Mountain Medicine

--- In ...@yahoogroups.com, Tapas <...@...> wrote:
>
> What? I tried to 'save' you guys? Must have been out of my mind or maybe i
> just wanted that stuff for myself.

Arrey Tapas, I had been trying to save your current reputation as a wanna-be-bad-boy, but you are forcing my hand:

Himankan '82, Pahalgam valley.
(Side note: Who was it that tried to "protect" potential employers from the truth that he was just a participant (and a cribbu one at that) on a trek and disguised it by claiming to have been an expedition leader? Someone claiming to have very high, upstanding moral values etc etc?)

When we were in Chandana-wadi, word somehow got around, since we weren't trying to "protect" anybody from any truth and were not particularly discreet, that Misha and I were trying to score some Kashmiri stuff. We had been tasked with this by our wingmates, and advanced the then astounding amount of Rs.40!

Tapas, that dear boy, found out about this, and already planning his campaign as Sports Sec ("I personally saved one of our top triple-jumpers from a life of dissolution by keeping him from destroying
his lungs, and, look at him now! He can almost reach the pit! Vote Tapas!"), anyway, Tapas approached the Doc, with whom we hung out a lot, and asked him, "Doc, You are good friends with these two boys, Misha and Tate. I am concerned about them, they are young, they know not what they do, they are trying to buy some hash, and you know it will destroy them. You, as an older, more mature, trustworthy and responsible doctor, and their friend, you spend a lot of time with them. So just prevent them from buying any pot or hash or grass." And it was true, we were quite friendly with the Doc.

Evenings, after dinner and duties, while most others would be participating in "good clean fun" listening to some kitschy crap on the mouth organ, some of us would go hang at the chai-wallah.  Until our last evening in Chandanwadi, Misha and I had been completely stymied in our efforts to obtain any stuff. That evening, the chaiwallah wished to thank us for what one of us had done for him and the other villagers and asked how he could repay us. We asked him if we could get any hashish. After a patient explanation to us that the end of winter was hardly the season for any hash, let alone "fresh" hash (Collective "Ohh! Fundas!" from us.) he agreed with his brother to get some from their personal stash. There were two problems, one, his village was a day's march away and we were taking down camp and leaving for Pahalgam the next morning. Two, he could only sell us a hash quantum, known as a golon, for Rs80, and Misha and I only had the Rs40 that our venture capitalist Nikunj had invested in our enterprise. Luckily, we had an obvious and richer co-investor right there, with his savings from his residency pay, who would happily put up the other Rs40 and take his half of the golon. So chai-wallah's brother ran all night to his village and back, and by breakfast chai the next morning we were the proud and sole co-proprietors of 1 (one) golon, a fist sized prolate ellipsoid, hard as old clay, and without any bouquet. We divided it in two right there, and almost fainted from the aroma, but Misha and I could not honestly sample and thus cheat our fellow wingmates. Luckily, our co-investor had no such constraints, was eager to try it out and happily shared with us. Good stuff, man. But not anywhere as good (by a factor of 5 I would say) as the CaliMari you get here. The VC in Bombay was quite happy with the results, as I recall.

Two years later: Bhaiyya, Mayya, Misha and I plan a private expedition to Poorvi Ikualari (Yeah! yeah! Serves me right for the sidey Chandana-wadi joke at Tapas' expense.). Mayya gets bitten by a dog, and is forced to stay under observation to ensure that the canine doesn't contract rabies, and so he can learn to drive. On our way back from the Ikualari basecamp on the Milam glacier, after an expedition that was not only unsuccessful but also non-epic, we stopped two nights in the town of Milam - it used to be a District Court town during the Raj, now, in summer, only a third of the houses were occupied. Already, on the way up, I had acquired the reputation as a "doctor" because the townspeople had seen me treat a bloody infected blister I had on my foot. On our way back, the morning after we reached there and spent the night in the village headman's house, there was a line of 30-40 people who had come to see the "doctor". The nearest real doctor of any kind was 6 days march and half a day's bus journey away. Luckily, Misha had learned something from the Himankan doc, from what he had done that had earned us the Chandanwadi chaiwallah's favour. It devolved on me to clean and dress all the open wounds and for the others, those with more mysterious, internal or imagined ailments, Misha proceeded to listen attentively to each villager's complaints, and then tell me "One pain killer and two multivit.s" or somesuch and I would count them out and hand them to the villager and repeat any instructions that Misha had given.

Until we got to the guy on the litter, with the broken femur.

OccupyOaklandFail

Here is what the plan was:

1. Participate in a brain-storming session to develop “socializing games” for the duration of Occupy.
2. Participate in the march through downtown Oakland to a new site.
3. Camp overnight, donate various needed goods and food. I took fresh produce from my garden, stuff to make a cocido and also some idli mix. I was going to OccupyOccupyOakland'sKitchen.

