...knock it off

I am on a bus returning to Kathmandu, leaving sweet Pokhara behind. We left the Kathmandu Valley a week and a half ago, begrudging the seven-hour bus ride to Pokhara hardly at all. We were saying good bye to a sandy atmosphere filled with black, grimy exhaust that left lungs dusty and skin caked. We were leaving behind the noises of grating horns and barking strays as well, those increasingly unbearable characteristics of urban centers. At night the canine choir would light up and I would wonder how we could get them to knock it off by entertaining notions of government-funded neutering initiatives. Seven hours was a pleasant price to pay, and as it wound up and down the foothills of the Himalayas, I only enjoyed it more. But now we're saying hello. Again.

But Kathmandu has her collection of beautiful things, too.

In Thamel where we stay there are shops upon shops of handmade items and knock-off goods, made-to-look-like brands and religious tokens, souvenirs and cheesy t-shirts. And in each one there are beautiful people. Their skin is darker, their smiles brighter. Many have those comfortable wrinkles that speak stories of their own. Some toothy grins are, well, toothless, and their eyes are shining, though often so dark there is no distinction between iris and pupil. Conversation is relaxed, easy; tea is sweet and milky; laughter is not hard to find.

I went to a Nepali church service where we sat in rows on the ground, cross-legged and split: women on the right, men on the left. Up front there were six people singing, a guitarist, bassist and drummer. The room was a concrete rectangle with a tin roof and hanging ceiling fans. In front of me sat a young, passionate man who raised his right hand in worship with a four-letter word tattooed on his knuckles. I smiled and longed for the story behind it.

We also visited Pashupati, the most holy site for all Hindus. This is a temple to Shiva, the destroyer, and within the Hindu-only site for worship sits a giant golden calf--I mean bull--that people pay homage to. Nepali, Indian, Chinese all whisk past us on their way in and out. Some people hope to get to this temple just once in their lifetime, a relationship like Muslims have with Mecca. Hopefully your visit isn't also your funeral, but such is the case for many. Right next to the temple is the ceremonial cremation site along the river, and you can smell it in the air. Several stone platforms support the bonfires of departing lives going on to join the five elements: the body is burned by fire, the body becomes like earth, the smoke floats into the air, the ash is placed in the water and their spirit ascends to Sky. 

However strange it was for us to see burning bodies, and stranger to smell them, it was a fascinating sight. Groups of mourners stood at every stage in the process: some were saying good-bye to their shrouded loved-one as he lay by the lapping current, some, red and puffy-eyed, were watching the fire smolder after hours of flame, and some the ashes being swept into the river. A group even carried one body in on a small bed, tears held back by duty.


But we've left that behind for Lakeside, Pokhara, Nepal. Here dark-skinned boys strip down to their underwear and dive into the warm lake water. They come out gleaming in the sun, smooth, smiling. Some have found a little drop-off and are leaping the ten feet down, splashing below. It is quite hot after all, and even we take an opportunity to leap, fully-clothed, into the lake and swim out to an island where sits a famous hotel owned by the royal 

family. Many dignitaries and celebrities have stayed here and their names are carved on wooden plaques hung outside the room they stayed in. We just sit with an old friend for tea and conversation. The beauty of the shade, the grass, the trees and mostly, the view, gives a sense of youthfulness. It is a kind of paradise here in Pokhara. 

On the outskirts of town winds a river that cuts a deep gorge. It is lower than the lake and thus fed by it, among other sources. There is a family we are good friends with and we took a couple of the young guys to this river for an afternoon of playing in the water. We found a good rock from which to jump and I swam down to see how deep it was there, but quickly resurfaced before I could feel anything; it was too creepy. We leaped into the water, launched them from shoulders and raced back and forth. These boys are brothers, but not by blood; one was found and taken in by the other's mother years and years ago. A hawk circles about the nearby shallow rapids and we enjoy the natural beauty of this country and her people.

