I'm not even sure how to spell it, but I eat it for dinner every day. Starting next week I will eat it for both of my two daily meals. According to the 2005 guidebook I was reading, 22 million out of 24 million Nepalis eat it twice a day for their food.
Dal Bhat is a pile of white rice, dal (a lentil soup), with a small side (or maybe three) of any of several things, usually veggie curry, sometimes fried potatoes that only resemble fries in shape, stewed leafy greens, a little chicken, or some sort of fibrous shredded something. You mix the various ingrediants together and eat them. With your hands. I haven't touched silverware since beginning the program.
You scoop some of the soupy lentil broth into the rice, pick up a pinch of curry vegetables, mash it all together using your right hand and only your right hand, scoop some up, bring it to your mouth and push it in using your thumb as a lever.
As of now I still very much enjoy it. Some of my colleagues are not so lucky; those who seem allergic to some ingredient are in for a rough summer.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
We wake up around 6:00 AM, and may see or hear the family's morning worship ceremony, or puja. Their primary deity is Ganesh, his golden figures kept in a small room off the landing at the top of the stairs, outside the kitchen where we eat our breakfast of toast and milk tea.
Our host family has a 5 year old boy, who leaves for school a little before we do, dressed smartly in his uniform with tie. We walk along a dirt road with puddles already a couple months old which will not dry up until September sometime unless there is a break in the monsoons. The soil is clay, the puddles silver and splashed by the continuous passage of motorcycle, taxi, and mini-bus tires.
The stret is lined with cement buildings, small shop fronts offering basic groceries, laundry, mechanics, miscellaneous kitchen goods, or small bar/restaurants to drink a soda or cup of tea in. The people are beginning to stare at us less, a little less each day? They were initially suprised to see us and more suprised when we greeted them with a correct "namaste!" but by now I guess the word has gone out.
We turn off the road just before the muddy pit enclosed by a stick fence where a group of young men appear to live with the chickens they are raising. Up the hill and around and then through the swampy rice paddies. We walk the last stretch along the foot-high berm of soil separating two long ovals. When we arrived the women were still planting them, colorful skirts hiked up just a bit as the feet sank into the mud, bent over with arms sweeping in a familiar motion as they planted the small green stalks.
We have Nepali language class first thing, where we introduce ourselves and discuss who owns the pen. Mero naam Tim ho. Tyo wahaako kalam ho. Tapaailaai hariyo rang manparccha?
In the afternoon we may learn about the Nepali education system, political system, or history, or take a trip to somewhere in the valley. K and I had already visited the palace square of monuments and temples, Durbar Square (UNESCO World Heritage site) but this time we volunteered to serve as guides, so I learned much more about the history of an amazing place, while K can tell you about the rituals and life of the Living Goddess, Kumari. But those are enough for another post, and this sticky keyboard with uncertain connection in a humid room encourages relative brevity.
This moring we had a yoga and meditation session with a guru from Rajistaan which was unlike any yoga experience I have had before, including the "Lion Salute" when he abruptly roared while sticking his tongue all the way out and down across his chin and rolling his eyes up in his head. The first try felt ridiculous, but the second was already a release.
The last two nights we have walked home after dark. There are rare streetlights, and the power was completely out last night. Fireflies blink on and off beside the road. People living in rough huts or concrete Nepali McMansions go about their lives, the curry and rice smells of their dinners are minor variations of a common theme, as nearly all Nepalis eat the same meal, dal bhat, twice a day. Beginning next week this will be our diet as well.
Approaching motorbikes show striking silhouettes of walking figures, the women hazed with color from the sweeping folds of their shawls, saris, and kurthas.
The kurtha is the traditional Nepali outfit, versions worn by both men and women, and we are encouraged to wear them in our schools in order to better fit in. We were measured yesterday for our custom made outfits, the material and tailoring coming to about ten dollars.
We have heard a little info on our schools. K and I are lucky, and were given the tall challenge. We will be teaching in the government (public) schools which have larger class sizes. K and I will be teaching around 5-8 classes, alone, to around 60 students. We will have one day to observe the classes.
Discipline here is done by beating the students, and raising hands in not a known concept. In a few days we will find out how conversation classes of 60 children go.
Our host family has a 5 year old boy, who leaves for school a little before we do, dressed smartly in his uniform with tie. We walk along a dirt road with puddles already a couple months old which will not dry up until September sometime unless there is a break in the monsoons. The soil is clay, the puddles silver and splashed by the continuous passage of motorcycle, taxi, and mini-bus tires.
