Asana, Sadhana, and Siddhartha

Rishikesh, India
9 March 2003

The holy city of Varanasi, India, on the Ganges, the home of Goddess Shiva. Photo by Michael Seto



A bather washing away their sins in the holy Ganges. Photo by Michael Seto

The 'dom' lifted the green bamboo stave, two inches thick and some six feet long, longer than his wiry frame. His stringy muscles flexed under his dark chocolate skin. THWAPPCRACK! The supple green bamboo pole snapped into the burning wood pile. Sparks and embers flew off in all directions. He shoved violently on one end, pushing large blackened log back into the heat of the fire.

My eyes darted from top to bottom of the scene, trying to take it all in, despite some itching and watering from the smoke. Standing behind a rail just fifteen feet from the flames, I held up my arm to shield my face from the radiating heat. Trying to discern the unfamiliar smell in the air. Around me, 'untouchables' sat amongst cords of wood piled high into the air next to a over sized scale - similar to the scales of justice...

I arrived in Varanasi, India a couple days ago and found a decent room in the Puja Hotel ('puja' also is the act of prayer especially in the Ganges River, just yards from the hotel.) Varanasi, formerly Benares, sits on the river Ganges and means 'eternal city' in Hindi - its the 'Mother Ganges.' Each year, thousands (and I mean THOUSANDS) come to bath in the waters in this holy spot. One dunking supposedly washes away all the sins committed to now. Dying here means instant transport to heaven, do not pass go, do not collect $200!

The old city, which abuts the riverfront on the West bank, consists of a warren of narrow passageways and alleys, some just four feet wide. Shopfronts, residences, hotels, and restaurants all mix together in the atmospheric neighborhood. Cows meander the cobbled streets, stopping to munch on organic trash piled in every corner, and then leave viscous evidence of their own passing.

Wandering around, I keep my eye focused on the ground, like a monk, lest I slip through some slimy trash or cow patties, which the Indian kids seem to ignore, running around barefoot without a care! Once a cow stood astride the narrow road, I helplessly I stood behind it, till some little kid came along, slapped the cows side, and then it sauntered away. Whew!

Ghats, or steps to the water, line the riverfront, the Dasaswamedh Ghat being one of the most popular for bathing in the Ganges; and every morning, in the rising sun, pilgrims and locals alike drift to the waterfront and descend the stairs into the water. Boatmen beckon passersby to take a ride.

Wandering along the ghats one morning, I stumbled onto a group of pilgrims, from all parts of India and the world, gathered under a tent listening to a guru of some type. I watched and snapped photos for a couple hours. Then they all rose and went to a section of the river screened off by a stage set up in the water. There, they undertook all kinds of ceremony and prostrations and in small groups of family and friends, entered the water.

My eyes followed a group of young women, resplendent in their brilliant saris, as they settled down by the water. Some clutched ropes set into the slippery steps, worn by countless soles and coated with moss. They dipped their hands and sprinkled the water over themselves, working slowly deeper into the water. Laughs and giggles and splashing as they immersed themselves repeatedly, their wrapped saris clinging to them like the red stripe holds a candy cane.

Fascinated and so moved by the bliss of this group, I unceremoniously set down my camera, stripped down to my shorts (unzipping my high-tech pants!) and slowly walked into the water. The cold grabbed my toes and ankles as I swam in, refreshed from the 85 degree air. I clamped my nose and mouth and eyes and dipped myself fully into Mother Ganges.

The Ganges ranks as one of the most polluted waterways in the world, with raw sewage pouring in from the city of Varanasi. Considered septic (no oxygen left suspended in the water) with astronomical bacteria counts, one can easily get sick from injecting the 'holy' waters. Dead cows often float by along with human cadavers.

Immediately after my dip, I ran back to my hotel, showered and soaped my body, shampooed my hair, put in eye drops and brushed my teeth. I ended up with just a mild rash which went away after three days...

Before Varanasi, I spent a few days in Bodhgaya, where Buddha (formerly Indian prince Siddartha Gautama) attained enlightenment after seven days of meditating under the Bodhi Tree. There I wandered about the Mahabodhi Temple all day, trying to get a bit of my own enlightenment through osmosis!

Several Buddhist countries have constructed elaborate monasteries for their own monks to live in while at Bodhgaya, and you can wander from Tibet to Thailand in a couple hundred meters. The other facilities for 'tourists' lack a bit, but most don't linger too long here.

I searched for a Vipassana meditation class, taking a rickshaw a couple miles outside of town to this known Dhamma school, but alas, the teacher was away and no courses were on offer then. In fact, I arrived a few days after several festivals and important Tibeten events (their new year) so most of the monasteries and such were winding down from that.

Instead, I made a nightly pilgrimage to the temple, removed my shoes (a requirement) and circumambulated the temple three times in walking meditation. Around me, groups of monks chanted, sporting the classic crimson and orange robes. Other groups in white sat in prayer: Japanese, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, groups from all over came to pay homage to the primogenitor of their philosophy/religion.