Lakeside draws in many tourists and so the main street is lined with trekking shops and restaurants, bookshops and short Tibetan women who make crafts in their refugee camp and bring them to sell. Their shop is their backpack. We have good friends here, our favorite spots for tea or Dal Bhat and a gregarious mentality. Quickly we begin relationships at the Asian Tea House or Shiva's, as we call it. We think there is some kind of divine gravity in this epitomal hole-in-the-wall, for we connect with Aussies, Malaysians, Nepali, Canadian, Chinese and a Czech/Dutch guy. One we met on the trekking road, the others we see day after day, and even one we just met again at a bus stop. Nepal is full of small-world connections, and many emanate from the milk tea conversing at Shiva's. 

Raaz, the young man who sold me gear

Because I left Kathmandu and my luggage never left America, I had to purchase a couple of items. In anticipation of the rain, I needed something as waterproof as possible. So I did a bit of shopping. Nepal is a land of inflated prices. With so many tourists passing though her villages and cities, the locals have learned to price everything high. Bartering is expected and they will still come out with something of a profit. Though I am not a great barterer, I managed to knock off about half of the price that a Tibetan woman asked for; I know she still made off well. This is the case in the capitol as well, where every shop sells the same things and I can get a couple hundred rupees removed fairly easily. Our shop-owning friends give us the inside scoop: it isn't really yak, it isn't really handmade, it isn't really made in Nepal. But they point us to the things that are. 

Yes, the capitol towards which I head once again. There was no good-bye to Pokhara, though; we will return. My heart is there right now and I'll go get it next week. For now I'll partake in the joy of a dog--well, a joy of a dog. No, I will not be urine-marking my space or greeting with a sniff. I'll be sticking my head out of the window. Here, in these tiny taxis, I do this in order to fit in the vehicle, especially when we max out her capacity. And I find that it is delightful to watch everything pass as the wind cools off my sweating brow. Of course I have to lean carefully in order to keep all my parts from departing or getting my head knocked off. 

...piqué interest

The foothills are something even pictures cannot grasp, and my words certainly hold little power to contain them. Shrouded in mist they play hide and seek, with great, strong bodies that house intricate arteries of rivers and ribboning, dancing falls. They are a deep, untouched green, and they metamorphose into heavenly beasts; covered in eyes they always look at me. As I humbly place each one of my strides on their bones, I find gratitude in the muscle of Earth below me, and below the mountain, and below that. And how they launch me into the Heavens.

There is power here; the river rages and surges with it, the mountain quietly keeps it, the air pulls, passes and pours it. I am so small, and as I cross a wooden bridge or come face to face with a leaping cliff, I am reminded of it with clarity. 

And step-by-step we climb, passing the humble homes of mountain dwellers who hike briskly in flip-flops and rubber boots. Cows and water buffalo moo in the uncomfortable rain, chickens peck pathetically, pausing to shake the water from their feathers and ruffle and re-ruffle themselves. A dog joins us, walking ahead and waiting, watching, perhaps protecting and caring for these bipedal strangers. Four children send warning shrieks from under their umbrellas to ward off the monkeys from their family's maturing corn. Three older, wrinkled, calloused, tanned men and women crush rocks with a small hammer. A bare-breasted woman with suckling child sit on their porch we so invasively pass, and many men and women of all ages carry baskets of greens on their backs, supported by a cloth strap that rests on their crown like a bandanna. To each of these we greet with our hands held together in prayer, Namaste, and they return it. From under their plastic coverings some of the friendlier ones say 'Pani! Pani!' with a smile on their face. Pani means water and they chuckle at our sopping state. I agree with them through tone. Yes, Pani. Tons of it. 

It is monsoon season in Nepal; I have never been so soaked for so long. Some of the best gear is defeated by this onslaught. Wet to the core, we continue to climb to keep warm, and we make good time for it. The real enemy are those slimy suckers that come with the rain. Perched on leaves, trees, rocks leeches attach themselves to passing flesh. When we finally take off our shoes we have endlessly leaking wounds to attend to. A cheesecloth-covered ball of salt is our weapon in removing them as we climb, but some make it through all our defenses. When I finally remove one and kill it, I watch it bleed my own blood. How audacious. 

