Oklahoma Jimmy

I met Jim in the Canatlan hardware store on November 7, in the afternoon.  There are many small shops that are ‘ferreteria’, or hardware stores.  However, the one nearest the church is large, well displayed, and has lots of windows.  I also discovered that one clerk, Raul, speaks English.  On this day I was purchasing adhesive for tile and grout.  I had to wait for a few minutes while Raul went to the other store to bring the heavy bags over.

A thin faced blue-eyed older gentleman walked into the store and greeted the cashier with ‘buenos dias’.  Then he held out his hand to me with a ‘buenos dias’, which I returned.  He then switched to English and said I must be the new gringa in town.  The one that is building a house in Pozole.

It was early afternoon.  

On my way out of El Pozole I stopped by the mechanic’s shop and arranged to have my oil changed.  I had bought oil and filter in Durango.  I said I’d drop the car by in the afternoon, and pick it up the next morning.  Juan and Eduardo were waiting on this tiling material to start the tile work in the bathroom.  Once Jim started talking, my work day ended.  All my arrangements went out the window.  

He has the gift of gab.  He begins, he weaves a tale with flourish and innuendo, he goes on to the next topic while barely taking a breath, and he is unstoppable.  And fascinating.

Knowing how it is, that in my life I have told some true stories about myself only to be met with skepticism and outright scoffing, I listened and withheld judgement.

These are the things I ‘learned’.  Raul spoke English because he worked with Jim in construction, and paid for English lessons.  He sent Raul to law school, so that Raul is now a lawyer.

He has $7M US dollars in antiques.  He rented a house in El Pozole to store them, but then felt they were not safe so he bought a house in Canatlan, where he has them now.

He is building a two-family house for himself (upstairs) and Raul and his wife and child.

In order to get citizenship and be done with rushing to the border every six months for visa renewal, he arranged to marry Raul’s single mother.  The arrangement leaves her living independently.  But he has not yet obtained the paperwork; he still makes border runs. Perhaps he said there is a two year waiting period.

Canatlan was established in 1623, November13, by migrants from San Diego.  Hence the name of the church, Sandiego. [and what was the ethnic origin of these migrants, I wondered? ]

The current municipality of Canatlan was started in 1917 (coinciding with a new Federal government?), when it got its first governor.

He retired as a federal judge.

He got his undergrad degree in botany.  He corresponded with a Japanese ‘student’ who wanted mushroom samples in exchange for butterflies.  Many years later he discovered that he had been corresponding with the Emporer of Japan.  Every Christmas he received precious gifts; they are part of his antique collection.

He ‘grew up’ with George Bush in Texas.  He was good buddies with Lyndon B. Johnson.  He is good friends with Vicente Fox, and gathered funding for his campaign for president of Mexico.  And was disappointed when Vicente did not achieve his pledged goals.

He had been a school teacher, and a councilman.  He caused to be written the Mexican Federal Law that allows foreigners to own property in Mexico. 

And then there are all the stories of the colorful citizens of Canatlan.

The guy who opened a sawmill in Durango.  Then the drug gangs approached him to launder money; they bought him an apple orchard.  Then they bought him a spread of many hectares at the border between Canatlan and Pozole.  That man hired a Canatlan man, Jaime, to run the ranch for him.  Jaime had many children, around 14.  The sawmill man had a predeliction towards young girls; he took Jaime’s 12 year old daughter to be his housekeeper.

One day the drug cartel came to his door looking for payment.  The man quickly packed his things that night, and with the young girl in tow, took off to Guanajuato.  As time passed, his still-teenaged housekeeper drew the attention of a young policeman in that town.  She was easily stolen away by him.  The old man died alone in his house, leaving his original wife and children in Durango to wonder what happened to him. 

He had taken out a loan, using the house as collateral; he still owed 30,000 pesos on it.  An enterprising city clerk decided that the acreage was unencumbered, and started selling it off and pocketing the proceeds. 

Thirty years later, Jim wants to approach the old widow and try to make a deal with her for the abandoned ranch land, the part that still holds the liened house.  The original bank no longer exists, so he has to track down who holds the paper now.  He presumes that if he offers to buy it, for pennies on the dollar, they will be glad to dissolve the lien.  [I had to wonder if, after all these years, that lien had been purged]

Then he wanted to show me the house he is renovating for Raul and himself.  He told me a long and twisted tale about efforts to get title to the land.  It is the second lot in from the corner.  He desires the corner lot, as well.  One story held that in the 1970s a man went to the States to work.  He sent back money to his sister, telling her to buy the land.  Gradually he sent back money and the house was built, but never quite finished.

Jim tried to track this guy down, but could find no trace of him in California.  He heard a rumor that the man had a gay lover.  So he guessed that perhaps once in the States, he took the name of his gay partner.  That would explain why the name that was on the title could not be traced to anyone in California.

The sister put the corner lot, presumably also paid for by the mysterious brother, in her own name.  Jim has been negotiating with her for the title, but she has not been cooperating.  What stands there now is an adobe wall and remnants.  There is no house standing.  Jim wants to put a 30-car garage there. (?)

I am sure there was more, that I missed a detail or two.  Like, he pointed to the hill that is the edge of Canatlan and said that the original settlement was on the other side of that hill; some foundations were still visible.

Like his deceased wife, mother of his 3 sons, was native American.

He put into question the real ownership of our community land, Luz de Compasion, and my rights.  He suggested that we look in the Record Clerk’s office to see who is the owner of record.  He thinks I should try to own outright the land my house is on.  He also says that the cost of the Pozole land such as this was about 3,000.  I have to assume he meant dollars.  He switches back and forth between pesos and dollars indiscriminately, one has to guess since there is no chance to break in and ask.

If that is the truth, was Jhampa robbed, or is Jhampa making a good profit on the land?  Jhampa did dig a well and have electricity brought to the property.  But he is selling 20 lots at $12,000 each.  When I bought my house the pesos exchange was about 12 to the dollar.  Now it is 18 or 19.  Ani Tsultrim just bought a plot of land here.  So, did she pay 216,000 pesos, or 144,000 pesos?  She arrives in a week, I will ask her then.

I arrived back to Pozole at dusk, around 6:30 p.m.   I dropped the car off with the mechanics; one of them drove me home.  The ceramic adhesive and grout were still in the parked car.  Juan had gone for the day, of course.

The next day I was too lazy to walk to the mechanics.  I busied myself with clearing out Michael’s house, in preparation for Ani Tsultrim’s arrival (also called JoanMarie by the Vancouver guys, Jhampa and Doug)

The car was returned to me close to 4:30; by then Juan and Eduardo had left.  Their excuse, should I ask, would be that they did not have the materials to work.  They were waiting for the adhesive to begin the bathroom tiling. Those heavy sacks were still in my trunk.