As chants also played over the modern PA system, I sat in seiza (where both legs are folded under you and you sit on your ankles) since I cannot manage lotus and pondered the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path to Enlightenment, etc. I also wondered, 'what the heck am I doing? I don't FEEL anything!' So I sat and sat and sat. Well, it took me a while, but I realized you can't force these things. Its a step by step process for most and half and hour of meditating where Buddha sat doesn't always do it. No shortcuts!

Leaving the tranquility of the temple grounds, one immediately falls under siege of the touts outside the gate, selling incense, toys, beads, prayer flags and all the other accouterments of religion. Its the same everywhere in India and I felt more used to the noise and fury of it all, ignoring it more easily. (Maybe this meditation stuff does help!)

I drifted off after a couple days, and hoped onto a local train to Varanasi, tired of my valiant but seeming futile effort to find my Buddha nature. Better luck next time!

Everywhere in Varanasi, wander these ascetics who renounce all possessions seek enlightenment through 'Sadhana.' These men (only men) are known as sadhus; though to uninformed eyes they look like homeless guys, and act like them since their renunciation of possessions means they must beg for money, I mean 'alms,' to get through the day. After a couple days, I tired of handing out 2-3 Rupees to each guy (about 10 cents).

Clad usually in orange robes, they look like a band of Fanta mascots, except for the scraggly beards and the yellow or red paint exhibited on their foreheads. For years they pursue daily meditation and mortification of the flesh to reach a state of nirvana, supposedly. Wandering around here you feel like you stepped into central casting for some Rudyard Kipling movie.

Many of the sadhus seem to swear by 'catalysts' to help them in the search for nirvana, smoking prodigious amounts of hashish and offering some to every passerby. I turned down these generous teachers, never sure what actually passed around posing as hash.

One Austrian backpacker went berserk in my hotel, howling obscenities and incoherent phrases. He dashed out and ended up fighting some Indian policemen. Without any travel companions to look after him, the hotel folks generously collected him screaming back to the hotel. I awoke one morning and in the lobby found him buck naked, smeared in his own feces and yelling at the poor Indian innkeepers, who stood with bamboo staffs to protect themselves.

Finally, a few days later, another Austrian who checked in was enlisted to try and talk this guy 'down' or get in touch with the embassy for assistance. I left later that day, not knowing what happened, but impressed on not sharing every joint passed my direction.

After a week in Varanasi, tired of relaxing on the rooftop and watching the river flow by, I headed north to the state of Himachal Pradesh and the headwaters of the Ganges in Haridwar and Rishikesh, about 300 miles from Varanasi.

Rishikesh bills itself as the Yoga Capital of the World, where the Beatles found their guru and the banks of the Ganges are lined with ashrams where one take undertake all kinds of meditation and yoga courses. Haridwar, an hour further downstream, offers much more stringent courses which require silence and prayer and thus most foreigners end up in Rishikesh.

Settling into the cute little Green Hotel, I wondered how I would find a suitable course. But as the Zen saying goes, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear" I ran into a woman who suggested the course in the back of the same Green Hotel I resided at.

Popping in for the evening class at 5:30, I found about a dozen other western backpackers being led by Pankaj, the 28-year old instructor. Fluent in English and very knowledgeable in physiology, Pankaj led the group in some vigorous asanas, aimed more at intermediate practitioners, though a beginner could endure most of his course.

Unlike the more aerobic version typically found in US health clubs, we worked on Iyengar yoga, with the focus on the correct assumption of each asana, held for several minutes. Pankaj wandered the room, correcting us sometimes with a gentle nudge or by leaping on our backs to help in a stretch (like 'child's pose').

He exhorted us with contradictory and seemingly impossible and incomprehensible instructions, "hit the thigh, pull the knee up, expand the chest, open the shoulders, close the hands, move through your pelvis, tuck under the sacrum, elongate the vertebrae." It resembled a sadomasochistic game of 'Twister.'

We stood on our heads, our shoulders, our hands, contorted into impossible shapes, all now candidates for Cirque de Soleil. Each day after class, I staggered to my room and luxuriated in the hot shower, from a bucket, of course! Afterwards, a meal of pasta or thali at one of the local restaurants before retiring at ten o'clock.

With no alcohol and a strict veggie diet for the past few weeks, I feel great! These holy cities in India forbid meat and alcohol, though not super strict, I have not yet found any booze or even eggs around here!

After morning yoga, I spend the day walking along the banks of the river; or lying upon one of the rocks, shaped like a lounge chair, reading. I saunter up to a cafe overlooking the town and dine on veggie chow mein, or a latte and a piece of homemade apple pie. Then I'd wander around more, taking in the peaceful Himalayan foothills amidst the soothing sound of the water.

