The mind is not the only thing that wanders in the monastery. (at least not at Hemis, in Leh.)

Thanks for the vivid--but not as vivid as they could be, thankfully--word pictures. I'm seeing this one in bright primary color enamels, whereas the last was a Daumier.

Oh I do love a Dogster story - what a great way to start my Sunday morning.

Thank you as usual.

Dogster, as I commented in your other thread, if you are not already getting paid to write, you should be!

I thoroughly enjoyed this story and smiled broadly all the way through. My husband grew up as a young monk in a Tibetan monastery and I, too, have had the pleasure of hanging out with the monks and driving them around to do errands. Your "Buddhist Hogwarts" description had me laughing so loud - it's perfect!

And from my experience, I'm almost certain that your Bongo has shared those naughty tales with his monk brother and the stories are spreading through the 'Buddhist Hogwarts' like an errant magic spell. (You wouldn't believe the questions I have heard from those innocent monks...)

Thank you for the amusing and delightful story. I would love to see your photos - I'm guessing they are as good as your stories.

Tashi Delek!

Thank you my seven loyal friends. lol. When I put these stories in here I get much more than praise [and occasional abuse] I get to learn lots about what you pick up up on, how far I can go, what voice I can speak in, how long I can go for... lots of good writerly stuff. I'm learning.

Vulgar tho' it might seem, the issue of just what these monklets are doing with their perfectly natural urges is one of some consequence - to them, certainly. lol. Was I a corrupting influence.. heh - I suspect not. Bongo, as I forgot to mention in the story, was thirty-five years old. He was a grown-up.

I'm relieved to see that I'm not the only one to have observed Close Encounters of a monkly Kind happening in the corners. Thanks Amy: your colour thing is perfect. Yup, think Tibetan Buddhist temples, primary red, gold and maroon, bright orange, yellow and green.

travel - It's a mysterious, cloistered world that your husband emerged from. I'd love to quiz him. I'm still finding out about it, layer by layer by layer. Yup, I'm sure they huddle and talk dirty - what group of yound men doesn't? That's the conundrum. Glad you liked 'Hogwarts' - I think it's accurate too.

So thanks, guys, again. You have no idea what a blessing your comments are. I read - get a blessing - then go write. Your words are recket fuel. I'm a lucky guy.

What you don't know, probably, is that, despite the fact that I don't know you, what you look like [mostly] whether you're male or female, old, young, green, fat or thin - I hear your voices in your responses - so, when I write, I feel like I'm writing to YOU.

This is a great help. So thank you.

Dogster, you're such a charmer and a tease, and I doubt this is your first foray into writing.

I really liked the Hoogli story when you told the woman on the boat how everyone was admiring her muu-muus. You can't beat a good prank.

It's true - I am a charmer and a tease. Hence my huge success in the cot. lol lol lol.

Remember, I was making those stories UP for Bongo. I am but an innocent child.

But go back Jaya, to Dogster: Bhutan? or The Great Stumble Forward and you'll see me learning how to write. Some of that prose is dreadful - lol - but I'm learning. I've rewritten a lot of that. Some I've left. The thing in here is that you get instant feedback. That propels you on.

An innocent child? Hmm...nice try, but that's probably pushing it.

IMO Dogster has lived his dog years well in order to accumulate such a wealth of knowledge from whence to draw such lurid and colorful tales of vigor and prowess!

I will look back for your earlier postings. It would be a nice surprise to find stories I haven't read yet.

Until later.

I just found your postings (Bhutan and the Great Stumble) that pre-date my joining on to Fodor's.

I'll be in dog reading heaven and will offer up some comments when I'm done.

Hey, dogster, this was a delightful little side trip - thanks. I had to refrain from reading your story until I'd finished my trip report otherwise I feared I'd never get it done.

I also laughed at the Buddhist Hogwarts - so apt.

We may all be in danger of becoming your next lot of “Bongos” hanging on your every word and calling for more, more, more! Just a slightly different content needed here.

Imagine the stories that are now going around that monk's community about the big foreign dog who came to their dance practice and redesigned it to something wholly better and more fun. It must be a great show now!

Also image how quickly the “tales of Dogster” are spreading across the world from Fodors.

