his lifetime, he’d never seen anything like it. And now, the seasons were mixed up— too much rain in the rainy season, too much heat in the dry. “The weather is confused,” he said, squinting into the hot sun.

In this place of poverty and water, climate change is no abstraction. On May 5th, people across the world will join together to connect the dots between extreme weather and climate change for their communities and their leaders. I’ll be in Cambodia— where will you be?

Hog-tied and Sacrificed to Reunite Your Souls

onenuss — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 23:53:00 -0400

The fat, hog-tied sow kicked and squealed as the slight men hoisted her up onto their shoulders and walked towards us. Teeth gnashing and foaming spittle spraying from her open snout, she screamed in fury and terror. The men swung her toward where I sat in the truck’s passenger bed. Instinctively, I leapt aside.

They stopped short of the bed, however, and landed the beast with a thud on the rear bumper, by my feet. Struggling for her life, she squirmed as they strapped it to the metal grate. I returned to my seat on the edge of the bench that was already packed to overflowing with passengers. Her eyes wide and seething with fear, the sow looked up at me for help as we took off and careened up the dusty, treacherous mountain roads. I tied my hankerchief across my face to keep from choking on the thick plumes of dust and black exhaust, hanging on tight to avoid being bounced out the back of the truck.

The young man across from me in a green soccer jersey smiled and explained it all in one word: “Basi.”

Basi is an ancient animist ritual practiced in Laos. Humans are believed to have mulitple souls that occasionally wander off, causing an imbalance within the person. The ceremony reunites these souls in the body.

A basi ceremony involves a sacrifice of a chicken or dog—and for special occasionsm a hog or mua, pronounced “moo.” The participants sit in a circle around an elaborate centerpiece, known as the sukhuan, made of banana leaves rolled into a conical “party hat” shape and adorned with marigolds and a single white string. Offerings of food and liquor are made to entice the wunderlust souls to return. At the end, participants tie the threads around their wrists and wear them until they fall off, indicating the need for another ceremony.

Here are some other animist rituals in Laos:

Healing Severe Illness: When someone has been very sick for an extended time, they are exiled to live alone in a solitary hut outside the village. They remain there until an old man approaches and gives them a new name. They are then considered “healed” and can return home. Our trekking guide, Bounsi, was healed in such a ritual at an early age.
Healing Minor Afflictions: An egg is rolled over the afflicted part of the body by a sprirt-doctor and the yolk is broken to determine the source of the illness. Sacrifices and incantations are performed to excorcise the bad spirit that has afflicted the patient.
Spririt Gates: These gates mark the major paths into the villages and protect the inhabitants from evil spirits. They are adorned with symbols of woven sticks and the paw, claw, or hoof of the last animal that was sacrificed there as an offering.

Though I’m not an animist, the fractured modern world sometimes makes me feel like my souls have been scattered, too. Unfortunately, I’m a vegetarian. I wonder if a fried tofu sacrifice would appease the spirits?

-E

Sunset at the dock at Luang Prabang. Click here to see more...

profaneecology — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 00:34:29 -0400

Sunset at the dock at Luang Prabang.

Click here to see more Laos photos!

Dos Mundos

onenuss — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 07:23:00 -0400

This new ATM in Nong Khiaw, a sleepy mountain village in Laos, is the perfect symbol for Southeast Asia’s transformation; it’s a region caught between two contradictory worlds.

When we arrived, they were just smoothing out the wet concrete on the first ATM on our side of the river. Locals came to marvel at the device that freely dispensed large sums of money to foreigners— and that night, they had a party to inaugurate this magic money-making machine.

Tourists venture to remote places like Nong Khiaw to escape the Western bubble and to experience something “traditional.” The irony is that our very presence permanently alters the places we are visiting. For me, this ATM also symbolizes the tension between western modernity and ancient values. Seeing the proliferation of technology like this fills me with conflicting thoughts: On one hand, I want more money to come into this impovershed village, but at the same time there’s a sadness that this unique, quiet place will never be the same. Rapid globalization is forever altering and homogenizing a world of beautifully diverse cultures, eliminating indigenous knowledge and begging everyone to worship at the altar of the iPhone. (You can buy paper iPhones to burn as an offering to your ancestors. No joke.) But at the same time, I love my iPhone. How can I fault someone else for wanting one, too?

****

We’re huddled together on a pitch-black cobble stone street in Phongsali, a mountain outpost in Northern Laos. It’s 9 PM and everyone else in town has gone to bed except for me and a few bored Spaniards talking lowly on the dead, dark street.

Phongsali only has electricity for 3 hours every day from about 6-9 PM— assuming it works at all. When the lights go out, everyone goes to sleep; they rise again at 5AM to the bellowing of the town-wide loudspeaker blaring communist propaganda. In the darkness, the Spaniard checks the Barcelona football scores on his smartphone with a SIM card that’s good for a week’s worth of unlimited internet that he bought for a euro down the street. As he reads the scores he keeps shaking his head: “Dos Mundos, mi amigo. Dos Mundos.” Two worlds.