  

I will be lucky if the house is habitable by Christmas.

Midday I called Jim to ask for help in getting a plumber out to fix Michael’s toilet.  I was able to keep that conversation to under an hour.  During it I learned that he was in Washington DC, in the White House storage building, having a conversation with Jaqueline Kennedy.  Jim claims to be a descendent of assassinated President McKinley.  Jackie found a desk she liked, that originally belonged to McKinley.  She said that since he was heir to McKinley, she was asking for permission to use the furniture in the White House

.

Since he is a year older than me, this would have put him in his college years.  When next I see him, I will have to ask where he went to college, or did he spend a summer as an intern in DC. 

He says he is German, first generation American.  But to hear it, the other side of the family came across in the Mayflower.

He spoke more about his ranch in Guanajuato, which adjoined that of his old friend Vicente Fox.  He told a tale about fights with the locals over water rights.  One federal worker came out to survey the land and wells, to try to get to the bottom of it.  His bones were found later, and those of his car which had been pushed over a cliff.  At that point, Jim felt his life was in danger and left for Durango.

So this is colorful Jim.  He could be a harmless ranting old coot.  He could be an invested informant and bridge to the community.  He does not speak Spanish.  I have let it be known that I am available to translate, if he wishes to follow up with any old geezers who hold history that he wants.  Only time will tell.  Just moments ago he revealed his last name, finally.  He said that his father had started the Fisher nut brand, in Texas.  So now, fact checking can begin.

Consultation with Contractor

Saturday October 7

Last night I had a sore throat.  I could feel a cold coming on.  In the evening I went out to a pharmacy to get throat lozenges.  My regular cough drops had run out.  Normally I cannot get through the night without a cough drop.  With this raspy throat coming on, I risk being up all night without throat relief.  I looked for Cepecil (which is medicated and brings immediate numbness to the throat) but that was not available.  I did get something a little more medicinal than Halls, with benzocaine. 

I found a place that does only salads, to my great relief.  It is a short walk, two minutes really, from my motel room.  For 95 pesos I get a heaping bowl of lettuce, three vegetables and two scoops of ‘protein’.  The latter could be egg, or cheese, or chicken your choice of five flavors.

I choose cubed beats, mushrooms, and carrots or broccoli.  I am trying different chicken flavors, but the pepper lemon one is a definite no-go, since it brings a strong taste of white pepper.  They serve it with saltines, and shake a generous portion of parmesan on top. 

I feel no need for supper after that lunch.  I did eat a slice of bread, just because; it will spoil if I don’t do more than a PBJ once a day.  And of course, the ever present banana.

Through the night I doctored myself with water, a vitamin C 1000 every four hours, and ibuprofen.  I am needing the ibuprofen through the day, which is rare for me.

 I don’t know how much pain is the cold and how much is the eye still hurting.

A fleet of Harley Davidsons and entourage arrived at the Motel today, at noon.  My next door neighbors, a hefty couple in black leather, are from Torreon.

I went out to Mr. Gonzalez’s office today.  Before leaving the motel I studied the route on Google maps, including looking at the photos of intersections.  I selected the option to view it offline, also.  I am using the Samsung for this, which has no phone service, only Wi-Fi. 

I got lost a few times, but not too badly.  I had memorized sign posts along the way. Until I came to the last leg of the journey; I pulled into a supermarket and called him.  He came and got me immediately, I had overshot the office by a few blocks.  The offline map failed me.

We discussed the fine points of the house project.  He will design the whole kitchen, but we will proceed with just a small part of it now.  Maybe next year I will have saved enough to finish it.

I asked him to hire Juan as one of the workers.  We tossed around some ideas for housing, so the guys could stay onsite.  I was chagrined at the thought of staying at a motel for another month; I suggested that once the tile and plaster was done, even without water and electricity I could stay in the house.  Then he suggested that his guys could stay in the house.  I could easily stay at Mike’s or Doug’s.

Doug is coming this weekend, and JoanMarie will be coming mid November.  But I think there is enough space for all of us. 

Moving money is a problem.  It is urgent that on Monday I seek out the ministry of Immigration and start enquiries into obtaining a residence permit.  In the meanwhile, I will have to consult with my bank and let them guide me as to how to receive cash.

For the immediate, I calculated that with the dollars I brought with me I could at least give Mr. Gonzales a down payment, and he could begin.  We concluded with arrangements, next weekend his men will start bringing out supplies so that all is ready for them to begin Monday morning.  He said it should take a month.  Groan.

On the drive home I had a much easier time of it.  Google maps must have laid out the shortest route, not necessarily the most direct.  I was on Avenida L. Cardenas headed towards 20 de Noviembre, where the motel is, when I smelled a familiar smell while stopped at the traffic light.  I put my nose to the air, looking in all directions to see where that burning smell was coming from.  Then I heard guys laughing in the red pickup to the left of me.  The guys noticed my looking.  Smiling, they said, ‘you want some?’  I nodded my head vigorously.  They said, ‘follow us’. 

I pulled behind them and drove for a few blocks, past 20 de Noviembre.  Finally they made a left turn into a narrow one-way street and pulled over.  I parked behind them, and took a 100 pesos note out of my pocket.  They were nice, clean cut looking guys.  My pesos bought me one very fat cigarette.  As we turned to go, one guy turned back towards me and offered me his business card.  The card advertises home remodeling and painting services.

I paid for three more nights; Sunday night will be my last.  I have arranged to meet Jhampa out at the compound Monday.  If I haven’t heard from Eddie before then regarding renting a house in Pozole, I will try to get a good price from the hotels or motels directly in Canatlan.  Since the eye doctors can’t do anything more for me, no need to stay in the city.

The floral arrangement

In November, 2016, I left China and came to Mexico.  My introduction to my new life included a breather, a time out to regroup.  I immediately began a week-long retreat with my Canadian friend Jhampa Shaneman, and his students.  We were in the beautiful city of Morelia, at a countryside resort hotel.  There I met Rudy.

At the end of the retreat I planned to visit my friend Catherine, at Lake Chapala in Jalisco.  Jhamps was also going to Jalisco, and so we go by bus.  Rudy, however, over breakfast volunteered to drive us.  Extraordinary!  I came to learn that he is a semi-retired medical doctor, who admired Jhampa and just wanted some stimulating conversation.  He agreed that when I returned to Durango, he would meet me at the airport.  He offered his home for a brief visit.

