What is all this Buddhism about?

Bell ringing in Bukkokuji

"I know many Buddhist monks, but Tangen Roshi is absolutely extraordinary", my Japanese friend said to me and I agreed that something is in it because I was myself in Bukkokuji all four weeks and two days. Why did I go there? Probably to learn what Buddhism is about. Anyway this question was in the air when I entered the gate of Bukkokuji for the first time; I have hitchhiked to Obama, found the temple at the very edge of the town at the foot of a sugar loaf mountain that stood there in the middle of a plain as flat as a table, entered the gate and found myself on the monastery yard. In front of me there was an ancient building with paper walls, behind it there was a bamboo grove on the rising slope, on the right and left other buildings and a small graveyard with little stone pagodas, everything beautiful, but there was an absolute silence, not a soul around despite all doors being open. I stood disoriented when from the building on my left (zendo, as I learned later) people started coming out. The first one was an old monk with a shiny bold head and dressed in a grey robe, he came to me and taking my hand led me outside the gate. He didn't say anything, but he seemed to watch to make sure I don't run away while calling someone from inside the monastery. He disappeared only when Jikaku-san came, a young monk in an ordinary black robe, and in imperfect English explained that at the moment I cannot stay because they have a week long sesshin. I asked whether I could join the sesshin, Jikaku-san disappeared behind the gate and a minute later came with an answer: right now there is no room in the zendo, I could come a week later, when some people would be gone. What Buddhism is about? I was under the impression of that silent touch. The very fact is unusual in Japan, where people avoid even looking at strangers, but in the touch of Tangen Roshi there was something special, a message or something.

Tangen Roshi

The first thing Jikaku-san told me when I arrived a week later was that I am to go to the zendo and sit in zazen until Roshi-sama calls me. He led me there, showed me where I was to sit, told me that I am not supposed to leave this place except for going to the toilet, he showed me also the toilet, an impeccably clean place with a little altar of a boddhisattva purifier, and left me there. For the next two hours I sat facing the wall and was for the first time experiencing what Buddhism is about: it is about pain in your knees. I could then just about sit in the half lotus position, but to just about sit is not the same as to sit for hours on end; after ten minutes the first pain came, went away after fifteen, came back after half an hour an soon became unbearable, going to the toilet helped only for a short time, all that I read about Zen concentration ceased to mean anything, all my sitting was only just successful attempt of remaining motionless despite the excruciating pain... well, I have been honoured with a version of the traditional trial of waiting, which in old Zen monasteries lasted many days, but can my waiting be compared to that of the Second Patriarch, who waited in front of the cave of Boddhidharma several weeks completely ignored, snow was already starting to cover him, in the and he cut off his own arm and threw it in the cave to attract attention?

Relief that I can make a few steps was my main feeling when Jikaku-san came to call me and led me to the hondo, where, however, I had to sit again in the Japanese manner on the floor. At a low table by the wall Roshi-sama was waiting for me.

"What did you came here for?"

"I'd like to learn zazen."

"What do you want to learn zazen for? You want to stay here some time and then to go back and make money again?" Those seemingly hostile words Roshi-sama spoke with trembling voice, as if he was greeting a prodigal son. I had an impression he was going to cry.

"How long do you want to stay?"

"A month if possible. But there is a problem: I have very little money and I wouldn't be able to pay for my stay." "If you sincerely came here to learn zazen, you can stay here without paying. But if you want to keep your ego, if you don't want to be in harmony, don't stay. Only one month? OK, in the beginning of the next month we have another week long sesshin, this will be a good start for you. But you have to be patient: this is a poor temple and the food is not always enough..."

Takuhatsu

Next day I was given a piece of a wall in the zendo to sit in front of and a task during samu, which is work, this task was emptying the cesspool. I was doing it with Avishai, a lad from Israel, who had read a lot about Zen and came with an aim of achieving Awakening; it was a typical Japanese cesspool, very small and emptied with a big ladle on a long pole, the substance was poured into a 20-litre bucket and carried on a bamboo pole to a vegetable garden, where it served as organic fertiliser. I was also given orioki, which are used at the ritual Zen meals. In Bukkokuji all three meals of the day were ritual, eaten in total silence and preceded by a short sutra chanting, during which the orioki - three bowls put one into another and tied with a piece of cloth - are unwrapped, food is put into them and a few grains of rice are put aside for hungry demons. All meals in Bukkokuji are also scant, like those of a beggar: in the morning a watery rice with a Japanese pickled apricot, and necessarily also a slice of a pickled radish, at midday brown rice, soy paste soup and some vegetable, and also the slice of the pickled radish, which is used after the meal to clean the bowls - hot water is poured in and the radish held with the chopsticks is used to scrub the remains of food; after that the bowls are tied again, all at the table. All the meals look like those of a beggar. This is because Buddhism is about begging.