Other examples of “Dos Mundos”:

A man lounging in a hand-hollowed canoe in Thailand, texting on his smartphone
Watching music videos on flat-screen TVs in Burmese buses while thatched-hut villages can be seen through the windsheild
Monks zooming by in a speedboat, wearing helmets and bright orange life vests that match the color of their robes
Sattelite dishes and karoke equipment in houses that are nothing more than stacked concrete blocks and a tin roof
A uniformed North Vietnamese guard scrolling on his smartphone while guarding the Mausoleum of communist hero Ho Chi Minh

Is it possible for these two worlds to coexist— for ancient cultures to not be eclipsed by Western consumerism? I hope so.

-E

Singing in the Mountains of Laos

profaneecology — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 07:22:00 -0400

We spent three days trekking through the mountains of Laos near the Chinese border, walking from village to village with a local guide delightfully named Bounsy. This is a wild place where few foreigners go and many villages are connected only by steep footpaths.

This is the time of year when farmers burn their rice fields, and the air was thick with smoke; in some places, ash rained down from the sky like feathers. Although I know very little about slash and burn farming, I can’t help thinking that there must be a way for families to feed themselves without destroying these mountains.

Here, each family has its own plot of land, and so farming can be lonely work. During the rainy season, the families move to a temporary hut in their field, to be as close as possible to the rice that will feed them for the next year.

We trudged up a particularly steep hillside that was blackened and smoking, and saw the obscure figure of a bare-breasted woman materialize from the smoking ashes. A child ran out from behind her, calling to someone, and then they both disappeared again. The air in those mountains is thick with superstition.

The villages consist of a collection of small wooden huts with dirt floors, each with its own storage of rice, and yards full of pigs, chickens, dogs and children who would follow us, shrieking with delight each time we tried to speak. The only bathroom is in the woods, and the pigs are happy to clean up after you.

Laotians are very reserved—tribal people in particular—and often we could see women peeking out at us from their doorways. They wear fabulous costumes embroidered with colorful beads, electric pink stitching and old French coins. They dislike being photographed, so we have almost no pictures.

Here’s one I found online that’s very similar. (Photo Credit: Loic Brohard)

Each night, we slept in the chief’s house and ate dinners of curious pickled vegetables, egg, and once, dried squirrel (ask the vegetarian how it tasted), washed down with shots of Lao-Lao, the local rice whisky. Since there’s no electricity, the meals were eaten and prepared with headlamps, which the women wear over their glorious headpieces. After making dinner, however, the women eat with their children at a table that’s separate from ours; they wash up while thier husbands smoke and drink whisky, and wake up first in the morning to prepare breakfast over the fire. At the first house, the wife barely acknowledged us, and my only impression of her was in shadow, standing bent over the fire with a baby tied to her back and a conical headpiece. Her hunched silhouette made her seem like a being from another world.

The second family we stayed with, however, was much more friendly. They spoke with us, pointing and giggling; the Chief drank Lao-Lao and rocked his grandson to sleep in his arms, and his mother, an old Akha woman whose elaborate dress compensated for her lack of teeth stroked her granddaughter’s hair as she grew drowsy by the smoky fire. I watched the Chief’s wife bind her long, black hair, wrapping it in layer after layer of black cloth, building a temple on the top of her head.

On the second day, Ethan and I walked through the village and tried to play with the children— they were a rambunctious lot, and after some time we hit a wall in our communication with them. Ethan had an idea: he wanted to try singing to them, to see if they’d join us or perhaps sing some songs in their language. After all, isn’t music the universal language?

Most people who know me will guess that I hated this idea. But I stayed, squirming, while he sang the first few stanzas of an American folk song, and watched as they quieted and gathered near us, and seemed to want him to continue when he’d run out of words. He tried another, and then I sang with him— these were bits of songs, because neither of us can remember lyrics very well. We did 60’s folk songs, some Rolling Stones, Simon and Garfunkel, finally moving on to Christmas Carols out of desperation. And as our voices grew more confident, something incredible happened: people from the village—even the women—started coming out of their houses and gathering around us to listen. I looked up, and we were completely surrounded. At first it was unclear whether they actually liked it, or whether we were just more interesting than feeding the pigs, but presently one older woman who had been standing there for several minutes shushed the young boys, who had started making noise again. Then she looked at me and gave me a thumbs-up, and continued to watch us intently. It was one of the rare times a woman smiled at me.

Although we were off key and couldn’t remember the words to save our lives, we realized it didn’t matter. Our self-consciousness faded and we started taking turns: Ethan sang “Cotton Fields,” an old blues song, and I did Silent Night—I couldn’t remember anything else for the life of me. I remember how surreal it was, hearing my own voice floating out over these faces, all turned toward me.

