The Lion Man Cometh

 

As he wandered around the peaceful Himalayan coffee shop in Dharamsala, India, muttering to himself and to what must have been his invisible companions, laughing at seemingly random intervals, speaking barely decipherable French, and offering cigarettes to toddlers, I couldn't help but believe that this lone, filthy, mentally unstable drifter would be the craziest and most terrifying person I would encounter that day. It seemed obvious to even the least observant among us that this man suffered from some form of schizophrenia, the type that made you believe he should not be anywhere other than in a locked and padded room. He proceeded to occupy two separate tables, ordering nothing, occasionally feigning to momentarily read a newspaper that was neither local nor recent at one table and continuing his solitary conversation at the other. Seasoned travelers that we are, no more than a wary look and agreeable nods were needed as my cousin Nate and I armed ourselves with the mismatched cutlery, ceramic plates, and writing utensils that were at our immediate disposal while we waited for the point during our simple breakfast when one of us would accidentally look, eat, talk, or do something disagreeable to our unstable French associate that would set off his inevitable murder spree for the day. At that point we would have no choice other than to fend him off with butter knives and a space pen (the latter, sadly, being our most effective tool at the moment). To our great fortune, everyone at the coffee shop escaped unharmed that morning. Eventually, he wandered off, after neither eating nor drinking anything (but he did chain smoke the better part of a pack of cigarettes), and we counted ourselves fortunate that we had escaped his momentary reign of terror. Little did we know that our freedom would be short-lived, and soon enough, the omen of molestation that we glimpsed that morning would return that same evening, and in force.

During our many meanderings up and down the streets and hills of Dharamsala, Nate and I became familiar with many locals in this peaceful, compact village of not quite 20,000. We had tea regularly with a shop-owner from Amritsar.  We never passed on an opportunity to shoot the breeze with the many Kashmiri pashmina salesmen just starting on their Ramadan fasts, offering them a friendly "salaam alaikum" or "Ramadan kareem." Even the man who begged because he was cursed with malformed feet and the man with a similar affliction of the hands came to know us and stopped harassing us for food or money, which is a particularly satisfying feeling as we were then able to observe them pleading their cases with the new tourists in town while we, more often than not, escaped unscathed. There was also one local Tibetan man who wandered around each of the two winding streets in Dharamsala, but also could be regularly found at one of the busier intersections advertising a traditional Tibetan cultural demonstration at the primary school just down the hill. Always wearing his Tibetan flag t-shirt and a warm, welcoming demeanor, he politely invited every passerby to come and enjoy the show starring a local Tibetan celebrity (which, I do realize, is a rather niche category). 

After missing the first show, we counted ourselves fortunate that there was to be an encore performance that very evening of the day that we narrowly escaped the aforementioned "murder in self-defense" episode. We reasoned that If we again neglected our chance to enjoy a traditional cultural performance we would regret it. At the time, we did not realize how innocently juxtaposed that intention was. As it would turn out, there was very little culture to be missed, and we certainly regretted something, but a simple explanation does not do justice, please, allow me to elaborate.

We showed up five minutes early to the primary school and were led into what appeared to be the assembly/meeting area. There were four planks to sit on that were maybe three inches off of the floor and draped in empty rice sacks. Not wishing to appear over-eager for anything, we took seats in the second row. As more tourists filed in, we grew anxious to see this "Tibetan celebrity." Other than the tourists, the person in the room was the gentleman we had seen advertising the show on the corner earlier that day. It soon became apparent that he was the celebrity we had all been waiting for. The sandwich board man was the celebrity.

The performance began with a heart-warming story about how at the age of 15, the Lion Man (as he had been nicknamed by a spectator of his "show" long ago) fled Lhasa to escape the oppressive situation in the Tibetan Autonomous Region (as it is now known, most importantly, to China). He showed us the one and only photo he owned of him in Lhasa. It showed him as a young boy seated on a small horse, and seated on another was his brother. They were posed in front of the Potala (for those of you unfamiliar with it, this was the building that served as the residence of the Dalai Lama, the seat of the Tibetan government, and the spiritual hub). Using broken English and speaking ever so hesitantly, innocently, and endearingly, the Lion Man detailed his harrowing journey from oppression in Tibet to eventual freedom in India. Even though it was a story I have heard many different times and from many different people, it was still a touching and humbling experience. He then went on to explain that while maybe he wasn't the best, most polished dancer, he had a dream to learn more and to share his knowledge of Tibetan cultural dances with young Tibetans in exile, a truly admirable aspiration.

