Wednesday, March 30, 2011

The Bodhisattva



A bodhisattva is anyone who is motivated by compassion and seeks enlightenment not only for themselves but also for others.

The bodhisattva I met today was a 28 year old Indonesian guy named Made (pronounced MAH-day). Skinny as a piece of bamboo and good-looking in that wiry, St. Francis of Assisi, "I sure could use a cheeseburger" sort of way that's so en vogue amongst the spiritually enlightened, he was sitting under a tree reading a book.

I immediately thought of the story of Buddha, who achieved enlightenment while fasting and meditating for 49 days beneath a bodhi tree. But judging from the statues I’ve seen, Buddha, like Elvis, must have eaten more than a few peanut butter and banana sammiches in his later years.


I stopped to ask him directions to a scuba dive shop I was looking for, and we struck up a conversation. After asking my name, he inquired where I was from, and when I told him America, his expression grew serious and he stroked the six wispy hairs on his chin.

“May I ask you one question?”

“Of course!” I said as I sat down next to him and crossed my legs, wondering what this grave matter might be.

“Is Canada in America?”

I tried to explain as concisely as possible that both the United States and Canada share a continent called North America, but that when people say “America” they’re usually referring to the country and not the continent…and that Canada is a separate country altogether. I didn’t mention that Canadians are much less likely to be loud and obnoxious or involved in a conflict than Americans. Unless you're playing ice hockey. Think about it…how many Canadians have you met that you didn’t like?


I asked why he was curious about America’s neighbor to the north. He told me he was moving to Canada to work.

“What kind of work?” I inquired.

“Hard work.”


As it turns out, Made, who doesn’t weigh as much as an axe handle, is moving to the Great White North to work in the timber industry. I just couldn’t picture him exchanging his T-shirt, flip flops and tropical surroundings for a flannel shirt, wool cap and goose bumps. Not to mention wielding a chainsaw.

I asked him the name of the book he was reading. The English translation was “Sadness, Happiness and Silence.” The passage he was reading explained the notion that sadness is like taking vitamins. Encountering situations which upset us can actually strengthen our spiritual “immune system.”

I confided in Made I was having some really big challenges with the person I was traveling with at the moment. We’d only been together about a week and had already had several clashes and conflicts.

He asked me if my goal or intention for the relationship was clear before she joined me here in Bali. I admitted that I hadn’t given it a lot of thought.

“Your mistake” was Made’s succinct response.

“But she's pushing ALL my buttons!

“Those are your attachments” said Made, the truth of his observation whacking me in the forehead with the force of a wooden kitchen spoon. “If you feel happy or sad because of another person,” Made went on to explain, “then your happiness resides outside yourself, and you are dependent upon that person for your sense of well-being.”

Amen, brother.


Just then, another guy came walking down the sidewalk. He was muscular, covered in tribal tattoos and sporting a gold necklace and bracelets, a New York Yankees baseball cap and pink tinted Ray Ban aviator sunglasses. A hipster.

He spoke a few words to Made in Balinese, then sat down next to us.

“Are you guys friends?” I asked.

“All Balinese are friends!” he grinned.

I appreciated the sentiment, and it fit in nicely with the conversation Made and I were having. But I could feel the peace and quiet connection I felt slipping away as this uninvited third wheel barged in on our conversation.

“My name’s John” I said, extending my hand. “What’s yours?”

“Made” he replied as he crushed my hand with his vise-like grip. “I work at dive shop. You like scuba dive? I make you special price.” Made #2 insisted I come with him to the dive shop immediately. Eager for him to leave, I politely declined, telling him that I was enjoying my conversation with Made #1 and that I’d meet him at the dive shop shortly.

He stayed.

And he pulled out a brochure and began describing the various dive packages. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Here was a guy who was the complete opposite of Made #1 in his appearance and demeanor. A mirror image. With all the subtlety of a railroad spike, reality burst my little bubble of contentment.

Made #1 told me about a meditation class he’d been attending at a Buddhist monastery and invited me to accompany him. I took down his number, told him I’d call him and walked the rest of the way down the beach with Made #2.

When I returned a few minutes later, the bodhisattva was gone. I wondered if I'd dreamt the entire thing. As soon as I got back to my hotel I told my travel companion about my encounter with this mystical being.

“We should totally go to the meditation thing tonight!” she exclaimed. Gritting my teeth at the prospect of having to share my new found friend, I called Made and arranged a time for the three of us to meet.