Bounsy came looking for us, wondering what trouble we’d gotten ourselves into, and laughed and lit a cigarette as we sang one more song.

-K

How to be a Green Activist Living Under a Brutal Military Regime

onenuss — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 01:27:02 -0400

From my seat in a bustling sidewalk restaurant in Yangon, Burma, it’s hard to imagine these same streets just 20 years ago. In August 1988, thousands of students, fed up with years of repressive military rule, protested for democracy and were brutally slaughtered by government machine guns. Yesterday’s fair election of opposition leader and Nobel Peace laureate Daw Aung San Suu Kyi to Parliament is a promising step for Burma, but the road to true democracy remains long.

On this day, I’m joined by two soft-spoken, smiling graduate students in their mid-twenties, Tin and Htet, who goes by the nickname “Pinkgold.” We converse freely in English about their environmental activism amid the restaurant’s clatter— a freedom that would have been impossible not long ago because of the threat of government spies. As I fumble with my chopsticks, they begin to tell me what it’s like to organize in one of the most repressive countries in the world.

Htet has been passionate about social issues from an early age. But it wasn’t until 2010, when government restrictions began to ease, that she felt there might be enough political space for organizing to make a real difference. She formed Myanmar Youths In Action (MIYA), which seeks to empower young people to tackle some of the country’s most pressing issues, including environment, health, and poverty. For their inaugural event, they joined with thousands around the world for 350.org’s 10/10/10 Global Work Party by planting 50 trees.

In a country where most people scrape by on less than a dollar a day, why did they decide that the environment was the most pressing issue facing the youth of Myanmar? For Htet, the answer is obvious: “Young people know that our entire future depends on a safe climate and clean environment.”

There seems to be an intuitive ability to connect the dots and recognize that climate change is real and urgent. The largest wake-up call was in 2008 when a super-powered storm, Cyclone Nargis, devastated the country. An estimated 138,000 perished in the flood waters when the government refused to admit foreign emergency aid. In an agricultural subsistence economy, climate change is a matter of life and death.

“What has been the biggest factor in overcoming challenges?” I ask. Tin adjusts her glasses. Facebook, she says.

Concentrated groups of students are one of the greatest threats to a repressive regime. Campuses are intentionally dispersed, extracurricular groups are banned, and until recently, the simple act of passing out fliers could land you in prison. The internet is the new student union. She speculates that the anonymity of cyberspace has allowed people, for the first time in decades, to freely exchange ideas in a public forum. Of course, the internet has its limitations in a country where 20% of households don’t even have electricity, and the regime, until the last few months, had blocked Youtube and Twitter.

Both Tin and Pinkgold are also prolific bloggers, intentionally reaching out to international audiences. Tin’s blog was even linked by the New York Times during the so-called called Saffron Revolution of 2007 as a credible source when foreign journalists were shut out.

They use the internet to demonstrate popular opinion at a time when the regime is increasingly worried about its image. While in the West we might groan to see another online petition in our inbox, this tool has begun to make a significant impact on Myanmar’s environmental policy. Recently, the regime has responded to public opinion by dramatically reversing plans for two massive industrial projects: a new coal plant and a Chinese plan to dam the legendary Irrawaddy. In August 2011, they used Facebook to advertise the first ever national Myanmar Youth Conference.

Htet and Tin face challenges not only with outreach but with training, funding and time. Their projects are funded largely by membership dues of 3,000 kyat a month, about three dollars. Because they work full time and go to school, they dedicate their entire weekends volunteering for MIYA. Your contribution of even $5 goes a really long way.

During my dinner with Htet and Tin, I’m impressed with their tenacity in the face of such challenges and reminded that the fossil fuel gluttony of my country is responsible for the climate impacts they feel today. It also raises some questions: How can we continue to use technology to unite across borders and share organizing tools in new, innovative ways? How can we transform online chatter into offline action? How can we in the West use our relative freedoms to conduct even bolder actions that aren’t possible in many countries?

Rather than being pacified by our privilege, we can be radicalized by its possibilities.

-E

Meditations

onenuss — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 02:44:00 -0400

How do you begin to describe an experience like meditating 10 hours a day for 10 days straight? Intense. It definitely has given me a whole new meaning to the expression, “Know Thyself.” I’m unable to capture it all here, besides Kristin is a much more witty writer, so I’ll just share some highlights of my deep thoughts and experiences. Much of this may seem obvious, and at times trite. Really its all basic wisdom that I have known for years. However, I feel I’m only really “knowing” much of this for the first time. Intellectual comprehension seems superficial compared to the deep visceral experiential “knowing” that you can experience by quieting the mind and sitting with yourself.

