Sikkim

I was pissed off. I trudged up to Sonada and the monks were dense. They couldn't speak a word of English and wouldn't hand over my luggage. Mingma and the rest of the crew were down at Salugara with little Kalu. It also took a few days to get a permit for Sikkim. Siliguri was booming. Tons of refugees from Bangladesh crawled over the town like hungry locusts. There was pushing and shoving, drooling and slobbering in the streets. Nepalis were stuffing in from the north. Dacca was opening the flood-gates from the south. India had to cover the check. I smirked and I chuckled, TAKE THAT INDIA! I met an American who knew Jim; word was he was last sighted in Seattle with the Dalai Lama; the karmic wind was giving a twist. Lama was somewhere in Bhutan. But Siliguri blues ultimately led to Sikkim.

The bus ride through the Sikkimese countryside was beautiful. I saw lush hills and turquoise rivers, and tons of monkeys were rocking wildly on the road. It was like a fantasy. The views were awesome and unspoiled. The Indians had not yet wrecked the place. But it was only a matter of time. Despite the rivers of red tape and comical security measures, SIKKIM was OPENING UP. This small dot on the map was remote no more. I had the old Tibet feeling. I was a pioneer once again: 1984 had led to 1994. The bus arrived at Gangtok quite late and I was stranded. Rumtek would have to wait until the next day. Gangtok was expensive. It really wasn't part of India, despite the fact that it was no longer "an independent kingdom." I could see the Indian military choppers whizzing in the distance. The Indians had grabbed Sikkim. Nearby, THE CHINESE waited.

I checked into a hotel and waited for dawn. The next morning the air was pure and crystal clear and no loud music could be heard. It was then that I saw her, the guru mountain .... KANCHENJUNGA! She was very near now and her lungs breathed me in. I was in yabyum with the most powerful consort yet; and on the roof of the world too. My puja continued at Enchey monastery nearby, the home of a flying Lama. Wrathful murals were oozing multi-headed demons that seemed to jump right out into the pristine environment, for this was Sikkim, another world where the ethnic stew of the Himalayas cooked all day and all night, and the old animist ways were still strong. A young Tamang kid named Lakpa did a Michael Jackson impersonation for me — for Lakpa was COOL and he was a forgotten orphan here in the dream-zone of Buddhist rock an' roll. This was Vajrayana, but it wasn't Tibetan. The Tamangs, the Lepchas, and the Bhutias performed their own versions of bodhisattvah MTV here. I began to DIG IT.

Rumtek. The Kagyu capital in exile was next on my list of HAD TO. I shared a cab with two Germans and a French guy. One of the Germans was a beautiful blonde dakini. Her name was Ursula. She had picked up the Buddhist scent, but didn't really know what to do with it. Ursula asked me a lot of questions, and she was dressed in black, the color of Mahakala. I could see Ursula's blue golden eyes gleam with a mysterious care and concern, but she lost her nerve and decided to leave Rumtek after half an hour. I flashed an excited snap and kissed her good-bye in a pious frenzy. I then waited. It was time to see Situ.
Situ had a lot of good humor. He asked me what I thought about the Indians. "I'd like to kill them all," I confessed. Situ laughed. "That's because you expect them to be like Americans. Here's your chance to practice patience and compassion," he remarked. I groaned that I couldn't do four-thousand prostrations like Lama. Situ laughed again, "Oh, just do as many prostrations as you can; don't try to compete with the Tibetans. We're prostration machines, you know." I then popped the big question. "Is the Rebellious Regent out of the game?" Situ paused and smiled. "It's up to him, he can always ask our boy in Tibet to forgive him." I really felt queasy after I ended my audience with Situ. The Kagyu struggle was rapidly becoming a silly Vatican civil war with rival popes yelling "Whooee!" and all kinds of peoples scrambling for position. The Rebellious regent had bought off the Indians and blocked the holy kid's enthronement in Rumtek. Situ had the Dalai Lama's blessing and the support of all the other lineage heads. But it was basically a stalemate. There was a desperate feeling in Rumtek. Situ was not in full control. Karmapa's throne sat empty while an India film crew shot this corny love movie on the monastery grounds, without Situ's permission. Kagyu politics was turning Rumtek into a horny circus and this was the final insult.
Down the road an older monastery could be seen. I checked it out. I found some monks furiously doing a puja for someone who had recently died. The dead man was being guided through the wild rapids of the BARDO, the transition zone between this life and the next. It was a time to trammel through with jura, a dry rice treat. All the monks scattered it about and chewed on the stuff. I was offered a bag of it and I walked out to look at the mountains nearby. They were breath-taking as they hung in the mists like silent thunderclaps.

