Dodging traffic

It's difficult to fully convey the living nightmare that is Delhi traffic in words. I've taken a few videos on my phone, but in my infinite cunning forgot the cable to transfer them to the laptop, so you'll just have to wait for that. In the meantime, let me take you on a typical journey. Starting at the battered wooden shed outside the Institute that houses the 'reliable taxi company', you can hire a car and driver for eight hours for a mere Rs550 (about six quid). If you're feeling brave, or don't have so far to go, you can just hail one of the auto-rickshaws that are forever buzzing up and down the streets, and negotiate a price.
Auto-rickshaws are small, nimble, traffic-dodging machines, which carry either passengers or freight.
And then you're off! Out onto the open road. My first journey in an auto-rickshaw scared me so thoroughly I realised after a while I was compulsively chanting mantras just to keep my teeth from chattering. When I got out I felt physically ill. Indians drive as only a people who unconsciously and thoroughly believe in reincarnation possibly could.
Yes, let's talk about the Delhi Highway Code.
1. Drive on the left and overtake on the right. Or vice versa. It's all good.
2. When turning right onto a main road, stop and check for traffic coming from the left. Wait, and then pull out just in front of them. They love that.
3. Drive fast. Get to the next traffic jam as quickly as possible.
4. Always give way to traffic which is bigger, more expensive, or more damaged than you.
5. Lane markings on the road, where they exist, are there for a reason -- to be completely ignored. Do your civic duty and maximise use of the available space on the road by wedging your vehicle anywhere it will fit.
6. Why put yourself at a disadvantage by indicating where you intend to go? Keep other drivers guessing and they will respect you more.

The auto-rickshaws are also open-air, so you get a good healthy dose of the Delhi 'air'. Here, having a cold is a blessing, because at least it dulls your sense of smell. A day taxiing around Delhi makes your lungs hurt. In this atmosphere, I don't know what to make of the large, overcrowded buses with the "Propelled by Clean Fuel" signs.
Many people told me before I left that India is "concept-breaking". I'm not so sure about this. If you think that, for example, tap water is always drinkable, then sure, that concept will be destroyed pretty quickly. But it's just replaced by the concept of tap water as either drinkable (in England, e.g.,) or not (in many other countries). Maybe 'assumption-breaking' is a better term. You've just as many concepts in your mind after a while in India; more and stronger if anything. I never had any ideas one way or the other before, but having seen it on the streets, I'm now convinced that transporting your wife and baby on the back of a motorbike is not a good idea. The fact that the driver was wearing a helmet seemed to hover between pointless and selfish, in the circumstances.
You can't leave a description of this vehicular assault on the senses without mentioning the constant racket of horns. Any space that cars, scooters, or auto-rickshaws go through reverberates with hooting, tootling, and honking. Quickly you realise that the entire meaning of blowing one's horn is completely different. It's not usually about berating someone who has infringed on your space (hah!) or broken the rules of the road (see above), but rather it usually means "I'm here!". "I'm overtaking you; please don't swerve wildly", "I'm here; stop driving towards me", or just "I'm driving! Isn't it great to (still) be alive?"
Overall, I think I'd rather take my chances in an unlicensed London minicab driven by a red-eyed Afhgan refugee. Again. Now there's something to look forward to.

Inhabitants

Even if it wasn't set against the backdrop of noisy, chaotic New Delhi, KIBI would still be a peaceful oasis. Three different kinds of people are sheltered here. Although it sounds strange to me to say 'kinds of people' instead of 'groups of people', that is how it feels. Maybe it's the shadow of the caste system... maybe it's my imagination.

The top stratum, then, in the sense that we get the best treatment, is the Westerners. It's difficult not to feel extraordinarily privileged in India, because even the poorest of us still have opportunities denied to most Indians. In KIBI we are guests, and really have it very easy -- we have our own rooms, three meals cooked for us every day, now we even have wireless Internet pretty much everywhere! Although to study everything thoroughly takes all the hours in the day, essentially we do more or less as we like -- nobody follows after us or tells us what to do. We can also feel special because this place was in a sense created for us -- for Westerners to study authentic Buddhist teaching.

