‘We all die. There’s nothing you can take with you.’

He was being Buddhist. It must have driven her crazy.

‘Nobody needs possessions; they only weigh you down...’

He went on and on with this sub-Californian blather. I realized he’d been away from the States for quite some time. He was a bit of a time-capsule.

‘What’s the point?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Easy come, easy go...’

I didn’t believe a word of it but I didn’t let on. He was talking crazy man talk. Articulate men in this situation have a master plan for everything. He was Buddhist by convenience right now. Tipp was bullshit walking.

‘I don’t care.’

He was trapped by his masculinity, trapped by his Sikkimese heritage, by that peculiarly Sikkimese way of thinking, trapped by the prospect of ‘losing face’, trapped by his community, every one of whom was watching this drama unfold, trapped by his family expectations, trapped in his cow shed. Tipp didn’t have a friend in the world. He was lost and alone in the hills of Gangtok, a bubbling, scalded wound, spread open there in front of the television, howling his hurt to the world.

He had, with the terrible pragmatism of a man in the throes of divorce, abandoned his daughter. In his eyes this was a reasonable swap. He’d get the hotel, she’d get the kid.

Ellen was fighting every inch of the way, just to stay sane. This was a mother defending her children; one child was the hotel – the other was her daughter.
One had all her money; the other had all her love. Now she was being offered Sophie’s Choice. Her heart-break wasn’t covered up by a blanket of male pride – she let rip. She shrieked and tore into him with all the pent-up fury of a woman badly betrayed. She was tense and full of bile, scalded and horribly sharp. I’ll bet she was scary - scary and sad. She must have loved him a lot to get that mad.

‘I think you’ve been sent here,’ Tipp said late in the evening, unexpectedly serious.

‘For what?’

‘To be the witness.’

There’s a village in Sikkim filled with children. At 7.45 a.m. they begin to pour out of the houses, hundreds and hundreds of them, a stream of blue uniforms and little bow-ties tumbling down the streets of the township. At precisely midday the streets fill as the pupils clog the streets again, heading back to their home. Then they return for afternoon lessons. At 3.45 p.m. on the dot the first of them re-appears. Within three minutes every available inch of road is filled with blue children, blue bow ties, the babble of voices, the shouts as they run by. The hills of Rumtek have long been colonized by worthy missionaries; here the Catholics have made their stand. St. Joseph’s Convent School, Martam is the school that ate the town.

The pupils live in hostels, dotted wherever you look, boarding houses for tiny inmates, sent from far-flung villages into school. The village is like a huge boarding school; families have turned their homes into small hostels where the students stay. It's a major source of income. All you see are children, hundreds and hundreds of children in a village made for adults in the hills.

Bongo took me to see one of these hostels. It was deserted. Everybody was at school. On the plain main wall, just inside the door, I spotted a large sheet of paper. Someone very talented had been set the ultimate task of writing out the daily schedule.

At the top of the sheet was written:

Time Table – FOR UNIQE HOSTEL

These letters had been labored over, slightly thickened and colored- in. The dot over the ‘i’ was an artistic squiggle, repeated throughout the document – a defiant little sign of personality amidst all the perfectly printed letters of the sign.

Waking Time 4.45
Washing Time 4.45 a.m. – 5.00 a.m.
Tea Time 5.00 a.m. – 5.10 a.m.
Study Time 5.10 a.m. – 7.00 a.m.
Break Fast 7.10 a.m. – 7.20 a.m.
Changing Dress 7.40 a.m. – 7.45 a.m.
Leaving for School 8 o’clock
Lunch Break 12 p.m.
Tea Time 3.45 p.m.
Games Hour 3.45 p.m. – 5.00 p.m.
Washing Time 5.00 p.m. – 5.10 p.m.
Study Time 5.10 p.m. – 7.00 p.m.
DINNER Time 7.10 p.m. – 7.20 p.m.
Recreation 7.20 p.m. – 7.30 p.m.
Study time 7.30 p.m. – 9.00 p.m.
Sleeping Time ‘SWEET DREAM’

It’s a devastating schedule. Underneath this document, preceded by a large red star, the inspirational, if somewhat Nihilist phrase:

Education is not preparation,
For life is itself.