I then took off for Podang. It was here that the REAL SIKKIM popped out and yelled hello! All was magic. The mountains and gorges seemed to float in the air; they were drenched with ephemeral haze. Podang felt familiar. It was like home. I could feel sacred energy emanating from some hidden source. I began to follow it and walked up a steep and narrow path which led to the local monastery. I was hungry and exhausted. I had only thirty dollars to spare for all of Sikkim. When I arrived I almost collapsed. A young monk named Tenzung offered me dinner and a hardwood bed. I was grateful. I was on a Sikkim marathon. Podang's murals blew me away. Wrathful demons danced acid-head nightmares under dim and sinister lights. Brilliant mandalas depicting ALL KINDS OF STRESS screamed out demanding their Benzedrine fix. Uppers and downers were on sale, here on Podang's walls and ceilings. I continued moving from East to West.

The Galaxies from Podang:
There are billions of galaxies. This insight must rank as one of the greatest discoveries of all time. Our galaxy alone holds a hundred billion suns in a volume that takes one hundred thousand light years to cross. The real story is that the Universe is over-flowing with galaxies, about one hundred billion of them, in a volume that takes seventeen billion years to cross. These numbers are basically meaningless and they hide a huge mystery: the farther out one looks, the faster all the galaxies seem to be fleeing from the Milky Way! A queer equation thus appears. To find the route back to an unknown origin LOOK UP AND OUT, to the oldest light coming from the youngest galaxies. And I saw GOD and HE was a SHE with dark red hair.

The dark red hair:
The road to Gezing was treacherous. My bus was floating on top of the world. There was little margin for error on the narrow lanes hugging the mountain passes. WE WERE VERY HIGH UP and the drop down into the bottomless canyons was VERY VERY LONG. The bus rattled and heaved its way forward. I marveled at the bus driver; he seemed to avoid near accidents through some kind of hidden telepathy. I was so dizzy with fatigue, with nausea, I flipped my hips and flapped my butt, as I tried hopelessly to stretch out on the back seat of the quaking bus. Eventually, we arrived in West Sikkim.
I spent the night at Gezing. Gezing was the pit stop for journeys back to Bengal and up to North-Western Sikkim, which was out of bounds to foreigners. Indian soldiers were everywhere here. They milled aimlessly about, looking for things to do with their spare time. I ignored them. Pemagyantse monastery was next on the list. I found it covered in secret mist and the monks were an unfriendly lot, but persistence paid off. Pema's murals were outstanding. I sneaked snap after snap like a morphine addict. IT WAS OFFICIALLY FORBIDDEN. There was KUNTOZHANGPO embracing his cosmic consort KUNTOZHAGMO. The brilliant blue and white of the sacred yabyum dazzled my eyes. A stream of sunlight illuminated the entire wall. I snapped, and thought to myself that this was what Prague had been all about. I KNEW it now. It had all been one weird spiritual masterpiece. I saw a huge wooden model of the UNIVERSE, over ten feet high, in the same room. Rainbows, demons, and angels jostled one another for my attention. All the yabyum statues were stunning. Huge fangs, protruding eyes, and skull crowns glorified a SELFLESS LOVE. I could only feel — but not describe. I was now inside a demonic Khajuraho that pummeled the senses and left you with a sweet chill in the bones. This was the Buddhist mushroom trip I had heard so much about. I was consuming Vajra peyote and little else. I slept only a few hours a day and ate sparingly. I was on a high and the punishing pace of this WHITE kind of life left me now perpetually in a god-like trance. But there was more.