The picture below is a typical scene of students hanging out.

At the bottom are the staff, mostly Indians. Here there are further divisions, where the cooks carry themselves proudly (and deservedly, given their excellent work), while the cleaners really lack any charwoman’s cheek, instead carrying with them a profound, silent resignation.

KIBI is also a monastery, and a number of monks live here. It was quite funny in class yesterday when Khenpo (our teacher) was, it seemed, just about to elaborate the traditional hierarchy of ordained monks being in a sense above or more worthy of respect than lay practitioners (his audience) due to their additional vows, but changed his mind.

I naturally feel like giving way a bit to the monks, so it was quite embarrassing when three of them stood back to let me go first in the lunch line. I politely indicated that they should go first. They responded by waving me ahead. I thought this was manifestly unfair and refused to queue jump. All three of them smiled and simply walked slowly backwards, creating a large gap which I reluctantly had to fill. Monks one, me nil.

Generally the monks are a bit shy to speak English, and I can't yet say anything above hello in Tibetan, but I did enjoy it when one friendly young fellow asked me for a laser. Surprised, I try to confirm this technologically implausible request. "A laser?" I ask, miming someone shooting a ray gun, Han Solo-style. “Pzap!”. Confusion. I try again. "Are you sure you want a laser?". "Yes, yes -- a laser. Do you have?" Eventually I was able to intercede as he was demanding advanced weaponry from another Westerner, and secure an eraser for him. One all.

One arena where the gloves are most definitely off between the ordained faculty and the laity is the table tennis table. This battered, rusty-nailed contraption occupies pride of place in the basement. A good brisk game of table tennis is just the thing for vivifying the humours when one has been sitting for hours. The monks play with varying levels of skill, but an evident fearlessness. They are forever smashing the ball into the net or into space while trying outrageous moves, which sometimes come off. Here you can see my arms dealer Lakwa Dorje giving it some.

KIBI Rules

Okay, so it's time for something a little less self-absorbed. Let me introduce you to the surroundings, and explain a little about why KIBI rules.
The building is basically a monastery in the old Tibetan style. It belongs to the Karmapa. For my non-Buddhist friends, suffice it to say that the Karmapa (now in his 17th incarnation, Thaye Dorje) is a most special and important teacher. He's not just a figurehead but holds in his mind all the teachings, secrets, and meditative achievements that power and support all the students of our Karma Kagyu lineage. The main reason I've come all this way is to meet him. You know, say hi, chill, maybe play some table tennis together.. Actually I've no idea what that will be like.
Back to the story. KIBI was founded 20-something years ago (you can tell I've been studying) by the 16th Karmapa specifically as a place where Western students could study Buddhism.

The location itself, as chaotic and dirty as it seems to me, is actually the prestigious government-controlled institutional area of Delhi, full of research hospitals and academic institutes. It's impossible to get space in. Nevertheless, the 16th Karmapa secured a large plot, on which now stands the central building, five storeys high, surrounded on three sides by the accommodation for students, staff, and monks.
The picture below was taken from the roof of the left-hand accommodation block. It's made up of eight photos stitched together. It's my first attempt at a panorama, and I hope to put some more up soon.

From right to left, you can see the entrance from the road, the gatekeeper's house, the inner gate, the courtyard, and the main building. My room is in the block at the back.
On the ground floor (behind the columns) is the gompa, or meditation hall. On the first-floor is a cafe, the student lounge, the computer room, and classrooms. The second-floor houses the library, in which I could quite happily spend the next 10 years growing pale and squishy with knowledge, and another classroom. There is a lot of empty space at the moment. The two upper floors are locked.

At least part of this space is the Karmapa's private quarters. He is in Kalimpong at the moment, but should be coming back in March to do some teaching.
The building itself is impressive in design, and has lots of architectural details.

However, it looks older than its years -- the Indian sun and monsoons really take their toll on paintwork and brick.

So much for the place. If I have time tomorrow, I'll introduce you to the inhabitants.