My knowledge of hands-on experience is unfortunately of the personal variety. I was dressed like my Quaker grandmother. I hadn't been propositioned more than two or three times in the past few weeks, and that had included a lot of India. I'm 43. None of this was enough to keep a red robed nose ringed monk from putting his hands places where they didn't belong. I yelled and left fast, but it was unnerving to say the least.

I suppose that karma knows I'm far too fond of irony for my own good.

I just got through your Bhutan report. The writing style is definitely "early Dogster", but impressive none the less.

Your experience could be re-shaped into a creepy movie if you had stayed on course and gone deeper into the hills! One of you, two of them, far from HELP - getting goose bumps just thinking about it.

Dogster thanks once again for your incredible writings.
Kathie maybe that is why I haven't started writing anything about Bhutan I read reports by the likes of Dog & yourself & think "I just can't do it!!!"
J

Hello Dogster,
just logged on to fodors in Franschhoek,South Africa, and there was another great posting from The Dog, you'd be in good company here they have an Anatolian ?? something or other. Now half way through the latest posting but will save the rest for later with a glass or two of some fine Sauvignon Blanc, off to taste a few more bottles just now,...I hope there isn't a gpanda lurking on the Africa board or I may be in trouble for not posting a report while I travel, I should have been in India for this trip, I was hoping...but never mind here is ok too.

More great comments. I'm grateful. I know this story isn't as gut-wrenching as Varanasi so I didn't expect much response. I was going to go much further in this piece - cos, like Amy, the adventure didn't quite end there... there's a missing ending. Heh. Amy's on track.

Well, two of them actually.

But I didn't want to offend, thinking that prurient chapters about randy monks were perhaps not quite Fodor's material. But Bongo's brother turned about to be quite a little root-rat - in his own monkly way. I really do think that the missing sequence would be inappropriate for here.

But I can offer you the second half of this story. Not the rude bit. I'm just not sure whether to put it in here or a separate post.

Mary W: if ONLY they'd let me stage their show. I coulda got those monklets working. I wonder just how much of my rambling gets out there. I think it's really just us ten or so.. you are so staunch and kind.

Jaya: so, you see, the writing gets better as you read thru, eh? Well, I hope. It kicks in around Goa and the cruise to nowhere. But all that Great Stumble Forward was absolutely first draft stuff. It gets refined now before I post. You'll find the other Varanasi post in there too. Bruno the dog.

Jules39: write it. I want to read everything 'cos you went with the very guys who ruined my trip if I remember correctly.

And remember jules - if you hadn't asked me that question: Dogster: Bhutan? NONE of this would have happened. It was thru that post I realised I could do this stuff. I owe you, jules.

Kathie: yup, I knew you were head down, pen up - so thanks for making the time. Great stuff in your report.

South Africa eh, twotravel? excellent. Doggie has done many trips to S.A. Love it. AND that fabulous wine! Ahhhh - raise a glass to the Dog eh?

I'm feeling that I should just bung the second part in here. What do you think? That'll give you the 'Sour' of the title.

And sour it certainly is. No jokes.

Mmm - I'm in the mood. This piece follows on. It's the same Bongo.

You've had 'Sweet' now here's 'Sour'.

The helicopter was always going to happen. I knew it, he knew it, everybody watching knew it – but first there was a little ceremony to go through.

‘Oh, no, sir,’ he said, shaking his serious face.

Here we go.

‘Oh, no – it’s not possible, sir. I can’t let you on the helicopter without a permit, sir.’

I feigned shock and horror.

I had the ticket; the reservation was secure; the Dogster seat, one of only five, already engraved with my name. I had it all – except for permission to enter Sikkim. My travel agent had brilliantly arranged for me to pick that up in Gangtok – the only minor problem being that, in order to get to Gangtok, I had to enter Sikkim.

What to do?

Wiggle your head and wait.

I remained placid throughout, took the ‘well, I’ll just sit here on my luggage and wait for this to sort itself out,’ attitude – as opposed to the ‘argh-h-h, what a crisis! I’m going to die, let me kill you,’ approach.

I’m learning.

Having danced that unnecessary quadrille, our attention immediately moved to blame. Well, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t his. Blame lay with the idiot travel agent that had placed us both in this situation. We would have to torture her.

This we did by mobile phone.

‘You remember that Sikkimese permit you arranged...?

