I'm not always sure whether this blog is more an open journal (as the subheading once proclaimed), a manifesto, a travelogue, a sort of ethnographic cookbook, or a resource for seekers of holistic health. It's safe to say that, like Daniel Dravit in The Man Who Would Be King, Ill Wind has been "most things in [its] time." Today I'll venture into the swampy terrain of self-disclosure and make a declaration, a sort of "contrack" between myself and myself, witnessed by you-out-there. To wit:
I hereby declare to remove myself, after a third and surpassingly glorious and chaotic romp through the subcontinent to be chronicled in due course, to Portland, OR, city of bridges and natural health mavens and Ursula K. LeGuin, to immerse myself mind body and spirit in the philosophy, art, science, creed, and praxis of Classical Chinese Medicine. That deep-rooted stuff. That heterogeneous, contested, obscure, decidedly living body of traditions about the body.
It's official--I've sent in my deposit and I'm crazy excited to make a four-year run of it at National College of Natural Medicine. This both is and is not a change of track for me. Is, because I've spent so much time and energy on Southasia and its languages (Nepali, Newari, now Hindi) and medical traditions. Isn't, because, like Ayurveda, Chinese medicine, in its classical, non Mao-censored glory, has the potential to integrate immanent spirituality and transcendent health. And unlike for Ayurveda, there is both solid legal basis for practicing Chinese medicine in the States and a deep bank of resources (other practitioners and teachers) to tap into. So as of January '11, I'm going to shift gears and dive into East Asia. I'll be starting from scratch in some ways, and what I do already know may get in the way at times, but I have faith that I will not only become adept as an acupuncturist and herbalist in the Chinese tradition but also be able to integrate my Ayurvedic understandings and eventually become a stronger practitioner because of my eclectic background.
Not that it's all so cut and dry as this last statement may make it sound. In fact, I suspect that this departure will end up being not so much a destination in itself but a substantial length of road to wherever it is I'm going. Odd as it may sound heading into an intensive four-year program, I see an intimacy with the Chinese traditional arts as a pre-requisite to something else--even if I don't know what that something is yet. For I can't help but entertain notions of integration, in the most ambitious and inclusive sense, extending in this case to integration medico-spiritual understanding and techniques from different traditions into one eventual Path. I'm highly aware of my tendency to think too much (why else would I do so much rambling?), but I think a lot these days about what that ultimate Path will be. What vehicle I will wind up in for the better part of my journey in this life. And I have inklings. Unwise to articulate them too soon, perhaps, but I have inklings that this yog, this union, will occur in the historical meeting ground between India and China, in Tibetan soil. I'm not sure about this, and even if I were, I don't think there's any shortcut there. If I'm headed to the mythical Mt. Kailash, abode of Shiva, I must approach it as the pilgrims do, by making a kora. Perumbulating. Completing my part of the mandala, so that when I reach the destination I am prepared, i.e. equipped with the appropriate knowledge and experience. For now, my path leads through China, if not actual China (and I am bone-scared of modern China), then a representative cultural distillation thereof. Wish this foolish pilgrim luck.
Even as I write this, I'm conscious that it may be the most presumptive and pretentious thing I've spouted in quite some time. In these few paragraphs are embedded some of deepest visions, faith, and (surely) pride. But today I feel like letting all that hang out there flapping in the ether, if for no other reason that I'll have something to look back at in, say, ten years time, and be able to judge whether I was more full of pretension or prescience.
Showing posts with label Fulbright Program. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fulbright Program. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, May 4, 2009
Official Disclaimer
Due to a juicy new tidbit of U.S. policy, I have been prompted to make the following clarification with regard to the nature of this weblog:
*that contrary to all appearances, Ill Wind is not a U.S. Department of State or Fulbright Program website.
*that any similarity in content between the views expressed here and official U.S. Government foreign policy is purely coincidental.
*that all views expressed here are my own, except where attributed to others or vaguely plagiarized from the cybermind stream of consciousness to which I may be susceptible.
I hope this clears up any confusion that may have been plaguing the hearts and minds of my readers.
*that contrary to all appearances, Ill Wind is not a U.S. Department of State or Fulbright Program website.
*that any similarity in content between the views expressed here and official U.S. Government foreign policy is purely coincidental.
*that all views expressed here are my own, except where attributed to others or vaguely plagiarized from the cybermind stream of consciousness to which I may be susceptible.
I hope this clears up any confusion that may have been plaguing the hearts and minds of my readers.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Bhaktapur
When I first schemed up a way to get back to this part of the world, I set my sights on a singular city, Bhaktapur, on the eastern side of the Kathmandu valley. My project proposal for a Fulbright grant involved exploring the agricultural and culinary life of this city, which is so often described as 'ancient' and 'traditional.' I wanted to see through the lens of food production, processing, preparation and consumption how this densely populated, undeniably urban place has (had) succesfully supported itself in near self-sufficiency for centuries.
