It’s the first time I’ve traveled abroad during ‘peak’ season. We’re in Bali in August – along with half of Australia, one third of France, one sixth of Japan and what seems like 10,000 other people from various Asian and European countries. No more of the near-empty beaches and restaurants of shoulder season. No more off-season bargainable rates. No more showing up without a reservation. The bombs that tore through the Ritz Carlton and Marriott in Jakarta last month have had no effect on the sun and sand seeking droves that descend on this tiny island during the month of August. Most people think of Bali as the quintessential ‘tropical island paradise.’ If you’re spending US$500 a night and have an infinity pool obscuring the private crystalline white sand beach that lies between your cabana and an endless expanse of ocean, you will probably continue to consider it just that. If you’re traveling on a budget and tend to veer off the beaten path, Bali – at least in August – is likely not your cup of java.
We arrive on July 29 to full rooms, crowded streets, and touts every few steps. Dolce & Gabanna, Hard Rock Café, Quicksilver, Starbucks, Levi Strauss and Co., RipCurl, and even Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. (among others) line the narrow, one-way avenues that make up Kuta. Every few meters is a restaurant promising fresh fish, authentic Mexican food, wood-fired pizza, Cornish pasties or the coldest beer in town. Spaces between are crammed with small storefronts selling ‘traditional Balinese crafts’ – what at first appear to be unique wood-carvings and fabrics soon become pile after pile of tourist-trap items, hot off the assembly line. I imagine a monstrous, black smoke belching factory – most likely in China – that spits out all of the ‘crafts’ that fill the shops of every tourist-laden market in Asia. It’s an ugly idea, and I try to squelch it with the notion of a squatting, dark-skinned man wittling away for hours outside his thatch-roofed hut. But the piles of cock-shaped bottle openers (wooden, no doubt) I pass every few minutes make this task supremely difficult.
We finally find a vacant room at US$30 a night – what is more than an entire day’s budget over the last five months. Discouraged by peak-season rates, but thrilled by the presence of air-conditioning and a pool – we unpack our bags and crash for the night on a real spring mattress– exhausted from sixteen hours of travel and the remnants of my most recent bout with ‘digestive complications.’
We spend two more days and nights in Kuta (find a room the next day for half the $) – clouded in a blur of overstimulating sidewalks, abominable traffic, overpriced food, clubs thumping until 4am, and a seemingly endless sea of people on the beach and in the water hoping to catch the perfect wave. If not for the need to fix yet another camera problem (mine ceased turning on a couple weeks ago), we would not be here. We don’t even go to the beach more than once – it being over-crowded with surfboard-wielding bros and bettys that are here to party and show off every possible fraction of bare skin acceptable in Westernized countries. I’ll admit I’m a little surprised and slightly offended by this – recognizing the alteration of my perspective from the past five months spent in conservative cultures. It’s nice to be able to wear a sleeveless shirt without feeling too bare – but I’m not ready to let it all hang out.
So far, Bali is not the relaxing tropical paradise I’ve always envisioned. We’re going to try to find it over the next few weeks – but for now, I’ve seen enough skin, Bintang koozies, and KFCs to last me a lifetime. I’m starting to wonder if monsoonal rains might have been a better, more authentic experience.
Sunday, August 16
Sunday, July 12
Borneo: First Impressions
Traveling and writing seem like activities that go hand-in-hand. Turns out, it's very difficult to keep up with posting these blogs! Every day, I think - I have so much to write about, I need to post a blog - and then I realize how much has happened that I haven't written about and feel like I need to catch up and get frustrated and end up not writing anything. Or - the battery is dead on the computer and we don't have the right adapter to plug it in. Or - I haven't checked email in so long that when I go online I spend the entire time sorting through my inbox. Or - there's so much happening I literally can't write for a while. All these 'excuses' - eh? Tonight, I've decided to skip the past six weeks or so that I haven't written about yet - trekking in Nepal, climbing and beaches in Indonesia, etc. - and share my first impressions of Borneo.
