Happy New Year

Do nomads mark the years, or the seasons?  For us, a new year usually arrives, when we start to travel.  This year it is happening in the Spring.  To close the previous year we prepared a video of some of Adi's work.  It is an easy watch.  Less than three minutes. 

Click the link below, expand to full screen, press play, and enjoy.

https://vimeo.com/1062590107

Hans

My dear friend Hans, has gone.  

Hans was a free spirit, an adventurer.  He was my role model.  He did not set out to be an example, he just did his best, and he did it well.  He was a good athlete, a good sailor, a good musician, and a good aviator.  I followed his footsteps in several of these endeavours, but never managed to catch up.  I was not jealous, I viewed him as an older brother. Over the years, we shared many adventures, and he loved to chide me for the dangers my recklessness has put him through, yet that did not deter him from embarking on our next adventure.   However, sometimes it felt like he was the younger, impetuous sibling.  He took chances that would make me cringe, and always came out ok.

Most people are either afraid of death, or try to ignore it.  Hans did not philosophize, but his actions demonstrated his feelings.  Fear was not in his vocabulary, nor did he ignore death.  He challenged, and often mocked it.  Rather than contemplate potential disasters, he focused on extracting fun from life.  Not always was it easy, but he managed to do so, and always with a smile.  Hans remained my role model till the end.  His smile, even on his last day, said, "I am not afraid"

I miss him. 

Searching for Happiness

I want to have a happy life, yet confronted with illness, old age, and death, suffering is inevitable.
I want to have a happy life, yet modern science confirms that happiness is short-lived, followed by a craving for its return.  Dissatisfaction is inevitable.
Are we (Am I) condemned to a life of fear and emptiness?
Some people respond by looking for the "Meaning of Life."  I believe there is no such thing.  Others narrowly define happiness as the "Absence of Pain."  I  find no appeal in this approach.  More to my liking is Buddha practical manual for overcoming Dukkha (Suffering, Impermanence).  I started to follow his teachings, and one day I will continue.  Meditation is probably the most robust approach to a better life, but the path is long.  However, while looking, I may have stumbled on a shortcut.  The shortcut does only a partial job, but I hope it does not conflict with Buddha's path.   I realized that by changing the object of my search from Happiness to Contentment, I could reduce (not eliminate) suffering, and dissatisfaction.

To me, striving for contentment, means, building it into my life.  I believe that a stable platform of contentment will fortify me against the inevitable suffering.  Furthermore, in my experience, the building process itself, is a source of challenging fun.  Although contentment will be achieved gradually, I recognized three distinct levels which form a hierarchy of contentment.

1. Comfort
2. Passion
3. Creativity

Comfort 
Comfort is the lowest level I would aim for.  Below that level, one is probably struggling with more urgent problems than achieving happiness.  It is supported by three pillars:

• Healthy Body
• Active Mind
• Love and Friendship

These pillars do not occur on their own.  Their construction requires intent, planning, and effort of execution.  Even after their construction, they require continuous upkeep and improvement.  However, once in place, they support a platform of resilience that will aid in enduring any hardship.  Not all three need to be of equal strength.  Life will inevitably weaken one or the other, but the other two will carry the weight until it can be rebuilt.  Even though this is the basic level, I would not mind spending the rest of my life in that state.

Passion
Passion is the second tier in the contentment hierarchy.  It adds content and meaning, but I do not expect it to provide the "Meaning of Life".  It is a happy distraction from fear and craving.  It too requires the building of foundations, of which, I counted two

• Talent
• Dedication

Both talent and dedication are required for developing a passion, and they are both within us.  We are all born with some talents, and it is our job to find the one that gives us joy,  Once found, dedication is required to develop it. While at first, dedication may seem like a chore, it becomes easier as we progress, until it turns into a passion.  I consider dedication as the parallel effort to meditation.  Passion is not the equivalent of striving for excellence.  The latter implies a high level of competitiveness which, while not contrary, is not necessary for my definition of passion.

Creativity
At the highest level of the hierarchy stands creativity.  Unfortunately, I do not have the personal experience, nor the required research, to describe the path to get there.  I am sure though, that it requires Passion.

Note
This hierarchy is an initial, and probably temporary model.  I am not even sure if at applies to others.  I hope to draw on you (the reader) to critique, offer edits, and allow me to refine this approach.

Goodbye Friend

We were friends for eighteen years.  Our friendship started as you accompanied me to remote California mountains on motorcycle expeditions. You patiently waited while I worked in far away countries, and then gladly rejoined me and Adi on many adventures .  You put yourself at risk to protect us from an attacking animal, and suffered greatly for this sacrifice.   With time, we started treating you like a family member.  You were hurt, you were robbed, but rain, hail, or shine, you did your duty.  Your peak glory was a cross-continent tour to Panama and back, where you garnered admiration for your endurance and perseverance.  Inevitably, time moves on.  You did not change, but my capabilities weakened.  With age, I need a younger, stronger friend to support me.  The time has come to say "Goodbye".

Nemo, my friend, I hope you have a happy life in the hilly pastures of El Dorado, California.