MEDITATIONS OF THE MIND

You Can’t Hide From Yourself - When there’s nothing else to do for 10 days except for concentrating on your breath while you sit or walk you quickly realize that you can’t hide from yourself. You are forced to confront all of your insecurities and deepest anxieties face-to-face. Only patience and acceptance allow you to slowly release their grip on your subconscious. We pay people a lot of money to listen to our problems when sometimes we just need to take the time to really listen to ourselves.

Flame of Life - When you eliminate all exposure to mass culture and begin to peel away the layers of conformity, consumerism, and personal insecurities you can distill life down to a pure essence… a quiet “flame of life” that burns inside all of us. Watching the slow involuntary rhythmic pulse of life, the breath and beating of your heart, is indescribably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. It seems that all religious dogmas, moral systems, and human made laws are elaborate structures that we’ve built up around this simple flame. Observing the self evident miracle of life, an ultimate end unto itself, in its purest form makes all of these structures seem irrelevant, even absurd. Experiencing the magnetizing calm beauty of life is so pure that the idea of inflicting suffering on others becomes wholly inconceivable and makes all violence a type of suicide.

You Can Always Return to the Breath - From the moment of birth until your death there is a quiet involuntary “rising and falling” of the breath that happens inside of you. When practicing meditation your sole focus is to aknowledge this slow silent pulse and observe the sensations. Regardless of the other distractions in your mind, pain in your back, or sounds around you, you can always return to the dependable ever present slow pulse of the breath. Even at the pinnacle of stress and despair you can return to this dependable pulse and find serenity. The joke “Serenity Now!” has some truth to it.

“Accept. Accept. Accept.” - This was a monk’s response every time I came to him with a question or a problem. While it was a bit annoying in the end I understood his lesson. There are many things in life that you can’t control: heartbreak, loss, death. Accepting pain and suffering sounds like the saddest depth of defeat but its actually the pinnacle of empowerment. Once you have accepted the truth suffering can no longer control you, and have a power over you. Accept what you can’t control and focus on what you can. To do otherwise is the root of anxiety and suffering. Avoid attachment, desire, and clinging to things because they are impermanent and the inevitably of their end will only bring pain. Acceptance is true freedom.

You Will Die Someday - Accept this truth. The sooner you can accept your mortality and impermanence the sooner you can begin to really live. The story of life: birth, aging, and death. Accept these truths and free yourself from this cycle of suffering. Celebrate every fleeting moment of this existence.

We are Powerful - Each of us possess the power within to free ourselves from suffering. Meditation is empowerment. Realization of your own power and the affirmation of that same power in everyone. Anyone can do it! Just take even 15 minutes a day to sit quietly, watch your breath, listen to your body, and be with yourself.

Recognition of Being - Every moment you are mindful of what is happening is a recognition of being. If you are walking and you think “walking” you affirm your life your existence in that instance. Now I just smile whenever I think “I really wish I was more present right now!” You are always here.

Listen to Nature. Learn from Nature - There is a quiet beautiful truth in nature if we take the time to listen. We have become detached from the inherent peace and truth in nature and therefore from ourselves. We drown out this quiet beauty with super markets and over consumption. By extracting ourselves from the serenity of the web of life we are living well out of balance and our destructive path has only one end, extinction. The term “the environment” is not some arcane political concept but the essence of life itself. Humans are inextricably linked with nature and our separation is suicidal madness.

Here are just a few things that I was awestruck by: birds chirping in the early morning light, ants crawling on damp moss, twist and decent of a leaf falling in my path, golden light slowly sifting through the trees like a slow motion photograph, green fern lightly waving in the low breeze on a sticky day, moss and cold stone under bare feet, and a fly crawling on my neck hairs.

Paradox - Meditation, like life, is rife with paradox. The practice is to find that perfect balance between intense concentration and intention and letting go of everything. When I would try and analyze my experiences or my thoughts themselves, using the same Western logic I’ve known my entire life, I would constantly reach dead ends. Logic seemed to buckle under its own weight and complexity and that real truth was in simply being. Accepting paradoxical thoughts allowed me to laugh at their absurdity and let them pass from my intention.

Yapanaya - This was one of the words we would chant as a blessing before our to daily meals. It’s from the ancient language of Pali and loosely means “For the possibility of simplicity and peace.” I believe this best sums up the purpose of meditation in one word and for me includes greater social implications too. Most of my adult life I’ve dedicated to working tirelessly for peace and justice. (While at the retreat I remembered that exactly a year ago I was working 12 hours a day for Power Shift 2011 and now am meditating 12 hours a day.) When I think about it the root of my social drive is to relieve human suffering. I have a lot more to learn about human suffering both as a lived hardship of people’s everyday lives but also the root cause of suffering. I’m beginning to feel how this pathway to a deeper spiritual understanding will be mutually beneficial for my ongoing commitment to social justice.