For those of you who only heard of Borneo when a season of 'Survivor' was filmed here - it's an island off of the SE Asian peninsula that is home to states of three countries. Kalimantan, Indonesia takes up most of the island - Brunei is one of the smallest countries in the world and occupies the space between two Malaysian states - Sarawak and Sabah are somewhat autonomous, but still part of the Malaysian Republic. We decided to fly to Kota Kinabalu and spend about 18 days in Sabah - climbing rocks and a volcano, snorkelling, maybe diving, and seeking out some of the rarest flora/fauna in one of the richest areas in the world in terms of biodiversity.
These activities - as well as the references you might have heard regarding Borneo as a place where undiscovered species of plants and animals are continually found - might lead you to believe that the island is exotic, uninhabited, and almost entirely wild. At least, that's what I expected when we booked the ticket.
My first impression: Borneo is more like the USA than any other place we've been in Asia. On our way out of Kota Kinabalu today, I saw more townhouse-style condominiums than the East side of Seattle! There are big trucks and SUVs everywhere - guzzling down Esso, Shell, Mobil, and a few other Asian brands of gasoline. We've seen Starbucks, Pizza Hut, 7-Eleven, Dunkin' Donuts, McDonalds, Burger King and about a dozen KFCs in the past two days. And tonight, we went looking for an adapter (we didn't know outlets are different here than in the rest of Asia) and found one in a store that very much reminded us of - dare I say - WalMart!? It wasn't quite as big - and thank god, WalMart hasn't actually tainted this 'exotic' island yet - but still, I have been not-so-pleasantly surprised by the degree to which this area has been developed.
That being said, we've only been here about 24 hours and stayed in cities both nights (there are 'cities' on Borneo!?!?). The bus ride across the island today was beautiful - Mount Kinabalu (the highest point between the Himalaya and Papua) and acre after acre of palm forest. Sometime in the next weeks, we'll visit orangutan and sea turtle sanctuaries, spend a few nights in the jungle looking for wildlife, and probably pay a visit to 30 newly-developed sport routes on an island just off the coast. We'll also be looking into a technical route up the massive chunk of granite that tops Mount Kinabalu.
So, I don't think we've even laid eyes on the surface of what Borneo truly has to offer. I'm really hoping we find a place that's 'away from it all' to spend some time here and experience the magic that 'Borneo' implies. But most of all, I hope we don't find that the magic is dissipating precisely because tourists like us keep coming to visit it!
For those of you who only heard of Borneo when a season of 'Survivor' was filmed here - it's an island off of the SE Asian peninsula that is home to states of three countries. Kalimantan, Indonesia takes up most of the island - Brunei is one of the smallest countries in the world and occupies the space between two Malaysian states - Sarawak and Sabah are somewhat autonomous, but still part of the Malaysian Republic. We decided to fly to Kota Kinabalu and spend about 18 days in Sabah - climbing rocks and a volcano, snorkelling, maybe diving, and seeking out some of the rarest flora/fauna in one of the richest areas in the world in terms of biodiversity.
These activities - as well as the references you might have heard regarding Borneo as a place where undiscovered species of plants and animals are continually found - might lead you to believe that the island is exotic, uninhabited, and almost entirely wild. At least, that's what I expected when we booked the ticket.
My first impression: Borneo is more like the USA than any other place we've been in Asia. On our way out of Kota Kinabalu today, I saw more townhouse-style condominiums than the East side of Seattle! There are big trucks and SUVs everywhere - guzzling down Esso, Shell, Mobil, and a few other Asian brands of gasoline. We've seen Starbucks, Pizza Hut, 7-Eleven, Dunkin' Donuts, McDonalds, Burger King and about a dozen KFCs in the past two days. And tonight, we went looking for an adapter (we didn't know outlets are different here than in the rest of Asia) and found one in a store that very much reminded us of - dare I say - WalMart!? It wasn't quite as big - and thank god, WalMart hasn't actually tainted this 'exotic' island yet - but still, I have been not-so-pleasantly surprised by the degree to which this area has been developed.