The week passed quickly and with belt several notches tighter, and buns of steel, and able to grab my ankles and touch my face to my shins, I left for Dehli, where my own sadhana would end and I will live large with my Mom for the next ten days, aboard the Palace on Wheels through Rajastan.

I stood transfixed still watching the fire; something eluding the grasp of my brain. I flashed back to my time in the gulf when we rampaged through Kuwait on the heels of the Iraqi army, torched tanks and trucks lining the road, evidence of the relentless air war waged on the occupiers of Kuwait. The Iraqi soldiers...

It hit me. The log this guy kept pushing back into the fire was no log at all. The sticks he smashed with the bamboo were no sticks at all. The log was the blackened torso of a cadaver, being cremated at the Manikarnika Ghat, the most auspicious place for cremation on the Ganges in Varanasi. He was breaking the arm bones and pushing the corpse back into the heart of the fire. Deep down, I knew this all along, but sometimes the mind takes a moment to grasp what seems so unacceptable, a human body being burned on an open fire.

Suddenly fully awake, no outside sign of my change in awareness to betray my insight and initial horror. I now looked closer, searing (pardon the pun) the image into my memory. This was someones father, mother, brother, sister, loved one. Indeed, several relatives, normally a son, stood nearby, having ceremonially started the fire and circumambulated the body. Eventually, the ashes would be scattered into Mother Ganges. Ashes to ashes.

My clothes, my backpack, my camera, my family, my friends, my possessions...my LIFE, all went up in smoke. What remains when we pass on from this world I wondered? If this pyre represents my final physical destiny, of what importance ultimately are all the superficial trappings I've so eagerly pursued and sold my soul to gain? If death comes down to this, what is truly of worth to me in life?

I don't know the answers yet to these questions, but in retrospect, spending the past few weeks by myself, wandering in the steps of Siddartha, amongst others in Sadhana, and whilst contorted in Asana; I feel a few steps closer to an answer.

Letter to America

Rishikesh, India
6 March 2003

A double exposure of a Cambodian prison cell (during the "Killing Fields") over a rice paddy. Photo by Michael Seto

From abroad, I have watched the image of America roller-coaster since that fateful day of 9/11. From pitied to pariah in eighteen months, how fortunes change.

I have listened to ill-informed, mis-informed, and well informed world citizens (backpackers like myself), and citizens of many nations hold forth on geopolitics, terrorism, globalism, environmentalism, capitalism; all the other -isms that scream for our attention from the daily headlines.

In these discussions, I sometimes play the role of American advocate, sometimes that of American apologist, but always that of full-time American. My observations:

The world loves us. And the world hates us.

I Want to be Like Mike

The world loves the American way of life - the consumption society and our abundant material comforts. This is envied and emulated everywhere.

Everywhere I go, I see people wearing Nike or NBA shirts; ball caps invariably sport 'NY' or 'LA'. They clamor to eat at McDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Pizza Hut. They quaff Coke and Pepsi. Everywhere you look, American logos scream forth from shops, signs, billboards.

They surf CNN and Yahoo! and Ebay on the predominantly English internet on Microsoft software. Their local soap operas and news comes with Baywatch sandwiched in between and MTV available everywhere. Local cinemas play Hollywood blockbusters, with pirated copies on sale outside.

Still Waters Run Deep

The envy of our material success breeds much mimicry of our system, yet often without the proper underlying foundation of individual rights, democracy and rule of law. Capitalism-lite in many countries has devolved into crony kleptocracy, souring the masses to insensitive markets running roughshod over small farmers, ancient communities and traditional values. (Witness the backlash against the WTO and IMF and UN.)

Not that our system is perfect, but you have to hand it to a hundred white guys who wrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights two-hundred years ago.

Without the proper 'software' like courts and laws and government, the accouterments of capitalism ring very hollow and inflexible, becoming vulnerable to volatile markets. The 1997 Asian crises, Russian crisis, and current Venezuelan, Argentinian and Brazilian problems bear this out. Its imperative to build the institutions that regulate a free-market democracy; it cannot be faked.

Hypocrisy Democracy

And they hate us. The most negative feedback about America seems to boil down to our 'sanctimonious hypocrisy'. In the world's eyes, its "do as we say, not as we do." We do not practice what we preach; and we certainly apply our principals inconsistently in the eyes of the world. They see us as arrogant bullies.

We want to liberate Iraqi citizens, but not Saudi Arabian or Syrians or Pakistanis or Chinese. We will attack Iraq for weapons of mass destruction, but not North Korea or India or South Africa. We decry Hamas violence, but not equally egregious Israeli responses. We shower money on rebuilding Afghanistan and bribe Turkey, but aid not Zimbabwe or the Congo.

We make ill-advised friends of convenience, favoring patchwork short-term solutions over long-term problem solving. This thinking resulted in the Shah of Iran and now we chum up to Musharraf of Pakistan, smiling for CNN while making himself dictator.