Rudy and his wife turned out to be two classy people.   Rudy still had his private practice, though he had given up his University gig.  His wife was very active in a group of ladies who were in a guild and focused on helping underprivileged women.

I grew very fond of them.  Unfortunately, I was not a very good guest.  Still, they suffered me when I returned in June for eye surgery; they put me up for pre and post-surgery days.  I was living at the time out in the countryside, in the Luz de Compasion compound in Pozole.

At the time I was painfully aware that I had a duty as a guest to bring hostess gifts.  This is a skill I am woefully bad at.  There seemed no grace to my state as a guest.  I could not regulate my schedule to theirs.  I would eat at noon, as is my custom, only to find that at 2 pm the servant would prepare a meal for them.  It took me a while to realize this was not random.  I longed to think of what I could do to show them my appreciation.

For months I have been thinking that when I returned to Durango, flush with the sale of the Florida house, I would buy a huge flower arrangement for Rudy and his wife.  I finally got to do that Monday, late in the day.  I got a call from the florist, saying it could not be delivered.  No one was home. 

I picked up the bouquet and drove to the house.  I saw that both cars were in the garage, and a white car was parked at the curb by their door.  I surmised they had taken a plane trip.

Salvo, their large schnauzer, was roused after I rang the bell.  I spoke with him some through the barriers, until he went up to the roof so we could talk.  I stood in the street and we had a happy reunion, but mostly he wanted me to take him with me.  I couldn’t believe they would leave him alone, but what else could they do.  No doubt someone came to add to his kibble bowl.  There was enough rain falling each day to fill his water bowl naturally.  He was used to peeing and pooping on the roof; that was not different.  But I wondered how often he got to go outside.  His usual routine would be to go out early every morning and check out the neighborhood, going far down to the corner on a regular route of his own, to meet and greet, to sniff and suss.  He was crying in distress, and I felt so helpless.

I put the bouquet in my car and brought it to my tiny room at the motel.  When I occupied the room initially it held the overpowering smell of camphor.  I removed the camphor from the toilet bowl and put it outside.  The dominating smell then was from the bouquet.  Knowing I wouldn’t keep the bouquet there, I also bought an air freshener for use in subsequent days.

On Monday I drove by Dr. Carrillo’s office, before seeking out the florist.  Dr. Carillo was just pulling up as I was leaving, I having made an appointment for the following day.  He came to my car, saying oh what a miracle, Rudy said he hadn’t heard from you.  Gee, it would have been nice if at that moment he had gossiped just a tad and mentioned that oh, by the way have you heard they are on a trip to the Vatican?

I only learned that tidbit on Tuesday, when I arrived for the appointment.  By then I had spent a large chunk of change on a gorgeous and fragrant bouquet.  I told him that I would bring it to his office, so that he and his patients could enjoy it.  He said oh no, no, no need, don’t do that.  I said well then, would you prefer I threw the arrangement in the garbage?  My tiny room is too small, it overwhelms the room.

Gosh, I can’t imagine myself ever spending that kind of money just to have a nice bouquet in my recluse’s home.

This eye clinic is on a very short one-way street on a hill, with extremely limited parking.  Earlier that same day, planning for a 12 o’clock appointment, I left my house at 11:15 to make sure I found it okay.  I got lost again on the way, got into traffic, and when I thought I was minutes away I hopped into a shop to get a gordito to go.  But still I arrived just minutes before 12 noon.  There was no parking space.  He keeps one space in front of the clinic marked clearly for his clinic only; it was occupied, although the office was empty of patients.  I parked behind that car, in a driveway clearly marked for no parking.  The receptionist came out and said I had to move.

Fifteen minutes later I returned to the office, out of breath.  The receptionist tried to usher me into the office, but there was an elderly lady sitting there waiting for her 12:15.  I insisted that she go, not wanting to appear like the pushy American. 

Eventually I saw Dr. Carrillo.  He looked into the eye and pronounced it sound.  Apparently, he did not see the folds that the other ophthalmologists had seen.  He recommended ending the medication.

I felt a little puzzled by this, but perhaps I have been focusing too much on the eye and imagining the pains that I’ve been feeling.  So we are off the drops.  The last time I tried that, just about three weeks ago now, my eye turned deep red and light hurt like a knife through the brain. [two days later:  sans medicine, the eye is once again red and painful.  It is evening now; in the morning I expect pain upon seeing the sun]

I caught him up a bit on my travels, anchored by visits to ophthalmologists.  Then I finally enquired about Dr. Rudy and his wife.  That is when I learned they were on a trip to Europe.  Dr. Carrillo could not say how long they would be away.  So I told him he must enjoy the flowers in their stead.

As I left the doctor’s office I said to the receptionist, please doni’t leave until I get back.  I knew she had a penitent for keeping her hours to the absolute minimum. I don’t know what her deal is, no doubt it works for the doctor, but it has caught me up short a few times.  So I purposely said, please don’t leave!  I’ll be back right away.

Well, of course I got totally lost on the way home. I found myself on a new very wide connector road, it didn’t match the map, and I was utterly lost.  I pulled over to the side of the road, tears of frustration streaming down my face, the large map I had just bought stretched across the wheel.  I heard a tap tap on my window.  A very nice man, who reminded me a bit of a young Uncle Tony (Dad’s brother), smiled and said hello.  He had obviously noticed my Florida plates, and wanted to be of assistance.  It turns out that I was on a new road, the 3-year old map was inaccurate.  He handled my teary story with class, and helped me back on my way.

I finally found the motel, grabbed the flowers and headed back to the doctor’s office. 

By this time I knew by heart the direct route to the doctor’s office; I was unthwarted by the jumble of one-way streets. 

The car that had been parked outside the clinic, in the parking spot clearly marked reserved for the clinic, was still parked there.  Without hesitation I parked in front of a garage.  At the top of the hill I saw what looked like a homeless guy waving his arms and screaming at me, No! No! No!  I ignored the madman.  I was still in my car getting ready to open the door.  He banged on my window!  I, still in my Zoloft-deprived state, fierce face swollen from the recent tears of frustration, banged back at him.

I carefully lifted the flower arrangement out of the back seat, noting signs of wilting, a rose petal fluttering down.  I tried the door of the office.  It was locked!  I set the flowers right down at the entrance, and left it.  If it stayed there all night, if the crazy man came back and helped himself, it was no concern of mine.  I was done with this good deed.

As I pulled away from the curb, it occurred to me that perhaps this homeless-looking guy was actually employed by the homeowners on that hill to protect their garage entrances from cars like mine.

Once back home, I tried the office number.  It was hooked up for fax reception.  I could not leave a message.

