"The Hem of His Garment"

"If I could just touch the hem of his garment, I know I will be made whole." --Sam Cooke

We have now been to the four major Buddhist pilgrimage sights and are resting our bruised tail bones (more on that later) in Kathmandu. The trek to the last two sites of Kushinagar and Lumbini began with a six or seven (or was it eight or nine?) hour train ride from Varanasi up to the crossroads town of Gorhakpur. From there we could take an hour and a half bus ride to Kushinagar come back and arrange our trip to the Nepal border and on to Lumbini. Corey and I bought "open" train tickets, and the officer told us to get on the train where we like and pay the conductor the difference. We ended up in some indecipherable class, which was very workable, and hoped for the best. The conductor never did come around, but we ended up paying our extra dues by being the "on train" entertainment for the locals. Many questions like, "is this your wife?" To which I replied, "of course, my of wife of two years now." Then the follow up, "So how many children?" I said that there were no children yet. "Oh that is terrible. What is your salary?" Hoping not to disappoint again I stated
confidently 60,000 US per year. I only got quiet nods, and it seemed like I was out of the woods. It was not so. "Come sit here next to me, friend." I tossed my head into a couple of traditional wags and took my place next to him. "Tell me, friend, was yours a love marriage?" With a smile and wonderment that such a question even exists, I declared in the affirmative. This tickled the whole crowd which had amassed at least twelve people by now. Just then a couple of women came through playing a hand drum and singing songs asking for alms or "baksheesh." A few of us gave a little and the atmosphere was very lively. Just then a wry smile washed over my new friend and he asked me if I would be so kind as to sing them an American song. "Oh, no," I said claiming my voice sounded like a howling dog, and howled to drive the point home. But they were not quelled and Corey was egging me on. "Come on Michael, just one song." To the request that I sing a love song, I launched into "These Arms of Mine," by Ottis Redding and took it as far as my vocal cords could. After the hooting and applause died down, I politely asked for baksheesh for my efforts. Another laughing fit ensued. Finally they were quelled, full as if after a feast with stomachs aching and eyes gleaming from laughter. I was allowed to return to my seat after a few pictures to commemorate the performance, and our new bonds of friendship. Looking across at Corey, I realized that no one was more tickled then her, and I was pleased to have brought a smile to her face.



more than generous just the day before on the and Corey and I sat contemplating impermanence at the supposed sight of the Buddha's cremation. As at Bodhgaya, Vulture Peak Mountain, and Sarnath these places attract many local Indian families for weekend get-aways. The crush of,From Gorhakpur the journey to Kushinagar was relatively painless, minus a wobbly stomach, "hello friend, which country? How long in India?" is almost abusive to a private fella like myself, especially after feeling that I had been train. Then of course they must have a picture with you. One picture each and there are twenty of them. Barely escaping with flesh still attached I turned to Corey and pronounced, "No more friends today." Funny to see my first real emotion around my western idea of personal space. Despite the various encroachments, Kushinagar proved to be an evocative place, especially the centuries old and few meter long golden Buddha in the reclining, or dying pose, which was actually excavated from the area. The layers of history and poignancy of the moment lay like a blanket on my mind.
(Michael being lectured on Buddhism by one of his new teenage "friends".)
(The public toilet in Kushinagar.)


We woke up they next day back in Gorhakpur on the 26th of January which happened to be the day Indians celebrate their Independence. Our guest house was directly behind the military base and we were woken early by the mic tests and the wails of a Felliniesque marching band. Everyone was in a festive mood, and most of the shops were closed. This presented a problem because the information we had been given about crossing into Nepal was that you needed $30 in US cash as well as two passport sized pictures to stay in the country for 30 days. We spent most of the day waiting for our truly bootleg pictures to be produced (we had only one left each after needing pictures for the most random things). This put us at the Sonali border crossing at dusk, later than I would have liked given the hour and a half left to Lumbini (the birth place of the Buddha). Quite confident in our research, pictures and dollars in hand, we approached the officers only to find out that the new government had changed the criteria in the last month or so and now we need $40 each and only one picture. All the time waiting for the pictures was apparently for naught. With only $60 in U.S. (three twenties) we decided on the spot that we would opt for the 15 day visa which cost $25 each. Pouring over the money, the officer decided that one of our twenties was not acceptable due to the smallest rip. You can't be serious. With all the dirt that goes on, our tiny and I mean tiny rip was going to keep us from finishing the pilgrimage at Lumbini. After a bit of pushing back and forth they relented that we could pay in Rupees and charged more than the exchange rate for sure. Trying to collect our humor, we thought, "well at least we got through."

Walking out of the immigration office we were immediately approached by endless taxis. All of which were telling us that the local bus (40 rps.) had made its last daily run to Lumbini, and we would have to take their car (500 rps.). With a healthy amount of distrust we avoided the taxis, and climbed into a packed jeep (10 or 11 people at ten rps. each) for the supposedly ten or fifteen minute ride to the next town and bus junction for Lumbini. Pitch black, cramped and in a total dead-lock traffic jam, the jeep ride took closer to an hour. Finally out of the jeep and walking to the bus stop letting the feeling return to my legs, we were again approached by a taxi driver. This time we were five feet away from the bus stop and still he persisted that the last bus had already left and his car was the only option. Feeling my skin thickening with almost every moment I said, "first we will find out if that is true." Of coarse we walked the five feet to the parked bus loading up for Lumbini. Like victorious travelers we boarded the bus. The bus driver seemingly so sweet, "yes sir, yes madam, I will take you there no problem." Only it was a problem as we unknowingly wizzed by our guest house and continued on for several miles to the last stop. The tiny village had only one guest house, which happened to be owned by a friend of the bus driver. Unwilling to be taken advantage of, tired, and in my case getting pissed off, we refused to stay there and demanded to be shown where our lodging was. Nonchalantly turning his head away from us, the owner of the guest house waved his hand down the road which we had come in on then turned and walked inside. Standing at the edge of this very small village looking down a pitch black road with no lights or town in sight, my stomach drooped. I reached for my pocket knife and and told Corey that I couldn't trust anyone else and that I would protect us and get us their myself! Ultimately less dramatic and more wise than myself, she promptly turned around to find the bus driver and demand he take us back. By this point he had slipped into the darkness of Nepal's electricity crisis (16 hrs. a day of power cuts) not to be seen again. "Then we will pay someone to take us," Corey said and we went about asking the villagers if anyone spoke English. One man did, Chinca, and he explained that there where no cars available in this small town but that he and his friends would ride us and our luggage on the back of their bicycles. The rest was a dream. Gliding through the night on the back of a bicycle powered by a man half my weight. Spontaneous memories of my childhood (the last time I have been ridden on a bicycle) playing through the movie of my mind. Dodging questions by the Hindu villagers like ,"Muslims are bad people, no?"

"Can't say I've met them all," I said. Privately I contemplated, "where the $%#@ am I." After the day of cramped travel ending with the hard steel of the back of a rickety bike, my haunches throbbed for sure. Making enough racket to finally get the attention of the man running the Lumbini Village Lodge, I turned to offer some money to our cheerful and goofy escorts. They refused making claims that we were guests to their village, but I would not budge. I grew up with Italians, Jews and Tibetans, there would be no defeating me. Our guest house and owner turned out to be very friendly and comfortable, although he couldn't understand why it had taken us so long to arrive? We'll tell you about it later.

Corey and I dropped our bags in the room and spent the next hour staring at each other and coming down from our adrenaline rush. "Now I can say that I've been to India and Nepal," I said. We laughed for awhile and proceeded to have a wonder filled conversation with many feelings and insights swirling in the dream landscape our minds had become.