But we finally make it to Hotel Milan high up in Ghandruk. If the clouds clear we will see the glorious snows of the Annapurna Himalayan Mountain Range. Those are the real beauties. In another season we could climb to the top, but monsoon season makes for snow-storms that are not to be reckoned with too audaciously--we wouldn't want the mountains to make us bleed our own blood, so we tread humbly. For now, we hope just for a peek. 

As we dry and tend to wounds and eat a large lunch the mist and clouds pass and dissipate and we become more and more excited, anticipating what lies behind them. Across the valley a lonely structure manifests and I wonder what it could be, with nothing around it, the closest village half a cliff away, who lives there? What do they eat? How do they even get there? The mysteries of the Himalayas continue on...

And then, in the light of morning, when the clouds haven't yet had time to cover the hills, we finally see behind the veil, and oh!--what a change! Suddenly I'm even smaller. Those mountaintops I was so moved by, whose height I was so impressed with, and breadth in awe of--they become, well, hills. Monstrous, gorgeous, green and white--pure white--peaks have been towering above us all this whole time. So quickly my perspective changes. In just a small space between the creeping clouds I see the rising thrust of Fishtail and my hike, my view, my very self, have all shrunk. In the presence of giants we see ourselves as we ought.

But the sight is short lived. From over the hilltops comes the covering. It hugs the mountainside like a woolen blanket. Like a fleece is sits and contours to the shape of the rolling, jutting earth. Within minutes we can't even see the tops of the hills, our horizon is blurred out, and we are back to a world only meters wide and long. But I'm no bigger; I know now, and I cannot forget what greatness lies all around me: the peaks of the Annapurna.

...struggle on

I am still without clothes or toiletries or sandals or that sweet peanut butter I packed because my luggage remains lost in that nexus of traveling. I had to buy some basic things and blushed as my life was on display in the market. Picking out underwear is such an ignoble necessity. Turns out they don't fit so well; the clothes here are made for a smaller sort of person. 

A Tibetan woman who owns a bag shop chuckled as I tried to cram a "Large" hat onto my head. She told me, "they are made for Asian." 

It isn't surprising that there are many Tibetan people living here in Kathmandu and elsewhere in Nepal. They share a border, albeit a trecherous one, and many have fled their homeland because of the Chinese invasion. These whom I interact with are mostly the children and grandchildren of those that made the first flight. 

They are a beautiful people with strong features, wide, high cheekbones and dark eyes. They are kind and hospitable and cook the best food in town. The Tibet Cafe is a favorite of ours, and there we often meet for breakfast or dinner. We eat buffalo chowmein or thukpa (soup and noodles) or eggs and potatoes with cilantro and phale bread. I tried the Tibetan tea once, but couldn't down it. It is a buttery, salty tea and without something like lobster, I just couldn't stomach it. But I had to try it once. 

We frequent the shops around this touristy area to sit and chat and share laughter. We are good friends with several shopowners and families. One sweet family has three children we get to play with and watch grow. The youngest is a girl, and she runs up to my friend Bonnie and gives her a great big hug. She is always smiling or laughing. The middle child is a boy who loves to draw, and has quite the knack for it. He proudly shows us his latest work. And the oldest, also a boy, is bright and kind and aspires to be a doctor some day, perhaps. All three of them walked with us to the illustrious Monkey Temple, or Swayambhu, which included being rained on and climbing 365 steps to the top. 

The temple gets its name from all the monkeys living right around it--those cute, all-too-human creatures with an ominous potential power. I knew if I took out my iPhone to snap a picture, it could become a monkey toy, and it almost did. I escaped with the scratches left over from this monkey who grabbed my arm. Yes, grabbed my arm. A monkey. Grabbed. My arm. 

Swayambhu is a place Buddhists come to worship. This holy site is said to be the resting spot of a giant lotus flower when the Kathmandu valley was drained by a magical sword lifetimes ago. Apparenly this bowl was once a great lake, not a expansive city. And so we climb the stairs, we struggle, one step for each day of the year, to reach the top. This is like their lives, which are lead, day by day, through struggle towards nirvana, or salvation. 