We quickly realized that "not the best" and "unpolished" were descriptions that were applied generously in this case.  He wasn't great, or even good, but he danced with energy and heart, and those of us that stayed appreciated at least that much. Although, after about twenty minutes of watching him spin in circles, breaking the monotony only to change directions...once, we all began to question the sanity of our decisions to stay.

Once his first two dances were completed, the schoolchildren fled into the night and he introduced the second act in his theater of horrors. He mentioned something about helping people question their established ideas of space and helping them to stretch their thoughts and feelings. Nothing comfortable ever happens after an introduction like that. What happened once the music started wasn't so much of a "dance performance" as it was "one man doing his best to molest every member of his audience without anyone running out screaming and/or in tears." One by one, he went up and down the rows and invaded--no not invaded, that sounds too polite. One by one, he trounced upon, violated, and destroyed everyone's personal space. He began by slowly walking over to the first audience member and moving his face closer and closer until they basically touched noses. He then simply maintained that unsettling position for about 30 seconds. As he moved on to subsequent hesitant participants, he had to keep upping his game, so to speak. He moved closer and closer each time. If someone backed away, he only leaned forward more, this occasionally lead to a terrified tourist laying on his back on the ground while the Lion Man draped his limp body upon him or her (there was no gender bias in this social experiment) like a rag doll. Not willing to suffer the same fate as those unfortunate souls, I resolved to hold my ground. I put on my best intimidating game face and waited for my turn to feel dirty and used. For what seemed like 10 minutes, but was probably only 15 seconds, I stared into the eyes of the Lion Man as he continued to drip sweat and struggled to catch his breath from his 20 minute spinning session. He had the intensity and single-mindedness of a man capable of either expressing great emotions, thought, and art, or murdering someone and wearing their entrails.

Each audience member was granted more time than they were remotely comfortable with to do their best to gaze into the terrifying soul of the Lion Man. Once he finished, we all glanced around the room and breathed a momentary sigh of relief. We walked into that school as strangers, but through our shared experience we would leave friends, but we wouldn't leave quite yet. The Lion Man still had two performances for us...

The next number was designed to showcase the great strength of the Lion Man (at least, that's what I gathered since nothing else really happened). At first one-by-one, but progressing to pairs and to eventually groups of three, four, and five, we were all brought to the front of the room to be arranged into awkward poses and hoisted into the air by the Lion Man. Now to give him some credit, the Lion Man is not a big man, so this was sometimes impressive even while it was always uncomfortable. It was quite the feat when he lifted both Nate and I (who, combined, are sadly pushing close to 400 lbs), and spun us around like we were performing the most horrific version of Swan Lake you can imagine. All I managed to utter was, "We're two fat men! You shouldn't be doing this!". Through carefully planned arrangements of people that included too many heads in too many crotches, he managed to pick everyone up, except for the group of five, but I think that was more of a balance issue.

For his final performance, the Lion Man returned to a solo routine. That's not to say it was any less disconcerting, just less violating. Starting from the fetal position on a dirty concrete floor, the Lion Man's conclusion had energy, passion, anger, sadness, and elation among other many emotions, but what it didn't have was a semblance of sanity. He included something reminiscent of a strip tease, but with none of the sexiness. This led to him haphazardly tying his trademark Tibetan flag t-shirt around his head with a length of fabric. He also violently tried to put on a pair of sunglasses (don't worry if you can't picture that one, it is an...uncommon sight to say the least). This all culminated in the Lion Man dashing himself upon each of the four walls of the room. Once it was over, he quickly composed himself and returned to the soft-spoken, warm man that had originally enticed everyone to see his show in the first place. We then went outside for some groups photos (which would presumably receive the caption, "Never Forget!" from the survivors), and then we all scattered into the night in the vain pursuit of making any sense of what we had just experienced. 

