Peter Broderick Flynn

Our Peter, my dad, died today at Cape Cod Hospital. He was in his 70's and lived a good life, was only diagnosed with the disease that killed him, cancer, a short time ago. He would have been glad that he didn't suffer long or loose his facilities and need long term care. He went quick. The notes from home all say what I want them to, "Stay in Bali". So I will. I will miss him and he is gone now forever so that will always be true. A suffocating thought. He was as scary as he was loveable at times. When Peter was on a roll there was this disconnect from reality that we were all aware of--he would sing and dance for his own pleasure and please those who "got it". Yeah, he drank. He drank--to quote Richard Harris who died in 2002--"because he absolutely loved it!" Yeah, his drinking had negative impacts on us all. That is what alcoholism does. Dad was difficult to understand. I wonder how well he understood himself. Many of my memories of him are while he is drunk or I am drunk or a little high. It is too bad I didn't get to really have a father who was involved with my life. Oddly, I have no regrets or anger and grieve more for the experiences he missed rather than the ones alcoholism stole from me.

Oh, his presence was delicious at times, his charisma could fill a room and cause everyone to love him then and there. Like all the Flynn boys he had kind of a rubber face and could make the most expressive faces--I learned that from him and his brothers. I like to remember Peter as a younger man, like in his 50's, dashing and handsome, rogueish and square like a linebacker, full head of blackish hair, very aware of his surroundings and who was in the room. I am so glad I chose to visit with him last summer (we saw each other so infrequently though we both lived on Cape Cod during the summer). He came over to my apartment in Orleans and we had a small bite to eat. I did all the talking, just letting him know that he is my dad and I love him no matter what. So he knew that, and it makes me feel nice that I got to take him aside to tell him that I am his son and he is stuck with my love, no matter what.

I am in Bali Indonesia now, exactly 12 hours opposite the part of the world where my father lies. He lies there waiting for those who love him and care for him to help with the end of this part of his life. Being so far away pains me, but the love and support I have received from my family, and the admonitions to stay put here in this paradise lessen my pain. All of Bali is a smoldering, temple filled, offering piled experience. Maybe dad will pay me a visit on his way to the other side...I will listen for him singing something like "Lambs eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy" or "Good morning mr Zip Zip Zip with your haircut just as short as mine". And of course the grandest version of the Jamaica song "Sad to say I'm on my way, won't be back for many a day, my heart is down my head is turning around, I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town."
I wish you the fondest farewell Peter Broderick Flynn, thanks for giving me this wonderful life I am living. Don't hesitate to call, anytime.

Love, Jonathan

Chitwan {Shannon]

There's a full moon rising over the jungle. The moon is smoky yellow, like tarnished brass, and the sky is pearl gray with dark feathers of monsoon clouds. This could be nowhere else on Earth but southern Nepal, near the Indian border. Jonathan and I stand on the porch looking at the moon, the trees, the sky. He puts his arms around me and I lean against him and say what I just said. I feel my feet firm on the Earth. I know exactly where I am on the globe, here. I say, We are lucky.

A Bath in Pokhara [Shannon]

Trekking pushed us to our limits and beyond, every daylight hour. The Anapurnas are cold beauty and a test of everything. When we finally got back to Pokhara, the hotel manager gave us the same room. It was part of the package. Less than $300 for 5 days of trekking, meals and loding, a porter and guide, all transport, and 3 days in the Chitwan jungle lodge with elephant rides and all. We didn't see any Maoists, but the soldiers who kept boarding or 100-degree, no rest stops bus were snidely menacing.

The hotel was empty and so was the town. The trekking season was over, and the monsoon had arrived. Nevertheless, Maoists blew up a restaurant on the street where we had eaten dinner 3 days previously. Luckily no one was killed. Imagine dying while eating momo and watching a Keanu Reeves movie. How mediocre. A kid was killed by hail though, ugh.

Even though the rains came early, we had been lucky they did not interfere with our time in the mountains, as they arrived promptly at 3 pm each day, which is a good time to take a nap anyway. The trek's difficulty was compounded by first Jonathan and then my getting sick, in a debilitating, sinusy way, with shortness of breath, headache and nausea. I think it had to do with all the changes in altitude, first up to 10,000 feet, then down to 4,000, and back up to 6,000, etc. Whatever it was, it made my nose run on the way up and bleed on the way down.

Some of our rooms were comfortable; others were shacks. None had electricity, and the ones with hot water dispensed it excruciatingly hot and unadjustable. So I was not as clean as I liked to be after all the sweaty walks.

The last day's hike, down from Ghandruk, was pleasant, with a grdual descent along the river, about five hours in total, with a stop for some dal bhat and Fanta. Our illness had passed and the trek was over.