I called again the next day, asking if they enjoyed the flowers.  The receptionist smiled an affirmative.  They were received, I did not ask at what hour.

Rainy Season in Pozole

Rainy season Pozole (this essay is out of sequence.  Soon I will finish editing and post the backstory of my summer in Pozole, where I introduce some of the mentioned characters)

October 4, my early departed grandmother’s birthday, finds me making serious enquiries about finishing my house in Luz de Compassion.

I spoke with a contractor from Edil Construction, whose number I found in the yellow pages.  Mr. Gonzalez advertised that he spoke English, so I called him.  We arranged to meet tomorrow and drive out to the house.

I then let my fingers do the walking to a solar energy engineer.  I went to his tiny office in a humble, partially paved neighborhood on the outskirts.  He is quite knowledgeable about Pozole and its state of electricity.  He will meet me there tomorrow, as well.

Using his whiteboard and a fading yellow marker, he worked out the configuration that I was trying to describe to him.  Before I left China I had a serious sit-down over dinner with Pierre, where he taught me what I needed to know.  I wrote it down, but probably on my China phone.  Have no clue where that phone is now.

Happily, he told me that there was a project underway, the land had actually been bought (or committed, however a utility company deals with land ownership) to build a large solar array in Canatlan to supply electricity to Pozole.  We at LdeC would have to pitch in to pay for the cables that are needed to extend the power to us, but it would still be simpler than trying to build my own array.

I thought time had come when I needed to visit the house myself.  I was eager to see Dog, too.  In early afternoon I set out.  I arrived, to find the roads impassible with mud.  The creek that I need to drive through is swollen, too, and impassable.  What used to be a six-foot hop along stones to ford the stream was now a raging river twenty feet across.  As I entered the village I got stuck right away.  Fortunately, it was within a short walking distance to Beto’s shop.  Two of the young men, neither being Shubert, came and got me straight.  They warned me to stay up on the old railroad road, park there and walk in. 

The walk in was probably about a quarter mile.  That is the path that runs from the main paved Canatlan highway down the hill and between two fields, and comes out just yards from the entrance to LdeC; a poorly maintained right of way access.

It was not just muddy.  The path is unevenly strewn with rocks.  There are deep stands of water, green with algae, maybe 6 inches deep in spots.  The rest of the path, where it rose above the puddles, was slippery mud.  I was wearing sandals.  I remember a time in Bamei, in East Tibet, when I was driving along a dirt path turned to mud.  I was going slowly, but the car came off one submerged rock and landed on another sharp rock at just the right angle and force to blow the tire.  Even Gonzalez, the next day, with his big Nisan Pickup truck, would cry uncle midway, park the truck and go the remainder on foot.

I hadn’t gotten far down that path when I spoke out Dog’s name.  She gave a little woof, as she played with her black son in the mud 100 feet further down the muddy road.  I called again, and she saw me.  The tail started wagging.  Soon she was in a full run.

We walked together to the camp.  I looked for the dried food I had left, but no doubt has all been consumed.  She felt like a stuffed sausage herself, no ribs showing, so I know she has been eating well. Her topside was white and clean, and I could find no fleas.  Her son is with her, returned from the family who had adopted him some months earlier.  He is wearing the backup flea collar I had left.

In the summer I had glimpsed a small cat and a kitten in the compound, but never got close to them. I now learned that this was mother and daughter.  The mother seems the size of a 6-month kitten herself.  The one kitten had grown enough to where the mama wasn’t protective of her.  In fact, this petite mother relished petting.  The kitten was skittish, unapproachable.  Compared to Dog, whose belly and legs were black with mud, the cat fur was pristine white, around the tiger striping of the mom, more white and no striping for the kitten.

The weeds and corn were high, uncut.  Remember that Juan was just planting when I left, mid July.  Now the corn looked nearly ripe.  There are full grown round winter squashes, and white beans (chicharon) swell the green pods hanging on the bush bean plants.  Juan had shown me a handful of the seeds he was planting, back then.  I thought it odd to mix corn, beans, squash and what he called ‘rice’.  The long grass now has seed fronds on top, so I will have to ask him if these are indeed a grain, or just weeds. The garden is not as nice as the remnants of the garden I saw last November.  That garden seemed to be more orderly, planted in rows of corn, and a separate patch for squash.  This garden plot is overgrown with weeds, and a jumble of squash, bean pods and corn crowding each other out, and all choked by weeds.

Everywhere I drive in Durango and environs I see this huge yellow flower in wild profusion.  I see them not only by the side of the road, escaping stone fences, just everywhere, as well in what looks like cultivated fields.  They seem like miniature sunflowers.  They must produce some kind of food.  Perhaps oil, like safflower oil?  I shall have to ask after that, too.  The front of my house is a wall of these flowers, six feet high.  I had to struggle, at the edge of the row where it meets the brick façade of the house, to get past them.  I tried to go directly through the wall, but it was impenetrable.

As I was slogging through the bog towards LdeC, I was thinking I needed a pair of galoshes.  Indeed, on the drive back through Canatlan I did stop and buy a pair.  Meanwhile I found an old pair sitting on a bench in the small corral.  I decided I could borrow them for the walk back to the car.  I doubted they would be missed overnight.  Of course they are old, with plenty of punctures through the rubber giving me a wet walk back, but at least I would have clean shoes for the drive home.

After I stopped at my house and picked up the things I felt I needed in the city right now, I went to Doug’s house to wash my feet and shoes.  I was a bit surprised to find that there was water at the sink.  Doug keeps one large melmac bowl on his fridge.  I pulled it down and filled it at the sink. There are no wash basin there.  The water coming into the bowl had flecks of dirt or hay in it.  Using this, I was able to clean my feet, although I made a bit of a watery mess on the floor.  Doug is due this weekend from Canada, so I’ll have to make time to clean that in a day or two, once it dries.  When I left in July there was still a half-full 5-gallon jug of water. After washing the bowl in the sink,  I then used purified water to rinse out the bowl before putting it back on the fridge.

Dog was happy to be back in Doug’s house, where we had spent many summer weeks.  After we left my house, Dog’s son went his own way, and Dog kept to my heels on over to Doug’s house.  She came inside, watched me for a minute, and then disappeared.  When I was ready to go, I found her on her usual perch, on the pillow on the car bench.  I should have checked it for mud (at least I no longer worry about fleas), but I was tuckered.  Perhaps I am not acclimated to the altitude; I felt heavy-limbed.  We had a happy memory moment there. 

