JOURNEY - on Mastering Ukemi

by Daniel Linden

  “I use allegorical tales to transmit unknowable mysteries. My lesson is in there and sometimes buried so deep that I get phone calls in the middle of the night from students I haven’t seen in ten years who have just figured out what I was talking about and have called to thank me.

  “Telling stories is how I keep you guys interested and coming back. Sailing masters taught the ways of the sea and seamanship to countless generations with this type of story. Zen masters use this device all the time. They might be a lot shorter than my stories, but a koan is a koan.”

  “Do you think it works?” asked Christian.

  I looked around the room. “What do you think? But wait, we’re digressing. There was still one more lesson I learned from my sensei’s story. It is that ukemi is far more complex than we are led to believe. Ukemi is a mystery and a way of life. When we begin aikido we are told to practice ukemi and then taken in a corner and someone shows us how to roll back and forth and then over our heads. We learn that ukemi is rolling. A very short time later we are actually practicing and then we find out that the guy who attacks is called the uke. Then one day, if you are lucky, you see someone like Hiroshi Ikeda take ukemi for someone like Saotome.

  “God, he was so fast and athletic! He would twist out of things others would take break falls from. He would go to his knees and never lose his center and continue attacking Saotome until he was finally released. Watching Ikeda Sensei taught me that ukemi is far more than rolling or attacking. After many years, if you stay with it you finally learn that ukemi is all about the connection, the bonding of life force that unites the uke to everything and everyone around him. Some call it Zanshin, but I prefer not to use Japanese terms. It’s too easy to fake true understanding by using a term very few people understand.

  “When I wrote On Mastering Aikido I was certain that I understood the archetypal form of ukemi. I began writing another book called Journey, On Mastering Ukemi. I got sidetracked. Hey, it happens, and when I finally got back to it I realized that everything I had started writing about ukemi was wrong. How’s that for an admission from a big-shot 6th dan. Huh? There I was, rokudan, and teaching something that only five years later I have to admit was completely wrong. I tore those chapters up and started again.

  “I know you all understand the physical aspects of attack; yokomen, shomen and tsuki, hell all the different strikes, and of never losing connection, of never giving up or offering an opening you can’t cover. I know all of you grasp the idea of attacking constantly until you are either released, you counter nage, or you submit in the form of a tap or a roll out. This is all fundamental and everyone’s sensei should be teaching that. I am more interested in that true archetypal form, that universal, that eternal constant idea of ukemi. To me it is a perfect metaphor for living a warrior’s life. I…” I realized that no one was listening to me or even looking at me. They were looking over my shoulder and the look in their eyes held pure wonder.

  I slowly turned around and found myself staring at the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had an ageless and even timeless beauty. She was clearly in her early twenties, but could have been thirty or fifteen.

  “Sensei, this is my sister, Esra.”

  ***

  The maid came to tell us dinner was being served. Celine and Esra led the way to the dining room. We walked behind. When we arrived Mr. Demiroglu offered us all a chair. Celine stood behind a seat and said, “You are the guest of honor Sensei. Please sit here.” I did, and thanked her father.

  It was a very nice dinner. I recognized everything they served and had one of my all time favorite sides, a loaf of fire baked bread that comes to table like a giant football, but gradually falls until it is completely flat. I love the flavor and texture. We had bits of roast lamb on a kabob and eggplant. There were salads of chick peas, tomatoes, cucumber and other types of beans and humus. It was delicious.

  While we were eating the guys did their best, but really had a hard time not staring at Esra. Like I said, they did their best. She was animated and clearly excited. She kept asking questions of each of us which Celine translated. She would say something and then there would be a pause, and then Celine would look at someone else and translate the question. Then, of course there would be a long-winded answer as each of the guys tried to say something impressive. Celine was having a wonderful time. She smiled so much I could hardly believe it.

  Eventually the dinner wound down and Mr. Demiroglu told us he had booked the hotel for tonight and tomorrow night and that we were his guests. If we wished, he would have Mustafa available for us tomorrow to see Istanbul. Tomorrow night we were to be his guests at a nice restaurant on the Bosporus. I told him we were very grateful and Celine walked us to the van.

  “Your sister seems very nice. Your whole family is very nice. Where is your youngest sister?”

  “She studies at the Sorbonne.”

  “So I expect she speaks French,” I smiled.

  “Oh, yes. We both do.”

  I got into the van and rolled down the window. Celine was still there. “Celine, I thought you said your sister spoke English. It didn’t sound like she was speaking Turkish – your parents clearly didn’t understand what she was saying. What language were you speaking?”

  Celine looked deep into my eyes and eventually a smile formed on her lips. “It was English. At least she thinks it is.” Then Celine let out a howl of laughter we would probably have heard at the hotel. She was still laughing when we drove away.

  Chapter 10

  The Far Side of the World

  Kathmandu is one of the most exotic cities in the world. We stretched and yawned as we slowly worked our way down the aisle of the huge airplane. I was looking forward to seeing how the guys would react to the utterly foreign culture waiting for them outside the terminal. Once we managed the long line at customs we gathered our luggage and moved through the old brick building and out onto the sidewalk in front. There, small minivans and other not so modern conveyances waited to take us and the other departing passengers into the city. I saw an excited driver waving and walked over.