The largest hydrocarbon emitters, we derail the Kyoto Accords. We take our ball and go home when it comes to setting up a International Criminal Court if US peacekeepers can't get immunity. The richest nation in the world, we still slap petty steel and banana sanctions against the EU.

We make a poor effort at trying to understand other cultures and beliefs, demanding that things be done the 'American' way. We paint the colored world in black and white, good and evil, with us or against us; alienating many potential supporters.

The most often heard phrase from locals as I travel, "We love Americans but not your government."

America the Beautiful

Don't get me wrong. I love America and in my travels see very little to entice me to live elsewhere on a permanent basis.

We do a helluva lotta things right and a lot of things very well. What country rallied to defeat totalitarian nations in two world wars? What country has landed men on the moon? Who invented the internet? Which country in just over 200 years of existence, from nothing, is the richest, most diverse, and most free place in the world?

Any local I met abroad, whom I queried, "if you could live in any country other than your own, where would you go?" The resounding answer, of course, they all want to come to America.

Return to the Desert

Thirteen years ago, I emerged from the black oil clouds shrouding the Al-Wafra oilfields in Kuwait from the sun. As part of a column of coalition military might, I helped to liberate Kuwait in a five-day, one-side war against clear Iraqi aggression. America faces two related short-term problems, the war on Iraq and the war on terrorism, the latter also a longer-term problem.

In my mind, we will be at war with Iraq in weeks. Inevitable. We will defeat Iraq quickly, but the postwar scenario ranks much more important and difficult than the campaign itself. Its installing and maintaining a democratic government in Iraq and preventing any possible instability from arising and spreading that will demand willpower and determination.

As Thomas Friedman, NY Times, puts it: "What all this means is that when it comes to building democracy in Iraq, the Europeans are uninterested, the Americans are hypocritical and the Arabs are ambivalent. Therefore, undertaking a successful democratization project there, in a way that will stimulate positive reform throughout the region, will require a real revolution in thinking all around ・among Americans, Arabs and Europeans. If done right, the Middle East will never be the same. If done wrong, the world will never be the same."

Grave New World (Dis)order

September 11th ushered us into a grave new world of insecurity, suspicion, and fear.

Terrorism is not new, nor is it unbeatable. But while we cut off the heads of the hydra, the important objective remains to kill the animal itself. This may be impossible.

Ultimately, terrorism gets managed, not defeated. There will always be the Mohammad Attas and Tim McVeighs. The task is to minimize their opportunities for success and minimize the tools available to them through political, economic, social, law enforcement, and preemptive action.

The longer-term task calls for us to minimize the number of people who want to be the next Atta or McVeigh. Tougher task, but again not impossible.

The dilemma is how to balance a free-society, and limit government intrusion into our privacy whilst accomplishing the above tasks. I am confident that our nation and the Western democracies will find a balance. Its inevitable that terrorist successes will bring overreaction in protective measures, but in the long-run, common sense should win out.

Brave New World

The next longer-term plan calls for us to loudly and consistently use our bully pulpit to push for the things we stand for. Democracy. Human rights. Free markets.

The West need to call on, cajole, and sometimes strong-arm governments, both friend and enemy, to move towards democratic systems where citizens control their own destiny.

Compassionate Capitalism

The developed and 'rich' nations need to use our wealth of resources to assist the poorer nations. In addition to the intangible 'software' of human rights, democracy, and free markets; we must assist in the 'hardware' building wells, sewers, schools, hospitals and power plants. To fail in this amounts to negligence.

We must offer hope.

If a Palestinian teenager thought about the upcoming school prom, borrowing the family Honda, playing Nintendo, and attending college; he would not be anxious to strap TNT to his torso and blow up a bus in Israel. Imagine if 10% of our defense budget, say $40 billion went to assist developing world in this manner; doubtless, in the long term, the global benefits would equal ten times that amount.

This last part really embodies 'draining of the swamp' of the short-term terrorism problem. Ameliorating the conditions that breed hopelessness and soften ears to the voices of extremism and intolerance, the siren song of violence and terrorism.

This cannot be accomplished overnight. This may take more like 25 years - a REAL long-term objective. Sadly, the US and the West tends to do poorly in these type of long-tailed undertakings. In our attention deficit world, we prefer those problems quickly and easily solved with an application of political, economic, or military power.

The Pepsi Challenge

This problem lies in the lap of our generation. That's us, the post baby boomers, Gen-X, Why and Zee; and maybe AA. The world we shape will be the world that surrounds us for the next quarter century.

Do we bury our heads in the sand and hope for a dot-com resurrection so we can continue consuming away and the other 94% of the world's population can suck our heel dust? Or do we step up to the plate and take up the mantle of this monumental task?

