CHAPTER 7 ::: DAN AND DANA

I met Dan and his wife Dana at Chuki's restaurant as arranged, just up the hill from the bus station. I followed Dan's instructions to navigate away from the bewildering frenzy of wanna-be guides and beggars to a quiet place with fresh air where I stopped to adjust my backpack for walking comfort. As I clambered up uneven stairs, I smiled with the realization that my world tour had begun in earnest.

Previously I asked Dan how long the bus took to Dharamsala. He replied, "Twelve hours. But maybe twenty-four hours. And if it's twenty-four hours, that's good. It will help your karma, as you'll learn to be more patient." The ride was eighteen hours.

Dana put her hands together and said, "Namaste. You must be Raymond."

I took off my pack. "That's me. Dan! Dana! Hey! It's nice to meet you! Namaste."

Dan was taller than I imagined, and Dana shorter. We hugged as if we were old friends. Dan patted me on the back. "How was the ride from Delhi?"

I replied, "I feel my karma much improved."

Everyone smiled, including Chuki.

Dana said, "Welcome to Dharamsala, Raymond, and listen up: we insist that you stay at our house. Any friend of Pedro's is a friend of ours."

I thanked them for their hospitality. Dan bought beer. We swapped stories about our mutual friend. We discussed the impending rain. Then I told them about the beggar girl and the shampoo scam. I was still in shock at the unimaginable suffering.

Dan said, "Her parents probably broke her legs when she was born."

I gasped, "No. You mean on purpose?"

Dan said, "Yup. It's not uncommon. That way she'll be ensured survival as a beggar her whole life. Really. I know it's hard to believe, but in her own twisted way, her mother probably thought she was doing it for the girl's own good."

Dana said, "Welcome to India. Poverty is part of the scenery."

We all drank. I felt sad. I felt happy.

Dan said, "You get used to it. I don't ever give anything to children. Well, maybe food sometimes, but never money. You'll hear them ask for school pens, but it's better to give directly to schools."

Dana said, "If we stop to cry for every injustice, we'll spend our whole lives crying. Instead, we should work to reduce injustice." Her eyes met mine, and I knew she had seen suffering I had yet to imagine. I knew that I knew nothing about suffering.

She said, "By the way, you didn't happen to bring any cheese with you, did you?" She then explained why quality cheese was hard to get in Dharamsala.

We took a taxi up the hill, then we walked past a yoga ashram, an apple orchard, and wild marijuana plants, pausing only to give a cow the right of way.

The exterior of their home was unpainted concrete, but the interior was decorated with thangkas, scrolls, and mandalas. Dan volunteered, "Buying property here is next to impossible because we aren't permanent residents, but living here is easy." He explained how to get a five-year visa, renewable in Kathmandu. He explained how the exchange rate made some things impossibly cheap, including a live-in cook and housekeeper named Vijay. He said that if he lived in America, he'd have to work a full-time job, but with positive cash flow in India, he was a king.

Dana's expression turned serious. "There are only three house rules..."

I gave her my undivided attention.

"One: no toilet paper. The toilet will get clogged up, and we'll make you clean up the mess, and it's just not a good thing when it overflows. Two: if you want to smoke marijuana, fine, but please do so only in your room, and don't leave any paraphernalia lying around, because sometimes monks visit without calling first. Three: don't be an asshole."

I laughed. "Good rules. About the toilet paper, though. What do you use?"

"Your hand. Use the bucket by the squatter. Pour with your right hand and clean with your left. Then wash up with soap. You'll get used to it. And be careful with your left hand in public. Any questions?"

"No. I've always said that I wanted to experience new cultures, first hand."

"Good. You know it's funny. Americans always think it's disgusting to clean your ass with water, but Indians think toilet paper is gross. Water cleans better, and you don't have to leave smelly shit paper lying around. But do be careful with the water. I think most tourists get sick from ice, or they use tap water to brush their teeth, or they open their mouths in the shower. We boil and filter our own drinking water. With food, if it's cooked and still hot, it's OK. Fruit that you can peel like bananas are always safe. Don't eat in a restaurant if it looks dirty. And regarding yoga, if you want to go tomorrow, I'll wake you up at seven."

"Yes, I want to go."

"Good. And if you want to learn about Buddhism, I can recommend some books."

"Cool. Speaking of books, I'll go get that book from Pedro."

Dan and Dana sat on the sofa and flipped through Pedro's book, admiring every illustration while discussing esoteric points of philosophy that I failed to grok. I asked, "What's the deal with the fire demons?"

Dan stopped on a page with a particularly fierce-looking spirit. "This fellow pre-dates the arrival of Buddhism in Tibet," he said. "Pedro's book explains how the pagan beliefs from pre-history were incorporated into the new religion from the south. The ancient demons have since transformed into protective deities, more or less the guardians of Buddhist dharma."

I asked him to explain the meaning of the word dharma. Then I chronicled the story of a humble every-man who got busted with a joint. My new friends thought it was hilarious that California cops might consider a book about Buddhism to be part of a terrorist plot.

Dana asked, "So, why do you think your name is on the list?"