MEDITATION EXPERIENCE

“Side-effects” - Towards the end of an intense five hour session on the fifth day I entered a type of mental hypnosis. My body was cramped and painful from the intense concentration and tedious practice of sitting and walking. I finally started to really let go. Sitting in deep meditation everything else faded into the background except my breath, rising. falling. rising. falling, and the slow pulse of my heartbeat. A space opened above me and my head began to float upward like a balloon until it reached the high peak of the Wat’s (temple) ceiling. My limbs inflated and expanded into space until my body had filled the entirety of the huge room. The lines separating internal and external melted away and what I once thought was my body began to evaporate in all directions. But I wasn’t scared because it was somehow strangely familiar and comforting. I was positive that I had been there before. I was floating into space but was still grounded at the same time. I could feel where my “body” was touching the ground and at each point of contact it felt like the creased folds in a piece of paper. I was hyper aware of everything in the room I could hear the fan, feel air, and sense the breathing of my fellow meditators. This entire experience lasted for a couple of minutes, though it felt like an eternity, before I opened my eyes and returned.

Later that day I described the experience to the Abbot, Phra Ajuhn Supan, a aged monk, as part of our daily “report” on our practice. Kneeling before him I felt told his interpretor and when the message reached him a slight knowing smile grew at the creases of his mouth. He slowly put down his pen and leaned forward to look over his wire frame glasses. In his eyes was a aknowleding glint that I had discovered the secret trap door that aesthetics has been known about for centuries. He said simply, “You have experienced a side-effect of meditation.”

Nagging Thoughts - Most of my nagging thoughts where rooted in ego and toward the end turned into appreciation. In order of appearance: what are people saying online, seeking praise from authority figures, how to describe this experience, childhood memories, and intense love for everyone in my life. The ego is a powerful creature that wants fiercely to maintain its grip but I by visualizing each thought as a pebble dropping into a pool of water, I was able to let them ripple away.

Accepting Ants - The entire time my room was crawling with ants. They were literally coming out of the woodwork. I did everything I could to fight back: stuffing the holes with wet TP, sweeping them up, and per the monks recommendation douse them Snake Brand (TM) “Prickly Heat” (a medicated footpowder.) Nothing seemed to stop this colony. I got in the habit of mindfully sweeping them up every time I went in my room. I took the whole thing as a grand lesson in acceptance.

Touching Pain - When we are in pain, either emotionally or physically, our habit is to drown it out, numb it with chemicals and consumption. (I’ve been just as guilty of this as the next person.) But the truth is that we never get at the root source of our suffering. When we acknowledge the source of our pain and sit with it we can begin to ease not only the physical sensation of pain but its grip on our lives. After 5 days of meditation practice my back became extremely painful from holding the same upright posture all day. I discovered that if I acknowledged ”pain. pain. pain” and gently focused my mind on the location I could gradually make it vanish. Towards the end I could focus on single pressure points and release tension in my back and limbs.

The Who? - A week into the retreat the ban on music, dancing, and general outward expressions of life’s joy was gnawing at my energetic spirit. After a particularly intense 12 hour day the Abbot could tell I was straining: “Don’t take yourself too seriously.” Ha! That night safe in the darkness of my cell room was the an epic rock concert. I tuned my mental radio to the first emerging frequency that I had just spent the last week intently trying to tune out. The song that was playing was The Who’s “Can’t Explain” - “Got a feeling inside, can’t Explain. A certain kind, can’t explain.” I cranked the dial to 11 and to a live crowd of screaming fans let it all loose. There was bright lights, leaping air guitar, and lots of patented Townsend windmill power cords. After 4 exhilarating encores I calmly picked up my mat headed to the silent garden to meditate.

-E

"Made in America" in Laos

onenuss — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 02:34:00 -0400

Drifting through the romantic palm-lined streets of red tiled roof French colonial villas and down quaint, winding alleys spilling over with flowering terrace gates it’s easy to see how the ancient city of Laung Prabang in central Laos made the list of UNESCO World Heritage sites. We arrived here after a lazy two-day float on a “slow boat” down the Mekong River where it merges with the Nam Khan River and is nested in lush, green mountains where mist hangs in the morning before burning off into a sunny swelter. One of the main tourist attractions is the Royal Palace Museum, so on a particularly hot afternoon I went to check it out.

Ascending the marble staircase it became quickly apparent that the Royal Palace in Laung Prabang is unlike any palace I’ve ever seen. Not because it was bigger, more gilded, or had vast treasures, but because it is so simple. Built in 1904, the Palace is a flat French colonial mansion, with high white ceilings and beautiful teak wood floors. The main throne room has rich red walls decorated in colorful glass mosaics depicting important Laotian festivals and battles. A French tour group crowded around conversing loudly and gesticulating: “Oh-la-la!”