  “Can you take us to the Kathmandu Guest House?”

  “Yes, sure, how many?” he asked.

  I pointed over toward the sidewalk and nodded and the guys walked over carrying their luggage.

  “Yes, of course. Six hundred Rupees.”

  “We’ll pay four hundred.” I told him quietly, smiling.

  “But I could not make any money this way.” He shook his head and waited.

  “You are correct,” I said, “I see I have made a mistake. I will pay you five hundred rupees.” I waited.

  “I still could not make any money doing this.” He asserted.

  “Okay.” I said and picked up my bags and began to walk toward the other drivers waiting in line. I really don’t like to haggle, but I know that one hundred rupees is a days wages here and I don’t mind helping the economy and maintaining the man’s vehicle, but there were others who I could just as easily help.

  “Wait, sir. Perhaps, if you might consider using this taxi in the days during your stay I could make an exception to carry you and the other travelers to your destination,” he said.

  “Okay, I’ll let the desk at the hotel know to contact you for any traveling we will do, but you must keep the price fair.” I lifted my bag in the door and shoved it under the seat and we all climbed inside. It was a tight squeeze. I knew what was coming so I did not want to be on the side looking out a window. I managed to grab the middle seat in back and the guys were all happy as they thought they were going to get a good look at the old city as we drove to our hotel in the heart of the Thamel district. They were. Just not the kind of look they were expecting. Celine and Esra took the front seats behind the driver. They are experienced travelers and have been in cabs in the hearts of old cities before. I saw them looking for solid hand-holds.

  Drivers in Kathmandu have a vocabulary that I do not understand. It isn’t just that they keep shouti
ng at each other in Nepali, but that they keep pushing their vehicles forward at top speed in ever closing ranks until someone backs off and allows them space to wedge themselves into whatever moving space is their excuse for a lane, here. There is no rhyme or reason. But that is not all, that much happens in New York or New Orleans; here they honk their horns.

  The driver pulled out into the oncoming traffic as if it were not there at all. He began to honk his horn and the drivers that were careening toward us somehow swerved and avoided killing us at top speed. We were off. The driver continued to honk in a staccato rhythm and as I closed my eyes and desperately avoided looking out the window I could feel the van sway and rock up on its hubs as the driver slammed us through the busy metropolitan streets. It didn’t stop. Not once did the driver even alter the rhythm of his honking and this is what I mean by a language I do not understand. It is clear once you hear this honking, this rhythm, this concert in motion, that here is certainly an understood communication.

  These drivers spend their days in this metallic conflagration without regard to the passengers and what they endure. They deal with the others, the drivers who are the flow and force of the roads they move upon and they manage to convey their feeling and intentions with a nudge of a wheel, a turn of a tire and the incessant honking of the horns. The truly amazing thing is that with all the threats and near collisions and menacing that the drivers are constantly in motion and facing, there are very few cars with any collision damage. It is the only comforting thing to ponder while being slammed back and forth across the seat. We were really rocking back and forth.

  I heard Christian groan. Then I heard Curtis, who had spent a year in Korea in the Army, say, “If you puke on me I’ll throw you off a mountain.”

  “I thought I loved roller coasters,” he said. “This is horrible.”

  “If you have to, look out the window and pay attention to what you are seeing,” I said. “Look at the people and the store fronts, and look for the elephants.”

  I felt him move in the seat and then he said, “Elephants? I don’t see any.”

  “Well, they’re there. Keep looking.” I knew that if he focused on the distance it would be like a sailor that keeps his eyes on the water line in the horizon. It stops the nausea. At least he stopped groaning and started making comments about what we were passing.

  “Sensei! Is that a Ghurka soldier? There on the sidewalk?”

  I kept my eyes closed and asked, “Is he in front of the Royal Palace?”

  “Yeah, well it’s something like that. Big with…

  The cab rocked and jolted and the tires squealed. So did Celine.

  “If he’s in front of the Royal Palace and he is holding a machine gun and wearing a hat with the side pinned and turned up and has a big-ass khukuri knife in a belt then it’s probably a Ghurka.” Yeah. I settled back and held on. We were getting near to Thamel and it would be over soon.

  At that moment I knew we were in Asia. There is no other place on Earth that has the feel, the sound, the rhythm, or the stench of life as in the Far East. I opened my eyes and looked out the window and saw the Presidential Palace where a few years ago the Royal family was gunned down by one of its own in a mass butchery that shocked the world.

  A solo Ghurka soldier was standing his post outside the Palace and tourists were snapping pictures. I am not sure that I would do that, but he seemed as immutable as a statue as we careened past. His starched green uniform and the deadly khukuri in its sheath at his back were polished and rigid and completely out of place in this city of opposites. I closed my eyes again. The honking changed as we moved closer into the heart of Thamel; it took on a life of its own and became a pounding, chanting, almost certainly Asian sound as the smell of dung and feces crowded the stench of a million automobiles without any type of pollution controls.

