Atman is Brahman

VARANASI, INDIA

The river Ganga flows by like it has for thousands of years, even before this great and ancient city which surrounds me appeared on its banks. The Ghats of Varanasi, India creep out from the entrails of the catacomb like Manikarnika district and disappear into the muddy flow of the holy water. Giver of life, embracer of the dead, lifeblood of India, the Ganga flows on. Varanasi, the holiest of all holy cities to over 850 million Hindus worldwide decays into the waters. It is a city both pulsing with life and crumbling at its foundations. The ultimate symbol of a country rooted firmly in its past while blossoming towards its future potential.

The eldest son of a deceased set of parents squats amongst the squalor and smoke. His best friend, maybe his uncle stands over him and produces a disposable straight razor, the type that looks like it belongs in an exacto-knife. The helper dips his dark russet hands into a bucket of Ganga water he has brought up from the riverbank. His palms look like buttery carmel contrasting with his dark sun baked forearms. He dumps the water over the head of the stoic son, grabs a handful of his dark black hair in his fist and begins to shave him.

The smell of burning bodies wafts past as I watch this ancient ritual unfold. A funeral prossession passes by un-noticing, focused on their own duties, the duty of burning their loved one on the Ghats and casting their ashes into the river. Once this task is completed it will guarantee the transcendence of their dead relative beyond the Karmic cycle of Samsara. It will elevate them directly to Moksha, to Nirvana. Placing the ashes of the dead in the river it is the ultimate and only shortcut to a utopian afterlife.

Hunks of thick black hair waft un-ceremoniously from the scalp of the grieving son as his head continues to be shaved. The river water is the only lubricant used to soften the cold burn of the razor as it removes the hair. Only one tuft of hair is left un-scathed in the center of the back of the skull, a hairstyle reserved for those who have lost two parents. It looks lonely and out of place like a single fir tree on a ridge that has been mowed down by hungry axes. The razor is cast aside amongst the dirt and trash where it will wait for the bare feet of untouchable children. This is one of the holiest sites in all of India and so it remains Indian through and through, trash is trash, nothing more. It lies in piles everywhere around the funeral pyres, the razor now hidden amongst it like countless others.

Varanasi, the city of compassion of love of history of shit. Shit is everywhere. People shit, dog shit, cow shit, monkey shit, goat shit, big shits, small shits, hard shits, soft shits. It lays in the open, it lays in the shadows, it cakes the walls in small patties which are collected and molded everyday so that they can dry in the sun and be used for firewood. The shit mingles with the trash in the heat of the day, it becomes stomped upon and ground into a fine pulp which atomizes and rises into the heat of the day like a fog for all to inhale. All is one in Varanasi, Atman in Brahman the world is illusion, we are all part of each other.

The grieving son picks his way down to the river bank weaving between funeral pyres which are already raging, sizzling bodies piled on top turning to holy ash. He finds his pile of wood, stacked like Lincoln Logs in a small depression which has been carved into the river clay. It has been the site of other funerals, thousands of them for thousands of years and one just yesterday. Today it is his pyre, he dumps rose wood chips and sweet oils over the wood and prepares to ignite the pile.

The publicness is suffocating. It seems strange, inconsiderate, distasteful to have such an intimate moment as the final rights of your loved ones laid bare and disclosed in the open. The ceremony, the goodbyes, the tears are there for all to see. The city goes about its business as it always has and always will. From birth to death, life happens amongst a tide of humanity here. Within sight of the funeral youngsters play an impromptu game of cricket, a pair of young lovers flirt hoping no one they know will see, women wash their clothes in the river, children do flips into the water and a con man ambles up to a group of shocked tourists ready to make his share. Life continues on as one life ends.

The son has disappeared momentarily into the chaos above the Ghats. He returns with a procession, his dead mother carried on their shoulders. She is draped in silks and covered in flowers. She is placed on the pile of wood. The son lights the pile with a flame that has been pulled from a sacred fire which has burned in Varanasi for over 2,000 years. According to legend it was lit by the patron Lord Shiva and has been the igniter for all cremations ever since. The small flames begin to lick upward slowly and timidly until they catch sweet oil and aggressively burst to life. The smoke is billowing, the soft wet body of a human being fighting to suffocate the flame. The flame expanding wildly, seeming to know that it has nowhere to go but grow.

