Claus Von Bohlen

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What can we learn from shamanism?

Shamanism is an ancient spiritual tradition and a sort of universal proto-religion. The fundamental aspects are more or less constant across cultures - shamans deliberately enter altered states of consciousness in order to benefit their communities. However, the specifics differ from culture to culture. Some shamans seek useful information, such as knowledge of fertile hunting grounds, while others help their clients more directly by healing them physically or mentally. Shamanic traditions also differ in how altered states of consciousness are accessed - some shamans use hallucinogenic plants, while others dance or drum or meditate or fast or drive themselves to the point of exhaustion by spending long periods of time alone in the wilderness.

Can shamanism have any relevance to modern life in the West? I believe it can, though possibly in a slightly roundabout way.

Before discussing what we might learn from shamanism, I want to mention a couple of caveats. Firstly, although shamans perform their roles with a view to benefiting others, nevertheless, almost all shamanic traditions also have a dark side. Some shamans contrast themselves with the more occult practitioners and refer to the latter as ‘sorcerers’ or ‘black shamans’; however, the line is often blurred. I think that is why shamanic traditions place such emphasis on a long and arduous period of initiation, always involving various privations and forms of abstinence (from sex, alcohol, sugar, salt, human society). If an individual has the self-discipline and self-control to complete such an initiation, then they will hopefully be less susceptible to the temptation to make use of their power for selfish or immoral purposes. Nevertheless, the original caveat still holds: it would be naive to engage with shamanism without being prepared to encounter a dark side, whether that dark side is inside or outside of oneself.

Secondly, in shamanic societies, shamans tend to play a liminal role. They are both a part of society, as well as being outside of it. They are often people who have suffered from a near fatal illness or accident - perhaps they have looked death in the face and have survived the encounter. Again, these are not things which we would necessarily choose for ourselves or for those close to us.

In the Amazon, even the most exemplary shamans tend to have a very negative worldview. When someone is in pain and consults a shaman, the shaman will ‘diagnose’ the malady during the course of an ayahuasca ceremony. However, the diagnosis usually indicates that someone else is responsible for your suffering - for instance, a jealous neighbour has placed a curse on you, or he has paid a sorcerer to blow magic darts into your body. In the Amazonian shamanic worldview, there is almost always some human foul play at work.

If you relate to people with an attitude of suspicion and fear, you create a negative climate which means that those people are more likely to behave in the undesirable ways that you are imputing to them. However, the opposite also holds true: treat people well and they will, for the most part, respond in kind. So the dark motives which colour the Amazonian shaman’s view of the world may indeed be a truthful reflection of his reality, though again, this is probably not something that we would wish to emulate.

So far I have described the aspects of shamanism which ought to make us wary. However, what are the positives? What can we learn from shamanism? Well, firstly I think that there is actually something valuable in the shamanic ‘diagnosis’ of suffering. From a Western scientific perspective, we might doubt the efficacy of curses or magic darts, but what really counts is the fact that they give the patient a reason for their pain. As soon as we can make sense of suffering, then the suffering diminishes. Even a Western medical diagnosis can be helpful, albeit on a more superficial level (my stomach hurts because I have cancer… but why do I have cancer?) However, undoubtedly the worst agony is to suffer and not to know why.

Shamanic diagnosis is only one part of what I see as the ‘meaning making’ function of shamanism. Shamanism makes sense of the world: the hunt has failed because a taboo was broken (Caribou Eskimos), the daily task of humans is to help our Great Father the Sun to cross the sky (Taos Pueblo Indians of New Mexico), you are in pain because your enemy has blown magic darts into you (Amazonian Shuar), etc. Now, I don’t think that Western society could or should adopt these aspects of shamanic thinking - we cannot unlearn what we already know. However, the general lesson is the importance of a sense of meaning. Personally, it seems to me that a lot of human suffering, and a lot of mental illness, derives from the absence of this sense of meaning. So what does this meaning consist of? I think everyone has to discover that for themselves. But an interest in such questions may lead one towards existential philosophy and psychology, which seem to me to be amongst the few Western disciplines to take these questions seriously.

Another idea which plays an important role in shamanic thought is the interconnectedness of all things. That is also something that we, as Westerners, could learn from. Too often we see ourselves as opposed to nature, rather than as a part of it. Sustainability and ecological sensitivity naturally follow from this realisation. From a shamanic point of view, harming the environment is nonsensical, like chopping off your own arm. Why would you harm something which is indistinguishable from yourself?

Interconnectedness can itself be a source of meaning. One role of the shaman is to provide a bridge to connect daily life with the mythic dimension. The shaman is the repository of the history and mythology of the tribe, and a conduit to the realm of the ancestors. That is also important - the mythic dimension has the capacity to touch us and ground us at the deepest level, and yet it plays so little part in contemporary Western life.