We are by far the most pluralistic and open-minded generation thus far; comfortable with hetero, homo, black, white, brown, Christmas, Haunakah, Kwanza. Yet we are stuck in pluralism and its shadow, a divisive tribalism. You can see it in the streets, the inability to integrate and synthesize a new order from all the parts. Instead, each special interest group clamors for its 'due,' each group feels owed or entitled to something.

Our challenge is to rise above such pettiness. We've made the tent bigger, the first step. But can we now get everyone singing the same tune, or at least pulling in the same direction.

Can we see the new potential whole of all these beautiful parts, unique in individual identity, but with similar needs, and with much in common below the surface. All these parts complementary and with the potential to form a whole which exceeds the sum of its parts.

A grand transcendence.

Bag an the Saddle

Bagan, Myanmar
14 February 2003

A balloon over Bagan, Mayanmar, at dusk. Photo by Michael Seto

The late afternoon sun warms my back as the swift breeze cools the sweat on my forehead; I shiver at the temperature difference and guide my bike down the narrow paved road. Around me, open fields with uncultivated grass and the occasional tree run away to the horizon. The sky blue and clear, I can see the distant foothills surrounding this valley.

Rust colored stupas stick up all around me, like oilcans, their spires gesturing skyward. The come in all different sizes, from a small outhouse to a ten story building. Each dedicated to Buddha and housing a statue or altar within. Some stand out starkly with whitewashed exteriors, others glisten brilliantly, the sun bouncing off golf plated domes.

The area of Bagan ranks as one of the least known Southeast Asian wonders, being situated in the reclusive country of Burma (Myanmar); long boycotted by the West at the urging of Aun Sung Suu Kyi, the charismatic leader of the democratic opposition to the military regime in control. Overtaken by Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Bagan beckons off the beaten track travellers with its own bucolic charm.

Waking up to roosters crowing and the rhythmic clickity-clack of horseshoes on the road, one feels transported back to Victorian times. In the early morning, a fog of cooking smoke clings at the ground and hugs the trees lining the streets. The smell of wood fires reminiscent of camping. Few cars go by, the roads dominated by horse carts, rickshaws, and the ubitquitous bicycle, all accompanied by pedestrians meandering to whatever obscure chores beckon.

Early in the morning, columns of scarlet robed monks appear like apparitions from the smoke, collecting alms and food in black lacquer bowls. Shaved heads bowed, they move from house to house, shop to shop, as locals dole out steamed rice or curries. Most Burmese are devout Buddhists.

Less inured to foreign tourists, the Burmese exude a friendliness and guilelessness that welcomes a jaded traveler, tired of incessant touts. Wide grins and a shouted "mingalaba" (hello) greet you at every turn. Kids and adults wave with genuine pleasure. To think that such happiness exists under a military dictatorship, where internet access is banned, surprises.

The tourist infrastructure here lacks the polish and choice of more developed Angkor Wat, but the enthusiasm of the service makes up for all the shortfalls. I stay at the May Kha Lar guesthouse for $7 per night and rent a bicycle to tour the area.

The town of Bagan was moved overnight by government diktat to New Bagan, though a few hotels still stand in now Old Bagan, with small village of Nuang Yu forming the hub of the tourist area. A paved ring road of about 12 miles links all three towns and the 'international' airport and takes you through the spectacular fields of payas and stupas and temples.

The Bagan catalog lists over 2,800 structures still standing, within the 80 square kilometer archaeological site. Three-dozen large multistory sites provide ample exploration for a week, especially when cruising leisurely from one to another on a bike.

Exotic named temples abound: Ananda Pahto, That Byin Nyu, Mingala Zedi, Dhammayan Gyi Pahto. The latter looks like a sixty foot tall soft-serve ice cream cone, gilded in gold leaf, it shimmers in the sun. Others reach skyward in the typical five pronged design that seems imitated in two-thirds of the structures, all built during 1000-1400 AD.

I turn off the road onto a dirt trail, pulled toward some distant spires. Bouncing past fields, oxen, farmers, as I make my approach. The various temples are still used for worship by the local people and Buddhist monks abound, meditating or collecting alms. With little regulation or supervision, one can wander at will around most sites, climbing hidden stairs to higher levels and gazing at the Buddha statues in relative isolation. With so many places to go, its easy to avoid other tourists and find solitude.

Sunset brings the most activity, with two or three of the larger temples becoming the focal point for tourists, disgorged from buses which themselves materialize from nowhere. Chattering hordes climb the steep stupas deigned the 'best sunset view' as a hot-air balloon from Balloons over Bagan drifts past. I cycle past the circus and find Khaymingha temple half a mile away. Here with just four others and a handful of locals, I watch the light turn orange then red and bathe the landscape with soft light, turning the red-rust temples incandescent.

Each day I mount my bike and head off in a random direction. No plan in my mind. No limit to my time.