 

I am more than tempted to take this opportunity to wander into some sort of social commentary about the degradation and evolution of culture and the effects on a small, rather homogenous population, but that would be a disservice to the Lion Man and the community he resides in. It would either over-simplify the Lion Man's "performance," or drastically over-complicate it. They say there is a thin line between madness and genius. I'm pretty sure we saw that line crossed back and forth dozens of times that evening. He was certainly aiming to use some corrupted form of modernist techniques to get some sort of idea across or to elicit a reaction (I think and hope). I can't say that I understood it, but I do know that much modern art aims to leave each viewer with a unique and lingering impression. I'd like to say the Lion Man is anything but an artist, that he was nothing more than a raving lunatic, however here I am, months later, writing about lingering feelings of...well...I'm not to sure. Regret, amazement, confusion, fascination, and fear barely begin to scratch the surface. To that, I can say nothing other than, "Good show Lion Man. Good show."

A Holiday from our Problems

Two weeks ago, we all scattered like any one of a number of metaphors. Leaves into an autumn wind. Gossip at the water cooler. Ashes into the currents of the sea. Whichever cliche is most apt for you, almost every teacher I know could not wait to hop on a plane in any direction in search of reprieve from the U.A.E. Some went back home. Some went somewhere geographically close, but mentally distant. Some went as far as humanly possible. I set my sights for the timeless city of Istanbul, Turkey. Also, I welcomed a familial visitor, in this case my mother,  and then set out for a nearby land, in this case, Jordan. For those of you not familiar with it, Jordan is (in at least a small way) the land of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (you know, the one with Sean Connery, the Holy Grail, and the whole face-melting debacle) and the aptly named Dead Sea.

Istanbul is a fantastic city in which I could envision myself living, renting a dingy studio apartment, and getting into many blog-inspiring situations. During my three day tenure there, I certainly got into one such situation, but valuing the PG-13-ness of this blog, I shall leave that for some time later. Feel free to ask me about it in person. It wasn't glamorous or pretty. I really need to emphasize that latter point. Needless to say, it was a surprising melting pot of a city with tons to experience, great food to eat, and a seemingly infinite number of narrow alleys to explore. Aside from just plain old having a great time (and the vaguely aforementioned incident), it wasn't too story worthy, so I shall move on.

Jordan has a surprisingly large amount to offer in a relatively small geographic area. I flew into Amman en route to our first destination of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on the earth. This was a destination long in the making as I believed myself to be at a symbolic low point many times in my life, so it only followed that I visit the actual low point of the world once in my life. It was not nearly as depressing as the metaphors. For anyone that struggles with swimming and buoyancy such as members of my family, this sea is a must visit. In a body of water comprised of almost one third salt, it is a struggle to not be buoyant. It has been explained to me that if one just relaxes, it is easy to float in any body of water. I do not share this perspective, but I challenge anyone to argue with me about how easy it is to float in the Dead Sea. It is truly a sinkers paradise.

Not 24 hours later, we were traveling to the Wadi Musa region which contains the ancient city of Petra. I have seen many hand-carved cave structures in my day, and none of them ceases to amaze me. Petra is much larger than I anticipated. After a winding series of gorges we first reached "The Treasury," which is the quintessential image from the aforementioned Indian Jones film. After that, there were many tombs, homes, and an amphitheater before the ground seemed to level out for some time. It took about two hours of trudging to reach this point, and I felt that surely we must be reaching then end of this ancient city.

After crossing the wide open plains of Petra, I ran into my cousin Nate, who more than encouraged me to make my way to "The Monastery." Not fully appreciating my long-held fondness for holy places that are difficult to reach, he explained that it was such a long, long way to the peak the Monastery resided upon. This only quickened my resolve to drag a laughingly out of shape man to the apex of a mountain. Unfortunately, only about two hours of daylight remained in this desert sanctuary, and reaching the Monastery required at least one hour. The chase was on.