The stret is lined with cement buildings, small shop fronts offering basic groceries, laundry, mechanics, miscellaneous kitchen goods, or small bar/restaurants to drink a soda or cup of tea in. The people are beginning to stare at us less, a little less each day? They were initially suprised to see us and more suprised when we greeted them with a correct "namaste!" but by now I guess the word has gone out.
We turn off the road just before the muddy pit enclosed by a stick fence where a group of young men appear to live with the chickens they are raising. Up the hill and around and then through the swampy rice paddies. We walk the last stretch along the foot-high berm of soil separating two long ovals. When we arrived the women were still planting them, colorful skirts hiked up just a bit as the feet sank into the mud, bent over with arms sweeping in a familiar motion as they planted the small green stalks.
We have Nepali language class first thing, where we introduce ourselves and discuss who owns the pen. Mero naam Tim ho. Tyo wahaako kalam ho. Tapaailaai hariyo rang manparccha?
In the afternoon we may learn about the Nepali education system, political system, or history, or take a trip to somewhere in the valley. K and I had already visited the palace square of monuments and temples, Durbar Square (UNESCO World Heritage site) but this time we volunteered to serve as guides, so I learned much more about the history of an amazing place, while K can tell you about the rituals and life of the Living Goddess, Kumari. But those are enough for another post, and this sticky keyboard with uncertain connection in a humid room encourages relative brevity.
This moring we had a yoga and meditation session with a guru from Rajistaan which was unlike any yoga experience I have had before, including the "Lion Salute" when he abruptly roared while sticking his tongue all the way out and down across his chin and rolling his eyes up in his head. The first try felt ridiculous, but the second was already a release.
The last two nights we have walked home after dark. There are rare streetlights, and the power was completely out last night. Fireflies blink on and off beside the road. People living in rough huts or concrete Nepali McMansions go about their lives, the curry and rice smells of their dinners are minor variations of a common theme, as nearly all Nepalis eat the same meal, dal bhat, twice a day. Beginning next week this will be our diet as well.
Approaching motorbikes show striking silhouettes of walking figures, the women hazed with color from the sweeping folds of their shawls, saris, and kurthas.
The kurtha is the traditional Nepali outfit, versions worn by both men and women, and we are encouraged to wear them in our schools in order to better fit in. We were measured yesterday for our custom made outfits, the material and tailoring coming to about ten dollars.
We have heard a little info on our schools. K and I are lucky, and were given the tall challenge. We will be teaching in the government (public) schools which have larger class sizes. K and I will be teaching around 5-8 classes, alone, to around 60 students. We will have one day to observe the classes.
Discipline here is done by beating the students, and raising hands in not a known concept. In a few days we will find out how conversation classes of 60 children go.
Monday, July 4, 2011
First week in Nepal, Part 3
I don't mean to give the impression that we are less than ecstatic to be here. Bed bugs aside.
Kathmandu is a throbbing sort of place, beautifully different from anywhere I've been before. In general though, the country bears a strong resemblance to Guatemala. I suppose just as affluent cities all resemble each other, poverty and labor-intensive-agriculture-to-survive areas have a commonality.
But I have never seen anything like the dark green mountain slopes, so steep, mist clinging in places. The upper levels incredibly tend to have thin terraces growing corn, and I cannot imagine the amount of work these people do to farm so. The lower levels are usually rice paddies, the monsoon season filling them, the women in robes stooped over, mud up to their ankles and wrists, the men following behind oxen and buffalo pulling handmade ploughs.
We enjoyed our time outside the city, and were glad to return to it. The tourist block, Thamel, has a fantastic array of food options, and we have been feasting on Indian, Thai, Other, and sometimes the Nepali Dal Bhat. But time is up, so I'll tell you that stuff later.
Be well!
Kathmandu is a throbbing sort of place, beautifully different from anywhere I've been before. In general though, the country bears a strong resemblance to Guatemala. I suppose just as affluent cities all resemble each other, poverty and labor-intensive-agriculture-to-survive areas have a commonality.
But I have never seen anything like the dark green mountain slopes, so steep, mist clinging in places. The upper levels incredibly tend to have thin terraces growing corn, and I cannot imagine the amount of work these people do to farm so. The lower levels are usually rice paddies, the monsoon season filling them, the women in robes stooped over, mud up to their ankles and wrists, the men following behind oxen and buffalo pulling handmade ploughs.