I locked up the house, picked up the things I fetched, and left the camp.  Because my key did not work the padlock of the gate, I had to squeeze myself through the bars.  Surprisingly, I made it.  She followed me back up the path, through the algae green puddles and the mud, to my car.  I opened the driver’s door and sat while I changed shoes and wiped the muddy waters from my feet.  In the summer she was a most reluctant car passenger.  However, this time she was ready to jump into the car.  Sadly, I had to hold her back.

So tomorrow is a big day.  I will finally bring the dream into the sharp focus of reality.  I will have a serious meeting with the contractor.  A few days later I should have an answer.  How much will it cost to make this house livable.   Then I have to decide if it is worth it.

I called Gonzales, the contractor, and Eddie, the electrician, to warn them they needed either a high 4-wheel drive vehicle, or mud boots for our trip to Pozole in the morning.

I tried calling Juan, the caretaker at LdeC.  He didn’t answer the phone.  I attempted to leave a message, but I am not sure he knows how to listen to messages.  I also texted him.  One way or the other, I hope he will get to the land early enough to open the gate, and to prepare a path through the overgrowth to my house.

Coincidentally, next Monday Jhampa will also bring round an engineer, to consult on the septic or sewer system.

Now if we could only agree to dig a deeper well.

Thursday started as an overcast day, but there had been no rain in the night.  That was a good thing, since I had carelessly left the VW sunroof open.

I make a quick trip to Soriana Supermarket to buy kibble for the dogs and cats, and a pan de los muertos for my own breakfast.

Gonzales picked me up in front of the Oxxo mini market which is next to the Motel, at 9 am.  We had a nice chat on the long drive to Pozole.  I learned that he had spent quite a number of years working in construction in the States, including Danbury, Connecticut.  Not a place I picture having an enclave of Mexican workers.  What do I know.

I talked about the house and my plans.  As I talked, it became clear that I could live in the house with a bare minimum of work.  I wouldn’t have to immediately finish off the half-bath and the second bedroom.

We arrived.  I noticed he had not worn boots.  He had on ankle length sports lace-ups.  He felt confident in his Frontier, I guess.  However, as we got halfway down the road and he saw the green algae on the surface of the water-logged ruts, he decided to go no further.  I felt bad for him, me in my newly acquired galoshes, but we got out of the truck and went the rest of the way on foot.  Just as I had vocalized my thought of the previous day, that it would be pretty awful to slip in the mud and fall head long into the algae goop, I slipped and fell.  I went down on one knee, before regaining balance.  Oh well, no harm done that a washing machine couldn’t fix.

At the gate to the compound we both tried jiggling the key in the padlock.  I slipped through the bars, but he just could not.  Fortunately, Juan emerged out of the head-high weeds coming towards us, and unlocked the gate. 

We beat our way through the weeds and tall yellow flowers to the house.  We surveyed it, tossed around ideas, and finally came up with a plan.  He would plaster all the walls, even the unfinished half-bath and bedroom, after tiling all floors.  He would plaster and seal the disgusting looking celiing. There were blotches of what looked like that dangerous black mold you hear about.  He would fix all that, and also put a finish on the roof to further seal and strengthen it.

So, armed with a final plan, he took off to his truck.  I didn’t want to think of how he was going to get his truck back out of that long wet trail.  I understood that he is a business man and I was taking a big chunk out of his day, so I had paid him 400 pesos.  He wasn’t doing me a favor, this was a business transaction.  That assuaged my conscience a little.

Eddie should have been there by then.  I called him.  He said he was about 20 minutes out.

He called me back a little later, and asked if it was okay to drive through the river.   I told him the little that I knew; I had been advised not to attempt it.  Juan had just told me that by going a little further on the railroad path, there was a passable road.  I passed that along to Eddie.

Eddie must have backtracked a little, and found a resident with whom to discuss roads.  He showed up quickly, from the direction of what had been, last June, a shallow stream.

We took a few moments to survey the wires suspended across poles along the road.  We noted the one meter on the wall of the compound’s enclosure.

We walked to the house, the weeds barely pressed down from the recent foot traffic.  We surveyed the inside of the house, and it then occurred to me that there was no junction box.  We looked at each other with the same thought, but he was ahead of me.  Outside, he said.

So we fought our way through the overgrowth to the back wall of the house.  Sure enough, there hung a tangle of wires and a little box without its fuse.  He explained to me that here we had aluminum and copper trying to join, some of the wires were exposed and oxidized.  Lovely.  Clearly, this was the job he came for.

Further, to ensure an undiminished flow of current, he suggested we run an independent line with its own meter from the road to my house and my junction box.  This solution felt right. 

As we headed out, I suggested that as a courtesy we talk to Juan, and explain our plan.  We found him in the little corral, working the power saw.

They stood and talked a while.  When Eddie mentioned getting a separate meter for me (and each subsequent house), Juan apparently said he didn’t think the power company would give permission.  Eddie told him that he had friends in the department, he knew the ropes, and would have no problem obtaining my very own meter.  Juan looked ahead and just nodded, taking in this information.

Just then a great big backhoe or earth mover roared up towards Eddie’s parked truck, and stood noisily idling.  The two men got the hint, and quickly moved the truck inside the gate.

I said a sad farewell once again to Dog, knowing that at least she would have delicious kibble again.  I mean, it is not like she has been starving.  The pets’ dish in the corral was laden with tortilla and beans.  Nevertheless they greedily chowed down on the kibble, so I think it will be appreciated. We hung the bag of kibble from a hook in the rafter of the tiny enclosure in the corral, beyond their reach.

As we drove home, Eddie and I had a most interesting conversation.  He talked about how Durango has only recently started to grow, but still didn’t seem to have much to offer foreign tourists.

I think Durango is a well-kept secret, and maybe it is time to let the word out.  The vision began to grow and develop.  His father has a parcel of land ready for development, about ten minutes outside the city.  Wouldn’t it be nice if it developed into the kind of condos that retired people liked, with maybe a clubhouse where the residents could meet and play cards and such, and have weekly trips of sightseeing and shopping organized by the management.  That sort of thing.

I said I needed to create a web site, perhaps a blog, for ex pats.  I should carefully document all there is to see and do in Durango.  I wonder if there is a golf course nearby.I would gather some of the history of interest.  Eddie mentioned that there was a very ignored war memorial in the hills we were passing, dedicated to the revolutionaries of the Zapata era who freed the republic.  Leading to the thought that there must be many more hidden treasures, known only to the natives and mostly ignored.  There is the wild west restoration, which is a bit of an amusement park, he says.  There is still the the 'chupaderas', a movie set built by John Wayne and not incorporated into any amusement park.  Downtown, there is the cable car from the museum to the one hill that sits in the middle of the city, offering an awesome view.

