The Furka Pass

I thought that, once I had gone through the San Gotthardo tunnel, it would be clear sailing west on the other side. Boy, was I wrong about that! The tunnel, about 15 miles long, is a major feat of engineering. Amazing. After I found the turn-off to the fabled town of Andermatt (known for high altitude skiing), I headed west again. The next surprise was having to cross the Furka Pass. If I had examined the map a little more carefully, it wouldn’t have been a surprise. The narrow road, sometimes one lane in width, ascends from a flat valley, snow-covered peaks on all sides, to an altitude of 2,400 meters. That is not only over the tree line, it’s in the range of eternal snows and glaciers. The scenery was breath-taking, but it was a harrowing experience. There was plenty of traffic going both ways: cars, busses, camping trailers and lots of motorcycles and bicycles. (Those poor guys, huffing and puffing for hours on end up those mountains! You couldn’t pay me enough to do that.) There were countless hairpin turns and blind corners. One had to be alert every second to avoid colliding with a passing motorcycle, running down a bicyclist (puff, puff), or careening off the mountain. With all this mountain driving, I am now the master of the stick shift! The drive was so nerve-wracking that I felt sick by the end of it and nearly lost my breakfast.
The descent on the other side eventually became more gradual, passing through a number of charming alpine villages, then a few larger towns like Brig. One also crosses the linguistic boundary, where French predominates. This is the valley of the Rhone, which flows west into Lake Geneva, then south, eventually emptying into the Mediterranean. This route has been the way of counquerors; Hannibal (with his elephants), Julius Caesar, Charlemange and Napolean all passed through this valley. After Sion the valley broadens and the road became a freeway again. In the mid 1980’s I taught in a summer program in the alps above Lake Geneva and I know this area very well. Soon I saw the names of the places that were familiar to me: Martigny, Les Diablerets, Aigle, Leysin. At Villeneuve the lake comes into view -- and a spectacular sight it is, dominated on the eastern end by the massive Dents du Midi and the Alpes Vallaisiens. The northern shore, the Lavaux, is covered with vineyards. Fine wines are produced here, but not enough to export, so everything is consummed locally. The landscape has a grandeur and a sweetness to it. Soon I drove passed the Chateau de Chillon, the famous lake-side castle visited by Byron and Shelley in 1816, Montreux, Vevey, and finally Lausanne, the capital of the canton of the Vaud. The city is built on the mountainside and is one of the most confusing places to get around in. Even though I know Lausanne fairly well, it took me a long time to find the Gare Centrale (the central train station). My friend, Dr. James Gordon, lives near the station. It was so good to finally arrive at my destination and greet my old friend. We hadn’t seen each other for six and a half years. It was a very warm day. In the evening thunder storms rolled in. The crash of thunder is dramatic in the mountains, but a more cacaphonous event was yet to come: this was the day of the European soccer tournament final, taking place in Vienna. It was Spain vs. Germany. Spain must have won because evey Spaniard in Lausanne came down to the Centre Ville about 10 PM, blowing horns, screaming, waving flags and making a god-awful racket. They take their football (=soccer) very serious here. It went on until midnight, then finally died down.

More Mountains

The next morning was completely clear. It was the perfect summer day. Is it possible to suffer from an overdose of too much gorgeous scenery? I came close. During the entire drive into Eastern Switzerland I saw one jaw-dropping vista after another: verdant valleys surrounded by towering peaks, often covered in snow, charming villages, alpine chalets with flowers cascading from their balconies, the smell of fresh-mown hay, lazy summer clouds drifting across the bluest sky -- it was almost too much. OMG was the mantra of the day. The plan was to traverse the Swiss canton of Graubuenden (Les Grisons in French), heading west and reaching Lausanne by evening. From Dobbiaco I passed the lovely ancient towns of Bruneck (Brunnico), Brixen (Bressanone), Bozen (Bolzano) and Meran (Merano). Brixen was founded in 1100 and is celebrating its 908th anniversary -- now, that’s old! I turned off on an even smaller secondary road to reach the Swiss border at Val Mustaire. I love the unexpected pleasures of exploring an unknown area. One of those was the perfectly intact medieval Tyrolean town of Glurns (Glorenza), just before the Swiss border, that I had to drive through. It was an enchanting little burg, like entering a time warp. I had to remind myself that I was actually in Italy, since everything was so Austrian in appearance, and nearly everyone spoke German. Entering Switzerland I crossed the first of about six high mountain passes. The views were always spectacular. With the alpine driving that entailed many winding roads, and becoming stuck behind large busses, tractors, and once even behind a garbage truck (!), I made slow time. I might have made it to Lausanne that evening if only...if only I hadn’t missed a right hand turn somewhere. I’m very good at reading maps and had made myself a map with the names of important towns and route numbers. Somehow, I wasn’t on route 19 anymore. I climbed yet another steep pass, then the villages had Italian names, then there was a sign that read: ‘Welcome to Ticino’. I had inadvertently gone south and crossed over into the one Italian canton of Switzerland. The Ticino is nearly inaccessible to the rest of Switzerland as it is surrounded by very high mountains. One wonders how it ever ended up in the Swiss Confederation (which, by the way, is the official name for the country) at all. Not being in any mood to cry over splillt milk (more breath-taking scenery) I found a room in a charming Albergo in a town called Olivone, halfway down the mountain on the other side, and called my friend James in Lausanne to let him know that I wouldn’t be making it for dinner. He took it well, knowing that it was unlikely I would reach Lausanne in a day and a half of driving. Funny, it doesn’t look all that far on the map...

