Drupka Kunley

I recently read The Divine Madman—Bhutanese folklore on the adept Drupka Kunley. Drupka is a pure avadhuta (protean in nature). His wild, obscene, and spontaneous antics are surprisingly enlightening. I’m inspired by his unconventional wisdom. In the spirit of avadhuta, I’ve recently dabbled around on an intermission from my jazz.

The Tiger’s Nest outside of Paro, Bhutan

Bhutan is all it’s cracked up to be and more. After three months in India I can hardly believe such a clean, unpopulated, gorgeous, culturally conserved land is right next-door. GNH! One arrives and inevitably asks: Is this Asia? The highlight reel includes seeing a dear old friend, Fin Norbu, mountain biking (mostly descending) the 4,000 meter pass between Ha and Paro, the intrepid Tiger’s Nest (pictured above), and regretfully almost breaking my hand falling off said mountain bike… a painful reminder that certain activities are not so agreeable with holding and playing a trumpet. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop.

Sometimes it goes like this… sometimes it goes like that…

A day’s work. Punakha Valley, Bhutan

Sonam Dorji, Bhutanese folk maestro, singing and playing the lute in a traditional garb, or Gho

I didn’t find jazz in Bhutan. I did meet with Sonam Dorji, a foremost scholar and practitioner of Bhutanese mountain music. Although not even close to jazz, I’ll share Dorji’s work. Who knows… possible room for future experimentation? What’s funny is that while listening to Dorji’s complementary album in the car ride to Tiger’s Nest, my dear friend’s mother, who spent the majority of her life in a small mountainside village, remarked on how boring the music must be to me. I kind of like it though. It’s peaceful. And the  CD that followed… David Guetta…

 

Railay, Thailand

While the hand healed, I snorkeled around in Thailand (one activity you can do with one hand). The New Year was a quiet one on Ko Kradan. It was mostly just nice to catch up with my family, who made the trip across the pond. The 1st of January naturally began on a blue note. It rained all day. On the sunny side, there was no hangover to beat. And the mini typhoon stirred up a phenomenon from the depths of the ocean in the form of hoards and hoards of purple jellyfish. I caught a glimpse of Bangkok’s jazz scene at Saxophone Pub before returning “home” to Bombay.

I now prepare for Cape Town. I leave in a day. Anticipate a music heavy post concluding (for now at least, heh heh) my work in India. For now, I leave you with a prelude of introspection:

— Indian Eyes (Prelude to the Coda) —

Today, I randomly took a stroll down Carter Road in Bandra as the sun fell into the ocean. I surprised myself. This sudden impulse was a truly fitting conclusion to my time in India. I recalled my very first venture out in Bombay, which took me out to Carter Road. The heat and humidity were overbearing. I was swimming in my t-shirt. The Bombay smell was still new. The expansive rocky coastline, known for romance, was spoiled by more trash than I’d seen in all of Stockholm. I was put off.

Three months pass. A lot of things happen. A lot changes, in all honesty. Small changes. The kinds of changes that you don’t realize have taken place until you revisit a place and see it completely differently. Today, the Carter Road Promenade was enchanting.

The garbage still dusts the rocks. Beggars are busy. Workers and slum dwellers are bathing. One boy is shitting below the tide line. He catches me glancing at him and becomes too embarrassed to finish the motions and pretends to wash himself. Nothing has physically changed. But for better or worse, I see past all these things now. I see the beauty. I even see the romance. I suppose I see it as a local would.