We enjoyed our time outside the city, and were glad to return to it. The tourist block, Thamel, has a fantastic array of food options, and we have been feasting on Indian, Thai, Other, and sometimes the Nepali Dal Bhat. But time is up, so I'll tell you that stuff later.
Be well!
First week in Nepal, Part 1
Well hello. Alive and well in Kathmandu. I like the idea of going two months without touching the internet, but here I am, and there you are. How are you by the way?
Let's see. It is pretty hot in here, so a quick update.
We arrived last Tuesday, after just over 24 hours of travel. London Heathrow was its normal bustling place, and my sense of adventure was awakening, which in this case meant I ordered a burrito. A London airport's take on a burrito was actually fairly decent...though I am not sure why it was soaking in marinara sauce.
Bahrein was kind of a culture shock, as the Middle East always is. Strutting men with aggressive auras, their women's personality defiantly leaking out of the eye slits in their burrqas. I have no idea how to spell that, and this computer is not so savvy as to either.
Our flight to Kathmandu was K and I, and a returning UN mission of some sort (our neighbor's English was not quite good enough to explain what), all guys, all cheery. The decent through the Himalayan clouds was bumpy and exciting and epically beautiful.
It was raining when we landed, and the knowledge that I was feeling a monsoon on my skin left me high.
Customs was pretty painless, and the boss of our program picked us up at the airport, and drove us through town to the hotel we're staying in.
Driving through Kathmandu for the first time. It tends to leave people looking fairly shellshocked. Newcomers first getting out of their taxi look a little shaky, their face overly still as they try to pretend it is totally familiar to ride through a vehicular maelstrom like that. Sometimes there are lanes painted on the ground, which seems kind of cute. There is no sense of lanes going the same direction, and the border between your side and oncoming traffic is maleable, fluid as shaken up oil on water far from reaching equilibrium.
The Nepali people seem to be very kind, but the approach to driving and movement is pure sub-continent. Standing in lines has more in common with practice for a defensive lineman in American football than an orderly wait for one's turn.
We spent a couple days in Kathmandu, walking around town, seeing the beautiful temples and palaces, all rimmed with garbage and flies. The sacred and the profane breath through the same hot air here. Temples and sacred spaces are scattered through every tiny winding street, people going about their lives alongside stray dogs eating garbage at the foot of crouching monuments with orange-smeared faces of gods.
Kathmandu is one of three distinct cities, which were formerly independent kingdoms. The others are Patan and Bhaktapur. We will be staying in Bhaktapur all summer and have not seen it yet, and Patan has been enveloped by Kathmandu's sprawl. We walked there last week, an hour walk turning into three as we regularly got lost. There are no street names here, but that's okay because it is all worth seeing.
We seem to be among the few tourists who walk between places, entering "local" neighborhoods, and the people tend to find us fairly interesting, especially the children.
We took refuge on the 17th century temple of Vishnu in Patan's Durbar Square while the monsoon poured incredible amounts of water down around us. Women in colorful robes sang beside us, and a young couple ran through the rain to huddle on the other side, looking exactly like a Bollywood movie, close but not touching, heated smiles and rain slicked hair. I waited for the coordinated dance, but it must have been canceled on account of the weather.
The program starts tomorrow, so we wanted to get out of the city and see more of the country. We took a local bus, which was another cultural experience of accepting the driving style and waiting to see if we would die that day.
We went to Manakamana, where some amiable Austrians built the longest cable car in Asia in 1998. It goes nearly vertical, covering 2.8 kilometers and ascending 1000 (feet I think...I can't remember the unit, but the view was beautiful coming up to and into the clouds).
There is a temple and small town at the top. The moderate rain turned heavy and we ducked under the metal roof of the area where worshippers leave their shoes when they enter the temple. A holy man in bright yellow robes was accepting gifts of bags of rice and applying the orange and red paint to the devotees foreheads. I am chagrined at not knowing what it all was...the difference between bindhi's and...
His eyes were an incredible light blue, and the suspense until I can see what that one picture looked like may drive me crazy all summer.
The plan was to walk out, but the rain went from heavy to biblical, and the 18 kilometer walk down the mountainside quickly became impossible, so we ate the Nepali lunch, Dal Bhat, and took the cable car back down the mountain.