Reality ended with an idiot walking out of a bar alone in SF.

1. Done: The game development session was quite structured and focussed, there was an agenda which was tightly stuck to and a wrap-up of the meeting and plan for the next session was e-mailed within a couple of hours or so of the end of the meeting.

2. Did do: Various members left to go and support the Occupy SF movement which had apparently faced some police action. Sage and I were the only two who would join the Oakland march, and it took us a while to get going, mostly so she could finish the meeting notes and so we could have lunch. The OccupyOakland website only stated where the march would end; I at least couldn't recall where it was supposed to start, but rather hopefully we headed downtown. We left late enough to give them time to actually start walking. In order to ensure that we would encounter the rest of the marchers, we started at the destination and walked towards them. It felt antidisestablishmentarian, to be walking in the direction opposite to the disestablishmentarians.

By the time we managed to join the march, we'd met various other people headed there, already at the destination or on their way there. One of them was a woman who, it turned out, had gone to the same small beyond liberal-arts college where you design your own program, in where else? … Massachusetts. Yaayy, joyful hugs between the two. (I wasn't included, even though I was wearing my “Kiss me, I'm Indian. Diwali was only 4 weeks ago.” T-shirt. Yes I update it, and will continue to do so until it works.) The “sharing” seemed like a good idea: “Arrey, Jasvinder, where did you do your undergrad?”, “IIT-Bombay, yaar”, “Yaayy, me too, group hug!”.

I tried to get some information from the cops at the destination about where the march was located at the moment, I'll fill in details later, however, the last comment to me was to look for the police helicopter and head directly under it. “Like towards the fire-bombs?” But I wouldn't say that to a man in a uniform with his hand on a truncheon.

The march was high-energy, lots of sloganeering, lots of racket, numerous marching bands, including the Brass Liberation Orchestra, and, lots and lots of smiling faces, which is NOT what you see at the typical Tea-Party or right-wing rallies, which is mostly bared fangs in tight rows. Two of the people in the game group had warned me not to expect too much organization that first night, and they turned out to be right. So I decided it would be better to make the donations etc some other day. There was little bit of a street party air to it, the fence around the park came down, quite a few tents and a music stage went up.

3. It started raining, nobody I knew was staying there, my car was a 40 minute walk away and it seemed pointless to stay overnight with the “white kids from Marin County” occupiers who were dancing on the street. Besides, I'd managed to get myself invited to a birthday party in SF, where we would be occupying bar-stools.

In SF, in the first bar, Sage introduced me to her friend from elementary school, whose birthday it was. The first thing I did was to join in loudly and sing “Happy Birthday Emily”, except it was Beth's birthday. One pitch, two strikes. Beth took it well.

We waited a bit for some more of the party to show up. A couple joined us: one of them was Dennis, who looked as Chinese as his name sounded. The other guy introduced himself, “Hi, I'm Hong.”. “Well, fuck you, and I have a PhD in Physics”, I replied. I mean, what a cheesy pick-up line, right in front of his boyfriend too! I'm not even gay! Not that there is anything wrong with that, I have that rainbow patterned bumper-sticker, the one that says, what … “Straight but not gay!” as a sign of support, I'm just waiting for the right car to put it on. Plus, the colors are in the wrong order, don't gays know anything about Rayleigh scattering?

I mean, come on, I am an Indian guy, there is no arranged marriage for gays, hello-o! Who would pay the dowry?

After a drink or two we walked into the next bar, where there was a stand-up comic night. These guys were bad, so bad that Sage pulled out her phone and started playing traffic jam, and three guys immediately gathered around to tell her what to do.

One of the comics had a bit of a riff about American guys marrying foreign women. “Why is that?”, he asked, I think rhetorically. One of our party -the neck-sucking-boyfriend- yelled out, “Because American women suck!”. I'm proud of you, man, don't let anyone domesticate you! Ever! “Apparently not well enough!”, I yelled back.

There was group of three beautiful brunettes in front of us. Two of them were tall, hair was the same length, their asses were the same shape and size, the hint of a roll just above their pants was the same shape as well. They even had the same smile, just toothy enough to draw attention to how attractive they were, and they were drinking the same beer. The third one was not drinking anything, must have been the DD – designated dyke. I went over to them, since I'd already struck out with two of the women in our group. After a run of really bad misogynistic jokes from the stage, I said something to the pretty ladeej about their seeming to really enjoy the show. One of the tall ones looked at the full beer in her hand, “As soon as this is done, we are out of here.” How bad were the jokes? The third woman grabbed the beer and proceeded to chug it.

Unfortunately for me, she didn't finish the beer.

The last comic was actually pretty good. Plus, the ice had been broken.

The comic picked on a guy in the audience, “You, yes you, you don't look American. Where are you from?”.

Big bright smile, “Europe!”.

