Dogster: Sweet 'n Sour in Sikkim

Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:04 AM
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Dogster: Sweet 'n Sour in Sikkim

It's a time for celebration, a time to relax - just for a moment. The world has turned, like it or not.

I like it.

In the spirit of the occasion, here's a story that nothing to do with any of that - but it made me laugh when Dogster dictated it to me. It's a weeny bit rude - but you guys have trawled thru filthier territory with me before, so I think you'll be fine.

I think his personal behavior is disgusting, but I must report what he tells me. We can all learn what not to do.

It's kinda break-upable but I think I'll bung it in here all in one go. That way you can settle back with a beverage of your choice and read it when you want. Same length as last week.

I'd love your comments.

Let's do it.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:05 AM
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Three men sat on a huge pile of garbage, waiting for a lift to go home. One leant back on a large sign and hoiked up a great gob of phlegm.

WELCOME
TO THE LITTER AND
SPIT-FREE ZONE OF
GANGTOK

said the sign.

The mall was being ripped up. It looked as a gigantic earthworm had tunneled along the main street leaving a mountain of rubble either side in its wake. They had no hope in hell of ever sorting this place out – but they were trying. Civic harmony will eventually be restored - one day Gangtok would be perfect.

I think it’s perfect now. It’s a crazy, jagged city, perched on a ridge, sprawling down both sides of the mountain in zigs and zags, as if the great Gangtok God of Confusion had picked up the city and thrown it in the air. There were a lot of young men in the streets – but then, there always are. I met a few of them in the Beauty Salon.

Jakir Hair Cutting Salon
Ladies WELCOME Gents

Hair Cutting Rs- 20.00
Machine Cut Rs- 30.00
Body Massage Rs- 25.00
Head Massage Rs- 10.00

I just knew it was my kinda place.

Today was immediately designated a PDD - Pamper Dogster Day. I had the lot.

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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:06 AM
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Indian men are tremendously vain – tell an Indian he’s handsome and he’ll believe you. Like for these lads was spent in a Bollywood movie. They were the star. Today, like everyday, the Jakir Beauty Salon was a hot-bed of testosterone and conceit. The young men of Gangtok were all being waxed, combed, creamed, poofed and tweaked in a very girly fashion, tarting themselves up for a big night on the town. I chatted away to a dozen or so of them while I was being shaved, scraped and sanded. We had a great time. Conversation flowed free and easy. We all laughed a lot. The most difficult task I faced was deciding which shaving cream to have. I was rather taken by ‘Gelitte Fome’.

They all had an opinion – but then, I’ve never known an Indian who didn’t.

‘Denim’

‘Park Avenue!’

‘Old Spice!’

Ahhh, Old Spice. Now there’s a name to conjure with. It’s been a while since I’ve had that on my face. Church youth group social, I think, circa 1892. In the end I just abandoned all hope and submitted to the general consensus.

‘You are a very handsome man, Uncle,’ they cried.

Uncle Dog was sitting there with a head-band on, white cream slapped liberally all over his face. A smear of red lipstick and he would have been the Joker from Batman. When he smiled the creases in his face stood out like the earthworks in the main street; train tracks carved across the slimy snowfield of an elderly foreigner’s face.

We all had a very jolly party until the Dog could be transformed no more. He was practically an Indian by now, shaved, plucked, trimmed and pounded, the object of all attention and lavish, though fatuous, praise.

‘You look so beautiful, Uncle!’

‘I love your face, Sir.’

‘Ha-a-a-andsome...’

Dogster left the shop through a flood of friendly hands, shaking his way along the line to freedom; crisp and smooth like a baby’s bottom, reeking of Old Spice and hair gel, looking not one jot better than when he’d first walked in the door.

It was a Beauty Salon, after all, not radical plastic surgery.


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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:07 AM
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My latest Bongo was a sweet man from a sweet village full of sweet Sikkimese. It was a sweet little world – and, like all little worlds, full of world upon world of sweet fascination to all those living inside. I know. I walked the only street, sat in his mother’s front room listening to their radio while children played with my camera and the family gossiped outside. He’d never drunk a glass of beer or smoked a cigarette, never driven a car or flown in a plane, never ridden an escalator nor walked a flat piece of land; he’d never said a bad word in his life. It was my good fortune to have this sweet Bongo as my personal companion, conduit to the strange secret world of monks, monasteries and village life that surrounded us here in the hills. Each day we went out and never once ended up where we should have – which Dogster saw as the mark of a perfect guide.

But poor Bongo had a problem he felt compelled to share. He’d never slept with a woman in his life.

‘Well, I did once,’ he lied, ‘but I didn’t like it.’

He pulled a girlish face.