That being said, we've only been here about 24 hours and stayed in cities both nights (there are 'cities' on Borneo!?!?). The bus ride across the island today was beautiful - Mount Kinabalu (the highest point between the Himalaya and Papua) and acre after acre of palm forest. Sometime in the next weeks, we'll visit orangutan and sea turtle sanctuaries, spend a few nights in the jungle looking for wildlife, and probably pay a visit to 30 newly-developed sport routes on an island just off the coast. We'll also be looking into a technical route up the massive chunk of granite that tops Mount Kinabalu.
So, I don't think we've even laid eyes on the surface of what Borneo truly has to offer. I'm really hoping we find a place that's 'away from it all' to spend some time here and experience the magic that 'Borneo' implies. But most of all, I hope we don't find that the magic is dissipating precisely because tourists like us keep coming to visit it!
Tuesday, June 23
Simplicity.
The man standing by the truck is wearing all white – pants and a long tunic. He is slender and soft-spoken at first. We introduce ourselves and our bags are packed into the rear of the truck as we join a young man in the back seat. As the truck is steered assertively along a bouncy country road, we begin to know the driver and head of the ashram to which we are headed, Ramchandra.
The grass is blanketed with children as we pull into the yard. The headlights of the truck pierce the thick darkness of power-less, tropical night and cause the children to pick up their plates and scatter. We have just driven through their outdoor dining room and I feel a little anxiety in leaving the security of our vehicle. Though I’m sure they knew we were coming, I’m not sure what they’ll think about us being here.
We are shown to our room and told to come down for dinner as soon as we want. It’s a large room with windows on two sides, two short single beds with mosquito nets, a table, and simple wardrobe. There is an attached bathroom with Western toilet and shower – though it smells as if the toilet has never been flushed. There are toothbrushes and soap and long black hair in the drain – stoic images of elderly relatives line the wall above the table. We wonder whose beds we’ll be sleeping in.
Ramchandra’s mother is one of the first women we meet – and though she doesn’t speak much English, she tries to communicate with a huge, warm smile on her face. We are handed stainless steel plates and stand in queue for rice, dhal, potatoes, and chapatti. Ramchandra’s diet requires more simply prepared food and as guests, we are offered some of his steamed greens, as well. The food is deliciously straightforward and we will eat it twice a day for the duration of our stay.
We learn there are about fifteen adults and thirty-five children that live at this ashram. Ramchandra ran away to India and lived an extremely difficult street life as a child. He eventually educated himself and began studying the philosophy of Sri Aurobindo, a teacher who believes strongly in the discipline of hard and selfless work. Ramchandra began an ashram just outside of Kathmandu about 17 years ago that is now producing its own goods to sell and purchase the materials it needs to operate a meditation/yoga centre, school, and guest house. This land on the Terai plain in southern Nepal was purchased a few years ago and he has envisioned building a self-sustaining community here, as well.
The people that live and work here do so free of charge – and everyone contributes. The land is farmed, animals tended, and meals cooked in seemingly perfect harmony. The children have all come from difficult circumstances – some with their mothers/families. For many, this is the first time they’ve had consistent nourishment and any sort of formal education in their lives.
The main building is less than two years old – and money ran out before the third floor could be finished. The first floor is communal – with space for cooking and serving, food storage, and dining in the rainy season. The second floor is lined with rooms for the children and ‘suites’ for the adults – including hallway bathrooms for the children to use at night, but which are locked during the day so that they have to use the composting toilets outside. The third floor is half completed – it lacks windows, doors, furnishings – and this is where the children attend school. A chalkboard leans in the corner of a large room with thin carpet fragments covering the cement floor; notebooks are piled in the corner next to the chalkboard. There are no other books, pencils, or papers of any kind – no chairs or desks – no glass to keep the weather out.