In the Tyrol

Some ten years ago, in the days before 9/11 changed everything, I made an extensive trip through South Asia. Near the end of that trip, having passed through at least a dozen airports, I remember thinking how wonderful it was to travel in these modern times, just before the turn of the millenium. You buy a ticket and the marvels of modern travel -- efficient, fast and convenient -- are yours.
Those days are gone now, probably forever. International travel has become an ordeal. I’m not complaining, mind you, it’s just that everything has become such a hassle. Every one of my three flights on the way to Graz was totally full, and there were the usual long lines, security inspections and concerns with meeting carry-on requirements -- all this compliments of our Muslim friends who would like to kill us.
I had arranged to pick up a rental car on my arrival in Graz. The rental agency was, however, in the city itself. And I don’t know Graz at all. Thanks to a friendly and helpful gentleman I met waiting for the train, I found the place without too much trouble, except for having to schlepp two heavy bags around. If there is one thing I hate, it’s being burdened with luggage. I was given my vehicle, a brand new Skoda sedan (I’ve never heard of it either), and was on my way. It was a challenge to deal with an unfamiliar vehicle, driving stick shift (something I haven’t done for years), not knowing where I was going -- not to mention being jet-lagged and totally wired. But somehow I managed, found the Autobahn (freeway) headed west, and was on my way.
There are mountains around Graz, but not very high ones. It isn’t until you pass Klagenfurt that you are in the high Alps. My views of them were only intermittent, as thunderstorms besieged the area. At times it poured with ferocity, then the clouds would part affording dramatic views of mountain peaks. It’s a spectacularly beautiful area. I had planned to drive no further than the town of Lienz (pronounced lee-ents, and not to be confused with Linz, a much larger city which lies further north), but I hit Lienz at rush hour, it was pouring again, and I didn’t see any signs to the hotels I had looked up on the internet. I had taken one power nap of less than an hour along the way. I wasn’t sleepy, but my eyes were burning and I really needed to stop driving. In the few small towns along the way (I was on a seconday road now), hotels looked like they were not open for the season. And then suddenly I was in Italy! I drove through what appeared to be a border crossing (no guards, completely open) and was in the South Tyrol. This is an interesting corner of the world. The inhabitants of this area are German-speaking and ethnically Austrian, but after he debacle of WW I, the area was awarded to Italy (politicians in smoke-filled rooms deciding the fates of millons...), and it has remained so ever since. There was a separatist movement going on for a number of years in the 60’s, with the occasional bomb and assassination, but that seems to have died down. The South Tyrol has been granted the status of an autonomous region, where they have more say in their own affairs. I drove as far as Toblach (Dobbiaco in Italian). It’s a town I stayed in, passing from south to north, some thirty years ago. Only later did I learn that the great Austrian composer Gustav Mahler had spent some time in Toblach and wrote “Das Lied von der Erde” as well as his ninth and (unfinished) tenth symphonies here. This is a landscape to inspire anyone to greatness.
It seems that Toblach was hosting a huge choral festival, housing choral groups from all over the world. There was not a room to be had -- except for the one I got. The blond, blue-eyed, handsome young hotelier of the Hotel Rosengarten said he had one room left, a ‘Reservezimmer’ (a room not normally let out), but he would show it to me. I was so grateful for a place to rest my weary bones. The room was simple, but it had everything I needed. He quoted me a ridiculouly low price, threw in dinner and breakfast, and then invited me to a beer as his guest. What more could I have asked for? Once again in my travels, I was taken care of. So, with that first glass of cold beer in Europe, I proposed a silent toast to Dr. Mary Jane Wilder, as I promised to do, in honor of her being awarded her doctorate, whilst gazing at the ragged peaks of the Dolomites, feeling pleased as punch at my good fortune.