We caught a jitney (mini-bus) to Dumre, from where we would walk 7 kilometers to Bandipur, which we had heard great things about. Not long into the trip we pulled over, the driver got out and wandered off. We sat quietly for a bit then people got out and we noticed the line of stopped traffic snaking off around the bend in the distance.
Turns out a waterfall that forms in heavy rain had shut down the road, and we waited for it to clear. We waited 7 hours, talking to other passengers and seeing the shanty structures the people there live in, before it got dark. The larger buses were given clearance to go, but the smaller would be washed away. Most waited in line, but ours returned to a small truckstop town just down the road. The logistics of moving people and vehicles around in a place like this, where trucks had all elbowed up, double blocking each other in, was another chance to practice calm acceptance. This was only difficult when we, and a dozen other large vehicles, were stuck on a bridge over a monsoon swollen river...I sat calmly listening for sounds of its collapse, but we were in luck.
The internet connection, and power supply to the city, are both unreliable so I think I'll break this into two.
Let's see. It is pretty hot in here, so a quick update.
We arrived last Tuesday, after just over 24 hours of travel. London Heathrow was its normal bustling place, and my sense of adventure was awakening, which in this case meant I ordered a burrito. A London airport's take on a burrito was actually fairly decent...though I am not sure why it was soaking in marinara sauce.
Bahrein was kind of a culture shock, as the Middle East always is. Strutting men with aggressive auras, their women's personality defiantly leaking out of the eye slits in their burrqas. I have no idea how to spell that, and this computer is not so savvy as to either.
Our flight to Kathmandu was K and I, and a returning UN mission of some sort (our neighbor's English was not quite good enough to explain what), all guys, all cheery. The decent through the Himalayan clouds was bumpy and exciting and epically beautiful.
It was raining when we landed, and the knowledge that I was feeling a monsoon on my skin left me high.
Customs was pretty painless, and the boss of our program picked us up at the airport, and drove us through town to the hotel we're staying in.
Driving through Kathmandu for the first time. It tends to leave people looking fairly shellshocked. Newcomers first getting out of their taxi look a little shaky, their face overly still as they try to pretend it is totally familiar to ride through a vehicular maelstrom like that. Sometimes there are lanes painted on the ground, which seems kind of cute. There is no sense of lanes going the same direction, and the border between your side and oncoming traffic is maleable, fluid as shaken up oil on water far from reaching equilibrium.
The Nepali people seem to be very kind, but the approach to driving and movement is pure sub-continent. Standing in lines has more in common with practice for a defensive lineman in American football than an orderly wait for one's turn.
We spent a couple days in Kathmandu, walking around town, seeing the beautiful temples and palaces, all rimmed with garbage and flies. The sacred and the profane breath through the same hot air here. Temples and sacred spaces are scattered through every tiny winding street, people going about their lives alongside stray dogs eating garbage at the foot of crouching monuments with orange-smeared faces of gods.
Kathmandu is one of three distinct cities, which were formerly independent kingdoms. The others are Patan and Bhaktapur. We will be staying in Bhaktapur all summer and have not seen it yet, and Patan has been enveloped by Kathmandu's sprawl. We walked there last week, an hour walk turning into three as we regularly got lost. There are no street names here, but that's okay because it is all worth seeing.
We seem to be among the few tourists who walk between places, entering "local" neighborhoods, and the people tend to find us fairly interesting, especially the children.
We took refuge on the 17th century temple of Vishnu in Patan's Durbar Square while the monsoon poured incredible amounts of water down around us. Women in colorful robes sang beside us, and a young couple ran through the rain to huddle on the other side, looking exactly like a Bollywood movie, close but not touching, heated smiles and rain slicked hair. I waited for the coordinated dance, but it must have been canceled on account of the weather.
The program starts tomorrow, so we wanted to get out of the city and see more of the country. We took a local bus, which was another cultural experience of accepting the driving style and waiting to see if we would die that day.
We went to Manakamana, where some amiable Austrians built the longest cable car in Asia in 1998. It goes nearly vertical, covering 2.8 kilometers and ascending 1000 (feet I think...I can't remember the unit, but the view was beautiful coming up to and into the clouds).