The son watches as his dead mother is enveloped in flame. More logs are piled on top as he tends the fire diligently. At times the fire shifts or collapses, revealing the simmering corpse in its midst. Vital organs have burst through the stomach boiling and spitting, exposed to sunlight for the first time only to be met with flame. The logs are piled on again. Again concealing the shell of a human being.

A holy man pauses behind me as intrigued at the scene as I am. His long beard drops to his waist, ivory colored with yellowish strands flowing from his slightly darker mustache. He is dressed in bright orange, a walking stick in one hand. He has bare cracked feet with thick grissled toenails. His hair is wound about his head, the long dreadlocks twisted like a crown of disarray. He has walked here on a pilgrimage from the foothills of the Himalayas. It is the second time he has made this journey on foot. He draws energy from the vibrancy of the city.

The fire has begun to die down. Most of the body is gone but the head hangs out of one end of the fire, the silks which covered it long seared away, the teeth of the skull exposed behind charred lips. The son looks at the carcass of his mother. His duties are almost done. He raises a thick baseball bat sized pole over his head and pauses. Then with all his might he brings the bludgeon down upon the skull. Hot curd-like brains arc into the air as the skull cracks open. They splat into the ash, the earth and the fire with a sizzle. He has released her soul. It is free. He has done his duty as the eldest son. What remains of the body is flopped back onto the fire and a final wave of firewood is layered on top.

I think of the pride the son feels for doing this duty. For having the honor to burn his mother’s body here in Varanasi, for releasing her soul not only from her skull but from the endless cycle of re-birth. I watch as the fire dies down again. I watch as he gathers the ashes of his mother and carries them on a boat into the river. I watch as he dumps them over the side. I look at the children doing flips into the river and the intake for the cities water supply a kilometer farther downriver. I smile. We breath each others shit and drink each others bodies. Atman is Brahman.

AUTHORS NOTE: It is sacrilegious to take photos of the actual pyres at the Manikarnika burning Ghat. For this reason i abstained from shooting. Guess you will have to use your imagination.......

FROM THE EARTH TO THE VESSEL

NORTHWEST BEER ENTHUSIASTS CELEBRATE FOOD AND BREW UNDER THE FULL MOON.

As I sit outside the idling pickup truck I take a sip from the growler of beer that we brought along for just this occasion. The falling snow begins to increase into wind whipped flurries that bite through our layers of clothing. The lunar force of the evening is clear as the extreme low tide before us reveals the mudflats stretching out like slick sulfur chocolate, cradling the treasure we seek on its surface. The full moon has become completely obscured by the rising snowstorm but with a pull off the growler my companion lays down how our mission is going to work, “keep your light down and make it quick,” he says, “with any luck we can be out of here in 20 minutes.” Without another word we muck our way out into the bay, hands already freezing and the snow quickly accumulating on the soupy gelatin of the mud.

It is the middle of November and the eve of Brewfest, a completely renegade, utterly underground and fantastically one-of-a-kind homebrew festival in the San Juan Islands of Washington State. Tonight as we shiver our way towards the center of the bay by headlamp, we are searching for essential vitals for the coming festivities, specifically fresh wild oysters.

Joe Steel is the founder and host of Brewfest and carries two milk crates slung across his shoulders dangling in balance from a piece of dowel. As we scour the ground for oysters to throw in the crates the accumulating snow makes distinguishing a rock from a mollusk nearly impossible. We fumble with numb fingers to flip over every stone for further inspection trying to decipher in the dim light whether it be a crusty rock or tasty morsel.

It is essential to be quick, not because what we are doing is illegal per-se, but rather because it is much better to be low profile about our activities.

In fact, “low profile” seems to be one of the manifestos of Brewfest which strives to be an un-marketed, off the map celebration for the true Northewest food and brew enthusiast. For this reason, the quicker we can finish our oyster hunt the less chance there is of attracting unwanted attention. After some time, long after out fingers are screaming with cold, the crates have been filled, and we slip back to the truck, take a sip of beer in recognition of the completed mission and zip back towards the wood fired warmth of Steel's house. The final preparatory step has been completed. Now comes the celebration.

Brewfest has been an island tradition since 1989 and is above all interactive. Everyone who comes brings something to the table whether it is knowledge, food, music, beer or cheer. The festival originated as an event to promote the exchange of information about beer brewing and to celebrate the abundant bounty of local food in the Pacific Northwest.

“Everyone comes here to share knowledge and learn, then they can take that knowledge brew their own beer or just be a little bit more aware of what it takes to make beer,” says Steel. “The food is of course also an important aspect,” he adds. “It is about an attitude of we can do this locally.”

