...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.