Dave Knickerbocker

My friend, Dave, died this past Christmas night. I received the news from out mutual friend, Jeff, the next morning.

I have known Dave, who we usually called D-Knick, since my junior year of college. I had taken a year off and gone to California the year before and returned to finish my philosophy degree, declaring myself a pacifist and occasionally sporting a turtleneck and suit jacket combination. D-Knick was a freshman when I met him. He had his hair cut into the white-boy version of a fade. He wore baggy hip-hop style clothes, a string of African beads around his neck, and a clip-on gold tooth. On paper we might not have appeared to be ideal roommates.  In fact, we instantly hit it off and he became one of my closest friends.

We were both smokers trying to quit so we had chosen non-smoking dormrooms. The quitting idea went out the window less than an hour after we met. He smoked Kools and I smoked Camels. We also shared an appreciation for goofing off, beer, Public Enemy, nickel philosophy, and the occasional absurdist rant.

As a freshman D-Knick was for all intents and purposes, at least to himself, a young black man with a love for hip-hop. He took me to an amazing step show put on by the black fraternities. We used to drink Saint Ides malt liquor and spill out the first drop for the fallen, whoever they may be.

The album, House of Pain, put D-Knick in touch with his Irish Roots. He morphed into an Irish b-boy and found he liked Irish drinking songs almost as much as rap. We became blood brothers with real blood and drank Wild Irish Rose. We poured out a drop for the fallen.

D-Knick took on many guises over the years. He was an Irishman, an Irish bouncer, and an Irish republican radical. We drank a lot of Guinness with an occasional toast to the martyrs, whoever they may be. For a while, after college, he grew a long beard and took on the trappings of a hick. He wore flannel shirts and learned to hunt with a crossbow. Later he became a clean shaven police officer, an Irish cop, and an important member of the Emerald Society. He was married to Liz in a Scottish kilt and gave his kids Celtic names. He became an excellent chef who could talk of hot sauces and dry rubs the way some talk of wine.

Since college I have seen less of D-Knick. I lived most of that time San Francisco and he was in New Haven. I had a fantastic time when he came to visit me and I visited New Haven at least once a year to see him and Jeff. We would eat at Modern Apizza or Louis' Lunch and have a drink at Christopher Martin's, Cafe Nine, or Anna Liffey's. It always seemed like no time had passed, like we were the same friends we had been in college.

That was the amazing thing about D-Knick. For all his different looks and enthusiasms, he was always the same guy. He was like a house that gets a new coat of paint every year, maybe gets re-shingled or stuccoed now and then, but everything inside stays the same.

He was always D-Nick and I loved him. Most everyone who knew him loved him. He had a personal warmth about him that is rare. He was contagiously enthusiastic. He was full of jokes and laughs, as happy to put the joke on himself as on anyone else. At the same time he was upfront and real. He could talk about things that most people find it hard to talk about. I know he was a pretty conflicted guy much of the time. He didn't always know what was best for himself. I don't know how much help I was to him. I think I talked him out of quitting school once. But I know that when I was the most full of rage and confusion I have ever been, it was D-Knick who was able to get through to me. He helped me to take myself less seriously and be kinder to the people around me.

I hadn't spoken to D-Knick in quite a while when he called me in September. He told me he had seen both his parents die the previous year, been divorced and remarried, and now he had leukemia and bone cancer. He sounded amazingly strong and upbeat, joking and laughing like always, but the cancer sounded pretty bad.

Hilary and I took the train up from Washington D.C. to see him at the end of the month and to meet Nancy.  They threw a party with his friend Jason and some of our mutual friends from the old days: Jeff, Shane, Mike Pacinda, Mike Hunter, Mark, and Dave, also known as Wavy. It was great to see D-Knick. He looked a little banged up from the chemo, but as usual he was the life of the party.

We returned on Sunday and spent a little more quiet time hanging out. He told us of his plans to protest a speech at Yale later in the week by Sinn Fein's Gerry Adams, for being too accommodating of the British; serious but laughing at himself at the same time. That was the last time I saw him. He was D-Knick to the end. I miss him.  It is easier to drink to the fallen when you don't know who they are. The world is a colder place with him gone. 

Mandalay

Mandalay.  Along with Kathmandu and Timubuktu, have you ever thought, "Where is Mandalay?"

It is in Burma.

When Thibaw, the last king of Burma, was ignominiously dethroned by the British it was from Mandalay that he and his queen, Supayalat, were driven. The old city was gutted by Japanese bombing during WWII though some of the 19th century teak royal enclosure remains.  The city sits on the eastern bank of the Irrawaddy River and some of the poorest people we saw in Burma live along the riverbank.

We crossed through Mandalay twice, once as our jumping off point for Hsipaw in the Shan hills and again when we left on a riverboat journey south.

our bus to Mandalay

our transport from the bus station into town

Scenes from near our hotel, along the bank of the Irrawaddy River.