Brewfest is also about commitment. The day after the oyster gathering the snow has stopped but the weather remains temperamental and frigid cold. There is a reason that Brewfest is held in the beginning of winter: it weeds out the casual attendee and encourages only those who truly resonate with the ideals of Brewfest to show up at the outside festival. “I am really not into people just showing up to be seen,” says Steel, “There is no red carpet at this event. You have to want to be here if it is snowing.”

Despite the cold the crowd begins to trickle in during the early afternoon. A raging fire is lit against a natural rock outcropping that warms to forms a giant thermal mass, radiating heat into the outdoor festival area. Before long a small wool-bundled crowd has congregated and the kegs of homebrewed beer begin to stack up. Along one side of the clearing a special “beer bench” has been constructed between two trees, the kegs and bottles of CO2 are placed underneath the bench with the taps popping up through the middle of the planks. Above the bench a string is hung and dangling above each keg is the beer’s name and its entry number.

Although Brewfest is ultimately about sharing what you have and contributing to the festivities, for some there is another more competitive undertone. Brewfest is also a beer competition. As the night unfolds, both a formal and informal judging of all the homebrew occurs.

The competitive aspect of Brewfest originally came about in accordance with the virtues of the party: participation. In the early days of the festival renowned glass artist Lark Dalton wanted to contribute his talents and began bringing hand blown drinking glasses and traditional drinking yards to give away as gifts. In order to give out the locally blown glassware the competition was established to dictate who got what. From then on the competition became a Brewfest standard, jovial and informal to be sure, but simultaneously prestigious and an important status gain for the winning participants.

Although Steel acknowledges that the homebrew competition is an important factor in the event, for him the emphasis still lies in the community gathering and the celebration of local food and beers. He points out that there are no categories and the judging is highly subjective since the judges themselves are picked at random from the crowd.

“Lark wanted to offer something and so we had to start judging to give out the prizes,” he concedes, “but the judging part to me is irrelevant, how do you judge a Hefeweizen against an Ale, and an IPA and a Stout?” Plus he adds, “After sampling up to 20 beers in a row how can you compare them all?”

Despite Steel’s apprehension towards the judging procedures he has often done well in the rankings. This year he is particularly proud of his entree, which he has named Kiwi Dark. If Brewfest was to have a mascot beer Kiwi Dark would be it. Forget the hype of a 100 mile beer, the Kiwi Dark is completely sourced within about 10 miles of the festival with the barley grown down the road , then malted on site and the hops grown in the garden. The beer is a crowning achievement for Steel and speaks exactly to the heart of Brewfest being local and self-sustaining.

“I have always had this dream of having a beer that is completely from the island,” he says. Now, after decades of experiments using increasingly local ingredients he has finally achieved that dream completely. The only question remaining is of course the most important one of all: whether the beer will be any good to drink.

As the night wears on the camaraderie and good cheer of the event continues to unfold. Before long the sound of a guitar is wafting through the congregation, soon a harmonica joins in, followed by a washboard and an assortment of percussion instruments ranging from hand drums to forks beating on pint glasses. Eventually there is a full on impromptu jam accompanied by singing and dancing. Platters of succulent food continue to pour in as more people arrive and local veggies, potatoes, carrots and bread are placed on the communal food table.

The raging fire which is the epicenter of the festivities is converted to its duel purpose as the wild flames are manipulated to one side and rubies of glowing hot coals are raked out of the inferno towards the grill. Locally hunted hunks of venison sizzle as they are slapped down over the coals, the bounty of oysters from the previous night are roasted in their shells to perfection, slabs of filleted, succulently marinated sockeye come off the fire steaming and black cod collars, dripping with aromatic oils are served up for anyone who is hungry.

As I wander through the scene I notice that the “official” judges are being selected from the crowd. The judging panel is chosen not for individual brewing prowess, but for the diversity in taste and beer connoisseurship that only a random selection from the audience can bring. This year Kevin Pierce, Head Brewer at Anacortes Brewery, has been given the daunting job of organizing the eclectic group.

“We have a young judging panel this year,” he remarks, “its pretty cool, we have some different faces than normal.”

Pierce has been coming to Brewfest for eight years and has entered homebrew in the festival in the past. “I respect this festival because people put their heart and soul into their homebrew,” says Pierce who has been to a multitude of beer festivals across the Northwest as a professional brew master.