The shamanic approach to unusual experiences might also be something we can learn from. In the West, when someone has experiences to which other people cannot relate, we say they are psychotic and we put them in an asylum. The isolation, and the sense that they are freaks, exacerbates their problems. In shamanic cultures, by contrast, an attempt is made to integrate unusual experiences. If someone hears voices, they are not just written off as psychotic, and carted away. Rather, such experiences are interpreted as signs of having special sensitivity, or communicating with the dead, or as being in some other way related to an intelligible cosmological or mythical matrix. This may have no basis in scientific fact, but if shamans can make meaning of these experiences, then individuals are less likely to slip into the atomised and isolated anguish which underlies so much mental illness in the West.

Shamanism seems to me to lead naturally to an interest in meditative Eastern traditions. Firstly, the shamanic sense of interconnectedness leads to a questioning of the Western concept of the isolated, iron-clad, individual ego. Eastern traditions suggest that this concept has no basis in reality and lies at the root of all human suffering. Secondly, many aspects of shamanism demonstrate the extraordinary power of the mind over the body. Western science grudgingly acknowledges this as the placebo effect, but cannot explain it. By training the power of the mind, Eastern traditions offer the opportunity to explore this phenomenon in a systematic and experiential way.

Shamanism is a fascinating subject in itself. However, I believe that the meaning-making function of shamanism, and the notion of interconnectedness, are the aspects with the greatest relevance to modern life in the West.





Addiction: a necessary myth?

It is not at all clear to me what is meant by ‘addiction’. In fact, I am not sure that the concept even makes sense.

Let me state at the outset that I have never experienced addiction. I have never been an addict. There are those who will say, well then, of course you can’t understand what addiction is. And they are right; I cannot have experiential understanding. But surely I ought still to be able to have an intellectual understanding? And yet, I don’t feel that is the case. I put this down to the fact that addiction has no real world referent. It is a concept does not make sense to me, at least not in the light of the other beliefs I hold.

Contentious? Yes.

So, what do people mean by addiction? Let’s start with the DSM-IV, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders – the clinician’s Bible.  The DSM sees addiction as an umbrella term encompassing a number of different disorders. However, the diagnosis closest to addiction (as it is commonly understood) is ‘substance dependence’. In order to qualify as substance dependent, you have to respond ‘yes’ to just 3 of the following questions:

  1. Tolerance. Has your use of drugs or alcohol increased over time?
  2. Withdrawal. When you stop using, have you ever experienced physical or emotional withdrawal? Have you had any of the following symptoms: irritability, anxiety, shakes, sweats, nausea, or vomiting?
  3. Difficulty controlling your use. Do you sometimes use more or for a longer time than you would like? Do you sometimes drink to get drunk? Do you stop after a few drink usually, or does one drink lead to more drinks?
  4. Negative consequences. Have you continued to use even though there have been negative consequences to your mood, self-esteem, health, job, or family?
  5. Neglecting or postponing activities. Have you ever put off or reduced social, recreational, work, or household activities because of your use?
  6. Spending significant time or emotional energy. Have you spent a significant amount of time obtaining, using, concealing, planning, or recovering from your use? Have you spend a lot of time thinking about using? Have you ever concealed or minimized your use? Have you ever thought of schemes to avoid getting caught?
  7. Desire to cut down. Have you sometimes thought about cutting down or controlling your use? Have you ever made unsuccessful attempts to cut down or control your use.

According to those criteria, pretty much every one I know, myself included, is alcohol dependent and hence an addict. But that doesn’t seem right. At least, I don’t think the diagnosis of substance dependence is actually what people mean by addiction.

It seems that the substance dependence criteria are too broad – it is too easy to fulfill them. The DSM addresses this with the more restrictive diagnosis of ‘physiological dependence’. Physiological dependence requires criteria 1 and 2 above – increased  tolerance to the substance over time, and withdrawal symptoms on ceasing to take it. So maybe that is what people mean by addiction?

But I don’t think that can be it either. Most drinkers realize that the more they drink, the more alcohol they need to consume in order to get drunk (tolerance), and everyone is aware that you can avoid a hangover by just continuing to drink (thereby avoiding withdrawal symptoms).

So, in relation to alcohol, tolerance and withdrawal symptoms do not seem to equate to addiction. At least, not without setting a certain threshold level of tolerance and withdrawal.

But what about with stronger drugs? The cold turkey of heroin withdrawal, for instance? Even here, this does not seem to me to capture what people mean by addiction. I have no doubt that heroin withdrawal is very unpleasant, but it is usually over within a week, and there are very few fatalities.

William Burroughs does believe in addiction, but he sets the bar pretty high:

The question is frequently asked: Why does a man become a drug addict? The answer is that he usually does not intend to become an addict. You don’t wake up one morning and decide to be a drug addict. It takes at least three months’ shooting twice a day to get any habit at all. And you don’t really know what junk sickness is until you have had several habits. It took me almost six months to get my first habit, and then the withdrawal symptoms were mild. I think it no exaggeration to say it takes about a year and several hundred injections to make an addict.

(Junky, Prologue, p. xxxviii)


So, neither ‘substance dependence’ nor ‘physiological dependence’ appear to capture addiction. It seems to me that what people mean is that an addict has no choice: he cannot do other than as he does. He knows it’s bad for him, he wants to give up, and yet he can’t.