I looked at the helicopter man. He looked at me.

‘The one I had to pick up in Gangtok...?

After she’d calmed down I passed the phone over and let him do the torturing. I’d had my fun. They chattered then argued then shouted in Hindi while I sat down on my suitcase. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was going to sit here till I died. Of course, after a flurry of calls between my weeping agent and some official in Sikkim, the helicopter man relented as he and I always knew he would. Such little consternations happen hourly in India.

We helicoptered up and over plains then hills and valleys, the Dogster like an over-excited school-boy in a cabin with four terrified businessmen. I was the designated tourist and happy to be so – I’ve given up being cool when I’m happy. These moments don’t come around all that often. Dog was having fun.

Mrrrroo-o-o-owww - zooming down the valleys, mroooo-o-o-o, thwack, thwack, thwack!

Doggy loves a helicopter.

Da Da Da da dee, Da da da Duhhh!

‘Apocalypse Now’, he thought excitedly, ‘Apocalypse Now’.

Across the valley the fairyland lights of Gangtok twinkled into space. I ended up in a tiny village not far from Rumtek, about an hour out of town. From next door came bursts of loud, crazy laughter. There was something about this laughter that just didn’t sound right. I went to see. A man sat in front of the television in the lounge, roaring with way too much mirth.

Tipp was a handsome Sikkimese in his late thirties, full of life and energy. He’d lived many years in America. His English was excellent. That was a relief. Dog had grown tired of talking about big ideas in words of one syllable. He needed some decent conversation. So did my host.

‘Man energy’ he called it. ‘Gotta get myself some man energy. This female stuff is driving me wild.’

It was the laughter that alerted me that something was wrong, that horrible, desperate sound. Tipp sat there roaring but he wasn’t really laughing at the television - not at all. Tipp was howling to the moon, he was screaming for help. Laughter was the only loud sound he could make.

‘I’m fine! Look at me! I’m laughing – nothing gets to me! I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m laughing! I’m fine,’ he was screaming. It was terrible, awful to hear.

Here was a man who needed a pal. I was the only guest; looks like it was my turn. This was a moment to listen.

Dog had time; he had all the time in the world to listen these days - as long as he remembered not to judge. This was Dogster’s karmic burden, his little repayment for all those ugly years when he judged and never listened. So he listened. He listened into the cold Sikkim night, he listened over dinner, listened over bottles of warm Sikkim beer as Tipp told the story of Tipp’s life up till now, with pauses for pisses and words to the staff – all gathered silently in the kitchen listening to every syllable their boss had to say.

‘I’m fine,’ he said loudly, so the staff would hear, ‘I don’t care.’

I could see his eyes. They said something completely different.

Tipp was a man in the throes of divorce. He and his European wife had reached the end of their tether. He had retreated to his tower of power down in the cowshed, she to her cocoon of rage in town. They tortured each other; she cried a lot while he pretended not to care – which is the worst torture of all. There were just two little problems. One was the hotel in which I now slept. The other was their eight year old daughter.

That child was trapped in the midst of an ugly situation. Mummy was saying very nasty things about Daddy. When the little girl was with Daddy, she told him. So then Daddy said bad things about Mummy and the little girl went home to Mummy and told her everything that Daddy had said then Mummy said bad things about Daddy: so it went on – everybody was getting hurt.

Daddy was trapped in the resort, not daring to step outside for fear of his wife swooping in and changing all the locks. He wasn’t going anywhere, staying put for the duration, doubtless advised to do so by his lawyers. He lived in the cowshed with the law on his side – not because he was necessarily right, but just because he was Sikkimese.

Mummy was trapped on a mountainside in rural Sikkim, six hours drive from the nearest airport. She had a bewildered eight year old and a staff of twelve depending on her. She was the only white woman in a culture with very different ideas about the role of women. She was all alone, she was foreign. She didn’t have anybody to talk to - not a soul.

The staff looked on in horror while their bosses duked it out. They were mortified, aghast in every way; for the daughter, for the protagonists – but, more urgently, for themselves and their livelihoods, their families – trapped in the wars of the owners; waiting and watching while the echoes from this conflict rumbled right through the valley.

Into all this Mr. Dogster blithely flew, choppered direct to the battle zone. Had I known what I diving into, I would have had the pilot play ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ and be done with it.