At least once a month and during some periods every third day Bukkokuji goes out for takuhatsu: all monks in special robes, in straw hats in which they look like huge mushrooms, in straw sandals, jingling with little bells they walk along a street in a group, but only one holds a begging bowl. they stop in front of the first house, chant a sutra without knocking the wooden fish, but with the same rhythm:

"Kan-ji-zai Bo-satsu gyo-jin Han-nya Ha-ra-mi-ta ji..." (Boddhisattva Listener of the World's Cries using his transcendental wisdom...)

The door opens, an old lady with a face of a person honoured with the visit throws a coin into the bowl. But the sutra is chanted to the end:

"...shiki-fu-i-ku, ku-fu-i-shiki..." (...form is no different from void, void is no different from form...) The mushrooms bow deeply, little bells jingling. In front of the next house they chant the same sutra, a short one, called Hannya Shingyo, which means "Heart of Wisdom".

"...mu-ken-ni-bi-zes-shin-i, mu-shiki-so-ku-mi-soku-ko, mu-ken-kai nai-shi mu-i-shiki-kai..." (unimportant ear eye nose tongue, body mind, unimportant colour, sound, smell taste touch, object, unimportant the visible world, unimportant the invisible world...)

Nobody opens the door but when the sutra nears the end a housewife in an apron comes hastily from a neighbourhood and throws a note in. The mushrooms bow and go farther along the narrow lane, between gardens full of bamboo grass and little pines trained to be low and bent. From one of the houses nobody comes out, but when the sutra is finished the mushrooms bow just the same.

Chanting sutras

"...mu mu-myo yaku mu mu-myo jin..." (...unimportant ignorance and unimportant end of ignorance...)

Or perhaps Buddhism is not about begging, but something quite contrary? What might have this 'bowl of the most high class' meant? It was a 'bath day'. every fifth day there is no samu but instead of it ofuro, the Japanese hot bath, and a lot of free time, during this free time Roshi-sama sat at the doorstep of the hondo talking to someone, while Kornelius - with a tea bowl in his hand - run across the yard first one way, then back; Roshi-sama commented: Kornelius itsumo fura fura shimasu ('always runs to and fro'), this is no good for zazen"; Kornelius approached saying: I understand... suddenly Roshi-sama jumped up:

"Chawan from my treasure box!"

"From you treasure box? You gave it to me when I was here last year!"

"Is that so? I have another one, similar."

Roshi-sama rose, went to the hondo and after a while came back with a wooden box in hand, opened it and took a bowl out, it was indeed similar in shape and colour, beautiful, light green and covered in thousands of tiny dark green cracks in the glaze.

"The most high class. When you drink from it, always with dignity, inner quiet. No rush fura fura."

Kornelius looked at it with his eyes wide open, slowly turning it around in his hands. Roshi-sama took it back, put it into the box, shut it and gave it to Kornelius, saying:

"Write on the top the date I gave it to you."

Zendo

Whatever the case, Bukkokuji lives - as Buddha commanded - off begging and gifts that sometimes are brought to the temple. Often these are gifts in kind, standing for some time in front of the altar in the hondo, it may be a big box of rice or a bottle of oil, once for a whole day a washing machine stood there, sometimes it is a box of sweets, in which case an additional meal is organised, tea time, without sutras, without silence. Roshi-sama comes as well for that, he actually likes to talk, like when everyone gathered in a little room between the hondo and the kitchen and someone asked him what sort of music he liked, he talked about Beethoven: "The last evening before I joined the army during the war I went to my room and I sat there listening to the gramophone, an old one, no electricity, Beethoven's Symphony No 9, again and again, at two o'clock I wrote on the sleeve: 'I am listening to it now, maybe the last time'. I joined the air forces and the day my last flight was due the war ended; if my last flight was just a day earlier, nobody of you would be sitting here. But I went back home, the record was still where I left it, I opened it and the inscription was there. But I didn't listen to it any more. After the war I met a nun who introduced me to the Dharma. She took me to the zazen in Kannon temple in Tokyo and then when I heard the Shiseigando sutra, even though I didn't understand the meaning because I didn't have the written text, I knew this was the harmony I was seeking. I couldn't stop crying, it was raining when I was going home, but the rain of my tears was even bigger. I didn't listen to the classical music any more. Beethoven is powerful, but the silence is even more powerful. This is the Tenth Symphony of Beethoven."