Defined in this way, addiction seems to be more like a compulsion – an action that an individual does not control. But there are many different forms of compulsion. The following would be an interesting if rather macabre experiment (and unlikely to make it past an ethics board):

Put a patient with obsessive-compulsive disorder (expressed through compulsively rubbing their hands together) in a room with a gunman. Inform the patient that they will be shot as soon as they rub their hands together. Wait for the bang. As soon as the patient’s attention wanders, they will unthinkingly rub their hands together, and it will all be over.

Repeat the experiment with an addict. Put a drink, or a bag of heroin, in front of him. Shoot another participant first, so the patient knows that the gun is loaded and the gunman means business. Now, in this situation, I think that even a lot of serious addicts would be able to fight the temptation to use, and would go through cold turkey rather than be shot.

The point of this experiment: to show that compulsion and addiction are not the same thing.

This is the crux of my argument. In the absence of true OCD compulsion, I am opposed to the idea that an addict, or any individual, has no choice. Such a belief would be incompatible with the perspective of existential psychology, through which I have come to conceptualize human life. We have choice, because we have free will. I have to believe that, since otherwise human life makes no sense at all.

           

W. S. Burroughs; he accidentally shot his wife dead during a drinking game.

Now, addicts are people who are in a lot of psychological pain, I don’t for a moment doubt that. They take drugs to combat that pain. When under the influence of drugs, they behave in ways that they may not want to, in ways that are irrational and contrary to their best interests. We have all experienced that, to a lesser degree. Who hasn’t rued that last drink? But once again, I don’t think this can be sufficient for a definition of addiction. It is an arbitrary question of degree rather than of kind.

What I really object to is the idea that there is a class of people – addicts – who cannot make choices because of the disease of addiction. I find this a profoundly negative way of looking at people. It runs counter to humanistic and positive psychology which believes that people can always develop and grow and improve; indeed, that is part of what makes life meaningful.

To tell someone that they are an addict is to tell them that they are somehow broken, and that they cannot handle the freedom to make choices. For some addicts, this is a source of solace. They can abnegate responsibility – it’s not my fault, it’s my addiction. That seems rather dishonest to me; it is an example of Sartre’s (2003) notion of ‘bad faith’. Central to the existential orientation is the belief that we are born free, and we bear full responsibility for how we use that freedom.

But wait, you might say, addiction is a disease! It’s a mental disease! No. If it were a mental disease, then we could locate it in the brain, in the same way we can locate syphilis. But we can’t. Addiction is a mental illness, not a disease, and mental illnesses are constellations of behaviors which are deemed undesirable. That is a very different proposition. The conflation between mental disease and mental illness reflects psychology’s attempt to share in the legitimacy of medicine, but that is wishful thinking. For a full presentation of this argument, see Thomas Szasz (1960).

Twelve step programs appear to tread a middle road. Addiction is seen as a disease, and yet people are encouraged to recognize that they have choices in how they respond to that disease. What’s more, it seems that many addicts do not conceptualize addiction in terms of any particular substance. Rather, addiction is more like a personality disorder – a constant and frequently self-punitive urge to escape from an intolerably painful present. And the reasons why the present is intolerable are a complex combination of personal history, genetic predisposition, and precipitating environmental factors.

This definition of addiction is still not very satisfactory. It locates addiction in the intolerable pain of the present, but there are surely more precise and insightful ways to think about the nature of that pain. However, there is one sense in which I think that the term ‘addiction’ clearly does serve a purpose. There are many people who now lead drug and alcohol free lives, but can only do so because they believe that they have the ‘disease’ of addiction. It is that belief which supports them in their lifelong commitment to sobriety. I do not like this; it is based on a lie, and it places a ceiling on human potential. But then, for many,  the alternative would be a life in the gutter, or in and out of rehab, or an early grave, and that would be worse.

 

References

Burroughs, W. (1999) Junky. London: Penguin.

Sartre, J. (2003). Being and Nothingness; An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology. London: Routledge Classics.

Szasz, T. (1960). The myth of mental illness. American Psychologist, 15, 113-118. Retrieved from http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Szasz/myth.htm.

 

 

LSD, opiates, and meditation

Among people who are interested in psychedelic research, it is no secret that many of the mental states which can be achieved through meditation can also be had through taking LSD. I am thinking of transpersonal or mystical experiences, or the direct awareness of ‘the void’, which plays an important role in Buddhist thought.

Dr. Stanislav Grof is a pioneer in the field of LSD research. His academic credentials are unimpeachable. He was formerly Chief of Psychiatric Research at the Maryland Psychiatric Research Center and Assistant Professor of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University school of medicine. In his book, Beyond the Brain, he writes:

Since 1954, when I first became interested in and familiar with psychedelic drugs, I have personally guided more than 3,000 sessions with LSD and have had access to more than 2,000 records of sessions conducted by my colleagues, in Czechoslovakia and in the United States (p.30, Grof, 1985).