But most of all, I need to write vignettes of life in Durango.  What does a retiree need?  In my opinion, the weather here is ideal.  The blue skies of Durango are famous in Mexico.  The temperature is constant.  There are chilly nights in the winter, but the daytime sun quickly pushes the temperature back to 70 degrees.  The downtown area is small but picturesque, with traditional markets.

The traffic sucks big time, but where in the world is that not true anymore?

At the moment, the airport has limited flights, unlike Torreon where one has multiple options to fly to Mexico city or other domestic destinations.   But once the flood gates open and demand increases, surely another airline or two would want to enter the market.

So, gentle reader, whereas yesterday I despaired of my life, feeling like a withering expendable appendage, today I am re-energized with a vision, a project. 

I paid for three more nights at the hotel, and hope that soon I will be moving into Pozole.  Eddie has a colleague, a fellow electrician, who is a native.  He has set him to work finding temporary housing for me among the many vacant homes in our little hamlet.

Oh, and by the time we had reached the motel, Eddie already had an estimate for me.  The project, he said, would cost 5,500 pesos; about $333.  

Here is how the land looked in July, during sowing. That is my brick house

Medicare costs out of control. Cataract surgery

Ripping off Medicare?

                How much does a cataract surgery cost Medicare?  I did not receive an itemized bill.  Happy to have the cost taken care of, I didn’t care.  I wanted the multifocal lens, to do away with even reading glasses.  That is not covered by Medicare, so it is an out of pocket expense of $2,500. 

                I had one eye done in the United States where I could use my Medicare insurance.  The other eye was done in Mexico, a cash affair.  To have a trifocal German Weiss lens put in, the total cost was 30,000 pesos, or roughly $1,500.  Obviously, without the multifocal lens it would have been well under $1,000.

                So, how much does Medicare shell out to an ophthalmologist for this basic procedure? 

                Let us compare to two procedures.

                In the US, I received the personal attention of the doctor’s technical assistant.  She spoke with my by phone about the medicines I needed prior to the surgery.  There were drops that were needed, to prepare the eye.  One small vial of drops cost $300.  She arranged to get a discount card for me, perhaps from the manufacturer, to reduce that cost by half.  I was given a detailed schedule for applying the drops prior to surgery.  The instructions included washing my eye with baby shampoo the night before and the day of surgery.  For the office visits, I sat in front of about five machines that measured my eyes.  Not quite sure what each of them measured, but it felt professional and efficient.

                On the day of the operation, I was instructed to go to a local hospital.  This hospital provides a wing devoted to this ophthalmology group.  Clear directions sent me from the hospital entrance around to their wing.  I was greeted at a polished wood reception counter, and checked in.  There is a carpeted waiting area with comfortable chairs.  I was invited to put on a hospital gown, to be more comfortable.  I was given a bed on wheels, and a tall shaven head man came to me and introduced himself.  He was the technician who was to prepare me.  He explained what would happen.  He was upbeat.  We quickly discovered something in common, and became best friends.  When the time came, I was wheeled into the operating room.  By this time I am so well informed that I am completely relaxes.  The local anesthesia is administered.  I am totally awake.  I am offered something that might take the edge off, but I tell them I am fine.  The procedure, done in a dedicated sterile room, was quick and painless except for one little pin prick.  I assume, by its timing in the event, that it was the lens going in. 

After the procedure I return to the other room.  I sit up, and am given a package of bandages and drops for doing my own after care.  Inside the bandage they’ve applied, there is a concave clear plastic tear-drop shaped perforated disc.  This will protect my eye, especially when I sleep.  I am given a sheet of instructions for the following three weeks.  It is a schedule, clearly written out, of how and when to apply each of three vial of drops I’ve bought.

I notice that the waiting room as well as the beds are full.  This is clearly an assembly line.  No telling how many of these procedures the doctor does in a day, although he may only do this procedure twice a week.

I have a follow up visit the next day at the town office of this ophthalmology group, which is pretty routine.  The doctor just wants to have a look at his work.  A week later I have another follow up with the referring optometrist, but I figure this is just his way of getting his cut, by charging the visit to Medicare.  There is nothing for him to do or see.  I blow it off.

During and after the surgery I have no pain or discomfort.  Given all the anti-inflammatory and antibiotic drugs I’ve been given, how could I.  I am given the instructions, not to bend over, not to lift anything heavy for at least a week.  They give a safe margin of error for the prognosis.  Three to six weeks and my vision will return to clarity. 

I think about how much all those machines cost, with which my eye was so closely examined and measured.

For months I have suffered with crazy vision.  One eye is normal, the other still needs corrective lens.  I try some old contact lenses.  They help a little, but they sat in sealed packets for years, and were probably slowly degrading.  Reading, for these months, is a big problem.

Finally I am free to go to Mexico.  I drive there from Florida, and settle into an unoccupied piece of land where I started and then abandoned a house.  One house on the community land is completed, and I am allowed to stay there.  I slowly make contact with the medical community, I see one doctor and then another, and I am told that the required lens is on order.  Once it arrives, my surgery will be scheduled.  I am in Mexico about four weeks before the day comes.

When I first met the doctor, perhaps the only one in town that does multifocal lens, and apparently he hasn’t been called upon to do many, he peers into my eye with one machine only.  Later a doctor friend would refer to this as a sonogram.  The appointment took perhaps five minutes.  He then searched out and ordered the lens, for which I would have to wait another two weeks or so.

I called ahead of that day to ask if I needed to do anything to prepare.  Any drops?  Shampoo for the eye?  No, there is nothing.  Just arrive at 10 am, fasting.

For safe keeping, I squirt my eye with remaining drops of anti-inflammatory left over from the previous eye surgery, that morning.  I scrub the eye with baby shampoo.  I show up at the doctors office before 10.  Then I am told the surgery will be at 11;30.  The receptionist said something about needing time to fill out history forms, but I thought my appointment got bumped.  The doctor was squeezing me in, as it was, as a favor to my physician friend.  And so I waited, light headed from a light supper the night before and no breakfast nor water.

The first referring ophthalmologist arrives, and waits in the tiny reception room.  I didn’t recognize him at first.  After some time, he came up to me and said softly, are you ready?  We are ready.  Yes, I agreed.  Ready.  It would still be some ten or fifteen minutes before I was prepared with gown, hair net and booties.

The procedure took place in a back room, on a guerney or examining table.  The referring doctor gowned up and was assisting.  There was not much talking, no mood lifting banter.  So far, three different drops had been applied, and they all stung to varying degrees of intensity.  The last were applied and I laid down.