Everyone is up by five o’clock in the morning. Breakfast is prepared (the same rice, dhal, chapatti combination as dinner with slight vegetable variation) and ‘chores’ are completed. By the time we make it downstairs, the children have eaten and begun working. A young French man has been living here for a few months and he is helping to physically build Ramchandra’s vision, also studying the natural environment and its medicinal properties. While looking through the jungle a couple days ago, he discovered the seed pod of a certain tree that contains a really sticky, clear substance. Everyone thinks they might be able to use this substance as a form of glue – so today they are harvesting it. These particular trees on their property have been climbed by some of the older (eleven year old) boys wielding sickles and they are hacking off the branches while younger children drag and carry the fallen ones across the fields to the barn. A large pile is forming and being sorted through by the older girls and adults – the pods being pulled and thrown into buckets – the branches being broken down to compost. The children think it’s funny when Dan and I try to help and I sense uneasiness from the adults. We want to help - they want us to feel honored as guests.
Ramchandra takes us for a walk and shows us the property, sharing his ideas for development. A meditation center was the first thing completed – indicating the central strength and importance of faith. It is a circular building surrounded by gardens of trees and flowers and grass. Tonight, we will practice meditation with them – hear readings from Sri Aurobindo’s writings and songs/chants created by fifty harmonious voices. He will lead tonight’s practice in English, Nepali, and French so that everyone has the opportunity to hear the passage’s message. We will sit quietly in the darkness of nightfall with incense wafting through the open air and understand a little bit of these people’s lives.
The property is primarily farmland – rotating between corn, rice, and wheat – also gardens of other vegetables and trees of mango, banana, plum and lychee. (If you have never eaten a ripe, juicy lychee directly off the tree and warm from the afternoon sun – I highly recommend it!) There are about ten cows and a bull or two – the milk and curd we eat couldn’t be fresher. Their dung is collected and processed into compost with human waste and other natural materials. Ramchandra has purchased a couple pieces of machinery to help with the farming and harvest – so a garage is being constructed to shelter them from the upcoming rain. There is a building across the yard from the main house that accommodates the wood fire kitchen – and I will enjoy watching the production of tonight’s chapatti there later this afternoon.
There is no other word to describe this place than ‘organic’. Life here is about as basic as it gets – no phone, intermittent electricity, simple furnishing and methods of preparing the food that was produced on this land and by the hands of the people who are consuming it. The process of living is repeated in cycles that coincide very naturally with the cycles of days and seasons in the year. The quiet, simple serenity is refreshing for our battered psyches.
We decide to stay only two nights. We don’t feel like now is the time for us to be here – though we will consider spending more time here in the future. There is a lot of work to be done and the more people to contribute, the better. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to visit this place and will take many elements of this existence with me – the reality of people living harmoniously with each other and with nature. It’s interesting to think that we are in one of the ‘underdeveloped’ countries of the world – learning and witnessing a far greater understanding of meaningful life than we find in ‘developed’ places.
A raucous bus rolls through the early morning and jolts us back into the reality of this traveling life. We have many days to live through on the road to ‘recovering’ from India – and this might have been a swing too far in the other direction for us at the moment. Dan is anxious about his camera and we're so close to the Himalaya we can feel their presence looming in the distance. We will ride into the Kathmandu valley feeling much better about life and our place in it, ready to do some laundry, and eager to get into the colossal mountains that surround us.
** For more information about this ashram and Ramchandra’s work, go to www.auronepal.net – and if you’re traveling through Nepal or looking for a place to spend some time restoring balance in your life or contributing directly to something meaningful, feel free to contact him by email – they’d be happy to have you! **
Oh - and it's right next to a national park and sometimes they have wild rhinos run through the property!
The grass is blanketed with children as we pull into the yard. The headlights of the truck pierce the thick darkness of power-less, tropical night and cause the children to pick up their plates and scatter. We have just driven through their outdoor dining room and I feel a little anxiety in leaving the security of our vehicle. Though I’m sure they knew we were coming, I’m not sure what they’ll think about us being here.
We are shown to our room and told to come down for dinner as soon as we want. It’s a large room with windows on two sides, two short single beds with mosquito nets, a table, and simple wardrobe. There is an attached bathroom with Western toilet and shower – though it smells as if the toilet has never been flushed. There are toothbrushes and soap and long black hair in the drain – stoic images of elderly relatives line the wall above the table. We wonder whose beds we’ll be sleeping in.