This suggests to me that Grof’s point of view should be taken seriously. But what is his point of view? Grof argues that LSD can lead to ‘…full experiential identification with the undifferentiated consciousness of the Universal Mind or the Void and, thus, with the entire cosmic network and with the totality of existence(p.36, Grof, 1985).

This is the sort of experience which very advanced meditators report. However, in Beyond the Brain Grof does not overtly draw parallels between LSD and meditative experience. Rather, he argues that these experiences - which he terms ‘transpersonal’ - demonstrate that the Newtonian-Cartesian paradigm provides only a impoverished and incomplete picture of reality, and that much of Western thought is therefore profoundly misguided. Grof writes:

The most critical and serious challenge for the Newtonian-Cartesian mechanistic model of the universe comes from the last category of psychedelic phenomena, an entire spectrum of experiences for which I have coined the term “transpersonal”. The common denominator of this rich and ramified group of unusual experiences is the individual’s feeling that his or her consciousness has expanded beyond the ego’s boundaries and has transcended the limitations of time and space (p.41).

Using a combination of LSD and ketamine, I have experienced the sense of ‘my’ consciousness expanding beyond the boundaries of my own ego (see http://www.icanseealcatraz.blogspot.com/2010/08/31-psychonauting.html). Other transpersonal experiences to which Grof refers are telepathy, clairvoyance, precognition, out-of-body experiences and paranormal phenomena. Regrettably I have not experienced any of these, neither with the help of LSD nor through meditation. However, Grof is convinced of the validity of these experiences, and he thinks that they violate the most basic assumptions and principles of mechanistic science. He argues that it is time to rethink the parameters of science and to usher in a new scientific and conceptual paradigm.

I started this post by stating that there are significant overlaps between meditation and certain LSD-induced experiences. However, there are many different schools of meditation, and possibly phenomena such as clairvoyance, precognition and telepathy play a larger role in Tibetan Buddhism or Lamaism, with its roots in the pre-Buddhist shamanic tradition of Bon-po, than they do in the more Westernized meditative practices.

My own experiences with meditation have so far had less to do with transpersonal or paranormal phenomena, and more with the training of my capacity for concentration. When the body calms down, the mind soon follows. When attention becomes one-pointed, distracting thoughts are eliminated. There arises a sort of awareness without specific thoughts - this is a form of samadhi. It is a very pleasant state (although, of course, the irony is that one must not crave the state, since as soon as craving arises you lose the necessary equanimity).

It seems to me that this state is much more similar to the experience of smoking or ingesting opiates than it is to LSD (I draw the line at injecting). However, as far as I am aware, there is not much research concerning the overlap between the experiences of meditation and opiates. William Burroughs (1992) sums it up pretty well in Naked Lunch:

Some of my learned colleagues (nameless assholes) have suggested that junk derives its euphoric effect from direct stimulation of the orgasm centre. It seems more probable that junk suspends the whole cycle of tension, discharge and rest. The orgasm has no function in the junky. Boredom, which always indicates an undischarged tension, never troubles the addict. He can look at his shoe for 8 hours. He is only roused to action when the hourglass of junk runs out.

Staring at your shoe for 8 hours… now that is deep, deep samadhi.

I do believe that both LSD and opiates can offer shortcuts to many of the states which meditation can induce. However, meditation is much harder - it requires time, commitment and discipline. But when those states are achieved through meditation, they are surely purer. Personally, I am grateful for the psychotropic experiences which have shown me a blurry image of the meditative path ahead. The image, imperfect as it may be, encourages me to carry on walking.

References:

Grof, S., (1985). Beyond the Brain. Albany, NY: State University of New York.

Burroughs, W., (1992). Naked Lunch.  New York, NY: Grove Press.

Krampus

A few years ago, as I was walking by night through the wintery Christmas wonderland that is Salzburg in December, I was suddenly attacked by a terrifying horned devil clad entirely in shaggy sheepskin. He appeared from nowhere and punched me in the solar plexus. I was completely winded and collapsed against the wall behind me. I could not believe what had just happened.

Looking up, I saw that there were other horned devils whirling around and bouncing off the walls. Even without the initial shock, they were still utterly terrifying. They were all well over six feet tall and had red laser beams for eyes. Children screamed while adult males were physically manhandled or whipped, though I don’t think anyone else received quite the sucker punch that I did.

I could hear distant chanting which was now growing louder. Looking up, I realised that so far I had only seen the outriders. They merely prepared the ground. Behind them, 12 more black shaggy devils were harnessed to a large cart. They were chained to each other and their chains rattled on the cobbled street. On top of the cart stood another devil, this one the biggest of the lot and dressed all in shaggy white. His laser eyes bore into the backs of the straining devils before him and from time to time his whip cracked in the air above them.

I know it sounds as if I am making this up. I swear I am not. That is just how I remember it. It was truly one of the most intense and unexpected scenes I have ever experienced.

The following day, the newspapers were full of photos. This is an old Austrian tradition; each devil is called a ‘Krampus’. Here are some photos:

Traditionally, the Krampuse are the mythical creatures who accompany St. Nicholas during the advent. They scare and punish bad children, while St. Nicholas rewards good children with gifts.