Borders

Since I am again about to embark on a trip to foreign lands, I have been thinking about some of my experiences crossing various international borders over the years. Most crossings were uneventful; some were amusing, and some downright scary. Crossing into the former German Democratic Republic by train from the West en route to Berlin was definitely a distressing experience. The presence of barbed wire, mine-fields, watch towers, heavily armed soldiers and vicious looking attack dogs at either end of the 'socialist paradise' made it feel like you were entering a prison. The train was sealed and was not allowed to stop anywhere along the way, even passing through stations. I remember seeing residents of the GDR who just stood still and silently watched the passing train. In those days, before the fall of The Wall, they could not dream of going to West Berlin. But in 1989 all that changed forever.

1973 - I was hitch-hiking down the coast of Yugoslavia, on my way to Greece. Unfortunately, Albania got in the way. It was necessary to take a ferry trip over to Brindisi, Italy, then a train to Bari to get the ferry to the Greek island of Kerkyra. Waiting to embark in Bari I met an American who was travelling on an "International Passport". In reality this was a spurious document printed and issued by someone in Paris working out of his basement. The American told me some tall tale about having his documents stolen. I suspect that he was AWOL from the military. He told me that when he entered Italy from France the Italian border authorities examined his 'passport' quizzically, shrugged their shoulders and gave him a two week visa. That's so Italian. When he attempted to enter Germany, however, the border police not only barred him from entering the country, they stamped "Zurueckgewiesen" (denied entry) in his faux passport. That's the Germans for you: unbending and bureaucratic through and through; just give them authority and an official stamp and they feel like gods. (He managed to get into Germany later by hiking over a mountain.) When it came time to board the ferry in Bari, the police took him away. I wonder whatever happened to that poor guy.

1975 - Re-entering India from Nepal. At that time l had legal resident status in India as I was teaching at an International School there. I had all my papers in order. After a trekking expedition in the Himalayas (but that's another story), I was making my way back to India. The border crossing was in a strip of malaria-infested jungle, south of the mountains. The town was a disgusting dump, your usual South Asian border town, nothing but decrepit shacks, flea-bitten curs, raw sewage, etc. The Indian border official who looked through my papers informed me that my papers were not in order and that I could not re-enter. I knew that wasn't right and pleaded with him to check everything again. This went on for a while. I was stubborn; I knew my re-entry visa was in order. The prospect of being stuck in that ratty crap-hole filled me with horror. Eventually the border official relented and let me through. It wasn't until years later that I realized what had actually happened there: that border guard was attempting to extort a bribe from me. Corruption is rife in India. When he saw that I wasn't taking the bait (due to my own naivete, actually), and that I wasn't about to slip him a few hundred rupees (because it didn't occur to me to do so), he gave up on his extortion attempt. I'm so glad I stuck to my guns.

1994 - Crossing from Latvia to Estonia. I took a public bus from Riga to Tallinn one fine summer day. The border crossing between Latvia and Estonia is quite off the beaten track, with a little village on either side. Everyone was very polite to me when I pulled out my American passport. I was the only Westerner on the bus. But the one Russian passenger was forced to get off at the border crossing. The bus left without her. I learned later that, after half a century of being treated like dirt in their own countries, the people of the Baltic States were exacting revenge for all those years and harassing the Russians, giving them a taste of their own medicine. The tables had turned. Later that afternoon in Tallinn (see photo) I witnessed a lively scene in a cafe. There was a customer who spoke only Russian. The Estonians behind the counter refused to serve her if she didn't speak Estonian. For fifty years the Baltic peoples had had Russian forced on them. With independence they tried to re-instate the supremacy of their own languages and cultures. Most of the Russians who colonized the Baltic states during the years of the Soviet Empire never bothered to learn a word of the native language of the countries they lived in. So, no Estonian, no tea and crumpets.