I didn’t believe him for an instant. In another world, in another time, of course he’d be gay – but that thought had never crossed his mind. I certainly wasn’t going to put it there. The wide world of his sexuality, if it in fact existed, was hidden under a welter of his culture, his community and family needs. He lived in no-man’s land, a sexless, passion-less place of devotion and love for his family. He was a fine, upstanding citizen, full of virtue, lacking vices – but, I must confess, Bongo did keep returning to the matter of his missing sex life.

He was aware that he’d misplaced it somewhere. He knew he should be looking for it but he couldn’t think where to begin. He’d lost his mojo but, never having had it in the first place, wasn’t quite sure what to look for.

As a canine with a fine, keen appreciation for the pleasures of the flesh I found this all very strange. Dogster had never had to go looking very far for his mongrel mojo – he woke up in the morning and there it was.

But he was a dog.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:07 AM
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First stop to knowledge for Bongo was to quiz his client in forensic detail about Mr. Dogster’s long un-forgotten amorous pursuits; names, dates, places, positions, locations, combinations, double-back-flips, triple somersaults – he wanted the whole diving board and pool. Bongo was a most inquisitive chap.

‘So how old were you when you started err... doing things?’

‘How often?’

His little eyes grew wider.

‘And then you did what...?’

‘Where?’

‘No-o-o-o-hh!’

Dogster happily dished the dirt. This was a topic he knew all too well, having done copious research – he was pleased to have the chance to re-open his battered copy of Dogster’s Chronicles d’Amour; a weighty tome of brief encounters and disgraceful behavior that extended back altogether too many years. It was a catalogue of what not to do if you’re a Sikkimese virgin – chapter and lurid verse - after verse – after verse. What was worse, the old fart had no regrets whatsoever.

Luckily, now he’d been spayed.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:08 AM
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So Bongo and Dogster passed their days together, hurling from monastery to monastery, talking dirty all the way. Luckily the driver didn’t understand English; he would have thrown them out of the car. This is a staunch and moral society. Western ideas about normal sexual behavior do not apply. Bongo was the exception to the rule. He was like a drowning man hurled a lifeline of smut.

‘Let me tell you about the time...’

And off I’d go. Dogster’s Chronicles d’Amour had no end.

I took care to restrain my more lurid fantasies at the beginning, anxious not to over-excite him. Leaky tour-guides are not my thing. Gradually though, the truth emerged. Dogster couldn’t help himself. He had such an attentive audience.

The car would bump to a halt, we’d take a break from the filth and go meet a monk in his room, sit at the feet of the master and watch as he mumbled sacred things, sit silent at puja, listening to the prayers, just me and the mountains, the monks and the moon.

Then back to the porn.

‘She hung there, on the trapeze – dressed only in a skirt of bananas...’

His eyes were like saucers. If they could have popped out on a spring they would have.

Bless my latest Bongo, Dogster thought, bless him. He blesses me by his presence. I am with a pure soul. The air is clear around him. He feels clean. Dog ignored the fact that every word he uttered was corrupting the very purity he so admired. Bongo was positively eager to be corrupted. He’d never had a client like this.

‘How many airline hostesses...?

‘They did what to you?’

‘All at once?’

‘In the plane...?’

‘No-o-o-o-hh!’
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:09 AM
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It was dancing practice at the Lindum Monastery. The young monks stood in a huge circle around the quadrangle, both arms held in the air, holding their cloaks, swaying alarmingly. One monklet sat on the side with a large drum in front of him. He’d bash out a beat on that as the monks circled and swooped; solitary ballroom dancers who’d lost their partner, leisurely floating round and round - drunken bats circling slowly in the late morning sun.

In the centre was a monk of considerable height. He was a giant monk, a monk and a half. I bet he had big feet. I’d seen him before, sitting hunched over some papers with two associates. He was the chopen, the ritual master. He was quite an important fellow.

Unlike his woeful students, Big Foot was a monk of consequence. He was in it for the long run. After basic training, each monk embarks on intensive study in all aspects of the tantric rites conducted at the monastery. Several years are spent learning each ritual skill; shrine keeping, chanting, torma making, the playing of musical instruments, construction of sand mandalas – the full box and Buddhist dice. Then they go on to specialize in one of them - a further period of study that spans the several more thousand years necessary to master the intricacies of their future positions. Big Foot had done his Monk Master’s Degree in sacred dance. He was obviously very, very old.

At the end of the year, the monks perform a week-long Mahakala puja, along with ritual dances in the courtyard for two days before the eve of Losar, the Tibetan New Year. In our calendar this falls in February or March. It was late November. The chopen had the unenviable task of trying to corral sixty unwilling monklets into a dance routine in preparation for this big event.