Ramchandra’s mother is one of the first women we meet – and though she doesn’t speak much English, she tries to communicate with a huge, warm smile on her face. We are handed stainless steel plates and stand in queue for rice, dhal, potatoes, and chapatti. Ramchandra’s diet requires more simply prepared food and as guests, we are offered some of his steamed greens, as well. The food is deliciously straightforward and we will eat it twice a day for the duration of our stay.
We learn there are about fifteen adults and thirty-five children that live at this ashram. Ramchandra ran away to India and lived an extremely difficult street life as a child. He eventually educated himself and began studying the philosophy of Sri Aurobindo, a teacher who believes strongly in the discipline of hard and selfless work. Ramchandra began an ashram just outside of Kathmandu about 17 years ago that is now producing its own goods to sell and purchase the materials it needs to operate a meditation/yoga centre, school, and guest house. This land on the Terai plain in southern Nepal was purchased a few years ago and he has envisioned building a self-sustaining community here, as well.
The people that live and work here do so free of charge – and everyone contributes. The land is farmed, animals tended, and meals cooked in seemingly perfect harmony. The children have all come from difficult circumstances – some with their mothers/families. For many, this is the first time they’ve had consistent nourishment and any sort of formal education in their lives.
The main building is less than two years old – and money ran out before the third floor could be finished. The first floor is communal – with space for cooking and serving, food storage, and dining in the rainy season. The second floor is lined with rooms for the children and ‘suites’ for the adults – including hallway bathrooms for the children to use at night, but which are locked during the day so that they have to use the composting toilets outside. The third floor is half completed – it lacks windows, doors, furnishings – and this is where the children attend school. A chalkboard leans in the corner of a large room with thin carpet fragments covering the cement floor; notebooks are piled in the corner next to the chalkboard. There are no other books, pencils, or papers of any kind – no chairs or desks – no glass to keep the weather out.
Everyone is up by five o’clock in the morning. Breakfast is prepared (the same rice, dhal, chapatti combination as dinner with slight vegetable variation) and ‘chores’ are completed. By the time we make it downstairs, the children have eaten and begun working. A young French man has been living here for a few months and he is helping to physically build Ramchandra’s vision, also studying the natural environment and its medicinal properties. While looking through the jungle a couple days ago, he discovered the seed pod of a certain tree that contains a really sticky, clear substance. Everyone thinks they might be able to use this substance as a form of glue – so today they are harvesting it. These particular trees on their property have been climbed by some of the older (eleven year old) boys wielding sickles and they are hacking off the branches while younger children drag and carry the fallen ones across the fields to the barn. A large pile is forming and being sorted through by the older girls and adults – the pods being pulled and thrown into buckets – the branches being broken down to compost. The children think it’s funny when Dan and I try to help and I sense uneasiness from the adults. We want to help - they want us to feel honored as guests.
Ramchandra takes us for a walk and shows us the property, sharing his ideas for development. A meditation center was the first thing completed – indicating the central strength and importance of faith. It is a circular building surrounded by gardens of trees and flowers and grass. Tonight, we will practice meditation with them – hear readings from Sri Aurobindo’s writings and songs/chants created by fifty harmonious voices. He will lead tonight’s practice in English, Nepali, and French so that everyone has the opportunity to hear the passage’s message. We will sit quietly in the darkness of nightfall with incense wafting through the open air and understand a little bit of these people’s lives.
The property is primarily farmland – rotating between corn, rice, and wheat – also gardens of other vegetables and trees of mango, banana, plum and lychee. (If you have never eaten a ripe, juicy lychee directly off the tree and warm from the afternoon sun – I highly recommend it!) There are about ten cows and a bull or two – the milk and curd we eat couldn’t be fresher. Their dung is collected and processed into compost with human waste and other natural materials. Ramchandra has purchased a couple pieces of machinery to help with the farming and harvest – so a garage is being constructed to shelter them from the upcoming rain. There is a building across the yard from the main house that accommodates the wood fire kitchen – and I will enjoy watching the production of tonight’s chapatti there later this afternoon.