“F***ing French colonizers” I thought to myself with a bemused smirk. The halls where lined with chronological display cases dedicating gifts from foreign emissaries: a hand painted decorative bamboo screen from Vietnam, traditional porcelain bowls from China, and a French dining room set. Finally at the last display case, I was pleased to recognize a familiar name on the plaque: “United States of America.” The gifts included a desk set of ink pens engraved with the Presidential Seal and signature of John F. Kennedy.

The main object that caught my eye was an odd anachronism in this colonial era palace: a fist-sized model of the Apollo Lunar Landing Module. The model was delicately balanced on a silver plated “moon surface” of decorative Buddhist Bodhisattvas. Next to it was a plaque with a tiny version of the former national flag of Laos; red background with the triple-headed white elephant and a tiered Buddhist parasol. (The white elephant is a symbol of royalty and the ancient name of the country “Land of a Million Elephants and the Parasol” and the three heads represent the three united Kingdoms of Laos.) Imbedded in a clear lacquer on the plaque were three floating specks of crusty black rock. It read:

“Our Apollo 11 Lunar Space Mission carried your nation’s flag aboard the first human landing on the moon on July 20, 1969. These lunar rocks are a gift from the United States of America to the nation of Laos.”

I like the idea of giving an earthly king something from beyond our planet. There was something inspiring that in a long line of ancient handicrafts this spacecraft stood out as a testament to humanity’s “giant leap” forward into modernity.

The museum guards were closing the doors and ushering out the last visitors. (Closing time is officially 4, but my watch onlyshowed 3:30: welcome to Laos.) Remembering the Royal Car Collection in the garage out back I managed to convince the attendant to let me have a quick poke around. Expecting to see a showroom of glittering Rolls Royces, stretch black limos, and red Euro roadsters I was surprised to see a collection of four white Fords. The signs read “Ford Motor Cars. Gifts from the United States of America.”

The curvaceous steel doors of the Lincoln Continentals rounded into sharp classic 50’s and 60’s designs, with the headlights popping off the hood like frog eyes. Each door had the same triple-headed royal elephant crest but the worn white leather seats looked more like comfy seats primed for drive-ins instead of thrones. The brazen chrome grills were perfectly fit for the garage of every post-War suburban king in the U.S. (or the King of Laos). I marveled at these graceful beasts that had spawned from the industrial belly of Motor City, USA in a revival of ingenuity and economic might.

The attendant lost her patience with my dawdling, shouted something in Lao and clicked off the lights. I slid on my cheap sunglasses and the unfamiliar clink of metal on plastic reminded of the new bracelet I was wearing. I had bought it the night before at Laung Prabang’s open air market from a vendor selling them on behalf of artisans from a rural village. I re-read the flyer that she gave me with my purchase.

“Our bracelets are made from that was part of a plane or bomb dropped on our province during the Secret War. After the war someone taught us what to do with the bombs that destroyed our lives…and we began to to form bombs into beautiful bracelets. We make new meanings from bombs the bombs, which help us escape poverty.” - Villagers of Naphia, Laos
Make Bracelets, Not War

Reminded that my bracelet was also likely “Made In America” knotted my stomach.

****

Background

From 1964-1973 the United States government dropped 2,093,100 tons of bombs on Laos. That’s about one planeload of bombs dropped every 8 minutes for 24 hours a day over nine years - making Laos, per capita, the most heavily bombed country in the history of warfare. The relentless bombing was part of a “Secret War” intended to prevent communist guerrillas and North Vietnamese troops from operating in Laos, though the U.S. government repeatedly denied the existence of the bombing campaign. The result: a staggering toll of countless civilian deaths, mostly poor rural peasants.

The cars and moon rocks were remnants from U.S. diplomatic emissaries during the 50s and 60s. During that time the U.S. government was bankrolling almost the entire budget for the Laos government, giving them $150 per capita in aid, thats more that twice the average Laotian’s annual income. Unfortunately military commanders hoarded almost all of the funds and the average person living in extreme poverty got next to nothing.

Today hundreds of rural villagers, mostly farmers and their children, are killed every year when they step on undetonated bombs and other “unexploded ordinances.” 40 years later the silent “Secret War” continues to kill.

-E

net

profaneecology — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 06:46:46 -0400

onenuss:

fishing net unfurling
behind his handhollowed canoe
like a forgotten cobweb resigning to the breeze.
his eyes lost beyond the bow
swirling with the eddies
as the Mekong’s slow muddy flow
unravels buried memories.

each paddle stroke pulling
from the dark current deep inside him
welling up in his cataract glassed eyes
like heavy clouds quivering before a storm.

water drops crawling wet
through the crevices of his cracked creekbed face
quenching the coarse forest of his whitened whiskers
leaving only vacant trails of crusted salt.

swirling in the hypnotic rhythm of the river
memory’s image flashes
like the fiery reflection in the water that night
fleeing falling flames
on the rickety refugee raft
when he was forced to abandon her
legless
lifeless
on the dirt floor.
she had just learned to walk
the week before.