BBRIIIiiing a liiinnnnng liiiiinnngg! I ring the little bell on my bike, ostensibly to warn other road uses, but I just love the sound of it! BRRRINNNNNG!! The bike sports a basket up front and one speed and a comfy bucket seat. Its the kind you owned at eight years old, the kind with tassels streaming from the handlebars and colored straws or old bare tennis balls decorating the spokes.

The tires growl as they grip the road while I weave from side to side, taking advantage of the dearth of traffic. Goat herds chew at weeds on the roadside while children's laughter wafts through the trees, coming from clusters of dirt-brick homes just off the road.

BBRIIIiiing a liiinnnnng! LIIIInnnnng a liiing! Kids turn and run and wave - I wave back. MINGALABA!! BRRIIINGGG! The bell calls like Peter's pipe.

The five days in Bagan went by quickly, each blending into the other in a enchanting monotony reminiscent of summers as a child. Those long days when the sun never set; when one never tired of running around in the grass; when you could stay in the pool all day before pruning; when scrapes healed overnight; when you spent all day goofing off with your friends; when adults came from an enigmatic alien race; and when a tuna fish sandwich and lemonade in the cool shade of your kitchen tasted like ambrosia. I never thought I would grow up.

The malaise hanging over me from Vietnam, as much my own internal mood as the external environment, evaporated in the warm dry sun of Burma. I was truly in the "beginner's mind" and back in the saddle again.

"...for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher's desk."

- Henry David Thoreau

Hong Kong Ten Years Later

Hong Kong
1 Feb 2003

The Hong Kong Harbor and skyline as seen from The Peak of Central. Hong Kong is actually an island like Manhattan is to New York. This is circa 1994. Photo by Michael Seto

"And then one day you find,
ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run,
you missed the starting gun"

- Pink Floyd, "Time"

I walked through the new Chek Lap Kok concourse, marveling at its shimmering floor and soaring roof above me. No lines awaited me at immigration. I recalled Hong Kong's old airport at Kai Tak, where one literally sprinter like OJ Simpson from the gate to immigration to avoid the inevitable long lines in that antiquated and cramped terminal.

Ten years ago I walked down the short ramp out into the greeting area at Kai Tak, mesmerized by the sea of faces and the cacophony of Cantonese with a smattering of English, Tagalog, Hindi, and Mandarin. Bewildered, I finally spied my aunt and her driver who took me out to their home in Repulse Bay, where I lived for three months.

My parents grew up in Hong Kong and I planned to spend six months here working at my uncle's bank while waiting to start law school in the fall, and perhaps reconnect with my withered Chinese roots. (I thank my Uncle Jimmy for his generous invitation ten years ago.)

I ended up remaining in Hong Kong for five years. My life changed completely. I stumbled into a career where I forged professional and material success. I fell in love, got married; then fell out of love and got divorced. I met a group of kindred spirits, the kind of people that thronged to Hong Kong in the early Nineties - and they remain lifelong friends.

I left Hong Kong in New York, accepting a transfer from my employer to work in the Big Apple at the end of 1997, shortly after the handover of HK to Chinese control.

Ten years pass and the prodigal son returns! Taking the the world's longest contiguous escalator to the Mid-Levels; I strolled past my first flat on Castle Road. The place barely fit a twin mattress into the each of two closet sized bedrooms. A kitchen, living room and bathroom filled the remainder of this 350 sq ft shoebox. Sitting on the couch, my feet reached the TV. I spent a few months here with my best friend Steve, where we killed many a brain cell drinking bottles of Tsingtao and watching Simpsons on tape.

Back then, my ex-pat friends and I clamored for tapes from family in the States, and we held TV parties to a packed house anytime a tape of Simpsons and Seinfeld arrived. Infatuated with the world of finance, I wanted more than anything to work for an American bulge bracket firm. Everyday, Morgan, Goldman and Merrill figured prominent in the financial headlines as the American investment expanded in Asia. Finally, hard work and luck landed me in Three Exchange Square, Morgan Stanley's offices.

I dedicated myself to work, arriving at 7am and leaving at 9pm, straight for beers at Yelt's Inn in nearby 'Lanky' Fong. We took perverse pride in being at our desks over the weekend and late into the night. At this age, we knew we had to make the most of these 'productive years' and max out our career trajectories.

In those days, my friends and I met at "Am'scam", the monthly Young Professionals Committee happy hour sponsored by the American Chamber of Commerce. Every other person there seemed to hand over a card printed in the subway station announcing their recent arrival and job-searching status! I reigned among the supreme networkers (from what I am told) - handing out hundreds of business cards in my HK time.

Five nights a week we stumbled around Lan Kwai Fong (the main bar area) drunk most of the time, smoking Cuban cigars and locating friends on cellphones. Double drinks at Graffitis and jello shots at Al's dictated the evening's wanderings around bars that opened and closed every two years. 'Work hard, party harder' became everyone's mantra.

Brits, Canadians, Americans, Indians, assorted ambitious folks from everywhere came to Hong Kong seeking their fortune. They came and went in those days, staying either one year or five. Over five years seemed to take you straight to ten, do not pass Go. Many of my friends still reside here, pushing for the fifteen year mark.