The comic: “Europe isn't a fucking country, what country are you from, unless your parents were Euroswingers from 30 countries?”

“Moldova.”, came the reply.

I interjected, “Moldoova is the unhappiest country in the whole world!”

The comic: “Who said that? You?”. Addressing the audience, “This guy's from India, and he's saying the saddest country on the planet is Moldova? Besides, Euro-trash here doesn't look too sad to me!”

Me: “That's because he's OUT of Moldoova!”

Comic: “How do you know about all this, anyway?”

Me: “I'm a physicist, I read a book about happiness.”

That ended up being a bit of a non-sequitor, and the comic moved on to jokes about dating women. I leaned towards the tall brunette who was still drinking her own beer and said that the comic had women who are dating pegged, he must have been reading a lot of profiles of women on dating websites, that I didn't know if she, the brunette, was on those sites.

She said, “I'm on the dating sites, everybody does that nowadays.”

Me: “I don't know what men's profiles are like, and you don't see women's profiles, so ...”

She: “Oh I do, I'm a lesbian so I see women's profiles.” I should have read that, I actually had, but refused to recognize it and refused to allow myself that stereotype.

Me, digging myself deeper now: “Oh, I thought a lot of these sites prohibit ...”

She: “No, that was a long time back, now I'm on all these sites, and I'm a lesbian.”

I saw the opening, and I took it: “But you are too attractive to be a lesbian!”

She, freezing up now: “That is such an offensive stereotype! Look at my girlfriend, she is gorgeous.”

Me: “Well, yes, which is why I was trying to chat her up. But, I'm sorry, I hope I haven't offended you, I was playing off the stereotype...”

She: “I'm not offended, it's just idiotic! It is so old and repeated so often ...”

The Comic, from the stage: “Ma'am, is he bothering you?”

She: “No.”

Me: “No! I'm complimenting her!”

Comic: “Complimenting her? You looked like you were trying to kiss her!”

Me: “No, no, you are not understanding sir. I'm from India, and we Indians we are liking to be close to peepul.”

She then proceeded to lecture me. I listened for a while, tried to excuse myself again, no go. When I could get a word in, I said, “Of course you are a lesbian, you have no sense of humor!”

Just then her girlfriend said, “Dee-Dee is done with my beer, let's go.”

As the one I'd been talking to turned to leave, I tried to excuse myself again, “Let me just explain where I am coming from. Can I do that?”

She: “I'm leaving now.”

Me, further abasing myself: “Just half a minute, please?”

She assented with a nod of her head.

Me: “Look, I go to International Women's Day marches, with a T-shirt that says, “This is what a lesbian feminist looks like!”. Please sleep with me!” I didn't mean that! Or I must have meant it but not meant to say it. How fucked-up can I be on two beers?

To top it off, at the end of the night birthday girl Beth says to me, as she and Sage prepare to drive off into the sunset together, “You are such a sweet guy!” Oh those magic words of death!

Sometimes, you see an opening, and you take it. Often though, the opening is a trap you've set for yourself.

Make Hunter proud!

Guys, we are only a few days away from our H-8 B-Wing reunion trip to Vegas, and I thought I would take the opportunity to inspire you to great feats.

Hunter S. Thompson did not write Fear and Loathing in Columbus, OH. Columbus, OH, has gambling, shows, drinking and prostitution. But it is not Las Vegas. And we, señores, are going to Las Vegas, which brings up the question: What are we, as individuals and as a group, going to do that will have to stay in Vegas: something that will make HST proud, Las Vegas what it is, and ourselves, laudably loathsome?

Now, you don't have to transgress my boundaries, leave alone those of HST. All you have to do is transgress your own. Let's consider some examples of transgressions that won't count.

• Lose more money gambling on this trip than your previous high. (Unless it is greater by an order of magnitude.)
• Eat till you are sick and have to be hospitalized. Obviously, this proscription applies only to Raj A. and Sanjay U., for everyone else, this is a fair challenge.
• Plain and simple vomiting. Unless

1. You do it from the top of a ride
2. You do it from a gondola into the canals of Venice
3. You first drop your glasses and then puke on them.

• Make a fool of yourself. This blanket proscription is in place because

1. It is too non-specific
2. You've done it before – Dude, we know you.

Let me throw out some ideas.

Gambling: Remember the order of magnitude rule. You have to risk at least 10 times your previous maximum net loss. OK, it doesn't mean you have to end the weekend with that much net loss, just that at some point during your stay you have to be down by that amount. You can, and in fact are encouraged to, stay at the table so you can win back your losses. This has the advantage of potentially lowering the amount you'll be obliged to risk next time you are in Vegas with us, a factor of 11 marginal benefit. For example, say your previous maximum net loss on a trip was $10. This time you have to risk $100. You play till you are down $ 101 and have met your goal. But are you satisfied? Next time, you'll have to risk $1010. Whereas if you stay at the table and win back $10, so that your net loss is only $91, next time you'll only have to risk $910! That is an overall saving of $110 over this trip and the next!