Someone had made a tiny correction in blue pencil for the second line.

‘But IS life itself.’

I liked it the first way.

Then there’s a heart with an arrow and another star and below, one final thought:

‘Honesty is best policy.’

The three story hostel looked empty, devoid of life. Everything was clean, put away, in its position; there was not a stray item to be found. This was institutional living at its most spartan.

In one room, stark and swept clean, a line of aluminum boxes stood under a window. Soft floral light fell through soft floral curtains on the shiny silver surfaces of twelve lost children’s lives. Everything they had with them was tightly closed and put away. Four of the boxes, each about a meter long, had locks, but each lock hung off the clip open. There were no secrets here. In each of these silver boxes a toy, a piece of home, pictures to be taken out and kissed once a week, images of Mummy and Daddy and a village miles away, a village they would see twice a year.

I shivered. Stuff like this gets to me. I have my reasons.

Bongo pointed at the name on one of the tin boxes.

‘See?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Tipp’s daughter.’

Bongo saw everything. He’d heard the conversation at dinner, knew exactly what Tipp was doing. He knew also that this wandering foreigner wasn’t getting quite the whole story. Dogster was being co-opted, one more pawn in Tipp’s awful game.

‘He’s a gambler, Mr. Dogster,’ Bongo said simply, next day in the car.

So that was the missing clue.

‘He drinks too much. He throws all her money away...’

Bongo didn’t have to say any more. Tipp fell instantly into focus.

It was interesting, Dog thought, that in all his lengthy soul searching and buddy-beer-bonding Tipp had neglected to mention this little fatal flaw. In the midst of the camaraderie, all that hale fellow well met, how strange this crucial snippet of information slipped his mind.

Tipp was good; he was very, very good. He was the man’s man, the liar’s liar. He had me fooled. Ellen was dealt a losing hand the minute she met him. She’d married an addict. Like all successful addicts he kept his habit well hidden. The more she demanded the more he refused. The angrier she got - the calmer he was. The more she prevented him - the sneakier he became. This reverse synchronicity had become a deadly, un-winnable game.

‘She told him, if you go back to that casino one more time - it’s over.’

Bongo’s innocent eyes were gleaming.

‘So he got in his car and drove straight there and lost all the money from Christmas.’

This was said with sorrow. Tipp was in the grip of demons from a man’s land Bongo couldn’t hope to understand.

Ellen, the invisible wife, was there when I came back home. Tipp was back hiding in the cow shed. I felt a bit odd meeting her. I knew so much about her already. She didn’t know I knew anything about anything. This was unfair to both of us. I was being dragged into this unwillingly. She was being played for a fool. In the spirit of balance – and to demonstrate I took no sides, dinner that evening was with her. Bongo looked on with a secret smile. His work was done.

It was like eating with a starving cat. She was tense and agitated, under terrible stress, lost in her own private war zone. Dogster spoke slowly, in a soothing voice, sub-consciously trying to calm her down. Poor thing, she was wrung out, every nerve in her body was on fire. This was cruel and inhumane punishment, indeed; she was all alone, the only white woman in the valley. She knew she was alone. She was desperately alone.

But I wasn’t supposed to know any of this. All I could do was ask questions, knowing what the answers would be.

‘So, how is the business going?’

‘Tell me about your daughter?’

‘What does Tipp do?’

I let her tell me exactly what Tipp did. That took a while.

At the appropriate moment I leant forward over the table and looked her dead in the eye.

‘I think you’re having problems here...’

This was the cue for the floodgates to open. I listened. It was a long story, told with absolutely no self-pity. I listened. She was impressive. That didn’t mitigate the strain she felt, the hourly rage she harbored – but it showed she not a victim but a fighter. I listened some more. It took a while but inexorably we moved toward the breaking point.

‘And then I told him if he got in that car...’