Returning to my old office, I walked into the lobby of Three Exchange Square, the same elevator ride I took for years when I lived and slaved here. The office, filled with many familiar and many more unfamiliar faces looked just as I left it. Warm handshakes and smiles from old colleagues welcomed me.

On the way out, I walked by Haagen Daz where a young fresh faced twenty-something woman first interviewed me for Morgan Stanley in 1994 she looked barely old enough to drink and here she was asking grizzled war-vet ol' me about myself! I ended up getting a job, Linda (the young woman) and I are still friends, and we always joke about that interview.

A few days later at the American Club cafe, I joined five old friends for lunch. Instead of the bragging about our hangovers and the latest clubs in Wan Chai (my recollection of our past); now talk revolved around which schools their kids attended and ease of raising them with HK's affordable maid and driver lifestyle. They all have lived 10 years.

This week passed in a kaleidoscope of lunches, dinners and drinks with old friends, most of whom I met back in the heady Asian gold rush days, when China and HK were the 'internet' stocks of the emerging market universe. Their collective generosity embarrassed me as they hardly let me open my wallet to pay for anything. An old friend even let me crash at her pad for the week and drink up all her coffee.

Interestingly, the places frequented by my ex-wife and I triggered less nostalgia than those that I associate with people still prominent in my life. My ex remarried and lives in London, and we still pass one another cordial emails a couple times a year. I hold wonderful memories of married life and my very kind and generous and compassionate ex, but perhaps I feel that chapter is closed and thus more distant than the ongoing relationships with my still current friends. Maybe that bears further exploration some time.

The last weekend, I rode out to Repulse Bay on the #6 bus from Central. In 1993, the bus creaked along without air conditioning and in the sweltering summer months, I'd fight for a seat near the window. Now I sat shivering in the luxurious AC bus, emblematic of the improvement in quality of life in HK.

Lounging around a friend's balcony overlooking Repulse Bay, her two kids pull her from social duties every few minutes, either chasing her two year old son around, or breast feeding her infant every two hours. Another friend there and her husband await their first child due in nine weeks and the discussion dances from Iraq to sonograms. We drink coffee instead of beer and work through the who is doing what and where among our old 'gang' of HK friends.

In the past five years many have moved on but weddings seem to bring us together every year in exotic places ranging from Cape Town to Newfoundland, Bali to Tuscany. Each celebration brings news of births and birthdays, a few more gray hairs and wrinkles and talk of losing ten pounds. Is this as good as it gets? I hope so.

Returning to any old place that figures prominent in one's life provides a benchmark for one's "progress". Its like a before and after picture for Jenny Craig. Wow, we ask ourselves incredulously, "I wasn't like THAT was I?!" That silly, that dumb, that immature, that ignorant. The serendipity of it all becomes self-evident. At the time, decisions seemed fraught with confusion and my life felt arbitrary and capricious as I flailed about. Trivial seemed monumental, monumental now clearly trivial.

As I look back, I can now distinguish my path through the woods, the trail twists and turns, but never fails to move me forward toward some as yet unseen, but perhaps glimpsed destination. But any notion of control I try to relinquish, knowing its vanity and futility.

As I prepared to leave Hong Kong for New York, ready for a change of surroundings, especially after an amicable divorce I took a last scuba trip to the Maldives with 20 good friends from HK. There I stumbled upon a book that led me to seek out a personal transformation teacher in the US. (Read Michael Crichton's fabulous "Travels" for more inspiration. My most favorite book.)

New York served as a cauldron for me, mixing work and my own personal growth through meditation and yoga (and golf). As I stirred the mixed ingredients in the pot it became clear that the time for me to take to the road again had arrived. In 2001 I left work and NY and friends and possessions behind to start this journey around the world - as most readers of this Travelogue know.

Ten years from now, the retrospective on my four years in New York and this world journey hopefully will bring as much insight to me as this return to Hong Kong has.

Watch this space!

"I am grateful for every minute of my silly little life."

- Lester Burnham, "American Beauty"

Great Expectations

Hanoi, Vietnam
10 January 2003

A man scrubs his pots by a canal in Hoi An, Vietnam.


Women on a Hanoi street selling shoes - and not many of them. Photos by Michael Seto.


I expected a lot from Vietnam, after so many friends raved about its wonders. I come away disappointed. I looked forward to a idyllic, verdant, and exotic land; and I got a noisy, grimy, and smelly place.

Maybe I am being a bit harsh here. I enjoyed Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) and Hanoi, but the areas in between, like an internet stock, did not live up to their billing.

Dalat, the central highland paradise; Nha Trang, the beach party spot, Hoi An, the charming old colonial port; and Hue, the historic Imperial City, all fell short of my anticipated splendor.

