Rebel Rebel

“I made my way on to a grey list, a black list even.

That’s something I’m very proud of, actually.”

-Elmer Bernstein

    I set out for my 12 days of silence and Vipassana meditation at Kathmandu’s DharmaShringa Centre with just a backpack of my warmest layers, a second hand sleeping bag, as well as a few smirks and looks of incredulity from my new Nepali family. During my week long solo yoga retreat at Shivapuri Village, the Singh family, who own and operate said village generously adopted me. When they discovered I had a gap between itineraries, they happily scooped me up, took me back down the mountain, put me up in their guest room, and folded me into their circle of extended family and a colorful cast of friends. 

    The night before my departure I sat on the floor of patriarch Prem Singh’s comfortable yet stately Asian living room watching him, The General, Miss Margarita and the Iron Lady play a card game called Marriage, all of us drinking Johnny Walker Black. Prem’s son Prajunna walked in to give me the green light for the next day, if I was still determined to go. Out of concern for his new American sister, he wanted to make sure I had legitimately signed up with the DharmaShringa Centre and wasn’t just being trucked off and sold into slavery god knows where. He only felt moderately relieved to find out they indeed had a cot with my name on it. The General quickly piped in that he knew several people who had gone through the program. Apparently, if one can get past the discomforts from the rigor and intensity of the 12 days then for about two days after you felt amazing. He also knew a woman to go bat shit crazy from it. I laughed and said, “So basically it is 12 days of ascetic torture to feel good for two, and then it’s back to the same old shit?” Yep, pretty much. Even prior to their attempts of talking me out of going, I had gone and back and forth with myself about all my options. The program is free so I wouldn’t have been out any money. Whether I actually managed to fall into some transcendental state in which I mastered the ability to astral travel or I simply sat and let my mind prattle on self righteously, it was a challenge I felt compelled to undertake.

       The din of aggressive Kathmandu street traffic and the clatter of competing mechanics helped assuage the awkwardness of 100 to 200 people randomly queuing.  The ad hoc registration occupied an empty office in a bank of auto repair shops and motorcycle dealerships making the day ahead seem a bit more surreal. The retreat silence doesn’t begin until after the first sleep at the center although you wouldn’t have guessed it by this lot. The majority were clutching their sleeping bags and nervously looking out the door at the passing taxis. Two hours into what turned out to be a five hour registration process, people finally began seeking a common language and casual introductions.  Instead of the usual ‘Where are you from?’ the first query made was ‘Why are you here?’ It was as if we were all still asking ourselves that very question and hoping someone else had a clever and enlightened answer we could steal. Three more hours and two decrepit and very temperamental buses later we arrived at the foot of Shivapuri National Park and at the door of DharmaShringa Meditation Centre.  

         Being at the base of the Himalayas and above the blanket of Kathmandu pollution the setting was very serene and green. The air was cleaner, but also much crisper. The coats and hats came on as soon as we left the body heat bubble of an overcrowded bus, at which point many of us questioned our seasonal timing. We stood at the top gazing down a series of steps onto a handful of very plain brick buildings. It looked like a small campus high school, the ones with the large painted concrete block walls. The gold spire on the roof of the meditation hall was the only extraordinary feature. Suddenly, and quite urgently I might add, we were being asked to surrender our passports and petty cash, as my bag was grabbed from my hands to be searched for snacks and medications. Before I had time to protest about the passport, the men and women were quickly being shuffled and shown to their separate quarters.  This militant order versus the painful lack of efficiency back in town took everyone by surprise. We looked like a herd of disoriented cows and bulls being corralled into our respective pens.  

The cow pen perimeter was a sidewalk, roughly two feet wide, circling the two women’s dormitories that could be completed in two minutes… ok five minutes, but only if you walked reeeaaaally slowly. I understood the men and women in different dormitories, but to not have access to the entire grounds seemed unnecessarily limited. Everyone soon began searching out their bunks and wandering around, taking in their new home for the next 12 days.