When I Am Not

I am not obsessed, yet lately, I have been thinking about death.   I believe my age, as well as Adi's cancer, are reasonable justifications to dwell on this topic.  On those occasions, I ask myself a simple question,
"What can I do now, that will allow me to face death (1), with dignity?"
Practical as the question may be, it is in philosophy that I sought the answer.  I surveyed three schools, Epicureanism (2), Stoicism, and Buddhism.  (Earlier, I filtered Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.) The answers these philosophies provided, are presented below(3).   


The format is a quasi-table, and the philosophies are presented in the following order:

1. Epicureanism
2. Stoicism
3. Buddhism

  A.  The answer 

1. Do not fear Death
2. Do not fear Death
3. Qualified "Do not fear Death"

B.  The underlying metaphysics

1. The Soul (which includes the mind) is physical and disappears with the death of the body
2. The soul may survive the body, but provides no benefit to the individual.
3. The soul will be reborn in another being.  Its destination is governed by Karma.

C.  Rationale for "Do not fear"

1. When the body (and soul) die, all sensations, including pain, cease.  "Why should I fear death? If I am, then death is not, and if death is, then I am not."
2. The stoics adopted the epicurean explanation quoted above.  They also claimed that the period prior to our birth, is a symmetric state to death.  In both, we do not exist.  If we accept the former, why be afraid of the latter?
3. Death is a law of nature, and should not be feared by righteous men.  (Evil men should beware of reincarnation into a lower being.)

D.  Training Instructions

1. Gather with close friends, and conduct philosophical discussions on the subject.
2. Prepare yourself by repeated exercises and meditations.  Learn to accept what you cannot control.  Form mental images of the event, and realize that it is not so bad.  Observe yourself from an outside perspective. etc.
3. Internalize that everything is impermanent.  Meditate on death and its physical appearance (Is that skeleton, I?)

E.  Dying Rituals

1. I did not find any rituals.
2. Be in the company of friends and family
3. Engage a monk to chant by the death bed.

F.  Suicide

1. Not specifically discussed.
2. Acceptable as a last resort.  It provides an "open door", and eliminates excuses for complaining about life.  An honorable suicide is admired.
3. Taking any life, even your own, is not allowed.

Conclusions

1. For my practical purpose, there are no serious contradictions between the three philosophies.
2. The epicurean metaphysics are a closer match to my worldview.
3. The stoics provide the more detailed and practical approach for mental preparation.
4. I am not afraid of death.  With stoic practice, I may keep this attitude till the end. (4)

Notes

1. Death, is not the same as "dying".  Death is a state, while dying is a process you undergo when still alive. 
2. To my surprise, the life recommended by Epicurus, is almost an opposite to the popular image that his name evokes.
3. This post is limited to the question I asked myself, and it is not an attempt to summarize or compare the complete teachings of each school.
4. More practice may teach me to live a "Good" life, but that is the subject of another post.

Dee's Revenge

Dee and O have been orbiting around each other for years.   O never made a secret of his interest in her, yet throughout this time, Dee remained out of reach.  On the few occasions that they met, she was either tired, preoccupied, or in some other way unavailable.  Until one evening, the stars aligned, and they were finally together.

The long anticipation caused O some anxiety, but gradually, his apprehensions dissipated, and he released himself to the experience.  Tactile and visual sensations flowed through his body creating a symphony of emotions that filled him with joy.  Dee and O shared a night of undulating ecstasy, at times passionate, at times calm, but always connected.  As dawn approached, Dee, reluctantly, was preparing to leave.

"Will I see you again?"  she whispered.

O, still enveloped in a warm cocoon of pleasure, did not reply.  He was not sure.  Noticing the hesitation, Dee's face darkened. 

"You will not forget me" she said with a malevolent look.

I think this is how the curse began.

After she left, O assumed he will fall asleep, but sleep did not come.  At first, he closed his eyes and let the memory of the night flow over him.  Later, he focused on his breathing, a practice that usually led to sleep, but this time to no avail.  He knew it was Dee who was keeping him awake, and decided that it was a small price to pay for such an experience.  Eventually, as day broke, he shuffled to the kitchen.  The coffee helped, but that was all he could take.  He left a buttered toast, unfinished.   He also noticed that his muscles were aching, as if he completed a long swim in the Ocean.  It was a strange contrast.  His body was languid and sore, but he felt happy, and free.
'It will pass'  he thought, but it didn't. 

For the next few days, O went about his regular duties, but Dee was still affecting his body and mind.  Most noticeable to him, besides the muscle-aches and loss of appetite, which were slowly returning to normal,  were his eyes.  Whenever he was not occupied with a task, he would become aware of a peculiar sensation behind his eyelids.  A certain pressure, as if Dee is hiding behind his eyelids, reminding him...  Perversely, despite the discomfort, he started contemplating meeting Dee again.  And then, there were the dreams.

O was riding his motorcycle on a green meadow.  The flat smooth ground let him relax and enjoy the thrill of speed.  Out in the distance, at the edge of a young forest, he saw Dee.  Without any effort he found himself  launched into the air, riding in silent slow motion towards her.  As he reached the apex of  his flight path, he glanced down and his elation were broken.  The jump took him over the edge of a cliff, and now he was descending, still in slow motion, to certain death.   He was high, and perhaps there was time enough to get back to safety.  He leaned his body to the right, and with all his power and all his soul he willed his momentum in that direction.  

'Lean hard!'  Almost contrary to the laws of physics, he was changing direction. 