There is no other word to describe this place than ‘organic’. Life here is about as basic as it gets – no phone, intermittent electricity, simple furnishing and methods of preparing the food that was produced on this land and by the hands of the people who are consuming it. The process of living is repeated in cycles that coincide very naturally with the cycles of days and seasons in the year. The quiet, simple serenity is refreshing for our battered psyches.
We decide to stay only two nights. We don’t feel like now is the time for us to be here – though we will consider spending more time here in the future. There is a lot of work to be done and the more people to contribute, the better. I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to visit this place and will take many elements of this existence with me – the reality of people living harmoniously with each other and with nature. It’s interesting to think that we are in one of the ‘underdeveloped’ countries of the world – learning and witnessing a far greater understanding of meaningful life than we find in ‘developed’ places.
A raucous bus rolls through the early morning and jolts us back into the reality of this traveling life. We have many days to live through on the road to ‘recovering’ from India – and this might have been a swing too far in the other direction for us at the moment. Dan is anxious about his camera and we're so close to the Himalaya we can feel their presence looming in the distance. We will ride into the Kathmandu valley feeling much better about life and our place in it, ready to do some laundry, and eager to get into the colossal mountains that surround us.
** For more information about this ashram and Ramchandra’s work, go to www.auronepal.net – and if you’re traveling through Nepal or looking for a place to spend some time restoring balance in your life or contributing directly to something meaningful, feel free to contact him by email – they’d be happy to have you! **
Oh - and it's right next to a national park and sometimes they have wild rhinos run through the property!
Monday, June 22
Border town.
I know, it’s been a long time since I posted again. It’s amazing how time gets away from me sometimes! I don’t even think I said anything about Nepal yet and we were there for a month – and are now on to Indonesia! Already, when I think back over the past couple months, our time in Nepal seems a bit overshadowed by our experience in India – and the prolonged experience of dealing with Dan’s broken camera. Perhaps this is a reflection of the dynamic between the two countries in a larger sense, too – Nepal trying to find its own way, but having immense political, financial, and social influence from India (and China) to negotiate as well. (This is too much for me to tackle here and I don’t know enough about it.)
We could sense the difference as soon as we walked across the border. The bus dropped us off about 100 meters from the big line, so we walked the last bit – and as we turned into the Nepali immigration office, we felt immediate relief. The guy behind the desk actually smiled at us! Quickly, we learned that we had forgotten to get our Indian visa stamped for exit. The guy at the Indian immigration desk 50 meters away grumbled, “Where are your bags?” as we approached. No smile. We explained our mistake and with a grunt, he stamped us free. We walked into Nepal for the second time and didn’t look back.
Border towns are an interesting phenomenon. No one stays very long, so no one really cares about them. The solid black line on the political map is blurred by the constant flow of people and goods. This transience attracts a breed of man that eludes the legal systems of the countries on both sides of the border. When you’re a tourist crossing the line, you draw the attention of these men.
We needed to find an ATM in order to by bus tickets. Our Indian rupees were almost gone and we let them run out since we were getting started in a new country anyway. We hadn’t really thought about arriving at the border in the heat of mid-day, hauling our packs around, trying to solve the transportation puzzle that defines overland travel, and needing to find money. At least we were two – I stayed at the bus station with the bags and Dan set out to locate those magic little pieces of paper that everyone seemed to want from us.
The bus station was hot, dirty and full of men’s leering eyes (same as India here) – there was something wet running past my foot, a mangy dog passed out behind me, and manic flies everywhere. I had to pee and couldn’t see any sort of public toilet (not unusual in the past 2 ½ months) – and couldn’t leave our packs anyway. I thought of Dave, our friend who was mugged at this crossing – lost his camera, cards, and some money. Time kept passing, my bladder nagged more urgently, and I started to become concerned with the length of time Dan had been gone.
Finally he returned, purchased our tickets, some snacks, and water – and released me to relieve myself. I could tell he was agitated and when I got back from the hole in the ground, he told me why.