Osama bin Hydra

The other day I visited the local Borders Bookstore. Apparently I'm not the only person who uses the mega bookstore as a convenient reading room; the really industrious visitor might even utilize it as a research library. Have you noticed that the chairs that used to be found in every nook and cranny of these stores have all but disappeared? Could it be that the corporate owners don't want us, the reading public, to get too cosy in our perusals of their books and magazines? Nowadays you have to schlepp your pile of reading material to the cafe in order to find a place to sit, or else you plop your bony butt on a low, hard footstool. Very inconvenient. Anyway, I came across an article in a monthly publication of spiritual interest that explored the differences between the Eastern and Western mentalities in a striking manner. What follows is a summary of that article:

In the Tibetan tradition of Vajrayana Buddhism there exists the popular legend of Machig Labdron, a yogini who was empowered (initiated) by the Great Mother Tara herself. Machig, having attained a high state of enlightenment, perched herself in a tree overlooking a lake. Everyone around avoided that lake because demonic spirits were said to dwell in it. The resident demons challenged Machig's insolence by amassing a great army of spirits and attacking her. Because Machig was ego-less, the army could not engage her and dissolved into nothingness. The lake beings were overawed. They surrendered to Machig and became her servants in the cause of good.

There is a parallel tale that comes down to us from Ancient Greece, a tale that illustrates a decidedly different method of dealing with an enemy. One of trials of Hercules was to conquer the nine-headed monster known as the Hydra. When one of its heads was lopped off it grew back immediately. Hercules cauterized each stump (a little grizzly, isn't it?) to prevent that. And then there was the problem of the last head which was immortal: he simply buried that one under a large boulder to dispose of it (perhaps planning a barbecue later...).

These two legends say a great deal about the Eastern and Western approaches to confronting adverse forces. Machig, from a perspective that realizes that there is no 'other', that both the self (ego) and the 'enemy' are illusory, dispels adversity and transforms it into an ally. Hercules (an incarnation of male machismo if there ever was one) attacks the enemy and overcomes much of it by brute force; the last vestige of it is buried (repressed) somewhere, perhaps to rear its ugly head again in the future.

I don't personally practice Vajrayana, but I recognize wisdom when I see it. Machig is credited with developing the practice of chod, a means of confronting our own demons and transforming those energies into our allies. The essence of that teaching is in realizing the true nature of things. The Western world has consistently pursued policies of brute force and/or repression in dealing with what it perceives to be an enemy. Consider what would have happened after the trauma of 9/11, for example, if we had approached that situation differently, if we had really examined and delved into the source of world conflicts instead of lashing out in an aggressive manner and embarking on a senseless war. And where have the misnamed 'War on Terror' and the forceful occupation of Iraq brought us? Does brute force solve anything, or does it just create new problems? Haven't we, through our lack of wisdom, created Osama bin Hydra?