This rom had a bathtub. It was unbelievable. No room on our entire trip has had a tub. This ne was deep, rectangular and pale pink. I saw the two solar water tanks on the roof, so I don't feel guilty about running a full, hot bath. You don't do that if they're cutting wood to heat the water.

Ahhh. I closed the bathroom door and stepped into the tub. Sinking into the hot water, I realized this was the first time I had been alone in five days. Of course, there was always Jonathan, who I never get tired of, but on the trails we were led by the porter, Lapka, and folowed by our giude, Sambhu. I enjoyed those guys, and we had a lot of laughs, but it was uncomfortable at times to have to keep so tight together because of bandits and Maoists. We saw neither, but were on a close schedule with Sambhu always knocking on our door at 6am with menus. The menus were long, but al they ever had was dal bhat, rice and lentils, and the tea house women were always hovering asking how we enjoyed it. Great!

The water fell in a double drip from the faucet, tapering off to a slow music. Late afternoon light floated through milky glass of the window above the sink. The water enveloped me up to my chin. The tub was the perfect size for me. I could rest my feet flat against the faucet side and my head comfortably on the ledge. I breathed in andn out, soaked in the heat and bathed in the quiet light.

I thought of nothing, not the way I had on the trail, concentrating on every chancey step, every ragged breath. This was smooth. This was no effort. This was glide. Into girlhood, into safety, into solitude and peace.

I have a new appreciation for the modern world, for solid walls and running water, for conveyances that don't poop sloppy craps on the road. For roads. Television and movie houses, clean streets and new clothes. I wanted to shop like a bandit. But mostly I wanted to enjoy being alone, lying on the bed in the breeze off the lake, writing while Jonathan was in the shower.

Riding an Elephant [Shan]

25 May. Riding an elephant while she is taking a bath in the river and spraying water on me from her trunk is the most fun thing I have ever done in my life. Truly.

Up? The Haathi (elephant) kneeled down and the mahout lifted me up as I stepped on his palm. I was still only halfway across her back and had to scramble-fling myself. He rode her trunk up like an escalator and stood behind me. She rose. I grabbed the rope collar around her neck. He skin was rough and hard as wood with a few bristly black hairs. The ears are delicate, fanlike spongy flares, very expressive, pale pink and brown spotted. The head is massive. When she walks, it's like the earth moving. He gave a commnad in Tharu and she blasted us with cool water. Amazing!

Be Cool [Shannon]

May 24. Krsna, our guide in Chitwan, came to my room and said. "You are going to the culture dance? It is finished." He offered to take me anyway. I said, "No, I'm not going. Jon went with the lodge people." Krsna said, "He is lost." I know Jon was not lost. He had a headlamp.

Krna has been a safari guide at Chitwan Jungle park for 12 years. He's slim and about 30 and takes his work very seriously. He's dismayed at the lack of funding and the rhino poaching. Nepal's military budget is taken up by the war with the Maoists; there's no money to defend national parks, or borders, therfore the rapid disappearance of the Bengal tiger.

On our first evening, Krsna took us on a walk by the Rapti River. Yes, we had to run from a rhino. Because Krsna said so. Two rhinos got unusually close. Ksna was excited, but he said be careful. "Talk low and don't move fast. Can you run? If he comes we have to run away zig-zag. Drop something he can smell to confuse him. A scarf, something. Or climb a tree. Because how they kill is..." He grimaced and whispered that he probably shouldn't tell this story now. But he has seen it. "First they bite you and throw you on the ground. Then they stomp you to death."

I said, "We can go now."

He just laughed. "You are with a guide."

Good thing I didn't know then that tourists and guides are killed by wild elephants and rhinos in Chitwan every year. The rhinos look too dinosaur for words. Triceratops. Primordial uh-oh. Wild elephants will wait forever beneath your tree to have a go at you. The prayer the mahouts say before riding an elephant is "Ganesh ai namah." It means "Excuse me for riding you. Out of respect. Good health to you. Be cool."

Images of Nepal [Shannon]

1. Slim women in bright silk saris riding side-saddle on the back of motorcycles.

2. Chartreus rice paddies terracing up mountains by the river. Women in red sarongs wading through with impossibly large baskets of greens on their heads.

3. Jon's sandwich with 2 inches of garlic.

4. Pokhara's stupa gold and white above a ring of clouds on the mountaintop on Buddha's birthday.

5. Tiny whiplike leeches springing across the ground to attack our boots on a mountain trail.

6. A wedding party coming up the mountain on the steep stony path from Birethani carrying giant red-flowered couches and chairs and musical instuments. The bride in a red-hooded sari covered with gold pieces. The groom in a tie, sunglasses and mod vest over white shirt and pants, looking terrified. Both of them very young teenagers.