Silence: whatever Buddhism is about, silence is the chief activity in Bukkokuji. At least five times forty minutes a day, starting at four in the morning, at 3:50 one of the monks runs through the corridor ringing the bell and at four everyone must be in the zendo, forty minutes of silence with the spine straight and facing the wall while behind your back one of the monks walks slowly with a kyosaku stock in his hands. Only walks, he wouldn't strike unless someone asks: feeling his presence behind the back one has to fold palms and bow; sharp pain helps to concentrate on silence when thoughts jump all over the place like a pack of monkeys. During the second morning zazen Roshi-sama rings a gong in the hondo and then whoever wants jumps and runs to the room between the hondo and the kitchen and waits there in silence for his or her turn because only one person at a time may go for a dokusan, to a room behind the altar where Roshi-sama sits with a picture of his own master, Harada Sogaku, behind his back. He sits there in the lotus position, kyosaku on his lap, his eyes closed, mysterious smile, every entering person is a surprise to him, the smile becomes warm. My first dokusan: I didn't ask the question, but Roshi-sama answered: "Watch your breath. Breathe slowly: in... out... in... out... but not only air. Spirit." "What shall do with the pain in my knees, Roshi-sama?" "The pain is there, but the body is empty. If you can't stand it, try to sit in another position." With a little bell Roshi-sama gives a sign that the dokusan is over, the next person enters. Sometimes Roshi-sama comes to the zendo and walks between rows, sometimes without being asked he strikes with his stick, like the time when he stopped behind us - Avishai on my left, Klaus on my right - roared like a bear: "Always like great mountain!!! Always like a great mountain!!!", he stood behind Klaus, touched his shoulder, and then WALLOP on one side, WALLOP on the other, then the same with Avishai: WALLOP on one shoulder, WALLOP on the other, with all his strength, even with a shout, I thought he was going to break his stick. During the sesshin there is even more silence, eleven times forty minutes, and no talk allowed at all except during dokusan. 

Bukkokuji main altar. Behind it dokusan room with a picture of Harada Sogaku Roshi.

During a sesshin Roshi-sama comes to the midday zazen to say a teishio, or a Buddhist sermon. He starts with a reading from a book of koans and then he talks for an hour; he likes to talk. From a book of koans he reads with a changed voice, sings almost: "Whenever master Gutei was asked about Zen, he simply raised his finger. Once a visitor asked Gutei's boy attendant: 'What does you master teach?' The boy, too, raised his finger. Hearing of this, Gutei cut off the boy's finger with a sharp knife. The boy, screaming, began to run away. Gutei called him and when he turned around, Gutei raised his finger. The boy suddenly became enlightened."

A finger?

 Well, I have read already that it may be better even to cut off an arm or pull out an eye if it obstructs the way. But what else was in that sermon? There was a phrase: "Kyorei raises his hand and Mount Kansan breaks in two." There was also another one: "If there is at least one person who cries and you hear this cry as your own, I could stop this teisho and speak no more."

Breathe in, breathe out, but not just air... What is all this Buddhism about? This question was not spoken during my last dokusan when Roshi-sama asked (alluding to our previous talk): "Where is your flower?" I answered (alluding to his previous answer): "Roshi-sama said that I shouldn't...", he made a big circle in the air and said: "A big flower...". This question was not spoken when after the sesshin I spoke to Tom and Tom said: "This is my seventh sesshin, but the first one really hard psychically, before I just had pain in the knees, like you, but now I almost prayed for the pain to come back, especially the third day, when things start coming up; I have done many things in my life, in Hungary I was in the communist army, you know yourself what it is, then in Australia I was training karate for ten years and sometimes the trainer really got our guts out, but all this is nothing compared to this place, and nothing really holds you here, any time you can get up and go, but you won't escape, because this is all your own rubbish..." This question was not spoken during my last talk with Roshi-san, who with equal joy welcomes every person and with equal ease says goodbye, he said: "Go now because we start a tea ceremony here" and when I, with my backpack on by back, crossed the monastery gate again, I heard the huge drum in the hondo being struck to call for the ceremony. I went along the lanes between the bamboo grass and kinky little pines, everything was wet after the night rain. What is all this Buddhism about? 

Drops on a pine tree
           hang over misty air;
                    a moment passes.

If you want to see more pictures from Bukkokuji, visit my picture blog:

http://worldin8pics.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/bukkokuji.html

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

A Path wet with Dew

Mystical mists at Shitou Shan

“I'll show you the red light district” says Richie and we enter the area of dark alleys to see the pulse of Taipei at midnight. The alleys behind the ancient Buddhist temple are full of people despite the late hour. The temple itself is closed at night, gates locked, but a few streets away restaurants are open, crowds of people move here and there. The smell of turtle soup fills the air, live turtles heaped in huge jars move slowly waiting for their heads to be sliced off, apparently terrapin blood is an aphrodisiac, couples wait for their turn to have a glass of dark red liquid, the head of each terrapin is nailed to the board with one knife, another knife slices through the neck and blood is pored to two glasses. Supposedly erection after it is like an axe, I was told by a Chinese man. Only two restaurants serving terrapin blood are open, long queues of couples waiting in from of them.