  The honking was taking on a new urgency as the roads narrowed and the streets were becoming crowded with not only vehicles, but wandering tourists, citizens, the odd holy man, ancient hippies, writers, photographers, street hawkers, thieves, whores, beggars, con men, and the children; the never ending march of poor, half dressed and begging children.

  I cautiously stole a glance at Christian while we were driving across a small cobbled courtyard and he was staring out the window not quite conscious. Chris was grinning from ear to ear and Curtis was, as usual, cataloguing the city life with an earnest and stern gaze. For us, for now, the honking was over. We pulled past the private guards at the alley leading up to the Kathmandu Guest House and into the brick courtyard filled with tables for guests.

  ***

  “I want to see what’s around the hotel.” Chris told me as he joined me for a late afternoon beer. The sun was sinking across the city and temperatures were low enough so I was glad I had brought a sweater. In the far distance we could see the Himalayan Mountains rising above the air pollution like a jagged set of teeth. We had exchanged money at near-usury rates in the hotel’s lobby and each gone off to shower and change from the long trip across twelve time zones. We had private rooms. They were very reasonable even during the height of tourist season and I’ve discovered that grown men really prefer their privacy. We would have precious little privacy during the trek so we might as well enjoy it while we could.

  “I have HBO,” he told me after a moment.

  “Yeah, isn’t that something?” I said. “Even in a small off-the-wall hotel in the middle of nowhere we still have HBO. Hard to believe.”

  “I don’t know if I would call the center of Kathmandu the middle of nowhere, and this is the tourist area, you said.” Chris looked around and sipped his beer.

  “Well, this is a very popular area for climbers and trekkers, but I really don’t know if it’s the heart of the tourist area. I think it might be a lot more interesting than real touristy spots, so we’re here. Yeah, over at the Sheraton we would certainly have HBO. For sure. You want to go over to the Khukuri House? They have just about every kind and style of khukuri knife made, and it’s pretty interesting. Do you know where everyone’s rooms are? Let’s see if they might want to go, too.” I got up and Chris followed.

  It took a while, but we finally got everyone together. We all walked slowly down the street looking into the shops and businesses as we made our way over the rough cobblestone road. It was a two block walk to the khukuri store. There were street vendors selling these same knives, but I warned the guys off as we were bombarded by solicitations and requests to come into the shops or to stop and look over the displayed goods. Cashmere sweaters, shawls, T-shirts, jewelry, dolls, carved wooden boxes and display cases crammed with low grade silver from Tibet; everything you would expect from a third-world tourist destination and more. Finally after a few blocks I stopped and pointed up the street to a sign above a doorway and we all crossed the cobblestones and walked up to the closed door.

  “I do believe it is closed,” Chris commented.

  Christian looked through the window with a hand to his face to cut out the light. “They look like they’re doing business, just closed for now,” he said.

  “Well, we can come back tomorrow, then” Chris answered. “Or should we bother? Maybe we should buy stuff for souvenirs after we get back. That way we don’t have to store anything during the trek.”

  “I wasn’t planning on buying a souvenir.” I said. “I’m buying a knife for the trek. I want something to carry on the trail, something that can cut a small branch and something that can slice cheese and something that might scare a thief or communist, for that matter. Not that anything like that will be an issue. They have all types and sizes of knives in here. From small three-inch baby khukuris to things that will cut off a bulls head, from ceremonial to police models, this place has every type you can think of including the famous Ghurka knives.” I was pointing through the window as I was talking.

  “Sensei, exactly what is the Ghurka knife?” Christian asked.

  “Ghurkas are one of the most feared fighting forces in the world. T
here is a lot of myth and legend attached to them, but the one truth that I know is that they carry the single scariest fighting knife I have ever seen and maybe the deadliest in any army anywhere. They are from Nepal, here, and membership is the most sought after thing a young man can do. Or rather to attempt membership, that is. Every year there are competitions all over the country for the right to merely try out for the few open positions in the regiment.” I kept looking through the window.

  “They’re the guys who scared the pants off the Argentineans when they landed during the Falklands war, right?” Curtis said. “They landed on the beach and the dug-in Argentinean Army, who by-the-way said that they were going to defend the island to the death, saw that the British had sent the Ghurka regiment and they raised the white flag. They didn’t want anything to do with fighting the Ghurkas.

  “The legends go back for hundreds of years. The way I understand it, when the British first encountered the Ghurkas it was during a battle, probably one of the local regions that had to be overcome to unify India. The battle was so fierce and the tenacity of the Ghurka soldier so single minded that the British were defeated. But then a really weird thing happened.

  “The Ghurkas were so impressed with the tactics that the British officers used in the battle that after the surrender, they asked to speak with the commanding officers. They told them how impressed they were and then asked the British to be their officers!” I shook my head. “Later, the British employed as many as five Ghurka regiments at any given time, but if I am not mistaken it has been reduced to only one. I am probably wrong, but I believe that Prince Charles himself actually once commanded the Ghurka regiment. They usually call on them when something is particularly hairy. A platoon of Ghurkas once massacred around fifteen hundred unarmed Indian men, women, and children in Gandhi’s uprising.”