7. Tiny children, babies of 2 or younger, making the prayer gesture to their foreheads and saying "namaste" as we pass, big smiles on their faces. Namaste means the god in me greets the god in you, and it's the first thing they learn.

Smoke World [Shannon]

It was getting dark as we climbed. We had a sudden guide, (the young Sudip, whose father was a sherpa who died on the mountain) child beggars clung to us, half-dead dogs ate garbage, raw sewage flowed in the gutters we jumped to avoid cars and motorbikes that fought us for the road, silk-clad women lit stacks of butter candles in dark elephant shrines, Monks in red robes and sunglasses rode motorcycles, (Nepal is Hindu and Tibetan Buddhist), old people banged instuments and chanted songs.

Kathmandu is sensory overload, constantly. The cremation/sewage river is the worst thing I've ever smelled, yet the people smile like angels and say, "If you are happy, we are happy." Everyone's jumped to anticipate our needs, weird. I'd never been so comfortable, yet so on edge at the same time. Everything was ridiculously cheap.

I felt more alive in Nepal than anywhere I've ever been because death was all around. Death is not fear, it's decay, the disappointment of lives cut short and the deperation to avoid that. I feel extremely fortunate to have been born in the West. Nepal would be a god place to adopt a child.

The Monkey [Shannon]

16 May. The monkey! Imitatated me. At the Hindu temple to the monkey god, Hanuman, the 365 steps swarmed with macaques, toddler-sized, grey-brown with white lion's manes and pink human faces. I handed a female a cookie. Her eyes were so human, I stopped and must have jutted my chin and bugged my eyes, because she did the same thing back at me. Moment of freaky shock in the primate mirror. Then Jonathan stood up and waved his arms, and so did she. Wonder what they think of us? When I look at the world, it surprises me by looking back.

Papicito [Shan}

Thoughts of my father are always with me, but they are no longer forming words. When I move a certain way, I move like him. I take action with slow, careful fingers and I talk to myself about my comfort level, making wry comparisons to the situation at hand, (for instance negotiating the pit toilet and using water instead of TP. Nepal has the world's worst toilets, except for maybe Tibet, with the world's best views. Except for maybe Tibet.), thinking in images and body sensations, always quietly maximising my sensual adjustments.

This is him. He feels less dead, now that I am so far from the places where I saw him alive. On the other side of the world, I feel a commonality of circumstances. I know what he would say, I hear it in my head. Often it makes me laugh out loud.

Thunder outside. I see him alive, eyes open, nostrils flaring, as he takes in the elements, appreciates them. I see children and I feel his love response. I see pictures and he takes them.

What's that Smell? [Shannon]

Kathmandu is aromatic. It smells of mustard oil, diesel fumes, and shit. Kathmandu is an emetic.

Mountain towns smell of boiling rice, chilis and water buffalo shit. The chili is earthy, astringent, with a green aftertaste like coriander. Nepal is in general an astringent place, compared to Turkey, which is sour. Spain was salty and Greece, sweet. What will Bali be? Hot, I think. I taste the world.

Arrival Kathmandu [Shannon]

15 May the plane ride was a rocky dream from howling Istanbul to plush Bahrain and fantastical Abu Dhabi where the terminal is a spaceship-shaped lotus sparkling with blue and green tile and thronged with Muslims in robes and beards pushing shopping carts full of gold jewelry and cigars on their way to the beach.

The flight over Afghanistan and India was in the dark, in a tight, curry-smoked cavern that opened up at pink dawn to the Himalayan peaks below. Not that far below. Our toes scraped ice before we descended to the green valley and anthill of Kathmandu.

Baleee [Shan]

man, I love Bali.

We're staying at Claire's house. She's a friend of Rosy, smoke the pipe! So we have this giant house in Nyung Kuning, a small traditional villeage near Ubud. There are rice paddies outside our window, flowering trees in the garden, fishponds and a zillion stautues of frogs and lizards and spiders and the Balinese creatuers like Garuda and Barong. My dad would love it.

The beaches are about 2 hours away in any direction, but it's cooler i the mountains, and anyway, we have a motorbike. The family is taking good care of us. They are in the Hindu priestly caste, making flower offerings and singing all day long. Lots of wild birds and fruits. I've had 5 fruits already that I'd never seen before. Dinner is $2-3 dollars and we had a massage and flower petal bath for about $11. It's impossible to have a bad time here. The hard part wil be leaving.

I'm gonna write some stuff I forgot to say about Nepal, and we'll post more pictures soon. It's my father's birthday today. Happy Birthday, Phil. Eat a cheeseburger. Grandma says make it a double.