“Follow me” says Richie and we enter a maze of very narrow alleys. Here, in the orange light of lamps in red painted doorways of mysterious establishments we pass pretty girls, really beautiful Chinese faces, teenagers. In the narrow alleys the smell is even stronger but here it is not turtle soup but sweat and something else. We walk quickly, the alleys are so narrow that we almost touch those girls, I can see their faces close up. Men in suits and ties move in the other direction. We leave this place and go back to the street with the terrapins. There are some girls waiting on street corners there but they are not so young and not so beautiful.

“I felt strange vibes among those brothels, something like a pain”, I say.

“You are right” says Richie, “I also felt someone might knife me at any moment.” With a feeling of some moral superiority I think that this is not what I meant.

Thousand plastic Boddhisattvas

To think that only the other day I went to the sacred mountain of Shitou Shan where the Taiwanese Buddhists make pilgrimages to soak in the atmosphere of holiness. I stayed in a nunnery where the shaven bald but very beautiful and presumably virtuous girls chant sutras before dawn. They recite fragments of the Lotus Sutra to the fast rhythm of the wooden fish (a musical instrument). Later, after dawn, for an hour they prostrate before the alter of Amida vvveeeerrryyy sssslllooowwwlllyyy as if they were in a slowed down movie and equally slowly they chant “Nnnaaammmooo Aaammmiiitttooofffooo” which means “Praise to the Limitless Light”. All this is done early morning amid the smoke of incense when the sun rays cross the hall at angles. Although on that day there was not much sunlight as the whole mountain was covered in fog and I could not see the way from one temple to another. I walked along those footpaths wet with dew among bamboo groves not knowing where I was going and things suddenly emerged in front of me. For example a crowd of plastic white Bodhisattvas, all identical, or a deserted temple, or a temple not quite deserted, where somebody who spoke English could explain what was going on there. There are many monasteries on Shitou Shan. They are not old like the ancient temples on the holy mountains of mainland China, here they are all new, built of concrete after the last war. Pilgrims come here anyway and the monks and nuns live off what the pilgrims give them. They don't go out to beg, in China this custom is not practised although in other Buddhist countries it is considered important. The Buddhist don't teach a doctrine but “a way” or practice; the first step on the way “from the burning house to the footpath wet with dew” (to use an image taken from the Lotus Sutra) is selfless giving. It is also important that the monks learn humility and don't consider themselves better than other people; if they only eat what other people give them, there is a chance that they actually see it.

One of the temples at Shitou Shan

Around midday the fog began to disperse. I was leaning on the stone railing of one of the temples and looked at the a pagoda emerging from the fog on the ridge across the valley. The fog was being blown away, the bamboos around the temple dripped with dew, big drops fell on moss below. A car drove up the valley, a taxi from Taipei, it stopped on a small car park in front of the temple and two tourists got out of it. They looked like well-off Americans, an expensive camera dangling on the belly, heavy make-up that tried to cover wrinkles – this sort of thing. They looked around the temple while I stood there leaning against the railings and watched them full of critical thoughts about rich American tourists and the way they travel around the world. Then they started walking along the stony path towards the next temple, they passed me but they didn't look at me – a long-haired hippy – with criticism, on the contrary, they gave me a friendly smile and said “Hello”. They walked a few steps and then stopped, talked for a bit and the lady turned back and came again to me. She took a 1000 Taiwanese dollar bill out of her wallet and said with trembling voice.

“I am sure you don't have much money, I have a lot of them, please accept this little gift from me.”

“No. no” I protested, “I'll manage, I didn't ask for anything, did I?”

“Doesn't matter, I am sure you'll find use for it. Please accept it. I went to church yesterday and experienced something very important. I would like to give you something.”

I didn't know what to say. Should I keep on refusing? Dew was dripping from bamboo leaves and the path in front of us was wet indeed.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

Gandhi, King and Kuron

Jacek Kuron with Lech Walesa

If you are ever to be interrogated by the secret police, remember – they want you to grass on your friends. Refuse to tell them anything. Don't lie, it could be used against you. Don't give them information you may think not important, this could be used to break the resistance of other people. They will try to deceive you, don't be fooled. They will try to break your resistance by threats and lies, the law doesn't stop them lying but they are not allowed to carry out their threats. Tell them your name and address, to all other questions – no comment. Remember that you will have to face your friends when you are released.