Bhaktapur was and still is largely a Newar city. Although in modern Nepal the Newars are seen by others as just another one of Nepal's dozens of ethnic/linguistic groups, they see themselves as the quintessential Nepalis. From ancient times (arguably) the Kathmandu Valley and its three major cities--Kathmandu itself, Lalitpur (or Patan), and Bhaktapur--had been Newar territory. Theirs is an urban culture, highly structured, with a complex caste society encompassing both Buddhist (Mahayana/Vajrayana) and Hindu (Shiavite/Vaishnavite) "Great Traditions." In the late eighteenth-century the Valley fell to the great conquest by the Gorkhas, Pahari (hill-dwelling) Hindus sweeping in from the West. Although the Gorkha policy was, of necessity, to leave most of the existing Newar infrastructure and culture intact, there nevertheless began the irreversible process of diversification in the Valley. Today Newars are no longer even a majority, and their language is at risk. Newari has gone from a mainly linguistic category to an essentially ethnic/cultural one, as the Newars are forced to overlook some of their caste and religious differences in favor of an assumed ethnic solidarity. But the culture that defines this place is still that of the Newars, from their striking brick-and-woodwork pagoda architecture to the layout of the streets, and the gods that reside in every neighborhood temple.
Of the three cities of the valley, Bhatapur was the one that remained the most intact, at least until the mid-20th Century. Even today it stands aloof from the hustle and bustle of modern Kathmandu, which has swollen together with Patan into one choking metropolis. Of course such distinction doesn't escape the notice of tourists, who have been flocking to this ancient, traditional city for decades now and leaving their mark. The buildings are all either ancient or (more commonly, after various earthquakes) restored, but in many cases these picturesque shells house fluorescently lit internet cafes, luxuriously appointed tourist quarters and restaurants serving fries and imported lager. Still, Bhaktapur itself is still more than 95% Newar, and more than anywhere else in the Valley, Newari, or Nepal Bhasha as the Newar themselves call it, is heard spoken in the streets. But the kids, ever attuned to the trends of the day, are foregoing the clipped, nasal sounds of their ancestral tongue in favor of this nation's lingua franca, Nepali.
A week into this 10-month chapter of my life, I'm having second thoughts about transplanting myself into such an environment as Bhaktapur. It's an alluring place, but an elusive one--it's both more natural and more artificial than Kathmandu, more joyful and more laden. Moving to what is still a Newar city would mean becoming once again an infant, except when I'm a member of the tourist species, i.e. an alien to the cultural life of the city. The traditions I'm interested in--agricultural, culinary, medical--are all highly cultural, which again places me neatly at odds with the overwhelming trend away from exactly those traditions. Given my interests, is it not better to go somewhere where these things are still more prevalent? Yes, but what is more painful than watching the cracks forming in the walls of the last remaining stronghold of a culture? And knowing myself to be, despite my best efforts, a likely agent of that change?
Bhaktapur was and still is largely a Newar city. Although in modern Nepal the Newars are seen by others as just another one of Nepal's dozens of ethnic/linguistic groups, they see themselves as the quintessential Nepalis. From ancient times (arguably) the Kathmandu Valley and its three major cities--Kathmandu itself, Lalitpur (or Patan), and Bhaktapur--had been Newar territory. Theirs is an urban culture, highly structured, with a complex caste society encompassing both Buddhist (Mahayana/Vajrayana) and Hindu (Shiavite/Vaishnavite) "Great Traditions." In the late eighteenth-century the Valley fell to the great conquest by the Gorkhas, Pahari (hill-dwelling) Hindus sweeping in from the West. Although the Gorkha policy was, of necessity, to leave most of the existing Newar infrastructure and culture intact, there nevertheless began the irreversible process of diversification in the Valley. Today Newars are no longer even a majority, and their language is at risk. Newari has gone from a mainly linguistic category to an essentially ethnic/cultural one, as the Newars are forced to overlook some of their caste and religious differences in favor of an assumed ethnic solidarity. But the culture that defines this place is still that of the Newars, from their striking brick-and-woodwork pagoda architecture to the layout of the streets, and the gods that reside in every neighborhood temple.
Of the three cities of the valley, Bhatapur was the one that remained the most intact, at least until the mid-20th Century. Even today it stands aloof from the hustle and bustle of modern Kathmandu, which has swollen together with Patan into one choking metropolis. Of course such distinction doesn't escape the notice of tourists, who have been flocking to this ancient, traditional city for decades now and leaving their mark. The buildings are all either ancient or (more commonly, after various earthquakes) restored, but in many cases these picturesque shells house fluorescently lit internet cafes, luxuriously appointed tourist quarters and restaurants serving fries and imported lager. Still, Bhaktapur itself is still more than 95% Newar, and more than anywhere else in the Valley, Newari, or Nepal Bhasha as the Newar themselves call it, is heard spoken in the streets. But the kids, ever attuned to the trends of the day, are foregoing the clipped, nasal sounds of their ancestral tongue in favor of this nation's lingua franca, Nepali.
A week into this 10-month chapter of my life, I'm having second thoughts about transplanting myself into such an environment as Bhaktapur. It's an alluring place, but an elusive one--it's both more natural and more artificial than Kathmandu, more joyful and more laden. Moving to what is still a Newar city would mean becoming once again an infant, except when I'm a member of the tourist species, i.e. an alien to the cultural life of the city. The traditions I'm interested in--agricultural, culinary, medical--are all highly cultural, which again places me neatly at odds with the overwhelming trend away from exactly those traditions. Given my interests, is it not better to go somewhere where these things are still more prevalent? Yes, but what is more painful than watching the cracks forming in the walls of the last remaining stronghold of a culture? And knowing myself to be, despite my best efforts, a likely agent of that change?
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