Get Yourself Connected

Emaho! I can now use my laptop again. One reason that it's so easy to stay in the Institute is that there is a little Indian man called Mr Chanda who calls round twice a day taking orders for stuff. He brings round staples like toilet paper and bottled water, but he can also source some more exotic things. Yesterday he brought round a voltage stabiliser, an impressive beast pictured below.

Every single piece of Indian electrical equipment I've encountered (with the exception, I'm hoping, of the stabiliser) is scarily substandard; from the power supply unit with its own internal lightning show to the plugs which only intermittently actually make electrical contact. The lights regularly go brighter or dimmer as the voltage from the mains fluctuates at random. So the stabiliser is an essential piece of equipment if you want to plug anything delicate like a computer into the Indian electrical system.
With this, and the temporary loan of an English-to-Indian plug converter (I didn't bother bringing one since I assumed that a former British colony would be bally sure to have some lying around, what), I can finally recharge my electrical equipment and transfer my photos!

For which stay tuned..

Pure fool

Ok sorry for the long time no post. In my infinite cunningness I omitted to pack a few essential items, such as a sleeping bag, blanket, coat, hat, and scarf. It's pretty cold at night here in mid-January. It's quite cold indoors even during the day. In fact unless you're basking in the midday sun outside, you'd better wrap up warm. Trying to rough it, 'iron yogi' style may have contributed to a minor collapse in health yesterday. In hindsight, the two weeks prior to coming over were so full of activity and devoid of sleep that it could have been expected.
The night before I also had a dream that I was pulling a long, dirty string from my stomach. "Purification!" exclaim my fellow students as I relate this. Yeah, maybe, I reluctantly admit. There is, they say, a strong effect exerted by imminent meetings with highly realised spiritual teachers, sacred places or simply studying dharma or meditating intensively, that causes people to get sick much more often than usual. This is said to be a purification of old, bad karma.
The reaction of the other students was touching and bemusing in equal measure. Everyone was concerned on seeing my pale face, and most people's reaction was "Oh! Do you want some medecine?". Well, I don't really know what's wrong with me, I would explain, so we don't really know what medecine would be appropriate. This reasoning in no way lessened anyone's desire to medicate me. I decided to eat less and sleep instead. Today I feel somewhat better, and was able to attend classes.
We have been discussing impermanence, and this precious human life and how fragile it is, which is very relevant. We also did phowa yesterday for a couple of relatives of students here who very recently died. This awareness of the fragility of life is with me every day now. I think it's healthy, as it gives you a bit of perspective and can encourage you to think about what is really important.
On the other hand, I really have to work on my paranoia. The cumulative effect of all the advice about India, how you can't drink the water or eat in most places, the impressive list of diseases that are rife here, the fact that everything is dirty, even the air, the frequency of people getting sick here, and the sheer in-your-face poverty of the place means I'm reluctant to even step out of the gate of the Institute. Tomorrow I hope to break my self-imposed isolation and go Outside.
Unfortunately, I also forgot to pack a plug converter, so I can't recharge any of my electrical equipment. I have taken some more photos, but I can't show you them yet..
Instead, here is an artist's impression of me in my cunningness so far:


Stay tuned and maybe it'll get interesting soon.

Two tin cans and a length of string

Arrived in India on Sunday. Took a a taxi straight to the Karmapa International Buddhist Institute. Well, not exactly straight. The driver, after I refused to exit the car on the side of a highway clearly in the wrong part of town, asked most of the inhabitants of Delhi the way, which took a good hour. On that journey I saw at least 5 things I've never seen before. India is mental. Really mental.
Eventually we drove past a large Tibetan style building. "That's it! Yes yes."
KIBI is an oasis of calm, but it's still in India, so the strangeness factor is high.
The organisers asked for a 'computer genius' to help set up the internet access for the students. None being around, the extraordinarily enthusiastic Dylan and I volunteered. We were shown to a room full of exhibits from the computer stone age, only one of which was running, and a cable coming in through the window ending in two bare copper wires, which apparently was the phone line.
A couple of hours, some additional magic boxes, a good deal of work with a penknife and a few electric shocks later, the internet access (wireless no less) was up and running.

Going to see if I can upload some photos, and go to sleep.