At the top we meet people circling the temple, spinning the prayer wheels as a form of resitation. We also meet hordes of salespersons spinning their stories trying to get our attention to their various wares. I was caught up into a lecture on the creation of these beautiful Tibetan paintings and learned much about the path to real life from their perspective. The young man gave me an impressive presentation about purifying your mind, then speech, then soul towards nirvana through meditation. I asked him where he was on that journey and he chuckled and sat down. 

"That is a good question," he admitted and looked for an answer to a question he never received before. "Somewhere here," he decided as he pointed at the ring around the gates to our mind, which is the beginning. I laughed and said I was probably there as well. But, as nice of a connection as we had, I was politely excused when I offered no interest in purchasing one of his paintings.

View of the Kathmandu valley

So we faced the descent, a year of struggle going up, but just a bit of bouncing to get down. Turns out my legs hurt more leaving salvation than attempting it. And my struggle was waiting for me below as I sweat through my shirt once again, yet had little to change in to. Such is the Nepali life.

...tuck in

I have just finished a delightful, fresh breakfast in a beautiful outdoor courtyard. There is a slim tree sprouting in the center and providing a light canopy above us. For somewhere between 7 and 8 in the morning, it is awful humid. Walls are made of brick or painted concrete or displaying a huge carved fresco of sorts depicting mountains, jungle, four "super natural" creatures and the "symbol of brotherhood" (a bird on a bunny on a monkey on an elephant).

There is the sound of rushing water splashing around the corner and the guttural cooing of pigeons are all interrupted by distant honks and the occasional clatter of breakfasts being made above us. Kathmandu is a crowded city where people live all over each other and small alleyways lead us to staircases that ascend into heights of living spaces and shared bathrooms. 

I am in Thamel, the part of Kathmandu that tourists frequent. The narrow streets are lined with trekking information, gear shops sporting familiar brands, bookstores, and shops selling all kinds of Nepali-made wares, from clothes to Gurkha knives, handmade bags, masks, beads and all kinds of other trinkets. Rickshaws wheel past with riders sitting in the back and the driver pedaling up front. Most people seem to drive a motorcycle or moped and those zoom past. There is much honking here from all forms of transportation and when you hear it, you inch towards the curb and feel the air whoosh as a car or bike speeds through. 

I am sitting in a pair of new pants myself, which are a bit like Aladdin's, except black. I bought them because my luggage didn't arrive with me in the country. Somehow I was expecting this and was little phased by it; I just hope they show up soon. When they do I'll take a taxi to the airport to grab them--a taxi ride that is bumpy, close, and erratic. It is a funny stereotype about this part of the world, but it is upheld: on the way over we actually hit someone on a bike and kept going without so much as a glance in the rear-view. There are no lights, only blue uniformed crossing guards standing on their shaded platform in the middle of the chaos. They seem content with the way things move. I realized I'd better tuck my elbow in or lose it, which was tougher than one might expect due to the size of the van, which was somewhere between VW and matchbox.

But all of it is deeply beautiful. The people are kind and friendly and hospitable in their poverty. The buildings, tangled and colorful, seem to resemble a Lego city and remind me how unique it is in Palestine to have architecture uniform in facade. And unlike the rolling hills and flat places in the Middle East, here the city spreads out like a soup in a bowl of mountains. Tall, tenacious mountains.

It is the rainy season now so the peaks are shrouded in those artistic clouds. I've seen this before--Ah, yes! In all those glorious paintings of Chinese or Tibetan landscapes. Their shapes are mysterious, coy. We know they are there, we see hints of grandeur, we sense their wisdom. At night, however, I escaped to the roof for a moment, though my body craved long-awaited sleep, and got to look over rooftops and through alleys and even into living rooms with blinking television sets and cups of tea. And above it all was the silhouetted grandeur of one potent mountain. I must have been facing the west for the light of day stubbornly draped herself on his shoulders allowing me the shape of his figure. I marveled at his size and then at the mountains of clouds that climbed up above him.