****
From 1964-1973 the United States government conducted a “Secret War” in Laos by dropping over 2 million tons of bombs on the countryside, more bombs than all of WWII combined.

Meditation Boot Camp

profaneecology — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 01:01:00 -0500

Some years ago, I did a 7-day silent meditation retreat in rural Massachusetts, and it changed my life: it made me more aware of how thought and emotion manifest in the body, of how emotional states are transient and don’t control me… and, it was one of the only times I’ve ever been free from anxiety. It was incredibly difficult, but I left with an eagerness to explore myself and the world with this gentle tool.

This made that other retreat look like a Carnival Cruise.

We knew exactly what we were getting into: 10 hours a day, give or take, of walking or sitting meditation; upholding the “noble silence” by not talking, reading or writing; eating only before noon and sleeping 6 hours a night. I’d done it before, I’d do it again.

The monk in charge of foreign students was a short little man who walked quickly, said everything twice, and wore a surgical mask. (Asians LOVE surgical masks. Are you sick? Is someone else? Wear a mask! Dusty air? Mask!) He gave us white clothes, instructions on appropriate behavior, and schedules. Whenever I timidly asked a question— “Excuse me? What time do we return for reporting?”— he would wave his hand impatiently, saying, “Not now. Not now. In the moment. Right now, sweeping. Sweeping.” (Hands me a broom). ”Knowing, knowing,” he would tap his forehead. This meant that I was not being mindful, that I should already know not only what time I was supposed to be where, but that I was also supposed to be sweeping, too. This was difficult to understand because of the surgical mask.

So: Up at 4, breakfast at 6:30 lunch at 10:30, reporting to The Man at 5:30 or so. All other times: meditating.

Food: watery, cold. This is because, after everyone has stood in line to be served rice and vegetables, the monks and nuns lead prayers and chant. By the time you take your first bite, everything is about room temperature. To compound this problem, the meals are remarkably low in protein, which is the only way a borderline hypoglycemic like me could ever fast all afternoon.

On the second day, I resignedly defected from the vegetarian line to the meat line. (Back home, I rarely eat meat, and when I do I like it raised on a local organic farm, frolicking happily until slaughtered.) A serving woman, wearing a surgical mask and showercap, plunks a scoop of what looks like ground beef and wavy white things onto my metal plate. I test the meat: chewy. OK. I poke the wavy white thing with my fork. Animal or vegetable… oh God, is that an EAR??

Two Germans leave on the first night. They couldn’t take it.

My window was in the back of the compound and through it I could hear sounds of a family living nearby: I heard a woman scraping rice from a wok, the clatter of spoons in a bowl, the faint sound of boys playing video games. I ached for those fragments of daily life. I craved everything: The Sunday New York Times and real coffee; everything that comprises the city of New York; happy children; thick, brown bread with peanut butter; intimate conversations; my family gathered in Pennsylvania; beautiful old books; bicycles and the novelty of being able to go where you please; street food; going for walks by myself. I craved the world.

Meditating for 10 hours, to someone like me who has a hard time doing 20 minutes in the morning, is accomplished through force of will. It was brutal: you take the thing that is so boring, so maddeningly difficult, the one thing you really, really don’t want to be doing, and you force yourself to do it, breath by breath, one hour at a time. You sit, you acknowledge that you’d rather not be sitting, you say to yourself, “frustration, frustration” when you are frustrated, and “thinking, thinking,” when your thoughts drift away from the breath.

Every evening, we reported to The Man, Pra Ajahn Suphan, in his office where he held court from his Dais next to his Buddha collection. Because his English was fuzzy, we spoke to him through a very cute and somewhat distracting interpreter. The routine was this: after waiting silently for 1-2 hours, we entered the office on our knees. We prostrated three times before the Buddhas, and then, still crawling awkwardly, another three times before the man himself while he thumbed through our paperwork. Then we were supposed to remain kneeling, hands together, say “Nammascan, Pra Ajahn Suphan,” and bow to the cute interpreter.

From this position, we told him the status of our practice, how many hours we’d done, and ask questions, which he answered in long, unintelligible mumbles that were sometimes in English and sometimes in Thai. Sometimes he’d say a couple words, which I took to mean, “Tell her the sports one,” and the interpreter would give me a much longer explanation about how meditation is like a sport, and we must work the muscles of the mind each day, and so on.

Whereas I have always valued meditation as a tool that brings me peace and greater self-awareness, meditating at Wat Rampoeng was, for me, a test of endurance. I discovered that I can withstand the pain of hunger, the muscle pain of sitting, the frustration and anger that inevitably arise, and I can discipline myself through any task. There were moments of joy, too, where I was happy for no particular reason, but mostly I was just… resigned.

Was this satisfying? I’m not sure.