'Pull more!'  Safety was in sight.
'harder'  His whole body was straining with the effort.

A loud thump, a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to find himself on the floor, beside the bed.

Still half asleep, O scanned his body for damage.  Some pain in his shoulder, but nothing serious.  Surprisingly, the dull pressure on his eyes was not there.  He felt normal again.
Dee's curse was gone.

Progress in Latin America?

The following question was assigned in the Coursera  'Latin American Culture" class.

 Can we be optimistic about the future development of Latin American political systems? Why?

If you are interested in the subject (not many are), read my response below.

Introduction
The political systems in Latin America (LA) are weak, inefficient and corrupt.  However compared to the situation twenty years ago, LA has seen a dramatic improvement.  Will it keep improving?  Of course.  I think that a more salient question is 
How long before the political systems achieve a quality that is acceptable to the majority of the population?
I estimate that it will take LA at least two generations to reach that level.  I will justify my answer in the discussion below.

The improvement of society requires three pillars, a good economy, a good educational system, and a good political system.  No improvement will occur if one of these pillars is missing or weak.  Similarly, any one pillar will not improve without the assistance of the other two.  The pillars must grow together.  Therefore to predict the improvement of the political system, we need to examine all three.  To do this, I used some quantitative measures to compare LA to some developed western nations (DWN) (1),  

Economy
I examined three aspects of the economy, GDP, Growth, and Equality.  Of the three, equality is the most interdependent with the other two pillars.  A more equal distribution of earning enables better education, and a bad political system causes an highly unequal distribution.

1. GDP (per Capita) in LA in is less than half of the DWN, but should be enough to provide the basic needs of the population.  (2)
2. The growth of GDP in LA is 2.3% per year.  This is remarkable growth, especially when compared to the almost zero growth of the DWN(2).
3. Income equality in LA is lagging, and improving only slowly.

• The ratio of earnings between the richest 10% of the population, and the poorest 10%, is 25:1, while in DWN it is 12:1.
• The Gini Index (3), is another measure of equality.  (A lower score indicates a more equal distribution of income.)  LA scored 49% compared to DWN at 34%.  Aggressive use of taxation plays a major role in making western nations more equitable.
• If we compare the score today, to the Gini index of ten years ago, we can project that it would take LA fifty years to reach the DWN equality level.

Education
Good education requires resources, which should be allocated by the political system, and educated citizens are needed to grow the economy and improve the political system.  I examined two aspects of the education system, the number of years in school, and the quality of learning.

1. In LA, children study, on average, eight years.  In the DWN, the number is twelve years.  The missing high school years are crucial in the development of critical thinking, historic knowledge, and political awareness.  These are essential skills for improving the political systems.
2. The quality of LA education is sorely lagging.   A worldwide survey (4) assessed the math proficiency of fifteen-year-old students.   65% of LA students failed the test.  In the DWN, only 22% failed.  Sadly, there has been no improvement in the current test, over the one administered nine years ago.  I think it is safe to assume, that the math results extend to most other subjects.

Political Systems
It is not surprising that there are no simple quantitative measures for a political system.  However, in 2012, the World Justice Project conducted a comprehensive survey (4) of the quality of governance in 99 countries, they results were published as a "Rule of Law Index".  Out of a maximum score of 100%, LA scored 48%.  The DWN  scored 73%.  Unfortunately, there are no previous surveys, and we cannot calculate the rate of progress in this measure.  Let me just say that the low score was measured depite the "...dramatic improvement" that I mentioned earlier.

Conclusion
There is no doubt in my mind that overtime, the political systems in LA will improve.  However, the development of such systems is a slower, more complicated process than the development of good economic or educational systems.  Therefore, I predict a period of at least forty to fifty years before LA enjoys good political systems.  Systems that are dedicated and capable of improving the life of its citizens. 

Notes 

1. For my statistics I used a sample of the nine largest countries in Latin America, which comprise about 90% of the population.  For the  Developed Western Nations data, I sampled the USA, Canada, and the five largest European countries.  The rates of change are annual rates, averaged over ten years.  For detailed results, click on the link below. 
   Latin America Measures
   
2. I used the Purchasing-Power-Parity GDP as provided by the OECD and the World Bank.
3. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_income_equality
4. http://www.oecd.org/pisa/keyfindings/pisa-2012-results.htm
5. http://worldjusticeproject.org/rule-of-law-index 

I have hope

I was saddened and frustrated by the current war in Gaza.  Saddened by the suffering on both sides, and  frustrated by my inability to see a way out.   Somehow, the frustration led me to formulate a three-step program, which vaguely describes a path to peace.   I am not a strategist, and do not have the qualifications to propose such a path.  I do not live in Israel, and do not have the moral authority to recommend any path.  I do not claim that the program is original or practical.  Nonetheless, it is presented below.

The first step of the program is the hardest to implement, while the third step is the easiest.  This is a good indication of my lack of expertise in public policy.  However, putting the program on paper, gave me hope that eventually, peace can be achieved.

Step one:  Practice Empathy
Israelis have to realize that they are not confronting "Muslim Fundamentalism",  "Terrorism", nor any other label.   We are fighting other human beings that have the same feelings and aspirations as us.  If we exercise empathy and put ourselves in a Palestinian's shoes, we will discover that our behavior would be the same.  We will realize that the Palestinians consider themselves a nation that lost its dignity and land to an external power.  We will understand that the only way for a young Palestinian man to imagine any kind of acceptable future, is to fight for the elimination of Israel.   This understanding is necessary before any real dialog can take place, a dialog based on real needs, rather than slogans, fear, or prejudice.