There is a temple and small town at the top. The moderate rain turned heavy and we ducked under the metal roof of the area where worshippers leave their shoes when they enter the temple. A holy man in bright yellow robes was accepting gifts of bags of rice and applying the orange and red paint to the devotees foreheads. I am chagrined at not knowing what it all was...the difference between bindhi's and...
His eyes were an incredible light blue, and the suspense until I can see what that one picture looked like may drive me crazy all summer.
The plan was to walk out, but the rain went from heavy to biblical, and the 18 kilometer walk down the mountainside quickly became impossible, so we ate the Nepali lunch, Dal Bhat, and took the cable car back down the mountain.
We caught a jitney (mini-bus) to Dumre, from where we would walk 7 kilometers to Bandipur, which we had heard great things about. Not long into the trip we pulled over, the driver got out and wandered off. We sat quietly for a bit then people got out and we noticed the line of stopped traffic snaking off around the bend in the distance.
Turns out a waterfall that forms in heavy rain had shut down the road, and we waited for it to clear. We waited 7 hours, talking to other passengers and seeing the shanty structures the people there live in, before it got dark. The larger buses were given clearance to go, but the smaller would be washed away. Most waited in line, but ours returned to a small truckstop town just down the road. The logistics of moving people and vehicles around in a place like this, where trucks had all elbowed up, double blocking each other in, was another chance to practice calm acceptance. This was only difficult when we, and a dozen other large vehicles, were stuck on a bridge over a monsoon swollen river...I sat calmly listening for sounds of its collapse, but we were in luck.
The internet connection, and power supply to the city, are both unreliable so I think I'll break this into two.
First week in Nepal, Part 2
Given that the waterfall regularly closes down the road (there are basically only two highways in Nepal, one going NE of Kathmandu, one SE) so we realized that if we managed to cross, then the road was closed again, we could very likely miss the beginning of our program, so decided to return to Kathmandu.
Only a few mini-buses were going there, and the nightime and stuck-in-a-jam rates were exorbitant, plus we had been advised, in person and Lonely Planet, that driving at night here is particularly hazardous, so we decided to try and stay the night there, and return the next day.
Turns out we were not the only ones looking to get a room, and the entire village was booked up. Legs getting shaky, we went to find some food before taking another shot at finding a ride, and a young guy approached us to say that he and his friends had a room they could share with us. "We no sleep, we will have fun."
We were somewhat dubious about this, but at least it was off the street, but he soon disappeared and we were back to square one.
The universe and the people in it are amazing though, and we soon met a Nepali gentleman who lives in the UK after serving a career in the British military. (Check out the history of the Gorkha legion sometime.) He was returning to his village for the first time in 12 years, bringing his two university-age children along, who had only seen it when they were small.
He had his parents with him as well, and the five of them had a small room with four beds reserved, but he offered to let us share. They had contracted their own minivan for the trip, and if the roads cleared were going to continue, so we sat until a little after midnight, talking to this family.
They said Grandma didn't speak any English, but I caught her laughing at things I said. Grandpa curled up and fell asleep, looking perfectly comfortable, even though the "beds" were actually wood tables with a blanket laid on top.
After midnight they heard that the road was open, and departed, leaving K and I living like kings in the room. We considered looking for others needing a room, but most of the people had departed the town, so we had the Grand Hall to ourselves. Well, us and the bed bugs. And mosquitoes and truly impressive variety of stains and phenomena on the blanket, walls, floor, table etc. The squat toilet in the bathroom brimmed with a liquid stew.
We voted on which bed looked the least filthy, segregated it from the rest, each wadded up a shirt to use as a pillow, K put on her waterproof jacket to try and serve as a further protective layer, and we lay down to see if we would sleep.
We actually did pretty well, given that our original prospective hosts were in the room next door, drinking and gambling, and occasionally coming to peer in the windows of our room at us (the tattered cloths hung in front of the window were not wide enough to cover it, and I felt reassured by the bars cemented into place.)
Remind me to write a letter to the manufacturers of my pants, asking why they anchor the belt loops with metal rivets. This design clearly did not take into account sleeping on a wood table with a thin bug infested blanket as cushioning.
All in all it was another one of those interesting travel experiences that are part of why I love it.
Discomfort and adjustments are good for a person, but the enduring worry is the bed bugs.
We are moving in with our first of two host families tomorrow, and we do not want to bring extra guests with us. As far as we could tell we escaped okay, but last night I looked up to find a big juicy bed bug walking up the wall. I think it was another one on the other wall, but it fell off as I approached...right onto our bags. We were unable to find it.