I nodded. I knew the punch line.

‘This is tough, isn’t it?’ I said simply.

I love the smell of napalm in the morning.

Tipp was on his mobile phone, pacing round the garden. Ellen was in the foyer, shaking my hand. I was leaving for the next place, somewhere over the mountains. They had both come down to say goodbye. She looked over at her husband.

‘We’re leaving in four days,’ she said quietly, ‘nobody, nobody knows.’

The dice was loaded and she’d done her dough. She knew it. The lawyers knew it. Tipp knew it. He’d sold his charming soul and gambled away their future.

I could see why she’d fallen for him.

When they were together the air was thick with tension; unspoken rage, fluttering there in the silence like the wings of a thousand pigeons. I could tell they were just waiting for me to leave so they could fight. There would be blood in the lobby tonight.

‘See ya, buddy,’ Tipp said, ‘see ya soon, I hope.’

He grasped my hand with both of his, squeezed it secretly, mano a mano. His eyes were a defeat, a crumble in motion. He knew who I’d dined with last night. He knew that I knew of his dirty little secret. He knew that I knew of his lies. He couldn’t stop. He’d lie and lie again till he was blue in the face, then grin and lie some more.

He’d gambled it all away - first his wife’s love, then his daughter. Now, as her punishment for being his flesh and blood, she was in a silver box with an unlocked padlock on the side. Her life was Wake-Up at 4.45, Study and Breakfast and Leaving for School, trapped in a hostel till the war at home is won. I hope she had Sweet Dreams.

Ellen’s punishment for being his wife was written all over her face. Her sweet dreams had been shattered.

‘See ya, pal,’ I said and smiled, ‘I hope it all works out.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ he said and squeezed my fingers, ‘I have a master plan.’

When I heard he was dead I wasn’t surprised. The apocalypse came six months later. He’d hung himself in secret shame, dangled lifeless in the cow-shed for two days before anyone thought to look for him. Maybe they wanted to make sure he’d succeeded.

His master plan was a great success - in his eyes at least.

He fixed things in a stroke. He’d beaten his demons and saved the day.

He was a fine, dead, manly bloke.

Wow Dogster you still manage to surprise me with how you get into so much depth with the people you meet on the way. Obviously you're a listener and people can feel safe opening up their selves to you.

Takes a lot to leave all those negative bits to one side and come away unscathed yourself. Well perhaps not unscathed at all but its great to have you sharing with us now.

Hi Mary - part of it is being a solo traveler, part of it is being older [and sometimes, even just possibly], wiser. Part is being a straight talker - so they always know where they are with me, part is having a face that says; this fella has SEEN some stuff.

Part is having crinkled mongrel eyes that say: 'Whatever your bad behavior, I've done worse - whatever your stupidity, your addiction - I've been more stupid, more out of control. Relax. The Dog couldn't possibly point the finger of scorn.'

And part is not needing to be the star of every situation. I talk a lot, but I've heard MY story a million times. So I listen.

But then I talk in response. And if they want my opinion - I give it. I'm not a passive observer - but a witness just the same.

THE DOGSTER CHRONICLES

For others, like me, who may have missed any episodes, here you go...

Title and Original Posting Date

1) Dogster ? Bhutan. 01/15/08
2) Dogster: Gets Drunk and Books a Trip to India. 02/22/08
3) Dogster: The Great Stumble Forward – India. 06/14/08
4) Dogster: Still Stumbling – Varanasi. 08/24/08
5) Dogster: Live from Siem Reap. 08/26/08
6) Dogster: Tumbling Down the Hoogli. 09/12/08
7) Dogster: Bumbling thru Kolkata. 10/04/08
8) Dogster: Mumbling in Maheshwar. 10/22/08
9) Dogster: Crumbling in Varanasi. 10/31/08
10) Dogster: Sweet ‘n Sour in Sikkim. 11/08/08

Are there any others Dogster???

P.S. I don't do this for just anyone, but it seemed like a little indexing of your growing body of work was in order!