It is hard to develop empathy towards your adversary in the middle of a struggle, but it can be done.  I believe that there are enough people in Israel who could accomplish such a feat, and lead the way to the second step.

Step two:  Take Risk
Israel current strategy consists of maintaining deterrence, while waiting for some unknown event that will bring about a radical change in circumstances.  This approach is not a viable long term strategy for two reasons.

1. The huge advantage that Israel has over the Palestinians in resources, quality, and technology is slowly eroding.  This is becoming evident with each encounter.  The Israeli advantage will not disappear in the foreseeable future, but the increasing Palestinian capabilities will exact an increasingly higher price from Israeli society.
2. The unpredictable Black Swan event that Israel is expecting, may not be in its advantage, and could just as likely cause its demise.

Instead of the status-quo, Israel should strive hard to achieve an agreement with the Palestinians.  For the agreement to be acceptable to the other side, it will have to be both risky and generous.  However, I contend that such risk can be contained, and is preferable to the big, long range gamble.  Furthermore, it is appropriate for the stronger, richer side to be more risk-tolerant and generous.

Step three:  Spend Money
Lots of it.  Human nature is such, that no agreement will be stable, unless the Palestinians feel that they have a chance of achieving economic equality with Israeli society.  Israel can provide such a vision, by first demonstrating it in the approach to its Arab citizens.  It can then expand the economic development model to the West Bank, an finally to Gaza.

Once we were soldiers

Old soldiers never die.  They just tell stories. (Inaccurate quote of a US-army ballad)

Following a reunion of our old paratroop unit (see my post Suez Memories),  I received a link to raw TV footage taken during the the 1973 war.  Watching the grainy, silent clips, I immediately recognized Micha, standing in the center of the Armoured Personnel Carrier (APC).  Micha, was one-year my senior growing up in Tivon, a fellow officer in 1973, and the battalion commander in the subsequent war. Here also was Yo'ash, the smiling, balding fellow, who died from a direct hit to our APC as we entered the city of Suez. (A helmet would not have helped.)  Yossi, our battalion commander,  is shown outside the vehicle.  He was a man I loved and admired.  He died in a landmine explosion.  I saw several other friends, but only on the second viewing did I recognize myself.

The images moved me because here were the same warriors that a couple of weeks later, in a different APC, drove together into Suez City. Some, did not return, some were seriously wounded, and all carry scars.  For them, I edited the scattered clips into a two minute video.
Watch it here:   The Road to Budapest

Budapest is the code name for the only Israeli outpost that was not captured during the Egyptian assault of Yom Kippur.  However, it was cut off from the rest of our forces by Egyptian commandos who blocked the sole access road.  After one attempt to open the road failed, our unit was sent in.  We accomplished the task ,and joined with the outpost.

Suez Memories

On the morning of 24 October 1973, as the final act of the Yom Kippur war, Israeli forces entered the city of Suez, the Southern terminus of the Suez Canal.  Unexpectedly, the Israelis met strong enemy resistance.  After suffering heavy casualties, our small unit of paratroopers took shelter in a police building in the center of the city.  We were surrounded and outnumbered, with no way out.  All day, we fought off the Egyptian soldiers.  At night, we carried our wounded, and walked out of the city, unopposed.  Shortly before daybreak, we crossed over to our side of the line.

This December, forty years after the war, our unit will meet and, for the first time, talk about the events of that day.   In preparation for the reunion, the organizers asked us to provide some personal material.  Below, is my contribution.
       

It is a dark night, and I am walking in the center of a wide and empty street.    Behind me, the occasional clanging of weapons disturbs the eerie silence of the city.  I can see the rest of the men advancing in the protective shadows of the two-storied buildings.  Despite the danger, walking feels good.  Yet I worry about the late hour.  We must be out of the city before daybreak. I pick up the pace, trusting that the wounded, as well as the men carrying the critically injured, can muster the extra effort.

About one hundred paces ahead of me, there is an object on the road.  Keep walking.

Fifty paces ahead.  It looks like a body.  Wounded? Ours or theirs?  A sleeping guard?  Keep walking.

Twenty paces.  It stirred.  Definitely a live person.  An ambush?  No time to investigate, we need to advance.  My role is deathly clear:  I provide the early warning.  If shooting starts, the others will have time to react.  Keep walking.

Ten paces.  The man ahead woke up, and is slowly getting to his feet.  I hold my uzi at the ready.  He is wearing khaki, but without any insignia or stripes.  I don't see a weapon. What is he doing here?  If it is an ambush, they would be shooting by now.  If I shoot first, the noise will attract the attention of many Egyptian soldiers.  We can't fight our way out.  Stealth is better.

Five Paces.  He is young.  Very young.  Too young to be a soldier?  He looks at me without comprehension, as if I am an apparition.  Is he sleepy? drunk?  crazy?  Then, he realizes that he is not facing a ghost, but an armed Israeli soldier.  I have never seen such terror in anyone's eyes.  My finger squeezes the trigger.  He stands frozen in place.  Soldier or not,  he may report our position to the Egyptian forces.  He is so young.  I ease off the trigger.  After an instant, he bolts, and disappears into the darkness.