The procedure took place.  I think the US doctor used laser tools, which this doctor did not have.  The first procedure felt smoother.  That being said, there was very little discomfort.

When it was over the eye was bandaged.  I was instructed to take care of it, don’t put pressure on it, don’t bend down or lift anything heavy. There was no plastic disc to protect the eye under the bandage.

These two Mexican doctors had done cataract surgery for my friends and their elders.  None of them requested the multifocal lens.  All had excellent results.

My question is obvious.  Is all that primping and pampering given the US patient and charged to Medicare necessary?  Yes, it feels good, but it doesn’t change the outcome.

Congress doesn’t dare cut Medicare funding, for fear of an outcry from the public.  I think the reduced funding requirements should come from within.  The medical profession in general relies on more and more instruments of measurement, expensive equipment and lab tests, to avoid liability from error.  Perhaps this testing is also a cover-up for the poor diagnostic skills acquired during medical training.

There is so much wrong with health care in the US.  I am only addressing one small specialty.  Of the broader field of western medicine, I believe that once treatment is applied, it is quality for the most part.  (I am sure there are studies out there reporting on this; I am not aware. I am being optimistic.)  But the expense around it is out of control.  There is a great body of traditional healing that is suppressed, not integrated into our system of health care.  When I lived in China I had access to many affordable natural remedies over the counter that relieved symptoms I might have gone to the doctor about in the US, if I could afford it.  In Mexico, and among my Mexican students in America, I have been acquainted with traditional healers.  I respect their work.

These are my observations from undergoing the same procedure in two medical systems.  And gratuitous ramblings on the topic of health care in general.  I welcome your comments.

Remembering an old friend and mentor

Birthday Blessings, Losar 2007

When you find a place you really love, it is hard to leave it.  Sometimes, however, there is no other choice.  While it is true that you cannot enter the same stream twice, that stream can still hold sweet water.  And so I left one Tibetan community and returned to another.

2006. This is a story about visiting an old friend, and reconnecting with a new friend.  Having left China (East Tibet) after being denied a worker visa renewal, feeling at sixes and sevens, I returned to a safe place.  India.  One goal was to visit the current incarnation of my deceased root guru. I learned he was in Bylakuppe, which is a Tibetan refugee camp a few hours from Mysore in Karnataka, southern India.  This is where the ancient Sera Me and Sera Je monasteries had been established, after the Tibetans were exiled from Tibet. 

Upon arriving at New Delhi (Indira Gandhi) airport, and spending a night in the refugee community, Majnukatilla, my feet trod once again a familiar path.  How well I knew this road, this 8 hour journey by overnight bus up a twisting bumpy mountain road to McLeod Ganj. This is where my life found its center, during 3 years in the 1970s.  This was my first time to revisit this mountain village in the Dhauladhar Mountains in Himachal Pradesh, north India.  I remembered a sleepy town where the only cars to brave the narrow and rough mountain road were the rare visitors to His Holiness the Dalai Lama.  We lesser mortals rode the rugged bus, each trip a death-defying act over narrow ascending roads cut into the mountainside, or walked the half-hour path down to Dharamsala markets.

The buses entered the small plaza, discharging their passengers before making tight U turns to prepare to head down the mountain again.  In this same plaza sometimes a projector and screen would be set up in the evening, and chairs set out to watch a rare movie.  At the wide convergence of the dirt streets leading up and down the hillside from the plaza, Tibetans on holiday occasions would form a circle and dance traditional dances.

McLeod Ganj is set on a mountain ridge at most one mile long. At one end was the small plaza.  Entering the plaza there were buildings straddling the ridge on either side. Behind the plaza at one end the mountain rose further, where there were stone-built colonial homes left by the British.  This was one of their ‘hill stations’, where they sent their families up from the plains to escape the unbearably hot summers.  In the center of this long narrow plaza there was a cement building housing a large rotating Tibetan cylinder filled with papers inscribed with ‘om mani padme hum’.  Each time it made a complete revolution a bell would tinkle.  Beyond that was a row of smaller such cylinders in rows, roofed but open.  Devout Tibetans came daily to turn these prayer wheels, repeating the same mantra or other prayers.  In one of these wooden buildings on the left side of the narrow road the Tibetan doctor had his medical practice.  When he was not seeing we mere mortals, he was occupied with tending to the health of His Holiness the Dalia Lama.  Or perhaps it was the other way around.  He was to go on to become a world renowned authority on traditional medicines, traveling and lecturing all over the world (Dr Yeshe Dondun). 

Further down the long narrow plaza, before the terminus of the ridge, there was a road sloping down to the right, towards a smaller prominence on the far edge of this ridge.  Except for a few hotels, there were no buildings here.  This was the path that pilgrims walked, alongside untouched woods, to the home of the Dalai Lama.  Hidden in the woods was a primitive nunnery for about 20 Tibetans.  (After I was ordained as a nun I asked if I could join this community of Tibetan nuns in this forest.  I was told it is too primitive for a westerner; I was denied community there.) Believers would take the narrow path below and around the ‘Palace’ repeating mantras, in a practice called ‘kora’ (circle).  They believed they were acquiring merit, canceling out some of their negative karma.

In the decades following the establishment of the Tibetan Government in Exile here, the focus for western residents (aside from those rare visitors who came briefly for a personal audience with the Dalai Lama) was attending the ‘Tibetan University’.  This was a project developed by the Dalai Lama with the purpose of preserving the Tibetan language, art, culture and Buddhist teachings by transferring them to westerners.  It was described in an article in Asian Times in the 70s.

A lucky few could find rooms in the apartments built around the government center, halfway between McLeod Ganj and Dharamsala.  These two-story buildings were mainly for the exiled Tibetans, and westerners who found housing there were usually visiting scholars come to study with the lamas and or to do research at the Library of Tibetan Books and Archives.

My shack was part of 'shanti bhavan', above McLeod Ganj in the forested former Raj-era compounds.  To attend the daily teachings at the Library entailed a walk down some 2,000 meters of altitude, on a dusty winding road. The walk down in the mornings was pleasant. In spring it included a short cut through a flowering rhododendron forest.  The road down was very steep, the view breathtaking.  A large lake was a shimmering ribbon of silver on the distant horizon, drawn on a canvas of blue haze.  To the right was the mountain wall.  To the left was a sheer drop off and the other side of the gorge.  It was a steep gorge cut by a river of melted snow runoff.  The return journey was arduous, in the burning hot afternoon mountain sun. 