Towns and villages in Bavaria have their own teams of Krampus volunteers. In some places, you have to be well over 6 feet tall to be considered.

The parades build up towards Krampusnacht on December 6th (also St. Nicholas’ day). I think that was probably the night I chanced to be out in Salzburg. Alongside the photos in the following day’s papers, I also read a number of stories about children being traumatized by what they had seen. There is, I am told, an ongoing debate in Bavaria about the extent to which Krampuse should be allowed to terrorize children.

Tonight I also saw some Krampuse rattling their chains and cracking their whips in the Getreidegasse. However, this time I knew what they were, and there more people around, and the street was brightly lit. I could also see a line of policemen walking behind them. But nevertheless, when one of the Krampuse stared at me and lifted his whip, I felt real terror such I have not experienced for a long time.

There is no doubt that the Krampuse are terrifying, as these photos surely attest. But if you are a parent concerned about your child’s mental health, and if you lack the imagination to turn this into a very effective form of negative reinforcement, well, then I think you should probably just not venture out with your children when you know that the Krampuse are abroad.

I think it is imperative to preserve the mythic dimension of life - to be able to feel and to resonate on that deepest of levels - and that entails both the darkness and the light.

Bhotiya

I recently returned from a 16 day trek through Nepal’s remote Humla region. The population here is of Tibetan (‘Bhotiya’) origin, and many Tibetan monks fled here after the Chinese invaded in 1950. They came over the high passes carrying the Buddhist texts which they feared the Chinese would destroy.

Humla is vast and empty, but there are several Buddhist monasteries. I met the caretaker of the monastery just outside the tiny medieval village of Til. He told me that two years ago a group of 25 Tibetan refugees crossed a snow-covered 7000m pass on towering Mendun, just behind the village. They crossed in winter and had to cut steps into the ice with an old sword. There were several babies and small children in the group, all of whom survived.

           Mendun, with the village of Til in the foreground.

We walked through Limi Valley, 25 days by foot from the nearest paved road (on the Nepali side). There are only three villages here, each one a day’s walk from the next. In October everyone returns to the village to help with the harvest. The fields appear golden until the crops are cut to feed the animals during the long winter. I felt very lucky to be in this valley, observing these pastoral scenes and also looking back in time. The slowness of movement is what struck me most; no one hurries. It was a glimpse into the past, and into a way of life that was the norm for most of mankind throughout most of history, but which is now fast disappearing. The clarity of the air at 4000m, and the isolated nature of every sound, added to the sense of otherworldliness.

With occasional glimpses of snowy Tibetan peaks in the distance, the romance of Tibet began to exercise a powerful fascination over me. The land of the endless snows; Westerners have felt this fascination for centuries. But what does it stem from? Is it just the fact that Tibet has for so long been inaccessible to foreigners, a vast unmapped country spanning the roof of the world? Or perhaps it is a feeling that these mountain walls guard an ancient spiritual tradition - precisely what we have lost in the West. In Tibet, it is a tradition which blends the shamanic elements of indigenous Bon practices with the Buddhist teachings which came from India. This syncretism has led to a darker, more frightening and more magical form of Buddhism.  Or is it a fascination with a country that, until recently, was run by monks, and whose way of life had not changed for millennia? Possibly all these elements play a role.

                         First view of Tibet

The day before we reached Til, we passed a cave in a cliff face where the monk Lotsawa Rinchen Sangpo (985-1055 A.D.) meditated for 10 years while translating Buddhist texts from Sanskrit into Tibetan. The cave overlooks the confluence of two rivers, a thousand metres below. There is a rocky mountain of astonishing massivity on the other side of the valley.


I spent some time observing three enormous eagles gliding in the vast space in front of me. I thought to myself that it is really no surprise that Buddhism, with its fascination with the void, should have found such a secure foothold in a part of the world with landscape like this.

One of the most poetic evocations of the romance of Tibet comes via the character of the Lama in Rudyard Kipling’s magnificent novel Kim. These are some of my favourite lines:

‘No need to listen for the fall. This is the world’s end,’ he said, and went out. The lama looked forth, a hand on either sill, with eyes that shone like yellow opals. From the enormous pit before him white peaks lifted themselves yearning to the moonlight. The rest was as the darkness of interstellar space.

‘These,’ he said slowly, ‘are indeed my Hills. Thus should a man abide, perched above the world, separated from delights, considering vast matters.’

The Russian mystic and painter, Nicholai Roerich, captures something of this in his painting, ‘Path to Kailas’.

There are plans to build a road through Limi in order to facilitate trade with China. The valley will not stay the way it is much longer, and there can’t be many places like it left in the world. This is saddening for tourists and foreigners like me, though it may bring some benefits to the local populace (eg access to hospitals).

For a fuller analysis, and also for details of the trek and the itinerary, I recommend my brother’s blog:

http://notesfromtheemeraldvalley.blogspot.com/2011/10/below-is-brief-itinerary-of-recent-trek.html

Monsoon haiku

                       Raindrops on concrete -

                       A moment’s aqueous crowns!