I remember this advice very well. It was spread by word of mouth and on leaflets. It helped me a lot during all those interrogations. Perhaps I was lucky – I was never beaten up, I didn't have little children whom the secret police could harm, they never suggested to me that they would arrest my pregnant wife and she may lose her baby in the cell. In the end I did not grass and could meet my friends without shame after I came out. Recently the Institute of National Remembrance, which looks after the files of old communist secret police, certified that I did not grass and consequently I can have a status of a victim of the regime. To be honest I don't feel like a victim at all, for me it was adventure, actions of the secret police were the obstacles, how can you have adventures without obstacles? Can you be a victim of a high mountain like Everest because it is difficult to climb? Anyway I was given this status and was entitled to look into those files the secret police had on me. I did look into them. And what?

Just to be clear – I didn't look there because I wanted to know who grassed . Some people have problems understanding that those who then risked their freedom and sometimes even lives do not really want to know who was less than loyal. It is quite simple – grasses and moles are a pain in the arse of history and don't really deserve more attention than – well – a pain in the arse. Why did I look into those papers then? Well, mostly I was interested how the other side saw the events I remembered so well. What did they actually know? As a writer I was also interested in the style of prose of those police reports, I might even use this knowledge one day. However, in the process I did learn who either broke down or was fooled and agreed to cooperate with the police. And what should I do now? Should I condemn them publicly? Shall I demand that they should be punished because many years ago they broke down under pressure during an interrogation?

Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Jacek Kuron were three great leaders who lived during the 20^th century; all three were inspiration for me. They were very different people active in very different situations. Mahatma Gandhi resisted British Colonial Power in India, Martin Luther King struggled against racism and Jacek Kuron was a leader of Polish anticommunist movement that led to the formation of “Solidarnosc” in 1980. The personalities and situations are very different but they have a few things in common. All three fought in defence of human dignity but without violence. All three claimed that their goal is not to destroy the enemy but to lead to the situation where both sides see that the supposed enemy is not really an enemy but a partner to talks. The goal of non-violent struggle is reconciliation, not destruction of the other guys. The success is when the former enemy becomes a partner in talks about the common future. In 1989 “Solidarnosc” and the communists sat at the round table and so the communism in Poland ended without violence. It was agreed that the communists will not be persecuted in the new situation.

And what about those who weren't really communists but in the past were broken or fooled and “went to the dark side”? Shall we rubbish them publicly?

I refuse to do this.

Before I elaborate I'd like to point out something that may not be obvious to everybody – in the process of breaking there have to be two sides: those who break and those who are broken. In most cases the difference is very clear and in my opinion mixing the two only leads to confusion.

Here are some examples to illustrate the point:

Case one – a young man during an interrogation agreed to cooperate with the secret police but soon after he told us not to say anything important in his presence because he was forced to act as an informant. This man is of course registered in the police files as one and will never be given status of a victim but can we – the supposed victims of his actions – really blame him?

Case two – a young man was informed during the interrogation that if he doesn't talk his pregnant wife will be arrested as well and may lose the baby in a smelly cell. He started talking and a few people were arrested as a result. When he was released he told us everything and withdrew from any dissident activity. He will never get the victim status but can we not forgive him?

Case three – a single mum in a difficult situation, very active for a time but later avoided the dissident circles – this is how I remember her. I hear today she is registered as an informant. I have seen in my file a few reports that could have been written by her. What was in those reports? Things like “Wlodek Fenrych visited me today, we talked about the yesterday's concert”, few words and virtually no information of any relevance. Some say – no matter what she said, she did talk to them which means she betrayed us. Betrayed? What exactly did she betray? Her reports did not lead to me being arrested or my house being searched. It is clear to me that she conciously tried not to say anything important. Am I to rubbish her today? Well, I am not going to.

A different case is that of Zbigniew Konieczny, a proper mole in the dissident circles in Poznan. He signed all the protest declarations, distributed leaflets and co-edited an underground periodical but at the same time wrote verbose reports for the secret police. I have read those reports and it is clear to me that he was not one of those who broke down under duress, he was wholeheartedly on the side of those who did the breaking. What shall we do with people like that? Is it all right to rubbish them?

Jacek Kuron t-shirt

I have written earlier that I am a disciple of Gandhi, King and Kuron and will quote them to explain why I am not inclined to rubbish anybody. All Three maintained that victory is not the situation when the enemy is defeated and we take over the role of those who do the breaking. The proper victory is a situation in which they, too, realize that they, too, are human and can behave like humans. In other words victory is the situation when those who do the breaking cease doing so. With the exception of those who broke the law as it was then – is it right to rubbish those who ceased to do the breaking?

I'll add in secret that I am a disciple of one more person – that Jew from Nazareth in whose divinity Jacek Kuron could not believe. I have read carefully the four existing biographies of this Jew and between the lines I saw the following advice:

If you are ever to be interrogated, remember – they want you to hate them.

You should refuse.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

Can you pray while dancing?