      The bathhouse sat in between the two dorms and consisted of eight squat toilets. Eight toilets for something like 100 women? Had they never seen the line outside a women’s restroom? And yes, they are exactly what they sound like; a rudimentary hole in the ground and two footplates. Luckily they did have doors. There was a small spicket and a bucket in each. How strange though, they must have just run out of toilet paper. Yes? Uh, sadly no. I guess we were supposed to know to supply our own? That might’ve been a valuable bit to add to the ‘What to Bring’ list. There is a reason you do not eat or pass anything with your left hand, you catch my drift. Luckily, I had brought along the two pages of the course schedule which I meticulously tore into 12 small pieces, one for each day, bowel god willing.  After the second day of that fun, I guess enough people, and by people I mean Westerners, felt bold enough to whisper their TP insecurities to the staff. While my name was one of the first on the sign up list for a couple rolls, the paper wasn't even half ply. I was almost better off using my little but hearty scraps of printer paper. 

         The showers were in the same bay as the toilet holes.  I didn't truly expect hot showers, but we were told warm water was readily available; this information courtesy again of the ‘What to Bring’ list that already lied to me once. I’m no princess and am quite accustomed to living rather rustically.  If I can live in a garage, shower outside and shit in a paint bucket for almost a year then this should be nothing, but even then I had warm water.  I’m sorry but, a heart stopping cold shower outside when it's only 35° F is just wrong. When you're never wearing less than three layers, the idea of taking your clothes off outside is unfathomable and takes a lot of psychological preparation and Lamaze breathing. Below the shower-head there was a regular faucet so I opted for washing my hair upside down and a good ole fashioned whore's bath. I was already coming down with a raging head cold so I wouldn’t have even bothered to shower every day in those icy conditions, but as the fates would have it I was also surfing the crimson wave that week. I was off to a winning start.

          The dormitories were divided into cubicles with two cots each and as you can probably guess, without heat. The concrete block walls once painted white were now a distinct yellow, and there were resident spiders the size of your palm. I never changed into my normal pjs once. I wore a pair of yoga pants under a pair of sweat pants,  two pairs of wool socks, two long sleeve thermal t-shirts, a regular t-shirt, a zip up hoodie, my fleece jacket, my scarf around my neck and head, my hood drawstring pulled tight, and would burrow way down into my sleeping bag. Interestingly, the cold came not only from the outside temperature but also from the silence and lack of eye contact that followed on the second day.

         You know when you read something over and over and you think you’re getting it, and yet you have to keep reading it over and over again? Yeah, it was like that.  I had read the course schedule innumerable times. I thought I was well aware of what lay ahead. Yeah, not so much. My brain in no way comprehended the intensity I was about to endure. A) We would be awake seventeen hours, from 4am to 10pm. 2)  We would be sitting for twelve of those seventeen hours. We would be sitting on a cold concrete floor covered only by a threadbare and visibly disintegrating excuse for carpet and a lumpy throw pillow that made me feel dirty just looking at it. By the second day 95 percent of the participants came wrapped in their comforters or sleeping bags.

            I was quickly reminded of the asymmetry in my pelvis during the two hour sitting on our first full day. Being a dancer, I’m quite flexible but I’ve never been able to sit cross legged for more than 30 minutes before my right leg falls asleep.  I changed my position so many times I began inventing new ones. The only thing I wasn’t able to do was straighten my leg since pointing the bottom of your feet toward anyone is a major sign of disrespect. The sound of that first bell was like the sound of heaven opening. Normally a food break would be music to my ears, but the thought of standing up only to sit down five minutes later on yet another cold floor almost killed my appetite. I say almost because the vegetarian Indian diet of various kinds of dhal, veggies, and rice was so incredibly delicious and proved to be my only true comfort. I tried to savor every bite because soon as that bell rang again, all I could think was “Damn, I’ve got 10 more hours to go!”  