Tonight however Pierce isn’t here to represent his brewery, he is here simply for the pleasure of the experience, “It is always amazing to see these guys get together, it is such a community and such a commitment with people growing their own hops and barley. They really take pride in it,” he says.

Pierce diligently works to herd the six selected judges away from the hubbub of the main festival area into a special tasting shack built above the main party. As the mayhem increases below the judges above start to get down to business, undertaking the great responsibility of drinking with a little more intention.

Eighteen homebrewed beers are officially entered and once the judges are separated from the masses, the beer samples are brought up to the judging area in 18 concisely labeled Mason jars. As the beers are lined out along the table they make an earthy spectrum of color ranging from nearly complete black to a brew of greenish Kombucha color. With everything ready and a platter of specially prepared, piping hot food laid out on the table before them, the judges brandish their cups for their first sample. Pierce pours a shot of beer from Mason jar #1 into each of the six glasses of the judges. With a clink and a cheers the judging begins and the first sample goes down the hatch.

One after another every beer is tasted and given a value of 1 to 5 by each judge, making the total potential score for each beer 30 points. Once all the judges give their assessment the total is marked on a ledger next to the beer’s official number.

The homebrewed beers are impressive. Out of 18 entered about 15 of them are “pretty damn tasty” according to the judges. After a serious sampling marathon the judges are able to narrow down the entrees to 6 beers that received a total of over 20 points each. As the festivities below the judging area continue to get more boisterous the judges begin to get antsy, ready to rejoin the main group and get down to some serious socializing with the main crowd.

As Steel predicted earlier, once everyone has consumed 18 samples, the specifics of the ranking get less important. In the end all six finalist are close in score and a hasty re-taste organizes the top six beers into a semi random hierarchy. Finally the official winner is decided upon and written on a piece of paper.

The party is in full swing when I get back to the main crowd from the judging shack. Everyone is stuffed with unbelievable food and their cups are brimming with beer. Many of the 18 kegs have been finished off, the first ones to go coinciding almost exactly with the top choices from the judges. Although the night is bitter cold everyone is jovial and somehow the frigid night air seems to be warded off by the fire and gathered crowd. The full moon peeks from behind the clouds illuminating everything with a silvery ambiance that dissolves into the glow of the fire. Amongst the clatter and chatter a whistle blows and Lark Dalton, the glass master himself steps above the crowd on a rock outcropping with raised hands. Finally it is time to announce the winners of the competition and I am eager to see how Steel’s 10 mile beer, the Kiwi Dark will fair.

Remarkably the crowd quiets down as Pierce approaches the impromptu podium with the official rankings and hands it off to Dalton. “Number eighteen, lets hear a cheer for number eighteen,” begins Dalton and the crowd erupts into rowdy cheers and applause all for the winner of last place.

Each beer is celebrated regardless of its ranking in the competition as the crowd expresses their thanks to the brewers through applause, jeering and cajoling. Each contestant receives a prize from Dalton who produces beautiful hand-blown vessels one after the other. Each brewer is then pressured into a public speech. Some contestants keep it short and sweet, some are sincere and heartfelt and others dictate drunken and playful stories or jokes to the crowd.

The prizes become more impressive as the rankings go up until finally, for third place beautiful hand blown yards are unveiled. “Coming in at number three, number three,” says Dalton, “Kiwi Dark!” The crowd goes absolutely wild as Joe Steel clambers up towards Dalton to receive his prize. In the blind taste test, the 10 mile beer has made it to the podium.

“I want to thank each and every one of you, without all of us here this would not be what it is,” says Steel as he accepts the hand blown yard as his prize, “this beer is all island, it has been a passion of mine to make a beer that is close to us. We can do it here.” With that, a boisterous applause and three cheers from the crowd drown Steel out.

After the rest of the prizes have been handed out Brewfest gets back to being Brewfest. People continue to eat, drink, make merry and share knowledge of local beer, goods and food late into the night. Long after the full moon has set behind the hills the sun eventually rises to find only a few scattered people left huddled around the fire. The area is amazingly clean with only oyster shells and venison bones left as evidence of the delicious feast and celebration.

Brewfest remains a truly organic festival, a celebration of lifestyle as well as beer and bounty. It is testament to the local knowledge of the islanders as well as their commitment and participation to brewing culture in the Northwest .

“This is a celebration of where we are from” says Steel in the morning, “everything here comes directly from the earth to the vessel, that is what it is all about.”

“Well that and barley, hops and water,” he adds with a sip off his Kiwi Dark.