Canoeing in the Algonquin

There is nothing provincial about “Algonquin Provincial Park”. Admittedly it is far from any great cities but this is the whole point – it is an area of carefully protected wilderness so that inhabitants of the great cities could taste it. So that they could put up a tent at a camp site with hot showers, hire a aluminium canoe and paddle among the wild lakes. It works more or less like a national park but was created by the provincial authorities, hence the middle part of the name. The first part is derived from the name of an Indian tribe which once lived there. This was long time ago, nowadays one does not hear about Algonquins, they must have vanished somewhere. All that is left is the name and the forest whose virginity is carefully protected.

When after the American Revolution the loyalists moved to Canada, they settled in Southern Ontario. It is a fertile country so the forests were cut down and land ploughed over. The northern part of the province has not been ploughed over because it is rocky and uneven, but it is extremely picturesque. Rocky hills covered with virgin forest, innumerable lakes and rivers between them – a paradise for landscape painters if they are prepared to spend some time in the wilderness. The most picturesque corner of Northern Ontario, which now forms the Algonquin Park, was indeed discovered early in the 20^th century by Canadian painters known as “The Group of 7”. Charming canvases of those painters must have contributed to the popularity of the park.

It is an area of carefully maintained wilderness. Apart from highway 60 that cuts the park in two there are almost no roads. There are no hotels but there are camp sites - some of them with hot showers – where you can put up a tent if there is space. You can hire a canoe and paddle somewhere deep into the wilderness. Once upon a time a canoe was the most important means of transport in Canada – in Algonquin Park it still is. The area is covered by a network of interconnected lakes and rivers, you can get your tent into a boat and paddle as far as you can and then camp on a lake shore. There will be no hot showers there and you will have to watch for bears – they may want to steal your food. Don't ever keep your food in the tent or a bear may want to join you there. You don't want that kind of a Teddy in your sleeping bag – they are fluffy to be sure but they have other qualities as well.

Sacred fire

There are a lot of paddling trails criss-crossing the park. There are not many walking trails, though, which is a pity as the area is really beautiful. There are rocky hills over the lakes, sometimes forming granite cliffs just over the shore. The views from those cliffs are stunning – virgin maple and spruce forest, islands in the middle of the lakes, rivers winding through swamps. The view from the cliff over Whitefish Lake is so breathtaking that one can almost feel the majesty of the Creator manifested there. I was walking the trail along this cliff with Ania and Ola when we heard somebody laughing in front of us.

“Hahahaha! I thought I heard voices!”

It was a man dressed a bit like an Indian but without Indian features and speaking with distinctly English accent.

“You heard our voices, didn't you?” I said.

“I meant spiritual voices. This is a sacred rock on the Indians, they come here for a vision. The Indians are here today, on that peninsula on the lake, they have a pow wow today and tomorrow.”He pointed to the triangular peninsula in the middle of the lake. There was indeed the sound of drums coming from that direction.

“A pow wow? Here? And what tribe is it?”

“Algonquin.”

“Algonquin? I thought they didn't exist any more.”

”Oh yes they do. And they have their pow wow right now.”

“Can the non-Algonquins go to their pow wow as well?”

“Of course. Tomorrow at six in the morning there is the ceremony of greeting the sun and at noon the dances start.”

Veteran with his orders

It poured down at six and we didn't want to get out of the tent but it stopped later and at noon we were by the lake. There was quite a big camp at the peninsula, tents, cars, families with children. Some young men under a free standing roof structure tried the sound of a big drum. Away from the camp near the woods there was a camp fire where two girls in what looked like Indian dresses slowly moved their drum over the smoke. We wondered, though, were the Indians where. Most of those who camped there had neither facial features nor skin colour on Indians. Some people wore some kind of Indian clothing, there was even a new shop-bought tipi there, but it all looked a bit artificial. Some outfits look odd to say the least and didn't look Indian at all. For example there was a man in fringed leggings, trainer shoes and a red shirt with a long row of military orders. He approached us and said:

“It will start a bit later, the grand entry will be at one. We ask not to take pictures during the Grand Entry. You don't know what the Grand Entry is? Every pow wow starts with one, when all the dancers enter the holy circle around the drums. We always dance clockwise around the drums, this is the direction in which the sun moves round the Earth. The veteran warriors open the procession. These days they are usually the ones that serve in the army. Behind them are men dancers in various styles, followed by the women and the children. No pictures are to be taken during the Grand Entry as well as during the Veteran Dance and the Flag Dance. The spiritual aspect of the ceremony has to be respected. You also have to stand during those dances and take your hat off, unless you have an eagle feather in it. During other dances you can take pictures and during the inter-tribal dance you can join in. The songs we sing have no lyrics, we chant just meaningless syllables. This is because the pow wow was traditionally a meeting of various tribes speaking different languages. We sing without words so no language is privileged.