Sad.

Being Hindu, this karma will be waiting for him next time around so he can try to work it out again.

Just finished the Tipp and Ellen installment. Jeez, you show up to take in the sights and have a nice time and then your hotel turns out to be ground zero for a domestic meltdown in progress.

Oh well, what do you do? (hint, stay away from tiny little remote places!)

Another fine tale, Dogster. Keep it coming as your recall permits...

Wow Jaya - I've never been indexed before. What a wonderful thing to do.

I'd dismiss 1/ and 2/ - they're just juvenilia - and the first part of Great Stumble. A lot of it's been redrafted, re-structured and cut or re-written since then. The rest, from Varanasi/Siem Reap onwards are closer to what I want.

As for stumbling in on the war-zones - that's quite normal. A lot of the places I stay are boutique-y - small, often run by a husband and wife team who live, breathe, eat, sleep their job. Think African Game Parks. They implode. The issue is more whether you're prepared to take it on.

It was only Tipp's ultimate demise that led me into this story.

Yup, Kathie - it's sad. That kind of death always is. But there are many other emotions in that mix.

Craig: it's amazing where all this is hidden. Somewhere in deep memory. These are all as accurate as I can make them - it's a positive purge! Remember, Doggy's little Sony helps enormously as an agent of recall and documentation. But generally, all I have to do is find their voice then join the dots.

But I'm running out of places. There's another piece ready on Darjeeling, then Bhutan: the Director's Cut, lol, then Kathmandu, which I'm writing now. Then it's time for a new trip. I got nuttin' left.

Dogster, I look forward to your take on Kathmandu.

Ahhh, Kathie - I have to wait till the dust settles from your Magnum Opus. That'll be a while. As Living Human Goddess of the Board, you have to expect considerable grovel from your many grateful fans. So, my advice to Kathie? Suck it up, girl. heh. Enjoy the fruits of your labour.

Kathmandu is so complex - there that I'm having trouble finding my hook. There are so many to choose from. But you know there'll be a monk with a mobile phone there - lol.

Bless you, Dogster, for another heartwarming story. Your ability to capture and share the emotions of others suggests you have a kind heart and a good soul.

The comment you made about your karmic burden made me smile. It seems it's always the wisest ones who weren't always so, if that makes sense. It's now your turn to see the other point of view and you are certainly embracing it.

<i>&quot;I’ve given up being cool when I’m happy.&quot;</i> Absolutely love that line! Your book title, perhaps?

By the way, if you ever have a monk question, feel free to email me at heidi623 at gmail dot com. My husband is not a 'fodorite' but I shared your story and he said you're probably now a late-night monk legend.

Thanks travel: I'm so pleased you picked up on both those lines. They are a big clue to everything I write, now that I come to think of it.

You've got a good nose. You went straight to the heart of it. Well, one of them, anyway. Hopefully there's some other hearts beating in there too. Thanks for your other offer of info too. If I need...

... hello, dogster, and thanks, once again, for timeless posts ... (although, somehow, someway, hot, young Asian women, would be most appreciated by this relatively recently married man to an occasionally high flyin', half-crazed, part-Singaporean woman.) ...

... keep up the good work, dogster ... along with 'mark_' on tripadvisor, 'd' on _, 'j' on _, and 'mr. m' on _, you are one of my few remaining 'connections' to pre-married Asian business travel life, a wondrous world, filled with...

... as always, all the best to you, and, as always, do kindly consider : SQ ... thank you ...

macintosh (robert)


... &quot;She's one of my friends!&quot; ...

(Room 9__ Bangkok (Regent) Four Seasons, May 200_)

Hiya Ask: Thanks for bringing my post back from page 2 oblivion and for your kind words.

I think I'm one of the few who can read your posts and understand all those mysterious '...'s'. heh. As I think you know, if I posted ALL of what happens to me my reports would be FILLED with '.....', '.....', '........ 's.

But I see that you can read between my lines too. Stay tuned for 'Devil Dog in Darjeeling'... ... ...