What does this translate to for me? $2.50! Why? Some decades ago, in a desperate attempt to read the romantic tea-leaves as it were, I played 3 quarters in the slots, one each for myself, for my fiancee at the time and for TWIWF. The quarter for TWIWF won back 50 cents, my fiancee and I broke up, and TWIWF went back to her cheating hubby. Isn't astrology amazing?

Climbing: Being jilted doesn't make you a better climber, it just makes you less concerned about your own mortality, makes you give even less of a shit. Within the space of a few months I'd repeatedly taken a 30 foot whipper on a 5.10+ trad route and one 35” whipper on a 5.10d sport route. My previous hardest climbs have been a 10b/c trad and 11b sport. So in Red Rocks my goal will be to do either a midlength 5.9+ or a very long 5.8. How exactly is this “upping the ante”? In the increasingly inaptly named Yosemite Decimal System, the grades go from 5.0 to 5.15a, passing through grades like 5.8+ (harder than 5.8 but not quite 5.9) and 5.9- (5.9, but just about) and grades like 5.12a, 5.12b, 5.12c, 5.12d after which comes 5.13a. Somewhere we also have 5.10b/c, and we also have qualifiers like sport vs. trad, a length scale from I through VI+ and a safety scale : PG, G, S, R and X. So now it should be perfectly clear why a long 5.8 is going to be a wordy challenge for me.

Sex: In increasing order of merit:

1. Pay for sex
2. Fall in love with an escort
3. Fall in love with an escort without realising his/her profession
4. Get into a barfight with the pimp in an attempt to “save” the person in question

Where am I on this ? I've struck-out on AshleyMadison, so (1.) will be a good goal for me. However,

mitigating circumstances exist. 

I'll be attempting to climb one of the tall, free standing, erect, towers in Red Rocks, and as any half-decent Freudian knows, that is an expression of my deep-seated and suppressed homo-erotic fantasies. For women, (and just by the way, why aren't there any women in our reunion?) the equivalent would be to climb in Owen's Gorge or the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. Plus, after I'd taken that 40' whipper on the 5.10d, and Orlando had driven himself into a drunken black funk on New Year's Eve by expecting Las Vegas to be like a “plaza in Spain” and, hungover, had properly dishonoured himself on Fear&LoathingIII by dogging and pulling and hanging his way up, we were quietly getting stoned on the drive back to Santa Barbara, when he looked at me and said, “Hombre, if you were a woman, I'd kiss you right now.” To which I'd replied, “O-man, you are so beautiful I would have kissed you back.” Then we'd stopped just before the CA border, at the last chicken-ranch in NV, imagined the girls in the back rooms and looked up at the curtained windows. “Last chance!” he said. “No. Our cheating bitches will be pleading for us when we get back.” said I. And it was true.

That is when you know you are well and truly fucked, when she pleads for you, when she lies and promises and cajoles her way into your bed before washing herself off and going back home to her BF or husband. She can afford rejection from you because patient, kind, loving, or, this is a good one “He understands me!” is waiting for her at home, to comfort her should you be smart enough to reject her. She can afford to give you a choice which is no choice because you'll never, never, in that moment, say “no!”, because before that deeply miserable and lonely night you will have glory, and if you say “no!” you will have no glory and only slightly less miserable and lonely a night.

And O-man and I made a pact, that we would climb more, waste less time on the women who respectively and respectfully had us by the balls, a pact that we knew we wouldn't keep, because we would be admired for our bruises, for our sunburnt skin, for our stories of valor and failure, for our twisted, bent and damaged but strong fingers and other words would be said, words which would atrophy our brains but swell our heads and one other body part each. Where are you O-man?

So I'll give myself a pass on this one. What do you guys think?

Other, innocent ideas:

• See the wild burros in RRSP
• Listen to the coyotes howl in the desert
• Confess to us something that none of the rest of us know about you. (And fukinn make it good, I don't want to hear about some stolen patent or how you fired a 100 people, not unless you stole their panties and screwed half of them first.)

To conclude: You guys are all Masters of the Universe, goal-setters, accomplished followers of Stephen Covey. Set a goal, make a plan to accomplish it over the weekend and publicize it so you can be held accountable. Recall what Prof. Isaac, then Dean of Student Affairs, said to us: “You represent India's best. You are the brain in 'brain drain', you are the cream in 'sour cream'! You've floated to the top, like shit or Sorrow.”

And as Gandhi said, “If you don't plan to make an ass of yourself, you won't!”


Acknowledgements: This work was supported in part by Arun Yethiraj Patron of the Arts Grant LV-SEP2011.

Family trip to India

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