Not long afterward, we reached the water canal, and the safety of our forces.

I am content.  One more being survived Suez.

Stained

Predawn in the mountains.  I strolled up the dark trail, scratching my arms while savouring the last sweet remnants of sleep.  This was the first day of a Vipassana retreat.  I have been here several times, but this would be my first chance to occupy one of the newly completed, private meditation cells,

I found my cell along the hushed corridor, and entered a high-ceiling room which was barely wider than the door.    I sat on my custom-made cushion, flipped the light switch (conveniently located by my elbow), and after enjoying the total silence and darkness, closed my eyes and began to work.

After a while, I felt, on my foot, a tingling sensation.  Last night, we were instructed to focus on the breath, and to ignore bodily sensation.  I tried to comply,  but the sensation turned into an itching sensation.  Being an "Old Student" I was taught what to do.  I  could hear my teacher's deep melodious voice:  "Just observe as the sensation arises... passes away... Aniche [Law of impermanence]."  However, the sensation did not pass away, but intensified into a pain sensation.  At this point, I realized that this morning could also be my first chance to experience the emergence of a deep-rooted Sankhara [Habitual reaction].  According to our teacher, if I kept "perfect equanimity",  the Sankhara will dissipate, and I will become more wholesome.  However, when a hot flame touched my foot, I lost my equanimity.  In one quick swoop, I uncrossed my legs, opened my eyes, and turned-on the light.

My left foot was indeed red and swollen. Then, my peripheral vision caught some motion.  An insect, smaller than an ant, was crawling slowly on my right leg.  Its movement seemed to be hindered by the large shiny-black sphere which comprised the hind part of his body.  In pure instinct, my hand flew towards the target, and caught the vermin between thumb and forefinger. Then, I squeezed.  In the quiet room, the ensuing "POP" rang like a rifle shot.  All that was left of the poor creature was a red, comet-shaped, stain on my pants.

The pain quickly subsided, but my agitation lasted longer, even as I returned to sit.  Was it rage?  Revulsion?  Or maybe regret, for violating the first moral precept to "Abstain from killing any being."

P.S.
The next day, I recouped some of my lost merits by rescuing a drowning ant out of the urinal.  My battle with the bed-bugs lasted throughout the course, but without incurring additional casualties.

P.P.S
Rereading the story, I realized that it has a hidden moral, which would apply even to bugs.  "Don't be greedy."

Voter's Dilemma

Recently, I realized that I am in a leveraged position to affect the coming presidential elections.  I am a resident of one of the "swing" states, and for the first time, I am in possession of an absentee ballot.  The ongoing clash between President Obama's brilliant oratory, and his dismal results, erased the natural instinct of voting for a sitting president.   Now,  I am faced with the grave responsibility of choosing.

I am not a one-party nor a one-issue voter.  I vote for a candidate following a gut-feel assessment of his personality, platform, and previous accomplishments.  I realize that none of these factors are an indication of future performance, but that's all we have.  I liked Barack Obama's personality in the previous elections, and I still think he is a nice guy.  Mitt Romney was an unknown, and therefore suspect.  His 47% comment didn't help.  However, in the presidential debate, the haze lifted, and he emerged as a clear-speaking clear-thinking politician.

The platforms of the two candidates are clearly different.  My economic views are in line with what Mitt Romney presented.  I am for small government, lower taxes. and I have reservations about Obama-care.  Mitt Romney's foreign policy is a bit more hawkish than I would like, but I hope that the lessons of Iraq and Afghanistan will prevent him from initiating an unnecessary war.  President Obama, the presumed dove, dismayed me with the surge in Afghanistan, and his subsequent actions around the globe indicate a naive and ineffective statesman.

The score so far:  Personality- Both are acceptable, with Obama leading; economic policy-Romney; foreign policy-Romney.  Yet I feel queasy with this outcome.  I am not sure that I can vote for a man that thinks abortion should be illegal, and belongs to a party that is dominated by radical christians.  I can't explain why this concern became so prominent now, and not with previous Republican candidates.

The dictionary defines Dilemma as "A situation requiring a choice between equally undesirable alternatives."  Any comments that would get my ass off the uncomfortable horns of this dilemma, would be greatly appreciated.

Tropic of Cancer

'Where is North?'
I have a need to know the answer to this question at all times.  Maybe it is also so with other Israeli men, who at an early age, acquire the art of cross-country navigation, then perfect it during their military service.  At  night I look for the North star, and during the day, finding North is almost an instinct.  The Sun comes up in the East, goes down in the West, and at noon, it is exactly to the South.  Simple, but WRONG.  Travelling to Oaxaca, which is below the Tropic of Cancer, the sun (in the Summer) is to the North, and instinct turns into a handicap.  Several times, while driving on unfamiliar roads, my gut sent me a clear message,
"You are heading in the wrong direction!"
I had to ignore the inner voice, look carefully at shadows on the ground, factor the time of day, and rationally deduce my direction.  For several days, I felt disoriented.  I knew where I was, yet it didn't feel right.