Kathmandu! I thought. I'm in Kathmandu! Yet, despite my wide-eyed wonder, the heaviness of sleep was more powerful and I climbed down and tucked myself into bed. Well, it was more of a fall-onto-and-immediately-into-sleep kind of tuck, but, either way, Kathmandu will be there in the morning. And indeed she is, awake, fresh and beautiful.

…fly with me

For the last two months of Freeport High School’s school year, I was a long-term substitute teacher. That meant full-time teaching plus my work for Bow Street, which made me a busy, quiet bee. Despite the lack of sleep or really, just down-time, I was quite happy, for I attended that high school myself, and so I was a Freeport Falcon again, perched at the blackboard this time, and the copy room and the teacher’s lounge, instead of at those small begummed plywood desks.

And even though I have been somewhat steady in this small town, I’ve done a fair bit of traveling. Three short weeks ago I completed the Trek Across Maine, a 180 mile bike ride from the mountains to the sea in three short days. It was gorgeous, intensely. I watched suns rise, pavement pass and lakes, trees, rock, mountains, rivers, towns, dams, mills spring out of the landscape. The weather was only what we could have wanted and the thrill and challenge of the ride was something to think about and be proud of tackling.  

And three short months prior I flew to the mid-west for a wedding, and some other reconnections. The mid-west, where you trade open watery breezes for sweet people and open waterless views. I found myself in familiar territory, surrounded by faces I’ve seen before and places I’ve roamed. The NW Arkansas—SW Missouri region is another home of mine from my days working at Camp Barnabas.

And so I’ve noticed how this blog remains with function even though I am no longer with Arabs. It has morphed into a travel blog, perhaps; the reveries of a peregrinator.

Ah, that little gem I’ve found and resonate with…

per·e·gri·nate |ˈperigrəˌnāt| verb archaic or humorous

ORIGIN late 16th cent.: from Latin peregrinat - ‘traveled abroad,’ from peregrinus ‘foreign, traveling.’

travel or wander around from place to place.

DERIVATIVES

peregrination |ˌperigrəˈnā sh ən| |ˈpɛrəgrəˈneɪʃən| noun

peregrinator |-ˌnātər| |ˈpɛrəgrəˈneɪdər| noun

Yes! Travel or wander around from place to place. That is something I love to do, something I am, and something for which the peregrine falcon, interestingly enough, gets his name. The peregrine falcon is known for being one of the fastest in all the animal kingdom, small yet fierce, and we at Freeport boast pride in our peregrination (here not correctly meaning “the act of traveling from place to place” but instead creatively used as an adjective meaning “the likeness of Freeport students to the greatness of the peregrine falcon). He is the Freeporter; I am him. And I especially appreciate the humorous connotation, for I find myself chuckling at those insignificant differences that two peoples discover make all the difference, really. And I hope you do as well.

But the story isn’t over—as if the coincidence of my high school’s mascot and my self-identification wasn’t enough—or as if 9 months in Palestine was the end! Oh, no. I dug a little further and found that as languages diverged, Latin’s peregrinus was split. On one hand, the word developed into our modern counterpart; on the other, the first ‘r’ was replaced with an ‘l,’ making something like Italian’s Pellegrino, or Old French’s pelegrin, or Middle English’s pilegrim. Or modern English’s

pilgrim |ˈpilgrəm| noun

a person who journeys to a sacred place for religious reasons.

Nepal, picture courtesy of my friend, Bonnie

No. Way. No way! In a short week I will be traveling, peregrinating, pilgriming to the Holy Himalayas and the Holy Land. I will be four weeks in Nepal and one in Palestine. I will meet and speak and make eye contact with Hindus and Buddhists and Muslims and probably Christians, Jews and Atheists too. I will pass through the Middle Kingdom and the Middle East and be both half-way to Heaven and practically there already.

So follow my peregrinations as I go. I will be a pilgrim again. I will be a traveler, near-wanderer, as I fly around the globe. And you too will spread your winds and soar with, through words and descriptions and stories.

See you in Nepalestine.