What Happened in Turkey [Shan]

What happened in Turkey was that the adventure really began. In Europe, like in New York, people are used to tourists, not too interested in those from America, or annoyed by them (us). I have been guilty of giving tourists the brush-off in NYC, which I will never do again because it makes you feel lonely. There's this whole country where people live their lives happily without us, and it's just impenetrable.

Not so in the Middle East and Asia. People in Istanbul were assertively interactive. Women freaked on my hair color, laughing hysterically (in a nice way) until I figured out I should be wearing a headscarf. Once I did that, a very sweet old lady aproached me in a mosque and said I have a nice face, a religious face. She gave a very convincing argument for why I should consider Islam. "When you get home, examine Islam. Promise me." In soaring blue tiled mosques where night birds circle the minarets lit by golden lights while a sufi whirls below, it's easy to feel Islam as a path dedicated to peace and beauty. People wash their feet before entering, and the call of the muezzin is intoxicating. But the women are sequestered in the dimness behind these birdcagelike screens. Only the men get to pray in the vasty sparkling space. Hmmph.

In the amazing Aya Sofia mosque, groups of Turkish schoolkids surrounded us, eager to know anythang about America. To anything we said, they shouted, "You are beautiful! You are perfect!" They are dying to come to the US. They demand to know why American tourists have abandoned Turkey since 9/11, when they have nothing to do with Al Quaeda. However, they call george Bush a murderer for his actions in Iraq, which is right next door. When they say his name, they make the throat-slitting motion.

Finally, right after a perhaps too relaxing Turkish bath, my credit card was stolen by a very skilled pickpocket. This led to a late-night visit to the Turkish police, a horrible mistake. They not only don't care, they were mocking and detained us with endless questions, which aimed to prove it was not a serious matter and that we were somehow idiots. All I wanted was a police report for the insurance company, but it was not possible. Other backpackers told us similar stories. Turkish police are a nightmare. Luckily I cancelled my card in time and got a replacement sent to Kathmandu.

The last thing we did was smoke a nargila in a carpet-draped room where Turkish men and women smoked and played backgammon. It was just tobacco, but entrancing. Beautiful music played and I drifted up into the stars with the smoke. There's something amazing going on in Turkey, but there's a lot of crap too, hence the adventure.

Nepal (Jonathan)

The essence of Nepal is its people. Generous, entrepreneurial, respectful, thoughtful and smart, dogged, creative, patient, reverent. The beauty of the Himalaya is shared by 5 countries but radiates most powerful on Nepal. I think anyway. During our 5 day Pun Hill trek the light from Dhaulagiri washed the air with sparkle and soul, purified light. We were alone on the trail with our guide and porter, trudging, sweating, farting. Me twisting my head for a possible Himal view--often rewarded with such. The trails are paved with mica sparkle. Well placed stones wide enough for 2 way traffic. I am glad there isn't. The small settlements, tea and guest houses, outhouses and stopping points flow by. Out of them pour stoic looks, used to our ilk passing, sometimes we drop a few badly needed rupees, some feces or urine, a smile, "Namaste". A begging child asks for "sweet" and eyes us with suspicion or some immature version of contempt. Water buffalo use their tenor pipes for a resinous "meeeeeew", stop when we approach but keep chewing, white cud on their lips. The reek of plentiful dung alternately pleases and nauseates me--an older local woman carries a dried, rounded, shiny example of dung. Food for her tomatoes or corn. Hefted up on her shoulder the size of a large bowling ball. It's nice dung.
The green valley is so steep but--like Ireland--plants stick and thrive at this elevation (6-10,000 feet). Terrace gardens make actual crops (as well as level shack foundations) possible and organize verdant hills into steps finely cut and sun reflecting. The scene is stunning. Clouds fog the hills and settle on riverbeds while we float over them. Every once in a while a plane flies below us. The Himalaya radiate. The trail snickers as we labor on, climbing, descending. We come for the view, the adventure and get far more--exercise! fantastic food! unexpected luxury like hot showers and sit down toilets! occasionally even electricity!
The last 4 days in Kathmandu are very hot and dry. Acme Guest House is like home to us, a little part of the city where we can be safe and sound, clean our bodies and our wounds, take our medicine, even watch a little satellite TV! The days pass, we go to Patan and Bhaktapur to shop. The sun is very hot now--it turns out the monsoon is way up in Sri Lanka, making its way south at a crawling 5 kmh. The dust rises. I find out about Dad's illness--sometimes the information Superhighway brings heavy news. Leaving Nepal is easy and difficult, the country tries to make it hate you while the love just pours out of you. I will return with some purpose, maybe a movie or a book or just the desire to climb into the death zone for a while...humans are strange
namaste Nepal (by Jonathan)