The good news is that the little brown turd-looking thing was just lint, so at least there's no rats in there.
Only a few mini-buses were going there, and the nightime and stuck-in-a-jam rates were exorbitant, plus we had been advised, in person and Lonely Planet, that driving at night here is particularly hazardous, so we decided to try and stay the night there, and return the next day.
Turns out we were not the only ones looking to get a room, and the entire village was booked up. Legs getting shaky, we went to find some food before taking another shot at finding a ride, and a young guy approached us to say that he and his friends had a room they could share with us. "We no sleep, we will have fun."
We were somewhat dubious about this, but at least it was off the street, but he soon disappeared and we were back to square one.
The universe and the people in it are amazing though, and we soon met a Nepali gentleman who lives in the UK after serving a career in the British military. (Check out the history of the Gorkha legion sometime.) He was returning to his village for the first time in 12 years, bringing his two university-age children along, who had only seen it when they were small.
He had his parents with him as well, and the five of them had a small room with four beds reserved, but he offered to let us share. They had contracted their own minivan for the trip, and if the roads cleared were going to continue, so we sat until a little after midnight, talking to this family.
They said Grandma didn't speak any English, but I caught her laughing at things I said. Grandpa curled up and fell asleep, looking perfectly comfortable, even though the "beds" were actually wood tables with a blanket laid on top.
After midnight they heard that the road was open, and departed, leaving K and I living like kings in the room. We considered looking for others needing a room, but most of the people had departed the town, so we had the Grand Hall to ourselves. Well, us and the bed bugs. And mosquitoes and truly impressive variety of stains and phenomena on the blanket, walls, floor, table etc. The squat toilet in the bathroom brimmed with a liquid stew.
We voted on which bed looked the least filthy, segregated it from the rest, each wadded up a shirt to use as a pillow, K put on her waterproof jacket to try and serve as a further protective layer, and we lay down to see if we would sleep.
We actually did pretty well, given that our original prospective hosts were in the room next door, drinking and gambling, and occasionally coming to peer in the windows of our room at us (the tattered cloths hung in front of the window were not wide enough to cover it, and I felt reassured by the bars cemented into place.)
Remind me to write a letter to the manufacturers of my pants, asking why they anchor the belt loops with metal rivets. This design clearly did not take into account sleeping on a wood table with a thin bug infested blanket as cushioning.
All in all it was another one of those interesting travel experiences that are part of why I love it.
Discomfort and adjustments are good for a person, but the enduring worry is the bed bugs.
We are moving in with our first of two host families tomorrow, and we do not want to bring extra guests with us. As far as we could tell we escaped okay, but last night I looked up to find a big juicy bed bug walking up the wall. I think it was another one on the other wall, but it fell off as I approached...right onto our bags. We were unable to find it.
The good news is that the little brown turd-looking thing was just lint, so at least there's no rats in there.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Leaving tomorrow...see you in September!
It seems unbelievable that tomorrow I’ll be in Nepal Nepal , it’s about 23 hours travel time including layovers, so technically in two days I’ll be in Nepal, although since it's nearly midnight maybe I could say "tomorrow" Belgium
I will take off on Sunday, June 26, 2011 and land on sombaar (Monday), Asadh 13, 2068. Nepal California
And yet I know that within a day or two of being there I won’t really be able to remember what it is like anywhere else. That’s awesome. That’s one of the fantastic features of travelling, how it so quickly becomes reality.
But right now it seems unimaginable, so I am not really trying to imagine it. I think preconceptions and expectations are never really worthwhile, are most likely wrong anyway, and actually have a chance of being negative; you can’t be disappointed if you weren’t expecting anything in particular, and you can best enjoy something if it’s unclouded by these preconceptions. That being said I can’t help but wonder…
What will the work be like? We are teaching in schools in Bhaktapur, K at Vidyarthi Niketan Higher Secondary School Krishna pigeon.
What will the living situation be like? Which of Nepal
I wonder what mistakes I will make? There is an elaborate set of customs and behaviors to learn. I think the obvious one I’ll have a problem remembering is not to cross my legs in front of anyone older than me. That goes with the Nepali belief that the feet are polluted and profane, I also must not ever point the soles of my feet at anyone, touch anyone else with my feet, or step over anyone or basically anything.