 

 

the hotel bar

buying our train tickets to Hsipaw

delicious fried street snacks

Scenes from the Mandalay fish market where our friend Henry chased a catfish down the street.

sunset over the Irrawaddy

These photos are from our day trip to see the longest teak footbridge in the world!

dyed yarn for weaving monks' robes

a loom in the town closest to the U Pein teak footbridge

pagoda on the walk to the U Pein Bridge

  

The Shwedagon Paya

     Like the lotus bud petals below, the banana bud is actually covered with no fewer than 13,153 plates of gold, measuring 1 sq ft each--unlike the lower elements, which are merely covered with gold leaf. The seven-tiered hti is made of iron and again plated with gold. Even without the various hanging bells it weighs well over a ton.
     The hti tiers get smaller from the bottom to top, and from the uppermost tier projects the shaft, which is hung with gold bells, silver bells and various items of jewellery. The topmost vane, with its flag, turns with the wind. It is gold- and silver-plated and studded with 1100 diamonds totaling 278 carats--not to mention 1383 other stones. Finally, at the very top of the van rests the diamond orb--a hollow golden sphere studded with 4351 diamonds, weighing 1800 carats in total. The very top of the orb is tipped with a single 76-carat diamond. -- Lonely Planet, Myanmar

That is a description of just the very top of the Hershey's kiss-shaped stupa at the center of the Shwedagon Paya (Pagoda) in Yangon. Though you can barely see it without binoculars, it is a jaw-dropping display of wealth, especially in one of the poorest countries on Earth.

Jaw-dropping is a pretty good description of the Paya in general. At the time I said it was the most incredible man-made thing I had ever seen. That kind of thing is hard to gauge, but it was certainly the thing that I was least prepared to see. I felt the same as when I first walked through the high Sierra, completely overwhelmed. It is enormous and sprawling. It shines and glitters. There is gold and paint and wild looking statues. There are Buddhas everywhere. There is a room full of Buddhas that seems like a house of mirrors. Some of the Buddhas are enormous. The chinthes, the mythical beasts that guard the entrances, were absurdly massive. There are huge bells and gongs and banyan trees. And of course, there is the giant gilt stupa crowed with jewels.

There are little details also. There are psychedelic neon lights like halos around some of the Buddhas. There are little nooks and alcoves filled with shrines, each different. There is one series of paintings, comic book style, telling the life of the Buddha and translated into some mystifying form of English. The colors are vivid and multitudinous, bordering on garish. I imagine that the ancient cities of the Mayans, Incas, and Aztecs looked like this in their prime.

Photographs don't do the paya justice because its power lies in the constant interplay between the grand whole and the unique individual parts, as one wanders within it and the clouds dance behind it in the sky and the blaring brightness of the day turns to a soft glow at night.

Physically the paya is astounding, but what makes it magical is the people. Unlike so many European religious buildings, the Shwedagon Paya is a living, breathing place. It is no museum. It is the center of the life of the city and the most important place in the country, a place every Burmese person aspires to see before they die. There are people all around, especially late in the day after work, praying, chanting, washing the Buddhas, or just hanging out with friends. For all the fierce creatures, it is a pretty laid back place. There don't seem to be many rules other than modest clothes and bare feet. No one bats an eye when a heathen like me grabs a mallet and gives one of the huge bells three bongs.

We loved it so much we went twice, once on our own and once with Mike Grafton. The first time we stayed for four or five hours. As we were resting in the late afternoon we met Varasami, our monk friend. We sat and talked with him for an hour or so and then walked with him as the evening came on.

Varasami told us many things about the paya. It is more than 2000 years old though it has been rebuilt, added to, and changed much over the years. The legend is that two merchants were given eight strands of Buddha's hair by the Buddha himself (see photos of the marble recreation below). They presented these precious hairs to a king who enshrined them in gold.

The four entrances face the cardinal directions. Around the central stupa there are eight shrines that correspond to the eight days in the traditional  Buddhist week (they have two 12-hour Wednesdays). In Myanmar, the day of the week on which you are born is very meaningful. Burmese names usually indicate their day and locals always pray at their day's shrine when they visit the paya. Aung San Suu Kyi was born on Tuesday. According to Lonely Planet, the government installed a closed-circuit television camera in front of the Tuesday shrine to intimidate her. I imagine it is gone by now.

Varasami explained to us many of the symbols and rituals of the place, patiently answered our questions, and lightly corrected our misconceptions. He pointed out the novice monks climbing on the central stupa to collect the gold leaf that had fallen. As evening turned to night and the lights came on he showed us how the diamonds on top glowed in different colors depending on where you stood to look at them.

Evening and night are the most stunning times at the paya. Each minute as the sun is setting brings a new color and a new light to the stupas, towers, and shrines. The gilt of the central stupa changes from brilliant and glinting to a soft warm glow. When the lights come up and the people are walking all about you with their families and friends, smiling and talking, it is like walking through a magic festival. One of the calmest festivals in the world. Every few moments I would find my jaw dropping all over again.