                       My feet are soon wet.

Sex change

It is still dark outside. Orange snow flakes are sifting against the window, lit by the street lights. There is a girl asleep next to me. I can’t remember her name. Or her face, for that matter. Well, not clearly anyway. That has been happening to me a lot recently. I know that makes me sound like a total shit, but I don’t think that’s what I am. I guess maybe no one ever thinks that’s what they are.

My mouth is parched. I run my tongue over my lips. Usually, after a night of drinking, they feel dry and flaky. But not right now; they feel oddly soft. The girl’s face is buried in the crook of my neck. I try to pull away to get a look at her but she just follows. Ah, an affectionate one; poor tender heart. Well, I wouldn’t be able to see much anyway - it is too dark. I relax.

I’m not sure whether we had sex or not. We’re both naked and from the way she is pressed up against me, I guess we have. I reach under the cover to feel myself. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find. Maybe a warm dampness. A bit of chafing. Any form of circumstantial or circumferential evidence.

I reach down and feel… nothing. Or rather, I feel the soft continuous fuzz where my own penis used to be.

WHAT!?

My disbelieving fingers explore. They find a groove. Soft lips. A trimmed quim!

Surely I must be dreaming. I blink a few times. Each time I open my eyes the orange light still filters into the room. The snowflakes still sift outside. I bite my lip and it hurts. I reach down again. I cup the curve where my penis would have been. Nothing. Empty. And how different!

From one moment to the next, my entire world turns upside down. A sudden rush of panic, electric and tingling. Then the thought: how strange, none of this seems to mean anything. Where are the drums, the flashes of lightening? Nothing. The light still filters, the snow still sifts, the girl is still breathing into my neck.

I am not impetuous. I keep thinking there must be some mistake. Some drug accidentally consumed. Some oneiric half-state still holding me in its grip. An out-of-body experience. An in-to-body experience. A trance.

Must take stock. What do I know? I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who this girl is. Take stock. Back to basics. I hear her breathing. Must focus. Time is passing. But is it? Time could have stopped and I would never know - thinking would have stopped too. But how long would time stop for? Ah, you can’t ask that. Must focus.  What has time got to do with anything? With the price of tomatoes, as Helen used to say. Stop getting distracted. You are falling apart. Beautiful Helen. And her beautiful mons. Her mons was the fons et origo. I was the Fonz to her mons. Now I too have a mons.

 I HAVE A MONS!

What the fuck is going on?

Why do I have a mons? What does one do with a mons? I elect to feel my mons. Oh my mons. Not my pudenda, oh no. A horrible Victorian gerundive that – slippery pallid little fish. So no, not that. But my own Mons Veneris. The Mount of Venus. The Seat of Love. Oh my how fine.

Quickly I must touch my mons before my mons absconds.

Soft fuzz, curvature and vacuity.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

The girl wrinkles her nose briefly, like a young rabbit. ‘Babe?’ she whispers sleepily. I don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to answer. Who would I be trusting anyway? She wriggles closer. Her arm encircles me. It is slender. Her hand hangs down from the wrist, all lines and angles. Then she places her hand on my breast.

ON MY FUCKING BREAST!

Her hand is warm. It fits perfectly, like that is what it was made for. And it feels right. This is animal pleasure. Safety. Acceptance. All the elusive things.

MY BREAST!

This is a travesty, a transgression, a miracle, a taboo. Beyond nature, beyond comprehension. And yet every thought normalises. Don’t think. Scream. I must scream. That’s what other people would do, in this situation. But who else has ever been in this situation? And anyway, I’m not the screaming type. I am a thinker. There is much to think about here.

‘Babe?’ more insistent this time.

I grunt in reply. Except I do not grunt. It is higher, more melodious even. A sigh.

The girl’s breath is hot on my shoulder. She nuzzles against my ear. Her hand squeezes my breast. HOLY SHIT! Suddenly my whole body tingles. What happened there? Her thigh slowly starts to rub against mine. I’m not ready for this. Not yet.

‘How did I get here?’ I ask. My voice is pretty.

‘Shhhh,’ she says. Her hand releases my breast. Don’t do that, I think. Then her finger touches my lips. The lips of my… mouth! Ha ha. ‘Shhhhh,’ she whispers again. Her finger traces my lips, very light. I suddenly realise that she may know my body better than I do. I do not know my body. This body. Whose is this body? There is much to think about here.

‘One minute,’ I say. I extricate myself from her arms, from her legs. I slide across the cool cotton to the side of the bed. Nice sheets, I think irrelevantly. Buttery sheets, as Helen used to say.

I sit up. I can see her a little now, with the orange glow coming from behind me. Hair covers half her face. She seems pretty, though it’s really too dark to tell.

I look around the room. A few articles of clothing on the floor. It looks like an advert for designer chocolate. A Valentine’s day advert.

I stand up. Immediately I feel cold. Which clothes are mine? No matter, find the bathroom. I wander towards the darkest part of the room. Surely the doorway. It is the doorway. I continue down a narrow corridor, touching the sides to guide me. The floor is smooth, not too cold, maybe polished wood. Ah, door frame on the right. I go in, run my hand up and down the wall. There, a light switch. I flick it.