They were hopeless, hot and bored out of their brain. Big Foot was having a terrible time.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:10 AM
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A great many of these monks are not trainee priests at all; not drawn by the religious life, not overly devotional in nature. They are sent here as a normal part of growing up, for a few terms at monk boarding school - to be educated, socialized, institutionalized in a Buddhist Hogwarts in the hills – some spend a year here, some stay much longer; young lads in monk’s clothes conscripted into Lord Buddha’s army.

Life revolves around prayers and tantric rituals whose ultimate goal is ‘the complete liberation of all sentient beings’, which, if you’re a fifteen year old lad from Gangtok, may not be the destination of choice. The poor sods start their day at 5.00 a.m., devoting early morning to memorization of the ritual texts of the Karma Kagyu. There are thirty-six sets of texts that must be memorized, some quite long and difficult. Each student is tested on the previous day's material by the scripture teacher, who confers a seal for each text that has been successfully memorized. Just like the Boy Scouts.

The only badge I ever earned in the Boy Scouts was one for masturbation. I’m not sure how they deal with that particular issue in Lindum Monastery. But I digress.

After breakfast at 7.30, and again after lunch, younger students study Tibetan, English, writing, and spelling; late afternoon is devoted to memorizing more texts and after dinner, the students return to their rooms and study. It doesn’t sound like a lot of fun to me. Add to that the endless rituals, celebrations, pujas and prayers – you have a life of excruciating dullness for a boy.

So when an old foreigner wanders vaguely by, when the tourist smiles his crinkled mongrel smile, all eyes are upon him. He’s the best thing that’s happened to them all day. As a matter of fact, he’s the only thing that has happened all day not governed by ritual, tradition and a timetable. He’s met by sixty impish smiles and a wave from the monks out of their tutor’s eyeshot. Doggy wiggles his head. Sixty shaven heads wiggle back.

And when this apparition takes out his camera and they see that little red light winking and blinking as they waltz by those impish monks can’t help but show off.

It is the way of young lads – monk’s habit or no.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:10 AM
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This ritual dance was, at its core, a trance. The ceremony involved them turning in their own individual circles while moving slowly round the quadrangle as part of one big circle. That was difficult enough. Some of the lads had decided to increase their degree of difficulty; they were attempting a little trance dance of their own. These naughty boys had their eyes shut and were trying to see how dizzy they could get. This was the closest thing to fun available.

They didn’t really understand what rehearsals were for. Arms had to be held up, cloaks billowing out to approximate the heavy, ornate costumes they would be wearing on the day. They had to imagine they were wearing heavy masks. Some lads found this simulation unnecessary and idiotic. They were being a little creative in their task.

Dogster was a major disturbance. He tried to be invisible but, in his own funny way, he was a Big Foot too. His presence created just the diversion these recalcitrant ballerinas were looking for. Before long a rolling schoolboy hysteria swept through the dancing lads. Some became so preoccupied by their turn in front of the stranger’s camera that they hesitated, held their spot, did an extra twirl or two waiting for the red light of fame to flash and immortalize them on a computer far, far away.

The incoming monks, dancing in their monkish daze, ran into them.

Monks akimbo. The monks behind that ran into them.

The pile-up of giggling monks was so ridiculous, the hopelessness of it all so extravagant that only a curmudgeon could not rejoice in the glorious moment. Dogster laughed. Everybody laughed, even Big Foot. We all had no choice.

But maybe it was time for Dog to go.

With hand on heart and an extravagant bow to Big Foot, I thanked the masses and waved. Everybody waved back and I exited grandly, having unwittingly shattered the calm of their monastery day.

Dog was like a walking circus. He didn’t mean to be - but a smile, a wave and the best of intentions could cause a monkly stumble, an eremite tumble, a sweet Buddhist fall.

Just a click of his tiny Sony had made a monkey of us all.

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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:11 AM
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‘Tell me about when you slept with the hockey team...?’

“You mean people put that - in there?’

‘The back seat – of a car?’

‘How many people in the same bed?

‘No-o-o-o-o-o!’

Bongo was indefatigable. I was running out of stories. I’d begun to make them up to keep him happy. By the end of my stay in Gangtok I was fully qualified to be a first-rate pornographer.

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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:11 AM
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Bongo’s brother was a monk - another virgin. He lived at Rumtek Monastery. I was surrounded by monasteries full of virgin men. Obviously the Sikkimese reproduce by non-traditional means.

The ‘Shaydrup Kunkhyap Otong Khyilway Tsuklakhang’ or ‘Temple of Pervasive Teaching and Practice Blazing with a Thousand Lights’ isn’t very old. The complex was only completed in 1966. The remote, peaceful site was carefully chosen; it was a mother-lode of auspicious signs - seven streams flowed towards it, seven hills faced it, a mountain rose behind - and a river spiraled like a conch shell down below. Dogster rather liked all that.