Instead, all struck me as typical Southeast Asian third world cities - grey, drab, uninspired, monotonous concrete blocks construction so prevalent as it's cheap and resists the rainy monsoon weather well. Filled with traffic and avaricious locals.

Paris but for Parisians

The only Vietnamese I met all wanted one thing, money, US Dollars, hard currency. The typical daily litany: "postcard...you buy postcard from me! Where you from? Moto Moto? Cyclo - where you go? Woohoo! One hour cheap cheap You want shoeshine? Why not? You buy book from me? Hello, hello Guidebook? You come in my store! You cannot walk ten feet without being pestered. AAAGGGHHHHH!!

Everyone you meet sees you as a walking ATM, dispensing Dong like some Johnny Appleseed!

You quickly develop a siege mentality. In the morning you manage a smile and a firm NO; you walk briskly. By noon you ignore them completely. By evening, you want to punch even the kids.

Cynicism sets in. You see a blind man led by a teenager begging for money - you dismiss this unfortunate person believing he probably rents himself out to beggars as a sympathy ploy. You begin to see every Vietnamese you meet as Egyptian camel drivers at Giza or Turkish carpet salesmen in Istanbul - a common breed of snake oil selling sub-humans. To be scorned and ignored, yet as inescapable as mosquitoes, as aggressive as Africanized bees, attacking in swarms.

Rain, rain, go away...

It rained incessantly, from the day I left Saigon to my arrival in Hanoi. So a lot of activities ended up curtailed and I spent lots of time just reading in my hotel room. Rain and gray skies cast a pall over everything, especially my mood. Also, it being the holidays, I felt alone, separated from family and friends and all things familiar.

So I did not play golf in Dalat as planned. I did not lie on the white beaches of Nha Trang. I did not cruise the Perfume river or ancient tombs of Hue or Hoi An. And I did not visit the DMZ battlefields of which I read so much about as a teenager.

My listlessness and inactivity no doubt reinforced the gray mood the overcast skies put me in. Compounded by some desire to save money, I skimped on those minor luxuries which may have thrown some light into the murk. I ate sparing meals, sans soft drinks or sweets; lived in cheap hostels, where peeling walls and dank bathrooms predominated. In retrospect, I did little to alter my self-reinforced gloom.

The Telltale Heart

I felt real guilty for not enjoying myself as I expected to here in Vietnam. I felt in some way like I let down those who enjoyed this country in such an enthusiastic way. I felt like someone at a pretentious NY dinner party of self-proclaimed cognoscenti who admits (gasp) to disliking the latest book/movie/restaurant that everyone raved about. An outcast.

We are raised with others' expectations imprinted on us; by parents, siblings, teachers, friends, coworkers, TV, etc. Shedding those expectations does not come easily like a snake shedding its skin.

As Thoreau said:

"But, wherever a man goes, men will pursue and paw him with their dirty institutions, and if they can, constrain him to belong to their desperate odd-fellow society."

Beginner's Mind

I also wondered if my earlier extensive travels jaded me, like a person accustomed to fine wine, suddenly imbibing a rancid vintage.

Need I compare everything before me with the best and find it necessarily wanting? Its a matter of course that every waterfall pales when measured to Angel, Iguassu and Victoria. That all temples look small compared to the pyramids of Giza, that all mosques pale in comparison to the Blue Mosque.

I lost the magic.

Somewhere in Vietnam, I lost the wonderment that travel brings me. I finally realized it's not the external as perceived by my jaded eye; but rather a jaundiced eye which did the mis-perceiving.

I lost what Zen practitioners call the 'beginner's mind, the ability to set aside preconceived notions and judgements and prejudices and open to the purity of feelings and emotions as they arise.

Tomorrow, tomorrow

The sun shone on Hanoi as my overnight train pulled in. Sleeping to the sound of pitter patter, I awoke to just the clack of the train and tracks. The diffuse late afternoon light reminded my of Washington DC in the Fall, with bare tree branches along the Mall.

My mood changed abruptly. I ran into a old travel friend whom I first met in Turkey, and she shared a similar tale of mild disappointment with Vietnam. I felt vindicated. See, I'm not the only one! I realized at once that I had not been too tough on this country, but rather on myself, and this reflected itself outwardly.

Rather than just observing my emotions, analogous to observing, without controlling, the prevailing weather; I sought to condemn my own feelings, as one curses unfavorable winds. That by denying and denigrating, I hoped to affect some change. It turned out that only by accepting things as they are, we allow change come on its own, at its own pace.

I walked the streets of Hanoi's old quarter, around picturesque Hoan Kiem Lake. The sights, sounds, and smells reminded me of Hong Kong and Chinatowns the world over, filled with lush smells and vivid colors. The hustle and bustle no longer bothered me. I relished the horns and traffic like someone seeing Times Square for the first time. The locals selling trinkets were now eager entrepreneurs, not interlopers.

I rediscovered the beginner's mind.