On cold winter mornings, shivering in my nun’s traditional robes, I would rush down the small slope to a chai shop in McLeod Ganj for morning sweet chai and a roti, and maybe a cup of freshly made sour yogurt, before the long walk down the mountain to the Library.  The shop, with its worn linoleum floor and made of wood slats, darkened from years of cooking fires, was balanced precariously over a precipice. The cooking fires warmed the room.  A handful of other westerners were also there for the same reason. It was a cozy, intimate experience.

Because much of the housing construction was of unlined, uninsulated wood, winters were brutal.  Luckier, wealthier students and monks lived in concrete block houses, but these were also unheated.  The cold was unrelenting.  Each year there would be a mass exodus of lamas, and their followers, to the warmth of Bodh Gaya on the plains of Bihar state.  Usually from December until the Tibetan New Year, or ‘Losar’, the center of devotion would shift to the sacred area where Buddha was believed to have attained enlightenment.  Buddhists of all traditions were there. It was a rare opportunity to study with other traditions.  Notably was a Burmese teacher name Goenka, who led intensive 10-day meditation retreats in the Vipassana tradition.

When we all returned to McLeod Ganj to live out the short remaining winter weather, it was time to celebrate the New Year.  The high light of this time was receiving the Dalai Lama’s blessing.  He would sit in the main temple on his elevated seat, and a long line of devotees would snake outside the building waiting for their moment.  As I approached his seat, hands folded and draped with a traditional white silky scarf called a ‘khata’ that I would offer him, I would cease paying attention to whom else was in line.  My breath deepened, my spirit stilled, focused on the strong peaceful presence of the man who was about to lay his precious hand on my head. I knew that he knew who I was, and that his blessing was personal. 

Thirty years of change greeted my return.  Buildings had blossomed everywhere on the mountainside.  The dusty narrow steep road down to the Library and Dharmsala beyond was now paved.  It was regularly traversed by taxis and a few private cars.  There were frequent jams, where the road was not wide enough for two cars.  The narrow streets in McLeod Ganj proper were made more narrow by rows of vending tables, nevertheless cars dared traverse its 200 meter length, threading throngs of pedestrians with blasts of horn. 

Much of the forest that had been the front yard of His Holiness’s home was gone.   Many luxury hotels crowded the cliffside, shops and boutique restaurants hug the hillside, and there were new monasteries.  On the cliffs edge of the narrow road, stalls lined the sloping connecting road leading to the Palace.  Leathered brown faces sat beside blankets or tables filled with turquoise and coral stones set in silver, or mani beads.  These are strings of 108 beads, made of fragrant wood, or eye of the Pepol tree, or smoothed semiprecious stones.  

The small ‘ani gompa’ or nun’s temple had been replaced by a far more comfortable nunnery.  The Dalai Lama had done much to raise the level of the nuns.  They received more profound teachings than were available to them before, and were respected for their spiritual depth and learning.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s His Holiness would come down to the plaza, sit with his students over chai and laughter.  By the time I had arrived, the population both Tibetans and westerners had grown to an uncomfortable level.  He could no longer stroll anonymously in his village streets.

By the time of my return visit, the population had swollen to a seemingly insupportable size. His Holiness would give regular teachings each month, announced on his web site.  Throngs of westerners and Tibetans alike would travel in for the week-long teachings and sacred initiations.  The hotels were full, the Tibetan family homes were crowded with distant relatives sleeping on couches and floors.

My plan was vague; I was running away from disappointment, looking for a healing solution.  While passing through Bangkok from China I managed to obtain a ten-year tourist visa.  My goals included getting back in touch with my teachers, get some teachings, do some retreats, and otherwise jump start my flagging spiritual life. 

After a few days in a hotel in McLeod Ganj I was lucky to find an apartment halfway down the mountain towards Dharmsala, in an area that used to house the exiled government secretary.  In its day its address was home to a publishing house, which specialized in translations from the Tibetan scriptures and commentaries to English.  Now the area was developed and still developing, the now-asphalted path lined with concrete construction.  My apartment was in a 2-story quadplex.  It was modern, with tiled floors, a large shower and well-equipped kitchen.  

I applied for and awaited my permission to go to the Bylakuppe refugee center in Karnataka, were I would visit with the young incarnation of my deceased Library teacher. This would be a new experience for me.  Would he recognize me?  Would he find it strange that I treated him like an old friend, this 11 year old boy?

My year was coming to an end as the Tibetan New Year approached.  I had renewed my acquaintance with some of my teachers, sat in on illuminating teachings, and spent months in retreat meditating on these teachings.  I had made it down to Bylakuppe, and met the young ‘yangtse’.  As it happened, the holiest day of this Losar would fall on my birthday.  It was raining, cold and miserable in McLeod Ganj.  My summer wardrobe was hardly appropriate for this cold and wet weather.  My stay would be short.  I found a bed in a lodge run by a group of monks from a traditional monastery, right on the central plaza.  Losar was a holiday festival, a time for everyone to relax and enjoy themselves.  It was fun to be around the monks in these days.  Their childlike sense of play, and the laughter that filled the shared restaurant-reception area was infectious.

Reflecting on the old days of receiving His Holiness’s personal blessing at Losar, I wished to re-experience that intimate connection.  In reality, during the intervening years he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and become world-renowned.  It would be impossible for him to continue that practice of touching each of the tens of thousands of visitors who waited expectantly for his blessing.  Instead, the day’s activities in his temple would take on a different aspect.

I could not face these crowds of strangers.  Instead, I decided to spend the hours doing kora around his holiness’s home and temple.

Even that had been built up.  Of course, much of the path on the exposed side of the mountain was still narrow and unpaved.  But along a broader strip of land new homes had been added to the mountain slope, for honored reincarnate lama teachers, benefitting the monks studying in HH’s monastery.  Devoted followers had donated shrines, small buildings housing precious reliquary and candles.  Near the end of the long circle there was a small plaza, lined on one side with mani wheels and on the other by an enclosed shrine.  I reached that point at the end of the kora, just as the sun came out dispelling the drizzle.  I folded my umbrella, and stopped for reflection. 

I closed my eyes, and focused on that precious presence.  I wished him a happy new year prayer.  To my astonishment, a warmth flooded over me, accompanied by an inner light and profound peace.  It lingered for a long moment.  He came to me, and wished me a happy birthday, letting me know that he had not forgotten me.

Upon that joyous note, I soon booked my travels back to Kham, East Tibet, where my friend was awaiting the arrival of her first child.  I was the designated doula, or midwife.  I was returning to China as a tourist, for a short stay of three months.  The future was uncertain, but I knew that whatever came my way I could weather it, knowing that I was held in the heart and under the protection of a very special spiritual being.  Though I be alone in the world, I know I am tethered by an unbreakable cord.