Dear Guardian Angel:
What a trip Sikkim is! It's a BLUR. It's a shining jewel. I've been here almost a week. I've been trying to see as much as possible, and I just keep MOVING, MOVING, MOVING as if a fast-forward button is stuck and can't be turned off. I feel like a pioneer visiting this wild place. It's so remote and so beautiful. Just yesterday, I went to this place called Tashiding; and you know, just getting there was pretty wild. The Rangit river followed my bus all along this scenic route; and it was like a silk-screen painting, misty and bloodshot. I could see all kinds of trees and mountains dressed in weird psychedelic clothes with a sparkling turquoise snake of a river weaving its way slowly below them. When I got to Tashiding, I had to climb these endless stairs leading to the monastery; and when I got there it was locked. This cranky school-teacher with a crag face reluctantly took me in. You could say I forced myself on him. I was pissed off and he didn't want a scene. I got dinner and slept on the floor. The school-teacher was kinda sore when he saw my texts on the "bed." "They must be five inches above the ground, MINIMUM!" he scoffed. But Tashiding's pretty cool. The views are spectacular; and there's a dense tranquillity here. For breakfast, I got this weird ginseng tea with no sugar. The teacher's kids walked in and waved incense all over the room. They were STOKED! I never did see the monastery. I saw a monk finally, but he seemed too busy to show me around. I guess it's all this WHITE STRESS Sikkim's getting zapped with lately. Everybody in Gangtok is trying to buy guns. Too many Nepalis and Indians are flooding into the place. I mean you wouldn't believe it; before the Indians came in and starting pumping tons of bucks into this place, cardamom seeds were the biggest thing going here. Now Sikkim is an armed camp. It's a constant problem, this WHITE STRESS. China, Japan, India .... all these countries had to find some kinda solution to this WHITE STRESS PROBLEM. It was usually BLACK. I mean the US has fought three wars in Asia .... and the Tibetans have been hit with an Auschwitz. The Cambodians too. It's pretty gross. But, I know they're here. WHO? The Cosmic Bodhisattvahs! Yeah, I can feel them watching over this place. They're like these super angels that can do all kinds of trippy things like manifest, at will, in all kinds of celestial realms. I mean, when they're in these heavens, they can use this vantage point to expand the range of their compassion and to intensify their powers of emanation. Why? So they can help US better, that's why! These heavens are just planes of more subtle matter. The mind can embrace more distance here. It can amplify its power and enjoy more BLISS. In these planes, these super angels can sprout multiple and even boundless arms in order to help all kinds of beings. Also multiple eyes to see more, and multiple faces to be more, to more and more beings. Super angels can even take on human form. I saw one in Podang. This monk who was real nice to me introduced me to his teacher. He was this quiet guy who never came out of his room. Nobody even really knew who he was. But it's these unknown cats who keep the traditions of the lineage alive. They are the true bodhisattvahs. I'm running out of money; and I'm trying to cover a lot of ground fast here. I can't believe such a small place has so much to offer, but you know the old saying, good things come in small packages! It's a trip!

Yours,
Tripped-out Determination

I hitched a ride on a truck to Jortang. This was the border crossing. There were no jeeps going to Bengal that day, so I decided to cross the border by foot and hitch some more. I was back in Bengal and I found myself in another Universe. I waited near a cluster of small wooden huts for five hours and finally caught a truck that took me two-thirds of the way to where I wanted to go: DARJEELING. It was a race against the sun. I was in Ghurka country. Bandits controlled the roads by night. The truck slowly chugged past the many tea plantations which seemed to be scattered as far as the eye could see. I rode in back with some mischievous brats who were thrilled at sharing a ride with a crazy foreigner. In each village that we passed, the faded slogans of these demons could be seen peeling away and laughing in the wind. The black demons and the red demons were fighting for control inside the wave flux. My memories slid back to Berlin. Now this mess was being replayed all over again, here in the Himalayas. The ugly demons were everywhere. Their black swastikas and red hammers disturbed and aggravated the land. The old dark shadows of an earlier madness had not yet disappeared, even in our own time. Now all was violence and I could hear the demons sleeping. I could feel their dreaming. I got off the truck and started walking fast, stuffing sugared rice balls into my mouth. I walked desperately and furiously. The Gurkhas were watching me closely. Few foreigners ventured out this far on foot, and NEVER as dusk fell. I cursed, I sweated, I screamed .... the demons were following me. I was in an anxious trance and nothing was going to stop me from reaching freedom.
Suddenly, like a mirage, Darjeeling popped up. JACKPOT! JACKPOT! I could hear the angels cry. The demons beat a hasty retreat. I strode into Darjeeling just as night began to fall. The Sikkim marathon was finally over. I had survived. I celebrated with a shave, my first in two months. I then crashed out in the dingy youth hostel, the same one with the killer view of the Himalayas. The view that had so lulled me into this frenzy so many old eons ago. Now my body was crumpled on a bed. I woke up the next day completely refreshed. I rubbed my eyes. Yes, the acid trip was over and I was back in DJ! A killer fog then stalked me all the way as I stumbled back to Sonada.

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