Eventually, the weird feeling dissipated, and left me wandering whether the urge to know my exact location is a common human trait.  Maslow's hierarchy helped me deduce that it may be a derivative of the need for shelter.  Lacking a developed sense of smell, how else would we find our way back home?  But then, why is it, that I often enjoy feeling lost?  Sometimes, I would purposefully put myself in that position so that I could experience the "Lost" sensation..  Given that in those occasions, I tried not to jeopardize my safety, nor the love and friendship of my travelling companions, it is possible that I was fulfilling a higher Maslow level.  Maybe, deriving self esteem by overcoming the challenge?  Or, as I believe, being lost opens the doors to learning.  It provides the exciting potential of new places and new environments which will require creative new behaviors.

Safely home in Oaxaca, I resumed my routine of going to the pool each morning.  Within a block or two, I realized that if I want to walk in the shade, which is the wise thing to do, I will have to switch to the opposite sidewalk.  Walking on the "other" side of a street which I walked hundreds of times before, everything I saw looked new.
'Did I take the wrong turn somewhere?' I wondered.
I looked for familiar landmarks, but from this different perspective, nothing seemed familiar .  I even discovered some shops which I never noticed before.   Being a stranger in a familiar place felt a bit hallucinogenic, and I was glad that the feeling dissipated in a couple of days.  This experience too opened a door for self exploration.
I was disappointed that even after six years of meditation, I am still not as aware and anchored in the moment as I would like to be.  I consoled myself by the realization that without those six years of meditation, I may not even have noticed the phenomenon.

Conclusion:  Beware of crossing the Tropic of Cancer!  It may lead to some strange thoughts.

Wandering Mind

Two weeks of kitchen duty in the California Vipassana Center, gave me new perspectives on meditation.  We were about ten "old students" who cooked and served more than 120 participants in the course.  My principal duty was tending to the high pressure dish washer.  A job which, right after meals, became an intense, carefully choreographed, operation for me and the small ensemble that helped feed and clear the machine.  At other times, I helped peel, cut, and dice the enormous amounts of vegetables required by the center's vegetarian diet.  Three times a day, we participated in the group meditation sessions. 

"Noble Silence", while a requirement for the students, was not imposed on the servers.  We were instructed not to discuss our practice, yet the conversations inevitably turned to that subject.  As a result,  I learned that I was overly concerned about the amount of time my mind wanders away from the focus on bodily sensations.  I am not that different from others sitters.  On the other hand, I reconfirmed that during these periods of wandering, many meditators experience deep emotional episodes.  Some re-live old wounds, other explore difficult personal relationships.  I, on the other hand, usually find myself reviewing my "Todo" list.  An experienced sitter described to me one instance when he felt that his daughter was dead.  Even though he knew that she was perfectly healthy, the sadness he felt was so real, that he cried.  I could not resist but tell him that when my mind wanders, it is usually planning how to make the dish-washing operation run faster.  I could see his upper lip stiffen and his nostrils flare as he struggled not to laugh.  After a moment, and a few deep breaths, the teacher-in-training, came up with the proper response.
"There is nothing wrong with that," he said, "maybe you will eventually come up with a better method of washing dishes and you would have helped the Dharma.  You see?"
I nodded, and let the poor guy of the hook.

This period also prompted me to the question 'Why do I sit?'.  In a book I found at the center, Paul Fleischman provided a thoughtful, poetic, answer to this question.
http://www.fudomouth.net/thinktank/now_pfwhysit.htm
I liked his response, even though it is as distant from my own experience as the distance between loosing a child, and operating a dishwasher.

Snowbirds

The end of the road,  at least from Hermosillo, is Bahia De Kino.  It is a fishing town on the sea of Cortes.  Few of its streets are paved, the rest are packed sand.  The beach is lined, wall to wall, with fish-packing and distribution hangars.  I would have loved to stay here, but the the fishing industry claimed the sea front, pushing the few hotels, to the inside streets.  In fact, the road does not end right there.  It continues along the white-sand bay, and after a significant empty stretch, reaches Bahia de Kino Nuevo.  Only a few kilometers separate the towns, but the cultural distance is enormous.  No Mexicans live in Nuevo (new).  The single road is lined on both sides by spiffy vacation homes owned by Gringos (mostly from the northern USA, and Canada).  The beginning of April is the end of their season, and most snowbirds have started the migration North.  The houses, white washed and well maintained, stand shuttered, with "For Rent" signs on the front gate.  Late afternoon, no people, no cars.  I turn the radio off, and cruise the deserted street very slowly.  In the silence, I feel as if I have entered an episode of the "Twilight Zone".  Down the street, I encountered a few stragglers, who are still camped along the beach, in huge motor homes.  They are friendly, and eager to talk.  It must be hard loosing all your friends.

This invading species is gentle, yet persistent.  In Mazatlan, the snowbirds are sprinkled throughout the town. In San Miguel De Allende, they took over the town.  Here, in Bahia De Kino, they built a new town.  Fortunately, Oaxaca is too far for snowbirds, and the few ex-pats just add their own hue to the cultural tapestry of my sensuous Mexican city.

The long deserted beach overcame my cultural misgivings, and I chose a furnished room, with a balcony that sits right on the sand.  With sunrise, I take a long swim (Thanks, TI), and at sunset, another. In between, I watch the pelicans fish.