                                        


HOLY FUCKING SHIT! The girl in the mirror is HOT! SMOKING FUCKING HOT! Hair tousled lipstick smudged eyes sleepy breasts pert nipples erect stomach flat hip bones sculpted like sand dunes. And what a lovely mons! O Mons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro… Snatches (hem hem) of Prep School Latin often come back to haunt me at the strangest times. To haunt me? Who is me? How can I be that girl in the mirror? What does that sentence even mean? The girl stares back with sleepy smoky eyes. I take a step closer to the mirror. So does she. I touch my breast. So does she. She is me. I am her. THIS IS NUTS!

But now a new sensation announces itself. This one I recognise. I need to pee.

BUT HOW DO I PEE?

Don’t overthink. Just be normal. NORMAL! Yes, normal. Pretend I am having a dump but just do the peeing bit. I sit on the toilet seat. I close my eyes and feel the pressure in my bladder and I relax. I hear a delicate glassy tinkling… the sound of a fons from my mons! I look down. No affirmative, gravity enhanced, blood filled appendage there, just fuzz and air! Sounds almost like the lightest of soufflés, just fuzz and air… My God, I have even started to think like a girl!

The tinkling stops. What now? No shaking to be done. But the fuzz is wet. Do I wipe? Do I dab? Do I blow dry? Is that why women spend so long in the bathroom? I wonder what it would feel like to put my finger in there. But not now, I’ve just peed. That would be unhygienic. Wouldn’t it? I think it would.

‘Babe?’ It’s the girl in the bedroom. She is calling me. Maybe she wants to have sex with me? Maybe she knows what I am? Maybe she’s a lesbian? Maybe I get to have sex with a lesbian! As a woman! As a SMOKING HOT CHICK! Holy shit, this is getting better and better! We will go breast to breast, mano a mano, mons to mons. Mano a mons and mons to mano! I will press my fuzz into her face, my nipple into her fuzz. Maybe she will lick my mons!

Wait a minute… what’s that warm wet hungry feeling down there? Something is starting to tingle. It’s spreading like warm tentacles. And that’s not pee wet, that’s wet wet. I’m getting wet!

‘Babe, can you hear me? There are some condoms on the shelf behind the mirror, will you bring them?’

Shit.

Mister Dom, he go swimming!

My brother Dominik and I are going on a 3 week trek up towards holy Mt. Kailas next month - a trip we have been planning for some time. In preparation, we decided to do a short leg stretcher closer to Kathmandu. However, since it is still the monsoon season, this leg stretcher turned into more of a leg wetter. But preferable to a bed wetter, at least.

The leg wetter was only three days, but it was hard work. For a guide we took with us my brother’s friend Krishna; he is from the area we were walking through, but he now lives in a squatter community in Kathmandu. Krishna is small in stature but he cut a dapper figure, effortlessly bouncing over the muddy rocks in his Converse trainers, twirling his new umbrella and smoking endless joints while Dom and I struggled to catch our breath and find footing in our expensive hiking boots. 

On the first afternoon we walked in pouring rain up a stone staircase for three hours,  from Barabise to the tiny village of Karthali. My brother had already been in Karthali a number of times in order to meet the local shaman - the bombo - and to undergo stage 1 of a shamanic initiation. He wrote an account of the initiation, published here, and on this visit he brought a hard copy of the magazine with the article and a number of photos to give to the shaman. The shaman seemed very happy with this gift, though he appeared far more interested in the luxury advertising in the rest of the magazine than in the photo story in which he himself featured.

    Shaman looking at pictures of himself in my brother’s article

The bombo then asked my brother when he was planning to come for stage 2 of the initiation. My brother diplomatically replied soon, although, since stage 2 involves placing burning coals in your mouth, he is rightly reticent about continuing his shamanic education, at least with this bombo

We spent the night in Karthali, in a village house. I was allocated the area on the floor about three feet away from two goats who slept on a sort of raised, slatted wooden bench. From time to time throughout a fairly sleepless night, one of the goats would sneeze, covering me in a fine mist of goat mucus. At other times the goats would urinate through the slats of their bench, and although the splash did not reach me, it was nevertheless not the most pleasing of sounds.

The following day we continued up to the Tinsingla pass. The path led through dense,  humid jungle. We frequently had to remove leeches from our shoes. A few managed to crawl into my socks and feast royally before I discovered them. During a tea break in a hut, I went to scratch my neck and found a wily leech that had attached itself almost directly to my jugular. Krishna removed it with a hot coal from the fire.

At other times of year there would have been spectacular views of the snowy Himalayan peaks in the far distance, but mostly we climbed in dense cloud. The mist hung from the creeper-clad hillsides above us in wispy trails, and we frequently had to pass through the spray of forest waterfalls. I was reminded of Japanese (or Chinese?) ink paintings of just such scenes, rendered in characteristically elegant and reserved brushstrokes.

