...celebrate friendship

A couple of days ago it was the worldwide celebration of friendship. I didn't wake up knowing this; it was too early. Before I could know much of anything I was flying into Lakeside (the touristy part of Pokhara next to Phewa Lake) to meet my dear friend Raaz for a bike ride. We had planned to go on a substantial ride together with one of his friends, Sudess. So we met up, strapped up and were off before the shops were opening. Later that morning a couple of texts came in to phones handled by sweaty, tired Nepalis who informed me that, apparently, it was Friendship Day. 

Those hands were sweaty and tired because the three of us were biking in Nepal, which never goes as flat as one would hope it would go. No, instead we spent a solid 4 hours climbing Himalayan foothills on bike. It was exhausting.

There is a place high above Lakeside from where the paragliders leap and soar. This is a big tourist attraction and brings in substantial monies for the Nepali. You can see them up in the sky, like great colorful birds enjoying the breeze, like a swarm circling, searching for prey below. And yet, on our bikes we looked down on them. I kept saying, "We're crazy."

But you have to be a bit crazy to bike around in Nepal. I thanked God every time I successfully made it through a certain intersection on my way between where I was staying and Lakeside. I grew quickly thankful for horns because drivers would use them as they approached and at least then I knew to glide as far left as possible. Yes, left, they drive on the left here. 

Yet, however crazy, it was a friendship day well-spent. We reveled in it once the climb was over. We hit pavement again and went downhill. For six solid minutes. That doesn't sound too impressive, but watch the clock and see how long just one minute is, and then realize we were flying downhill for six of them. I wondered if I'd get altitude sickness, but we stopped before we even reached the bottom. Sudess took us up a side road and then down through the thicket where the sound of rushing water rose. We had made it to the swimming spot, a gorgeous, clean river descending down from Macchupucchre, the holy mountain also known as Fishtail Mountain.

We stripped down to our underwear and left our sweaty clothes out to dry in the intense heat (which made our climb that much more enjoyable, actually). And for over a half-hour we sat in the refreshing current, allowed the stampede to massage our body and the purity to take away all our grime. We spent some time just laughing. "This is like Paradise," said Raaz who initially wasn't going to get in until he saw the change in us, the pleasure that relaxed our faces, when we submerged ourselves. 

Indeed, it was a friendship day well-spent. When the ride was over we ate a couple helpings of Dal Bhat--no, we eagerly ate a couple helpings of Dal Bhat. And then I hopped onto the bike, which is also a friend's, and rode over to her house. And that night I went home to where I was staying: the spacious blue home of another friend. 

But the friendships all had to take another form, for Bonnie and I had to leave Pokhara for Kathmandu where we would fly elsewhere. We decided we wanted some more time with our friends and less time on a bumpy, hot, annoying, strangely-tiring, seven-hour bus ride. So we bought plane tickets and were there in twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes. It cost sixty-four dollars and when we landed in twenty-five minutes--did I mention that yet?--I decided that it was the best sixty-four dollars I ever spent. 

And though Kathmandu is the worst place to have to be after Pokhara, even if it took just twenty-five minutes y'all--twenty-five!--we fortunately found ourselves in an area not so afflicted with all those diseases of Kathmandu. The afternoon--which we had because we took a plane that lasted only twenty-five minutes(!!)--was spent at a children's home that is run by the family of our good friend Paul. The twenty-something children and teenagers that live there sang for us, introduced themselves, and let us peek into their lives. Most of them were studying for exams, though, so we left them to their studies and had a delicious meal instead. It was a lovely time, and had not some parcels of luggage been in Thamel waiting for us, we might have just stayed. 

We sat on the roof in a sweet breeze from atop the lime green boys' house and looked around at all the great cake-houses of Kathmandu. These crazy colors would only fly in certain neighborhoods in the States, but here yellows, pinks, blues and purples all sit side by side, like a row in Cake Boss' display. It is a farther cry from the Middle East, where the local stones cover every building.

Here in Amman, it is uniform, and I like it that way, for it is just like Palestine. The cakes people live in color Nepal; here the Earth they walk on rises and shelters. And so my thoughts tumble backwards to those friends I have said "see you" to, and forward to those friends I have said "I'm coming" to.

And in the aloneness of Amman, they keep me company.

...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.