Some might wonder why Dan was the one who went to find an ATM – the guy doesn’t have the greatest sense of direction, and we had just arrived in a new, unknown town. He was, however, the bigger and stronger of the two of us – so we figured it was safer for him to wander around. He asked a rickshaw driver where the closest ATM was – unfortunately, the driver couldn’t hear him over the rumbling din of hauling trucks and Dan had to repeat himself – “ATM?!” – even louder.
This attracted the attention of a young man nearby, who immediately came to Dan’s assistance. “ATM, this way,” he said – and started to lead Dan across the street. Now, we had decided to start over in Nepal – forget the mistrust that India had ingrained – our nature is to want to trust people and believe we all look out for each other. So Dan started to follow him, but instinct quickly kicked in and alerted him not to rely on this guy. He ducked into the lobby of a nearby hotel and asked the man at reception. Apparently, the ATMs in town were all in the opposite direction. And in the time it took Dan to communicate with the guy and understand him, the young man had found two friends and was waiting at the door.
Dan walked through the group of three on the way out and let them know he didn’t need their help – yet they continued to follow him. He dodged along the street and behind a line of trucks trying to lose them – but they persisted. He was starting to feel really alarmed – heart racing, temper flaring, heat pressing – and outnumbered. Instinct reached his right hand to his pocket and closed around the handle of his knife. With a quick about face, the blade flipped open and caught the afternoon sun. “What do you want!?!”
Fortunately, the guys were shocked by this gesture and dispersed. Dan continued on his way (via bicycle rickshaw) to four different ATMs before he found one that worked. When he returned to me almost 30 minutes later, his hands were still shaking.
I was in disbelief at first – and heartbroken. The biggest concern was obviously his physical safety – and that threat had been avoided. And it’s not that we would have lost anything – I had everything valuable back at the bus station, and Dan had very few rupees left in his wallet. Psychologically and emotionally, though, we were spent before this most recent test. After it, our resolve was totally exhausted.
The bus arrived twenty minutes later and removed us from the volatility of the ‘border town.’ As India drifted further away behind us, our spirits lifted and our tenacity was restored. We were almost ready for adventure again when the bus dropped us off on a stretch of dark road in the middle of a small, power-less town. A smiling face with inquisitive eyes granted me access to his phone in lantern light and I called the man who was to pick us up. While we waited, three different people offered us help, a ride, and a place to stay if we were abandoned. I don’t think people saw Western tourists very often in this town – we were finally ‘off the beaten track.’
We weren’t abandoned. And in a few minutes of dark, still night, a thread of our faith in humanity was restored by the friendliness of these few people.
** Charlotte – I know this is probably going to worry you quite a bit – please know that we are safe and well and this was an isolated incident! **
We could sense the difference as soon as we walked across the border. The bus dropped us off about 100 meters from the big line, so we walked the last bit – and as we turned into the Nepali immigration office, we felt immediate relief. The guy behind the desk actually smiled at us! Quickly, we learned that we had forgotten to get our Indian visa stamped for exit. The guy at the Indian immigration desk 50 meters away grumbled, “Where are your bags?” as we approached. No smile. We explained our mistake and with a grunt, he stamped us free. We walked into Nepal for the second time and didn’t look back.
Border towns are an interesting phenomenon. No one stays very long, so no one really cares about them. The solid black line on the political map is blurred by the constant flow of people and goods. This transience attracts a breed of man that eludes the legal systems of the countries on both sides of the border. When you’re a tourist crossing the line, you draw the attention of these men.
We needed to find an ATM in order to by bus tickets. Our Indian rupees were almost gone and we let them run out since we were getting started in a new country anyway. We hadn’t really thought about arriving at the border in the heat of mid-day, hauling our packs around, trying to solve the transportation puzzle that defines overland travel, and needing to find money. At least we were two – I stayed at the bus station with the bags and Dan set out to locate those magic little pieces of paper that everyone seemed to want from us.
The bus station was hot, dirty and full of men’s leering eyes (same as India here) – there was something wet running past my foot, a mangy dog passed out behind me, and manic flies everywhere. I had to pee and couldn’t see any sort of public toilet (not unusual in the past 2 ½ months) – and couldn’t leave our packs anyway. I thought of Dave, our friend who was mugged at this crossing – lost his camera, cards, and some money. Time kept passing, my bladder nagged more urgently, and I started to become concerned with the length of time Dan had been gone.