As 6:30 rolled around, my pesky expectations and attachments came bubbling up again. I heard myself asking my friend if she would mind dressing more modestly since we were going to a monastery. I feared that people would be offended by her sexy short shorts and tank top, and that I would be guilty by association. And as I offered my unsolicited advice about her wardrobe, she informed me that she had already planned to change clothes. Busted.

We went down to the street and waited. And waited. After half an hour, I left a note at the front desk in case he showed up, and we went to dinner. No meditation. No monastery. Just me and my maddening thoughts. And my friend, who, despite my resistance, was proving to be every bit as much a teacher as the bodhisattva. It dawned on me that her perennial enthusiasm, joyfulness, open-mindedness, sense of humor and free spirit were exactly the traits I aspire to.

Made told me some other things during our brief encounter that afternoon....that his girlfriend was pregnant and had left her family so they wouldn’t find out. That he didn’t love her and didn’t want to marry her. That he was going half way around the world and wasn’t sure he could support her and the baby because he wanted to send money to his own family who were very poor.

And after agreeing to meet me, he stood me up.

Turns out bodhisattvas are humans too...just like the rest of us.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Soggy Footprints



Try finding a new pair of shoes in S.E. Asia, where even circus clowns wear nothing larger than a size 9.

I wear a size 12, so unless I’m willing to curl my toes under my feet and walk with crutches, finding a new pair of shoes is like the quest for the Holy Grail. I went to 15 stores and finally found a pair that fit. Four days later I got caught in a rainstorm and they were completely soaked.

Stepping in a puddle and getting your shoes and socks wet is no big deal. You simply leave them in the sun until they dry out. Problem solved.  But traveling with wet shoes is an entirely different matter. Particularly if you’re in a climate where the humidity is 150% and your only other choice of footwear is a pair of flip flops with all the tread worn off.

All the options are pretty undesirable:
1. Sliding and stumbling around in your flip flops...embarrassing and dangerous.
2. Wearing your wet shoes and contracting trench foot...painful and hard to cure if you're always wearing wet shoes.
3. Keeping your shoes in a plastic bag where they quickly mildew and/or begin to stink to high heaven. The inside of your backpack becomes a petri dish, teeming with primordial life and pterodactyl eggs.

I couldn’t leave my brand new, soaking wet shoes outside to dry, because here in Indonesia, there’s likely to be a torrential downpour at any minute. Plus, hotel managers tend not to like it when you leave a pair of soaking wet size 12 Nikes outside your door for all the other hotel guests to trip over.

I managed to get my shoes to dry to a semi-soggy state, and at each of my subsequent destinations, would immediately unpack them so they could dry further. In the meantime I skated and slid around in my flip flops, providing lots of entertainment to passersby and collecting a number of self-inflicted injuries in the process. Finally, after 10 days, my shoes were dry again.

Just in the nick of time, because the next day's itinerary included a hike up a treacherous rocky path up to the rim of a sulphur spewing volcanic crater. Slippery flip flops were not really ideal footwear. The alarm clock went off a 3:30 a.m., and I donned my now dry Nikes for our 4 a.m. departure. The hike went smoothly and I was thankful to have reliable, comfortable footwear while ascending a trail that would have given a mountain goat second thoughts.


No shower, no sleep and 36 hours on a bus later, I disembarked late at night in heavy traffic in a semi-catatonic state. I hailed a cab and made it to a hotel without further incident. I was delighted to find that they had a clean room with a queen size bed and a hot shower available. As I left the brightly lit reception area to cross the pitch dark expanse to my room, I stepped into ankle deep water, completely drenching my shoes.

I sloshed my way to higher ground, and took one step up onto a moss-covered, rain-soaked concrete surface. Had there been a security camera, it would have shown me in mid-air, parallel with the ground, wide-eyed, flailing like a penguin attempting to fly.

Immediately following this would be a scene of me lying face down in the mud, all of the meat from both shins shaved off like thinly sliced sashimi, my backpack crushing my spine, and my glasses lying just out of arm’s reach, accompanied by the sound of me groaning in agony. And then the sound of maniacal laughter as I replayed in my mind what had just happened.

It is inconceivable to me that no one heard the unmistakable sound of a human body sustaining a bone-crushing fall onto a concrete surface, nor the primordial sounds of pain emanating from a mortally wounded, beaten and battered, sleep-deprived, delirious traveler...but nobody came to see what all the commotion was about.

Alone in the dark I crawled around on all fours until I found my glasses, stood up and staggered the rest of the way to my room where I showered, liberally applied antibiotic ointment to my shins, and left my shoes out to dry. Again.