Also, can’t use the left hand for anything. I had a bit of trouble remembering this in Morocco Nepal
I find myself spilling over with enthusiasm for Nepal
(Apparently Nepal has a distinctly different sense of privacy than the West too, we have been advised that it is a much more collective society with regards to possessions and personal space, and that one need not knock before entering a room, so to lock the door when we change clothes.)
There is one thing I am a tad leery of.
Last year we went to Africa , and though it was undeniably a fantastic experience, we left feeling…I don’t know…a little off about it. We were not at our best during that time. I don’t know about me, but K at least is normally one of the most likeable people I have ever met, and yet on that trip we were both…yeah, not at our best I fear. There are several possible reasons for this, including that our relationship needed some attention after we had been apart for two months, during which we had very little contact, especially while I was on the Camino de Santiago, but I think another reason is that in Africa we felt a bit like we were treated like children, and/or that we were useless ride-alongs.
In Nepal
Curfew? Crap.
It says that Nepalese people do not stay out late, and see the cities as dangerous, particularly at night, and so hosts expect guests to observe the same curfews they set for their own children. Again: crap.
I love, love, lu-huv walking around cities in the dusk, evening, night-time. Photographs can get otherworldly, the tourists have gone away, the air is cooler, the sounds and smells different, the vibe distinct. Although apparently there is little and often no electricity thereabouts, so if the city is pitch black then there’s not much to, ahem, see.
I’ll be turning 31 while we’re there (on the 4th of Shrawan) and hope it feels nothing like adolescence. And ironically enough “timi” is the pronoun for “you” that one uses when addressing children. Grrreat. (In fact, the Nepali language has half a dozen forms for “you”, each carrying a different level of respect.)
But hopefully I can deal with all circumstances with the content enthusiasm that I seek to feel. (Nepal
And I have some experience being treated a bit, how shall I say it, less than fully adult here in Belgium
I generally find this endearing, and if it starts to get annoying I just take a quick mental trip to that town of drug runners on the Guatemala-Mexico border where we found ourselves marooned a couple years ago. I didn’t drink the water.
But shucks, like I said, I have little-to-no idea of what it will be like in Nepal India , and it is, but it is also the poorest nation in Asia . Maybe we’ll take the bus east to take a break in the opulence of Bangladesh
Host families may be Buddhist, Hindu, or Christian. They may have western toilets or squatties. May speak English, may not. I read things like that and don’t even try to resist the giant smile from coming to my face. I want to learn about it all! Nepal
I’ll tell you all about it when I get back…right after I write a letter to my new friends/family in Nepal
See you in September!
Coffie in Kotor
It was the middle of November when I got to Kotor , Montenegro Republic of Venice Bay of Kotor
It was off season, where the waiter shows up every half hour or so, and the street has a stillness that remembers the passage of centuries. Locals come and go, everyday life. The city has a stable cat population, who seem well cared for; there are no stray dogs in Kotor. Pigeons stand around in the square, unconcerned by the cats, who are well fed enough that they watch the birds with intent eyes belied by lazy bodies.
I asked for a cup of coffee, expecting the small espresso, probably Italian, that I had found in the previous twelve European countries, but I was in the Balkans now, close enough to Turkey
Coffee this strong has its own schedule, so I sat patiently, taking miniscule sips and watching the piazza.
Three sides were lined with medieval-sized houses, mostly converted to cafes, most of which were shuttered up, waiting for the tourist season when wealthy Russians and Eastern Europeans come down to the Mediterranean. The fourth side was the Cathedral of Saint Tryphon, one of two Roman Catholic cathedrals in the country, and which was consecrated on June 19. Can you guess the year? Would you believe 1166? Me neither, but it’s true. Twelfth century. That’s older than a middle-aged redwood tree, for crying out loud.
I was sitting in that café, across from that cathedral, in that town, all alone except for my occasional waiter and the old man meandering outside the cathedral, ostensibly it’s caretaker but in this season he was mainly occupied with feeding the cats and pigeons.
The air was still. Then there was half a pitter and most of a patter, and then it was a deluge, rain belly-flopping into the enduring square, instant waterfalls off the tilted edge of the umbrella that I had luckily sat underneath. Under my table the water followed mortared seems between flagstones, dust swirling on the thickened fronts of the streams as they washed the formerly dry stone.
The old man moved under the arch of the church and the two of us watched as the rain was the only movement in town.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)