Eating Out

I have been reading back issues of The New Yorker of late. One issue, from September '07, was dedicated to food and included several essays entitled "Family Dinner". It made me think of some experiences I have had in the culinary realm, particularly those with my favorite cuisine, Indian food.
For two years, back in the 1970's, I lived in India, teaching at an International School in a small town in the mountains called Kodaikanal. It is what in India is known as a 'hill station', what we would call a resort town, a place where wealthier (and luckier) inhabitants of the sub-continent can go to escape the infernal heat on the plains in the hot season. Kodaikanal has the distinction of being the only hill station in the whole country that was actually established by Americans, not by the British. It is located in the Nilgiri Hills, a mountain range that runs parallel to the west coast of South India. At 7,200 feet in elevation it is the equivalent of a quarter of the way up Mount Everest. The altitude takes some getting used to. But because it is located only five degrees north of the equator, the enviornment is quite unique. It has been described as a 'high altitude jungle'. It is the most exotic place I have ever lived in. The Nilgiri Hills are eternally green, a fertile garden in which all kinds of spectacularly blooming trees and bushes abound. Pointsettias grew naturally outside the door of the staff lounge of Kodai School and they bloomed every October. The main attraction of the town is a man-made lake surrounded by eucalyptus forests (see photo). Even today, so many years later, the scent of eucy oil can send me back to South India.
But getting back to food...During 'the season', when Kodai was overrun with visitors, various Westerners and Indians would rent cottages in the area. Some people (the Indians being a very enterprising lot) even managed to make their stay pay for itself . Every year, in 'season', a certain gentleman (he was from Gujerat, I believe) would rent a small cottage further up the hill where he would run a kind of private restaurant. You would have to pre-arrange the date with him and he would cook a grand meal for you. It was said to be an exceptional experience. Three of us from the Kodai staff signed on. This rent-a-chef was known simply as Kaka, which supposedly means 'father' in Gujerati. The cottage he worked in was really a tiny, one-room shack, with no kitchen. But somehow he managed to prepare an elaborate meal (vegetarian, of course), with rice, several curries, chutneys and roasted bread that was delicious beyond description. He cooked his local cuisine which, as I remember, had a slight hint of sweetness in the curries. (North Indian cuisine, with its influence from the Mughals, is far more varied than that of South India, which tends to be somewhat limited and monotonous -- but hotter, if that is possible.) But there was one really weird thing about that experience (and in India there is always something a bit weird in every experience): Kaka, a rather large man, sat cross-legged on a neighboring table in his ample dhoti and watched us eat the entire time. Can you imagine eating a meal with someone staring at you THE WHOLE BLOODY TIME? Apparently, he wanted to be certain that we enjoyed his culinary efforts. In India it is not considered rude to stare at other people. Like the altitude, it took a little getting used to.
And speaking of the habit of staring...That reminds me of another memorable repast in India, one on a train. I returned to India some twenty-two years later for a visit. After a stay in gorgeous Kerala, the state that lies between the Nilgiri Hills and the Arabian Sea, I took a train through the mountains to neighboring Tamil Nadu. I have always loved traveling on the trains in India, and usually did so in second or third class; it was much more interesting that way. The route made a tortuous ascent into the mountains, traversing a high-altitude pass which cut through ragged peaks. There were palm trees in the valleys. The landscape was enchanting, something like Palm Beach on the moon; I had never seen anything remotely like it. It was a long ride and when lunch time rolled around I threw caution to the wind and ordered a meal. Eating out in India can be a risky business as one can never be assured of the cleanliness of the preparation. Cholera, dysentary, intestinal amoebas, etc. can result and, believe me, they are no fun. On any long-distance Indian train there is an established system whereby one can place an order for a meal (veg or non-veg are the options). The orders are then phoned ahead to an upcoming station where your meal is delivered to you. I was ravenously hungry. The packet I received was wrapped in discarded newspaper and tied with string. Inside was a large banana leaf (the ubiquitous dinnerware of South Asia) which offered a generous portion of rice, several veg curries, a simple chutney and a small plastic bag (also tied with a string) with fresh curd. I knew I was really being incautious by partaking of that last item but, what the hell. As I was the only Anglo on the train, the other passengers were very curious to see if the burra sahib (me) knew how to handle the niceties of eating an Indian meal -- and that means eating with your fingers. A small mob took up positions around my area, unashamedly staring at me. I felt like an animal in a zoo exhibit (talk about unnerving!), but the best policy was to simply ignore them. When they observed that I was a pro in culinary etiquette they quickly lost interest and let me be. The meal was delicious. And I didn't get sick from it.
And where did I learn my impeccable manners in eating from a banana leaf? Not from Emily Post, I assure you. I remember my very first encounter with eating Indian fashion. After several weeks of living up in Kodaikanal after I first arrived, a weekend trip was planned to the ancient city of Madurai, a place famous for its spectacular Sri Meenakshi temple. I joined a small party of colleagues and was very excited about finally getting to explore the real India. One of my companions, Karsten (originally from Wisconsin), had been in India for many years already and knew the ropes. He suggested a nice little place for lunch, one with great food. He said it was frequented by local businessmen. One could have conjured up a vision of Mom's Diner, only with curry on the menu. We arrived at the eatery, a veritable hole in the wall, and were shown seats. One bearer (server) came by and plunked banana leaves in front of us. A series of bearers then laddled rice and various curries out of large pots, followed by the other savory particulars that make an Indian meal so interesting. There was no cutlery, of course. I had never faced the prospect of eating with my fingers and didn't have a clue as to how it was properly done. It didn't occur to Karsten, old India hand that he was, that I was uninitiated in the art of eating rice and curry off a banana leaf. So, it was a matter of careful observation and following suit. There is a whole etiquette to it. First, you only touch your food with your right hand, NEVER with the left (there is an established system amongst the Hindus of clean and unclean body parts); you mix the rice and curries lustily, create a manageable ball of food with your fingers and funnel it into your mouth with the thumb. It's okay to slurp and grunt, by the way -- it shows that you're enjoying your meal. Try that at the next time you're dining at the Hotel Four Seasons!

Ponder this...

A guy walks up to a Zen master and asks, "Is there life after death?"
The Zen master says, "How should I know?"
The guy replies indignantly, "Because you're a Zen master!"
"Yes," says the Zen master, "but not a dead one."
as told by Brad Warner

Can we actually "know" the universe? My God, it's hard enough finding your way around in Chinatown.
Woody Allen

"You're alive right now. Just be what you are, where you are. That's the most magical thing there is. The life you're living right now has joys even God could never know."
Brad Warner, from "Hardcore Zen"