On the last day, Ethan and I found ourselves next to each other in the lunch line. After not having spoken for 9 days, it felt a little funny. I whispered, “What time do you want to leave tomorrow?” He paused. ”Want to leave tonight?”

After our closing ceremony that night (and after receiving our parting gifts, large autographed photos of The Man meditating), we took off our white clothes for the last time, and walked out with our backpacks, through the gate and out again into the world. I can’t describe how exhilarating it was. The world was there the whole time.

Wisdom comes slowly.

Glittering Swedagon pagoda. Check out all of our photos from...

onenuss — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 02:16:31 -0500

Glittering Swedagon pagoda.

Check out all of our photos from Burma: Ethan’s. Kristin’s.

ceremonial smoke

profaneecology — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 07:54:07 -0500

onenuss:

day long trek
through dry, red dirt stubbled rice paddies
we stumble from blaze sun into our sanctuary,
an ancient monastery.
stale tobacco cloud hangs around
a ring of wrinkled men
pulling long drags from twisted cheroots
eyes like glassed marbles perched in weathered magpie nests.

greetings hanging dead in smoke.
unceremonious arrival.
we four foreigners sit.
waiting.

we hand over our night’s donation
wait silent for monk’s blessing.
only response the quiet crackle of cheap tobacco.

head monk sits plump in circle center,
a step above.
smooth shaven head wrapped in piled-wool brick-red robe
lips fat like Brando in the heat heavy hall.
eyes contemplative,
lost over mountain horizon.

he lights a cigarette.

ceremonial candle.
long effortless pull.
slow drag.
seconds smolder.

oblivious in distant indifference
solitary finger perches on his plump lip.
lit stick wilting an inch away in anticipation.
slow motion suicide.

time suspended.
thick, still air.
tongue tasting every vapor of leafy paper.
pungent nicotine crawling into sinus cave
spilling cascades out nostril tunnels
like a lazy dragon after a rich feast.

our palms clam
anxiously closed.
awaiting a blessing.
something.
anything.

eyes fixed in eternity.
smoke slow swirling with creases of Buddha’s statuesque smile.
his thoughts rotate like bamboo chimes
turning in tree breeze.

longing for his affection
filter finds finality with a finishing breath.
extinguished.

cigarette vanishes from air.
mumbling in Burmese
he dismisses our presence.
we escape into evenings fresh air

cannonize

profaneecology — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 01:38:48 -0500

onenuss:

nested in the cast
of Shwedagon’s golden beam
the bronze bell told
many centuries’ sunrise
like an orange peeling in the East,
calling Rangoon’s monks to morning prayer.
her brother drum
beating sunset’s return.

all until the take of Red Coat’s raid
intended to tie her tongue to a mast
bound for smeltering
in London’s imperial furnace,
and pound her into a cannon
for another colonial conquest.

refusing to be reborn a weapon of war
on the final gangplank she slipped her captors
plundging safely to harbor’s floor.

colonial cranks couldn’t budge her
from meditation in the muck.
she patiently awaited
buoyant Burmese bamboo
raft’s swift rescue
returning her to peaceful perch.

singing past’s prayers
great sweet sound
for dawning struggles

***
The story of the Maha Gandha bell during the First Anglo-Burmese War in 1824.

Ethan's Birthday Wish: Give to Myanmar Youths in Action

onenuss — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 00:39:00 -0500

Ethan's Birthday Wish: Give to Myanmar Youths in Action:

In Myanmar (Burma) we met some inspiring youth activists who see climate and the environment as one of the most pressing issues of our generation. Two years ago they formed Myanmar Youths in Action to empower youth in one of the most oppressed countries in the world. These young women work full time, go to school, and dedicate their entire weekends to this cause.

Today is Ethan’s 28th Birthday and his one wish is that you give generously to this worthy cause. His goal is to raise $500. Your gift of even $5 helps a lot because in Myanmar every dollar you give goes a really long way.

Thank you for considering a donation!

“Take it from a peripatetic army brat: home is where the heart is - which (if you’re not...

profaneecology — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 02:01:39 -0500

“Take it from a peripatetic army brat: home is where the heart is - which (if you’re not dismembered) is slightly left of center chest. Relax - you’re home!” —Walter: Horticulturist, Sage

The Burmese Love Music

onenuss — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 09:06:00 -0500

Everywhere you go you can’t escape a cheesy melody or blaring beat. At all times of day you could hear music blasting from storefronts, homes, karaoke-style music videos on buses, portable devices in taxi drivers pockets and even loudspeakers from monasteries.

And if the electricity goes out (which is frequently) you can always find a long haired youth strumming a guitar or someone walking down the street singing at the top of their lungs. The video below is a remake from a classic Burmese artist Twan Tay Theen Tan. I liked the traditional Burmese music so much that I bought a couple of CDs on the streets of Yangon. -E