The Grand Entry started at one o'clock – some fellas sat around a big drum and started playing monotonous rhythm. They also sang, this was the traditional Indian choral music with piercingly high falsetto voices. There was no single dance step that everybody would dance, each dancer danced in his or her own style. The veterans walked majestically touching softly the ground with their feet before each step as if checking if the ground is hard enough to stand on. The grass dancer behind them danced wildly shaking the huge amount of fringes he had at his arms and his legs. Women dancers in traditional dresses with arm fringes reaching the ground stepped gracefully, the fringes swinging there and back with each step. Young women dressed in bright colours with equally bright shawls in their hands jumped high and the shawls unfurled behind their backs. There were also girls in jingle dresses who jingled as they jumped because they had hundreds of little bells attached to their shifts. Last went children who tried to emulate dance steps of the adults.

Jingle dress

Well beyond the circle of dancers, near the woods, there was a camp fire carefully tended by two men. I wanted to approach this fire but the fire keeper told ma that this is the sacred fire and it can only be approached from the east. The circle around the fire is sacred as well. The eastern approach has been marked by two stones and one can circle it only clockwise – the way the sun circles the earth. By the entry to the sacred circle there was a container with prayer tobacco. If you want to pray, take a handful of tobacco, stand beyond the fire facing east and when you finish praying throw the tobacco into the fire – the smoke takes the prayers to the Creator.

While I was talking to the fire keeper some girls in jingle dresses came with handfuls of tobacco and threw it to the fire. Why?

“Because the jingle dress is a prayer for somebody's health. The jingle dance is in itself a prayer. Usually the family of the sick person ask a a girl for a prayer and gives her a handful of tobacco, after the dance she comes and throws the tobacco into the fire.

What? Is he serious? Can you pray while dancing? These Indians are crazy, aren't they?

If these were stately dances at least. Some of them are not only not stately but hardly serious. For example the potato dance. It has to be danced in pairs – the potato in question is held in place between the two foreheads. Hands of course are to be held behind their backs. There is a prize for the pair which holds the potato the longest.

In the evening there is food – everyone is invited. Of course traditional Native American cuisine is served. There are rules about who is being served first – the elderly first, then women and children, then the warriors and the chief in the end. Of course those who come first have to remember that there has to be enough for those who come last.

I learned also who are these Algonquins who organize this pow wow, apparently every year in the same place. They are descendants of the Algonquins who once hunted here and now live in the surrounding towns. Racial purity is not important. The fact that Canadian authorities do not consider them “Native Americans” is not important either. The musicians, dancers and veterans sometimes come from far away. Pow wows like this are nowadays organized all over America, it is a pan-Indian movement both in the U.S. and Canada. Some of them are organized in the middle of the wilderness (sometimes carefully maintained, like the Algonquin Park), sometimes on reservations and sometimes in the centres of big cities. And the music – which for a white ear sounds like a wild scream – is a proof that this is not tourist attraction. This is modern Native American culture created for Native American consumption.

You will find this text, 
and many more on the subject, 
in my book "DO THEY STILL LIVE IN WIGWAMS?":

Which way to Strawberry Fields?

Arnie General in his hat of a royaneh.

When I look at these clouds I sometimes think that the life is like them. They appear, they grow, sometimes they are huge and cause a storm and then they are blown apart. It is the same with people, said Arnie General as he sat on the veranda of his house.

Arnie is an Onondaga chief. I first met him nine years ago. He showed me then the reserve of the Iroquois on Grand River in Ontario. He took me in his car here and there, among other things he brought me to the Cayuga Longhouse in Sour Springs. This Longhouse wasn’t especially long, it was just a house built with huge wooden logs. In the middle of the front wall it had a tiny window and a door on the right hand side. I asked then whether I could enter, but Arnie told me that this is a sacred place, open only for ceremonies. I asked if I could be present at a ceremony. Arnie answered that he couldn’t see any objections, but there weren’t any ceremonies in the near future.

Longhouse ceremonies don’t have fixed dates in the European calendar. The Iroquois were an agricultural people and the ceremonies are connected with the gifts of the Earth that appear during the year, but the dates depend on observation of nature and are not fixed in the calendar. Only recently there have been some adjustments made to the calendar, because most of the participants have regular jobs, so the ceremonies nowadays take place on Sundays.