      While I’d done lots of meditation in the past, it was usually in 30 to 60 minute increments. And this is the schedule for new students?!  The meditation room still divided the sexes, same as the dorms and eating halls but this was the only place we were all in the same space at the same time.  Men sat on the left as you entered, and women on the right. There were volunteers patrolling up and down the aisles to make sure you weren’t falling asleep or unnecessarily moving too much. I was in so much pain I couldn’t even hope to fall asleep, but as I often peeked around I saw that plenty of people did. The female patrols were certainly more strict than their male counterparts, bonafide Meditation Gestapos. One of the few times I actually managed to get into a deep meditative state I was jolted back by a girl yanking at my pillow and aggressively pointing at my face. I had forgotten to take my glasses off, god forbid. Another time I was on the verge of tears and desperate to straighten my legs.  I stretched one leg behind me, toes tucked under so my foot was not pointed at anyone, but because I was moving too much a girl rushed over to wag her finger and whisper very threateningly. I about lost it. I bit my tongue from saying, “Look here McGruff, stop sniffing up and down our aisles. Worry less about our group and go suss out who Sleepy McSnore is over on the men’s side!”  By the end of each day, the muscles around my knees and hips were inflamed, in spasm, and just plain pissed off. I wanted to yell, “Helloooo? Don’t you people realize that I am a dahn-cer?! (the power of this statement comes only from this particular pronunciation) I must be free to move!”

      The meditation hall had the same yellowing block walls accompanied by the smell of 30 years of feet and bodies. The only thing different, and special, was the stage at the front of the room. Almost as if they were religious statues, two men and two women each sat perched on their own fluffy white cloud, manifest in the form of a loveseat or overstuffed library chair. Let us call these four Eenie, Meenie, Meinie, and Mo since there was absolutely no introduction. They just suddenly appeared on the second day. They were so silent and still, I half wondered if they had been there the day before but I was just too blinded by my pain to have noticed. I expected one of them to begin speaking when suddenly what sounded like a huge belch came over the loudspeaker….actually several loud, and impressively long guttural indigestive sounds.

        What the?! These horrific noises slowly morphed into what I pictured was an old drunken sailor

singing sea shanty songs, in Hindi of course, while falling in and out of consciousness. Seriously, what the…?! My eyes quickly darted around the hall looking for other startled reactions and stifled chortles. The voice then began to speak, telling us to “Focus on the area at the entrance of the nostrils. (When I say what followed was a long pause, I mean a looooooong pause) The area inside the nostrils….(another ridiculously long pause like he’d fallen asleep again) Focus on the incoming breath and the outgoing breath. Be bery avere, bery attentib, bery avere and bery attentib.” He repeated these instructions several more times, the cadence painfully slow and occasionally interrupted by the indigestion from his obvious ‘munchies’. All I could think was, “Who is this stoner? This dude baked out of his mind chillin’ in a Lazy Boy and rambling into a voice recorder between tokes?”  Then all I could envision was a cross between the Smoking Caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland and Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski.  I had to bite my tongue, hard, to stop the inappropriate snickering that I knew could be a runaway train.

         For our first 37 hours of meditation, all he told us to do was focus on the entrance to our nostrils. The assistant teachers said and did nothing, except doze off and drool on their cushy white thrones. One guy did actually speak up but only to tell us when we could take our pee breaks. Then two days in a row they called us up five at a time to ask us if we understood Guru Goenka’s instructions. “Are you kidding me? Focus on my breathing, yeah I think I got it!”

It wasn’t until the fourth day that we started the actual technique and even then it was about scanning your body from head to feet, feeling for sensation. It was that day too that they threw us a curveball; for three of our 12 hours during each the morning, afternoon, and evening sessions we were told not to move, at all.  We had to pick a position and stick, no adjustments, no movement period.  Mind you I was still fighting a head cold. So what, was I just supposed to snot all over myself?  I had myself creatively propped up and supported with a folded blanket, a pillow and my sleeping bag. I made it almost forty five minutes in this odd seated contortion before the muscles in my back and hips began to cease. It felt like I was being stabbed with a hot poker and that pain literally took my breath away. I barely held back an echoing “Sonofa…!” It’s been my experience that clarity often comes along with a curse word…or two.

     This is supposed to purify my mind?! I’m creating new tension in my body, not releasing it, and having some seriously negative and angry thoughts. Ignoring the rushing of quiet feet, angrily furrowed brows, and wagging fingers, I had to try and move my pain frozen body.  I thought, “For Christ’s sake, I’m in Nepal! I have one week left and I’m gonna spend it pissed off and miserable? That’s just stupid.”  Prem's sincere invitation to come back to their house if I wanted to leave early kept replaying in my mind. I also remembered a conversation I'd had with him about his prescription for a happy life; everything in moderation. It’s a well known sentiment, obvious but brilliant and true.  This experience was mirroring my Italian farming fiasco of the month prior just in a different dress. The same lesson was being presented, but I didn’t need to learn it twice.  I didn't feel the need any more to prove anything to myself, and especially not to anyone else.