Bearded Brutes

Carved in stone, on the gates of the first house in Merida, are the bearded figures of  Francisco Montejo, and Francisco Montejo (The son), the city founders.  They stand proud, holding a sword, their feet firmly planted on the heads of suffering prisoners.  In the Palacio de Gobierno, large dramatic murals depict bearded Spanish Conquistadors, spearing, burning, quartering, and in many other ways, torturing, the vanquished Mayan people.  When a local Mayan told me that the locals hate the original Spanish (from Spain) accent (Sh instead of S),  I realized that the resentment is still strong, just lying beneath the surface.  I did not want to associate myself with the oppressors, and since I cannot change my race, I decided that the least I could do to be on the side of Good, is remove my beard

Good Man

Bad Man

The truth is that I had to shave the beard in order to Scuba-dive next week, and there was nothing better to do on a rainy day in Merida.

Barely Acceptable

I was in eighth grade, and "Barely acceptable" stood out boldly on my graduation certificate.  It was my grade in the Art class.  Even while trying to hide my disappointment, I had to admit that this score, just barely above "Failed", may have been a generous gesture by the teacher.  For as hard as I tried, what showed on the sheets I grudgingly submitted, was painfully different than what I had in mind.  I have been carrying this trauma ever since.  Eventually, I learned to joke about it while sketching stick figures.

When Adi suggested we take a drawing class, I recognized that after a long life of analytical activities, this may be the chance to finally give my right brain a workout.  I reasoned that even if I didn't learn to draw, I would benefit from improving my observation skills.  Furthermore, paying more attention to detail may decrease the occasional forgetfulness.

It was with significant trepidation that I came to the Casa de la Cultura Oaxacena, and sat at the large paint-smeared table. All my public school frustrations were bubbling just below the surface.  The instructions for the first class were simple.  Take a large sheet of paper, use a pencil, and draw the cube in front of us.  I started to work, and it was more than an hour before I came up for a breath.  Time flew, and my apprehension was greatly reduced.  On the second class, it was a bottle.  This time, it took the entire two hours before I raised my eyes from the work.  I was totally exhausted from the intense concentration, and the anxiety was a thing of the past.  Surprisingly, my sketches resembled the models, and surpassed my own criteria for "Acceptable".  Over the next few weeks, my mental stamina increased, and with it, my concentration level.  As I  translated what my eyes saw, into the fine movements of my hand and fingers, I was transported into an isolation bubble.  I could not hear nor see anything that went on around me.  My absorption became a source of amusement for Adi and the other fellow students.

For the last project this quarter, we used pastel chalk to draw an object of our choice.  A razor is used to scrape the variously colored sticks onto a rough-surfaced sheet, and then using a finger, you rub the powder into the paper.  I am not sure what element in this style caught my fancy.  Maybe it was the freedom from the laborious task of  shading in pencil, or maybe it was the infantile urge to put my fingers in a colored mess.  Whatever the reason, the new media changed the game from an interesting challenge into challenging fun.  It's hard for me to believe, but the apples shown above, are my graduation piece.

Meanwhile Adi, who in middle-school had her own painful experiences with art, was also surprising herself with her new-found skills.  She did the pomegranates.  I think the difference between having fun and having talent is obvious.

Deer Eyes

For a limitless instant, the deer and I looked intently into each other's eyes. Despite our fear of the inevitable future, we recognized our common bond as living beings, and forgave. Then, time resumed. The deer and the car continued their converging velocities, Adi screamed, I swerved, tires screeched, a dull heartbreaking thump combined with the sharp clatter of splintering glass, the deer rolled on top of the hood, almost reaching the windshield, then disappeared. It was over. I slowly drove off the road, Adi frozen beside me. We are not hurt.

I stepped out of the car into total silence. There was no traffic on this road that leads from Canada towards Helena, Montana. The sun shone through a patch of blue sky illuminating the rolling prairie that extended to the eastern horizon. To the West, clouds lingered over the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. The majestic view accentuated the deer lying still on the road. An eagle approached, and watchfully spiraled overhead. The deer eyes were still open wide. I pulled the deer off the road to spare him any further indignities.

The silence was broken by a large SUV filled with parents and kids that came to a stop offering help.

"Yes, we are OK." and "Yes, please call a tow truck."

The couple was sympathetic, but not surprised. "This happens all the time in the Montana. Especially on country roads"

Up the road, Adi, got out of the pickup, and walked towards us. In front of the dead deer she stopped, joined her palms in front of her chest and bowed deeply.

Silence returned as the SUV drove off, leaving us to wait for the Highway Police and the tow truck. Something in me was incomplete.

"Yes, it would be good." Adi answered.

I turned towards the deer, joined my palms, and expressed my sorrow, wishing him eternally green pastures wherever he may be. Somehow, I felt better.

_________________________________________________________________________________



Intermittently during our long wait, other vehicles passed by. Everyone stopped and offered help. Some drove on, and some lingered to chat, telling us their stories of deer encounters, most of them ending worse than us. I realized that deer encounters are part of Montana life. So much so, that it was hard to extract favorable treatment by describing our circumstances. In Helena, the rental car agent responded by telling us about her mother that hit a deer on her way, then hit another on her way back.

"You are lucky you didn't hit a moose." was the unsolicited comment by a man that overhead my story.

The repair shop manager regretfully explained that all body shops in Helena have a queue of at least two weeks, caused by deer collisions as well a hail storm that hit neighboring Bozeman.