To say that Arnie is a “chief” of the Onondaga is slightly misleading. His real title is royaneh, which should be translated as noble. This title has existed among the Iroquois at least since Deganavidah walked the earth. Deganavidah, or Peacemaker (his name is sacred and should not be pronounced in vain), wasn’t an ordinary man. His mother was a virgin, his father was the Creator himself. He walked the earth long before the arrival of the white man and it was he who persuaded the constantly fighting Iroquois tribes to bury the hatchet and solve their problems by talking. It was agreed that fifty royaneh representing all five Iroquois nations would meet regularly in the Onondaga Longhouse and all the conflicts would be solved peacefully there. If one of those fifty royaneh dies or is revoked, another would be appointed in his place. Only men can be royaneh, but only women can appoint them or revoke them. All this means that a royaneh resembles more a Member of Parliament than a “chief”, who tells warriors what to do. A sign of royaneh's dignity is a hat with horns of a deer.

Iroquois flags.

The five nations mentioned above are Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida and Mohawk. Later another nation – Tuscarora – joined them and nowadays we talk about the Six Nations – this is practically a synonym of the name “Iroquois”. The fifty chiefs meet in the Onondaga Longhouse to this day. The Iroquois claim that as a result of the lost wars they ceded most of their lands, but they never gave up sovereignty. In the wars fought by the British Crown even today they take part as allies, not as British subjects. Their veterans appear in ceremonies in uniforms of Six Nations. They have their own representations at international sporting events; they have their own flag, even their own passports. Those passports are issued in the name of the council of the fifty chiefs. But the Onondaga Longhouse is not only a Parliament building, it is also a house of prayer. The Cayuga Longhouse in Sour Springs is just a prayer house, open only for the ceremonies.

A Longhouse is called thus because the Iroquois once lived in communal houses and these were long indeed. They were covered from top to bottom with tree bark shingle. Many families lived there together. Religious ceremonies were also held there. However, already in the 18^th century the Iroquois had accepted many ways of the white man, such as agriculture or building houses inhabited by just one family. It seemed that the old religion would also vanish, that the Iroquois would accept the religion of the white man. Many of them actually did so, but not all, because just then appeared the prophet who renewed the religious tradition of the Longhouse.

The prophet’s name was Handsome Lake. As a young man he was a brave warrior, but since he was forced to live on the rez – he became depressed. One day he suddenly lost his consciousness and fell to the floor, but when a few days later his relatives wanted to bury him – he suddenly got up and said that he had been to the Strawberry Fields and met the messengers of the Creator. Strawberry Fields is a synonym for Heaven; old Iroquois people say that a dying person is surrounded by the aroma of strawberries. Thus Handsome Lake was in Strawberry Fields, where he received Good News from the Creator and was supposed to pass on this Good News to his people. This Good News supported acceptance of some of the ways of the white man – like the methods of agriculture or of house building – but certain things were strictly banned. According to this prophecy drinking alcohol and abortion are grave sins. Indians had vast knowledge of herbal medicine, they knew herbs that induce abortion; during the time of national tragedy they were used often and the population decreased rapidly. It seems that the Handsome Lake prophecy helped to stop that process. Of course the prophecy insisted on keeping the old ceremonies alive, but they would be performed in a separate house. This is the Longhouse, which does not have to be especially long.

Interior of a longhouse.

When I met Arnie again I asked him whether there would be a ceremony held in the near future and if so could I be present there. Arnie grabbed a phone and for a few minutes talked in a language I didn’t understand. Afterwards he said:

“OK, come on Sunday to Sour Springs Longhouse. But you have to bring a gift, something to eat. At the end of the ceremony there is a meal and everybody shares food.”

I came with Marysia on Sunday slightly ahead of time. The ceremony was to be presided by Cleve General, a Cayuga royaneh (it was with him Arnie talked over the phone), but he wasn’t there yet. A group of women was gathered in front of the open door. Some ladies wore something that looked like traditional dresses, although they had no connection with what we imagine Indian women should wear. Men came in their ordinary clothing, with no Indian accents. Cleve came after a while and there was a short talk about whether it is OK for us to be present at the ceremony. Apparently not everybody liked that idea, although in the end we were invited on the condition that we take no photographs or notes.

The Sour Springs Longhouse has two doors, one (the front one) for the ladies and one (in the back) for men. Inside men and women sit separately on benches around the walls. In the middle there are two iron stoves and benches for the drummers.

What does a prayer in a Longhouse look like? In the beginning there was a longish speech by royaneh Cleve General in the Cayuga language. Of course I didn’t understand anything. But this was just the beginning, after that there were dances, three hours in all.

The Longhouse prayer is a dance. The row of dancers goes around the room anticlockwise. During one of the dances a large pot with some thick red juice was placed in the middle of the floor. Everybody drank from it, I tried it, too. It was strawberry juice.

Is it meant to be foretraste of Strawberry Fields?

Cayuga Longhouse in Sour Springs

You will find this text, 
and many more on the subject, 
in my book "DO THEY STILL LIVE IN WIGWAMS?":