       I wanted to spend my last days here exploring this incredible country and enjoying time with my new family and friends. The truth is that in my heart of hearts I know I could have stayed and gutted through it, but why? In the past I have contorted and tortured myself on all levels to prove that if, and only if, I made it through the fire, I was strong. It is no longer a question if I can survive something because I know I can, the question now is do I want to have to survive it? I would rather thrive than merely survive. That is where the strength lies.

      On the fifth morning after breakfast I pulled one of the volunteers aside and asked, "Who do I need to speak to about getting my passport back? I would like to leave today." She looked horrified, as if I’d just slapped her. “You are not allowed to leabe.” she stated very matter of factly. “Watch me.” I said equally confident. She simply ignored me and padded away. I had to stalk three more volunteers before I was finally told I had to sit through three more hours of meditation before a teacher could be available for counsel. Finally during our lunch /rest break I was allowed an audience with… let’s call this one Meenie.

Meenie: How can I help you? (said whilst looking past me… into the great unknown mayhaps?)

Me: I respect your institution and the Vipassana technique. However, it does not seem to be for me. I do not wish to stay for next seven days. And I would like to get my passport so that I may leave, today.

Meenie: Ooooooh, noooooo, noo. You can't.  (still without making eye contact)

Me: Uhhh, well I'm really not asking your permission. I'm telling you. I'm leaving. (this time I leaned over placing myself in her line of sight.)

Meenie: Today can be a bery hard day for eberyone. The days go bery fast after today. So noooooo. You cannot leabe.

Me: I doubt that and no offense, but I don't care. I want to and will leave. Soooo, about my passport?

Meenie: Noooooo, you hab committed to the 12 days.

Me: Technically yes, but seeing as how there is no contract of any kind you cannot make me stay OR hold my passport. So who do I need to speak to?

The exchange of her simply saying “Nooooo, I could not go” and me refuting went on for a good ten minutes more before in exasperation she finally said,

Meenie: I must warn you that it's bery dangerous to leabe early. We cannot be responsible for whateber may happen to you for not completing the program.

Me: Yeah? Well I'll take my chances, I like to live dangerously. So, my passport?

Meenie: Well, if you hab absolutely made your decision then you are right we cannot hold you here. A bolunteer will come to get you after the 1pm meditation bell. Please be discreet.

Me: Great, thank you. (Because I’m not a complete asshole, I bowed in genuine gratitude) Namaste. 

(Although by the time I got to the door in my mind I whooped, “Peace out bitches!”)

     I quickly and covertly packed my bag and slipped out as the bell rang calling everyone back in the hall. I only caught the eye of my cubicle mate as she was the last to come out of the dining hall and she looked startled and impressed at the same time. I endured some glowering looks akin to the evil eye from the admin staff while signing a release form assuming any physical/ mental harm that may come from leaving early. I also had to formally acknowledge that my early departure would officially put my name on the Vipassana ‘Black List’. I clutched my passport tight swearing never to surrender it again. In my heart I ran out the gate and clicked my heels on the other side. In reality though, I gingerly limped toward my freedom feral and fumbling to open the bottle of Advil they’d previously confiscated.

     I enjoyed a meandering walk back down the mountain toward the city center that led me through a village block –party. I must’ve looked seriously worse for wear because as soon as they saw me approach the villagers invited me to join them and offered a sample of their local buckwheat brew. The freedom I felt not only physically but mentally and emotionally was truly overwhelming. I could barely make polite conversation because of the sizable lump of emotion and pride in my throat. I gave and received lots of hugs instead. Once back in Kathmandu, a short taxi ride dropped me at the Singh family’s gate and into their open arms. As soon as they saw me they began to laugh and cheer, all rushing over to take my bag and give me more hugs.  I became “bery avere” of my breath then, in and out through my nostrils deep and full of relief as well as the sensations from my head to my feet, a tidal wave of LOVE!