In our room, after a dash to reach the repair shop and rental car before they closed for the weekend, we were grateful that Friday the thirteenth is almost over.

Danzon Duet

A Danzon evening in front of the Oaxaca cathedral. Unexpectedly, the MC asked us to perform. We were happy to show off our new skills. Despite my hairstyle, we are now local celebrities.

Press the "Play" button.

Comfort Food

One of the advantages of living a nomadic life is experiencing the local food. Good memories are the result of great flavor and colorful situations. Such as the Pho we ate each morning in Hanoi. We sat on tiny stools; right on the curb, around a large pot heated by a kerosene stove, and ate the delicious soup in the company of other citizens on their way to work. Or the sticky rice served on a banana leaf during a jungle trek in Laos. We collected the rice with our fingers, rolled it into a little ball, and holding it between finger and thumb, dipped it in thick spicy sauce. We were amazed how such a small amount of rice can be so satisfying. Or the barbecued fish on Bali's Jimbaran beach. Our order was delivered from the wood-fired grill just as the sun set and the tide came up. Tiny wavelets washed over our bare feet as we utilized candle light to lick the last tender pieces off the spines.

However, eventually our palates craved something familiar, something from home. Since world-wide cuisine is not readily available where we travel, we knew that in order to eat comfort food, we will have to learn how to prepare it. The extended stay in Oaxaca, living in a fully equipped apartment, gave us the opportunity to become cooks.

Adi was the first to take the plunge. During her annual visit to Korea she received hands-on instructions from her mother, and soon after our arrival, she set out to prepare Kimchi, the holy grail of Korean dishes. To get cabbage, the main ingredient, we visited a large vegetable market. Lacking the Spanish name, we browsed stall after stall till we finally found it. Unfortunately, it was not the Chinese cabbage which tradition demands. We looked through many other stalls, but to no avail. Later that week, Gia, our Korean friend, told us that Chinese cabbage can only be obtained in Mexico City, a six-hour (one way) drive from here. Adversity leads to innovation. Adi decided to try the local variety. She cut and salted the cabbage, prepared the other vegetables, mixed them all with special Korean spices and left it to ferment overnight. It was a tense night. When morning came, Adi opened the large jar with visible apprehension. Like all Koreans, she is very picky about her Kimchi; so first, the contents had to pass the smell test. Then, she gingerly took a tiny morsel in her mouth. Immediately, her eyes brightened, and head held high, she clapped her hands with joy. "Successful!" she cried. I too like Kimchi, and soon agreed that this Mexican variation tasted just like the original. Adi's mother was very proud to hear that her forty-six year old little girl prepared, for the first time, a dish on her own. We thought she would frown on the use of the unconventional vegetable, but on the contrary. She was familiar with regular cabbage Kimchi. Koreans had to eat it during the hard years of the Korean civil war. "It was pretty good." she admitted.

I dreamed about Hummus. After obtaining the recipe on the internet, I embarked on my quest: chickpeas, Tahini, and Pita bread.

I readily discovered the chickpeas in Soriana, our favorite supermarket. Soriana provides, on a large floor, both a department store, and a grocery store. On my first visits, it was a bit disconcerting to walk along the dairy isle searching for cheese, and find myself looking at engine oil in the automotive section. Later, when I learned to pay attention to the narrow lane that separates the two functions, shopping became a pleasure. I found the Garbanzo beans right next to the maiz (corn). I was happy. Only several hummus spreads and many web sites later, did I realize that not all chickpeas are created equal, and that Mexican Garbanzo beans do not exactly replicate the Middle Eastern flavor.

Tahini posed a logistical challenge. If we would have gone to Mexico City for the cabbage, most likely we could find a Middle Eastern store. However in Oaxaca there would be none. I must have earned some good karma because just as I was losing hope, Kobi and Rivka'le announced that they will come to Oaxaca on El Dia De Los Muertos. They graciously agreed to allocate room in their light luggage for two cans of Tahini, and despite our concerns, the cans passed the security inspection without causing too much alarm.

While pondering the issue of the Pita bread, without which making hummus was pointless, I noticed that on every street corner in Oaxaca, stands a woman that, depending on her specialty, sells Memelas, Tlayudas, or Empanadas. All of which involve the baking of corn tortillas on a round baking sheet, heated by a charcoal fire. The tortillas are then covered with toppings, such as Frijoles or mushrooms, to form the aforementioned delicacies. A vague memory brought me back to Arab villages in Israel, where women bake Pitas on a tabun, a round clay oven. I reasoned that even though the Mexican baking sheet was concave, while the tabun is convex, it would do the job. Our corner's Memela vendor verified that the baking sheet is called comal, and that it can be found in the general-goods market. Although most street comals are metallic, some are made of clay, and it was such a comal that I found in a small shop inside the crowded and noisy building. My karma credits were still good and provided a comal that would fit perfectly in our oven. It was the only item in that size.

The rest was just following procedure. We doused the hummus plate with olive oil, sprinkled it with cilantro (a Mexican alternative to parsley), and enjoyed heaven on a Pita.

Hummus recipe:
http://humus101.com/EN/2006/10/14/hummus-recipe/

Kimchi recipe: http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2008/02/a_kimchi_recipe.html