At a pace that resembled a jog, but ascending uncomfortably steep steps, I set off. After about three minutes, I realized the inherent futility of this method and slowed down to the point of sitting on a large stone and resting every 100 feet or so. I inquired of each friendly looking person I passed how far the Monastery was. Always, they hesitated, gazed far off into the setting sun, and then explained that there was yet some considerable distance to go. My crawl continued. Not surprisingly, it didn't take long for sweat to begin pouring off of me, my breath to become short, and my water supply to become extinguished.

Ever since my first climb to a monastery outside of Mumbai, I have realized the value in the journey and the benefit of pushing on. Then, it was pushing 36 degrees Celsius as a much younger and in shape version of me trudged up a sun-baked mountainside carrying a small child unable to reach the temple on her own.  My karmic reward was all but assured, and many people commended me for it. On my way to the Monastery in Petra, it was cooler, but I was still essentially carrying the equivalent of a small child, unfortunately this was due to many years of poor diet and inactivity since my first climb. Carrying a child seems much more impressive than carrying my out of shape ass. However, both are equally exhausting, but I digress.

I continued pressing onward, trying to maintain a consistent (if slow) pace, stopping at refreshment stands along the way (how did they get all of those beverages up there?) for Gatorade, and, sounding much like the quintessential annoying child on a family vacation, asking each passerby if I was, indeed, "there yet." At a turn in the seemingly endless stairway, I ran into what appeared to be an Indian family of two parents with their two children taking a leisurely walk back down to relative civilization. I stopped at the turn for a rest and was joined by the father. He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then very calmly, slowly, and matter of factly stated, "You are very late." I regained my elusive breath and composedly responded, "I know. Is it very far?" He answered just as tranquilly and understandingly as he asked, "Yes, but you can do it." After that, we nodded knowingly at each other and parted, he down, and I up.

Maybe it was all in his delivery. Maybe I was just worn down enough to actually listen to someone for once. Maybe there was a shortage of oxygen to my brain due to my pathetic level of aerobic fitness. Maybe I am way to influenced by my fondness for Indian people and culture. But maybe, just maybe, this guy actually offered a rare moment of spontaneous true insight. What he said, bothered and encouraged me for the rest of my climb and then some. He seemed to sum up most of my life (and if you want to be honest, probably a few of yours) in a three line conversation. Yeah, I was definitely late heading up to the Monastery. I've been late doing a lot of things throughout my life too. It was a long way up the mountain, and it is going to be a much longer journey to what I want to accomplish in this world.

The final push to the Monastery

The wisdom of our brief conversation was laid plain in the final line. Yes, sometimes it is very far. Sometimes it is very exhausting. Sometimes we think we should just give up and pass out from fatigue on the side of a dirt path, but, at the end of the day, we can do it. I try not to be the optimistic rube, but there is a certain beauty there. Inevitably, I kept pushing on towards my goal (in this case, the elusive Monastery).

I ran into several more people and had several more conversations in the interest of catching my breath (sidenote: everyone has a relative in Chicago, even random bedu women), but I eventually made it to the Monastery. It was a good feeling. The sun was setting, and I had scarcely a few moments to enjoy the sights. I did have enough time to pass off my camera and snap a few shots.

Did I have enough time to savor my victory? Did reaching the goal offer any real payoff? Not really. It's always the journey that is the real reward. The destination was, and generally is, great, but it is never the character builder. In this case though, there was one final lesson for me. As satisfied with myself as I was for having made it under rather intense time restraints, I was humbled one final time.

When I reached the structure, I noticed a couple of local bedus shouting at someone. After some labored squinting and scanning, I noticed an arguably crazy bedu at the very apex of the Monastery. Apparently he had stretched out for a few minutes and then began scaling the face of the structure. I certainly did not know the man and never got the chance to talk with him, but he certainly showed me up as he sat calmly upon the peak of the highest point.

Look at that crazy bedu!

It was a good reminder that along all of our journeys, we might struggle for a long time, arrive late (but satisfied) at the goal, and there still might be a guy who totally mops up on our asses by an illiterate, cave-dwelling, desert man. For most of us, the journey is the only chance we have to do anything that vaguely resembles great. Let's make the most of it. I can't try for all of you.