We spent a monk’s afternoon at Rumtek Monastery, doing what monks do - which didn’t appear to be very much at all. Maybe it was a monk day off. There sure aren’t many of those.

In addition to daily study and classes, each month the monastic routine includes week-long practices, focused on specific buddhas, deities, protectors, or lineage masters, whose dates are established according to the Tsurphu astrological system, whatever that might be. Monks are pretty busy doing ‘virtuous actions’; one-day practices and prayer ceremonies on the eighth, tenth, fifteenth, twenty-fifth, and thirtieth days of the lunar month – as well as prayers that I simply don’t understand on another six. Then, during the month of miracles, the month of Saga; the fourth day of the sixth month and the twenty-second day of the ninth month they’re at it again. Some months, the practices span two weeks. That’s a lot of praying.

But not today. Rumtek Monastery had shut up shop - everything was closed. Obviously they hadn’t heard that an esteemed white man was about to wheeze his way slowly up that steep, picturesque hill with the seven streams flowing towards it and the seven hills facing, stopping only to breathe heavily and stare blankly at the auspicious mountain behind.

I’d come all this way, trudged up this bloody hill; they might have left at least one door unlocked, just so I could see something - but no, Lord Buddha required a different kind of penance from the luckless Dog.

Why do Buddhists stick their bloody monasteries at the top of great hills? Just to piss me off, that’s why.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:12 AM
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Bongo and St. Bongo, his religious brother, were deep in conversation. They kept looking over at me.

‘What? What boys? What are you planning?’

‘He wants a lift to visit his mother,’ Bongo said.

By a strange coincidence, that was Bongo’s mother as well. So that’s how I got to sit in Bongo’s front room drinking sweet milky tea while the family sat in the back garden and gossiped.

Apparently what monks traditionally do on their day off is use the foreigner’s car to go visiting their family, use the foreigner’s car to run errands and pick up their friends, use the foreigner’s money to buy themselves chai - then the foreigner gets to hang around being a pretend monk, which was cool by me. I even got to use the monk’s rest room back at the monastery. After that I didn’t want to be a monk.

Several times that day my Dogmobile overflowed with monks, bags and laughter. We bumped through the hills, delivering monks to monkish places, picking up lost monks on the road, dropping them off, picking up more. They all chattered away in the back of the car, once with one monk sitting pertly on my lap. Life and the Dogster, Sikkim and the mountains, the monks and the moment all rolled into one. The Dog was a happy puppy that afternoon in Rumtek. He didn’t want much more.

When the last monk had disappeared, after the last blessing had been bestowed, my virgin guide turned to me with a broad Buddhist Bongo smile.

‘Have you had a good day?’

He knew I had. I nodded enthusiastically.

‘Are you happy?’

‘Yup.’

‘Then tell me about the time you had sex with the seven Russian dwarves...’

Perhaps I’d gone too far with my stories.


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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 03:24 AM
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fin.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 04:50 AM
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Very good.

Bongo won't be able keep this information classified forever you know! Your colorful stories of past escapades will be become folk legend up in those hills. They'll set aside a secret corner of the monestary to pray that one day they too may be blessed with the "many fortunate experiences" as described by Dogster.

Escapades and trysts aside, will you post any pictures???
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 05:11 AM
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Dogster,

This one made me laugh out loud. Oh you do tell wonderful tales, always engaging and very visual.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 05:23 AM
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Oh good, NY - I was working for jokes on this one. There weren't too many in the last post; I thought 'balance, balance - everything in balance'. So I tried to put as many as I could in this one. I know my sense of humour is a bit err.. peculiar - so it's good to know it translates.

I think we've had quite enough of Saint Dog for now - it's time for him to reveal himself in his full rounded magnificence as the shameless mongrel he is.

Jaya - I don't think praying for 'fortunate experiences' is part of Buddhist teachings. Err.. quite the reverse. But you never know what these lads are up to behind closed monastery doors.

Nah, no pics - I'm trying to make them with words, it's more fun. And I don't want to identify these guys. When I get round to posting the 'Sour' of the title you'll see why.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 08:10 AM
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i am confused .....who is the 3rd person relating this tale??
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 08:25 AM
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He doesn't want me to tell.
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 09:32 AM
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Somehow I didn't even picture you carrying a camera but your photos are sure not to bore!
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Old Nov 8th, 2008, 12:03 PM
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Moremiles,
He made references to his camera in Maheshwar and Varanasi, hence the request for pictures.

Dogster,
I think they pray to, among other things, ward OFF the interest in fortunate experiences. Afterall, people are people and the mind does wander - even up in the monestary!

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