We spent the night in another small hut just below the Tinsingla pass. As it was getting dark, a trickle of porters started to arrive. They were each carrying enormously heavy sacks containing hundreds of hard yellow sticks of utterly bland yak cheese - a delicacy in these parts. There is something very humbling about this country - not just the towering peaks and the extreme poverty, but also the fact that diminutive 12 year old boys stagger up mountainsides transporting weights beneath which I could barely walk 100 metres, on flat ground.

One of the last arrivals was a middle aged man clad in a thick woolen jacket in the Tibetan style. He set down his load amongst the other sacks, then he sat himself down a small distance behind the other porters who were gathered around the fire. It was now completely dark outside. In the flickering light of the fire, the man’s physiognomy appeared to reach back through the ages. Dom and I were both astonished by his resemblance to bronze age man, or at least to what we imagine bronze age man would have looked like. He also reminded me of the men who mined the salt mines around Salzburg in prehistoric times - there is a model of just such a miner on display in the Celtic Museum in Hallein. The model is a reconstruction based on the mummified remains of a miner that were found preserved in the salt. Even the Celtic clothing resembled this porter’s Tibetan jacket.

The porter sat at the back of the room staring vacantly but seemingly contentedly into space. I wondered whether he was perhaps a bit simple; the way the other porters ignored him seemed to suggest as much. As the minutes ticked by and he didn’t move a muscle, I wondered what was going through his head. Perhaps he was in a perfect timeless present, fully aware and conscious yet without thought? Was he the living embodiment of the state of deep samadhi? It is a state I find extremely hard to get into, though of course it shouldn’t be hard at all; it is beyond all trying. I mean no disrespect to this porter when I say that his immobile bronze age features reminded me of the famous Zen koan of the monk who asked his teacher, ‘Does a dog have Buddha-nature?’ In the baffling way of koans, the teacher replies, ‘Mu’.

It is impossible to overstress the hardiness of these porters, and of Nepalis in general. I have already mentioned the weights that the porters carry. Often they walk barefoot. One porter sat in the room quite unconcernedly while blood streamed from a wound in his foot where he had removed an enormous leech. At night they just curl up on the floor - blankets are a luxury. The area we were walking through is not a trekking area. Most people live from subsistence farming. Wealth is practically unknown; you are happy if you can feed yourself and your family. It all made me feel very soft, white, pampered and humble.

Dom told me that it is frequently a source of astonishment to Nepalis that he is 30 years old and unmarried. This is particularly the case in rural areas. One woman he met in a village could not get her head around the idea of a healthy unmarried 30 year old male. She couldn’t conceive of what he did all day. That makes sense to me now. On a practical level, people in rural areas need children who will look after them in old age. But on an existential level, as Westerners we are extremely anomalous in the history of the world in the sense that we have the leisure to question the procreative drive, and we also have alternatives which can provide our lives with meaning. But I think it would be impossible to explain that to a woman in a Nepali village. She would think we were mad. And from her point of view, I can understand that.

Following a visit to the monastery at Bigu, we set off for the district capital of Charikot. There is a muddy dirt road which hugs the hillside and snakes along the paddies for much of the way, but every few hundred metres there are huge gaps where landslides have swept the road away into the river below. For much of its length, it is impassable to motorised traffic. At one point we saw a huge Japanese digger, stuck on a hundred metre stretch of road; landslides had torn down the hillside directly in front and directly behind. It is little wonder that a country whose climate and geography are so remorseless gives rise to such a hardy and stoical race of people. And, as Dom pointed out, it is precisely these external factors, and the difficulty of travel, that means that the many different tribes and ethnicities have preserved their language, culture, and identity to a far greater extent than in other parts of the world.

Krishna - Dom’s friend and our guide - also demonstrated an impressive ability to tolerate discomfort. He suffered from diarrhea and stomach cramps throughout the three days, though he never mentioned it unless pressed. He was almost always cheerful, especially when, on the last day, Dom slipped on a wet rock and fell into the river he was crossing. I was a little distance ahead; Krishna came bounding up behind me; smiling from ear to ear, he announced, ‘Mister Dom, he go swimming!’

                     Mister Dom about to go swimming.

From Singati we took a hairy busride to Charikot. The chickens in the bus, and the two goats stationed beneath my seat, made the whole journey feel like a scene from the Borat movie. As I sit here writing this, the undersides of my thighs are intolerably itchy and flea-bitten. They look like a children’s text in braille. I think the fleas probably jumped ship from the goats.

We had a few hours to kill in Charikot. The road to Kathmandu had been blocked because an old man had fallen off a bus. It is customary to block the road until a compensation sum has been agreed upon. We spent the time eating momos and chowmein in a restaurant. Krishna ate little but visited the toilet a lot. His stomach appeared to be getting worse. I suggested going to a pharmacy. He seemed nonplussed, preferring to beckon over the waitress and ask her whether she knew of any shaman practising in Charikot.  She thought for a moment then shook her head apologetically, but it made me think how differently that inquiry would be received by a waitress in a restaurant in London. This is a fine country in which to appreciate cultural differences.