Finally he returned, purchased our tickets, some snacks, and water – and released me to relieve myself. I could tell he was agitated and when I got back from the hole in the ground, he told me why.
Some might wonder why Dan was the one who went to find an ATM – the guy doesn’t have the greatest sense of direction, and we had just arrived in a new, unknown town. He was, however, the bigger and stronger of the two of us – so we figured it was safer for him to wander around. He asked a rickshaw driver where the closest ATM was – unfortunately, the driver couldn’t hear him over the rumbling din of hauling trucks and Dan had to repeat himself – “ATM?!” – even louder.
This attracted the attention of a young man nearby, who immediately came to Dan’s assistance. “ATM, this way,” he said – and started to lead Dan across the street. Now, we had decided to start over in Nepal – forget the mistrust that India had ingrained – our nature is to want to trust people and believe we all look out for each other. So Dan started to follow him, but instinct quickly kicked in and alerted him not to rely on this guy. He ducked into the lobby of a nearby hotel and asked the man at reception. Apparently, the ATMs in town were all in the opposite direction. And in the time it took Dan to communicate with the guy and understand him, the young man had found two friends and was waiting at the door.
Dan walked through the group of three on the way out and let them know he didn’t need their help – yet they continued to follow him. He dodged along the street and behind a line of trucks trying to lose them – but they persisted. He was starting to feel really alarmed – heart racing, temper flaring, heat pressing – and outnumbered. Instinct reached his right hand to his pocket and closed around the handle of his knife. With a quick about face, the blade flipped open and caught the afternoon sun. “What do you want!?!”
Fortunately, the guys were shocked by this gesture and dispersed. Dan continued on his way (via bicycle rickshaw) to four different ATMs before he found one that worked. When he returned to me almost 30 minutes later, his hands were still shaking.
I was in disbelief at first – and heartbroken. The biggest concern was obviously his physical safety – and that threat had been avoided. And it’s not that we would have lost anything – I had everything valuable back at the bus station, and Dan had very few rupees left in his wallet. Psychologically and emotionally, though, we were spent before this most recent test. After it, our resolve was totally exhausted.
The bus arrived twenty minutes later and removed us from the volatility of the ‘border town.’ As India drifted further away behind us, our spirits lifted and our tenacity was restored. We were almost ready for adventure again when the bus dropped us off on a stretch of dark road in the middle of a small, power-less town. A smiling face with inquisitive eyes granted me access to his phone in lantern light and I called the man who was to pick us up. While we waited, three different people offered us help, a ride, and a place to stay if we were abandoned. I don’t think people saw Western tourists very often in this town – we were finally ‘off the beaten track.’
We weren’t abandoned. And in a few minutes of dark, still night, a thread of our faith in humanity was restored by the friendliness of these few people.
** Charlotte – I know this is probably going to worry you quite a bit – please know that we are safe and well and this was an isolated incident! **
Wednesday, June 10
I'm an aunt!!
A few nights ago, I woke up shivering and having to pee really bad - but feeling really nice from a dream. I was with my sister and her husband and my new nephew when he was a few months old. He was smiling and cute with reddish blonde hair and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. All I remember other than his face is saying to my sister, "It's amazing how such little creatures have the ability to reach right into your heart and wring some tears out."
It was about 1:45am in Ghorepani, Nepal at the time - we were on a trek through a portion of the Annapurna Conservation Area of the Himalaya. After I got up and used the bathroom, I looked out the window and saw clear sky for the first time since we arrived. I immediately woke up Dan, because across from us were the two largest peaks I have every laid eyes on. We were one night away from the full moon and the mountains were illuminated fully, with a backdrop of brightly twinkling stars. He took some photos and we both laid there quietly for a while - awed and unable to sleep with those peaks looming so close. My thoughts kept drifting back to the sweet, young face I had seen in my dream.
When we returned to Pokhara and checked email, I learned that my first nephew Miles had finally joined us (about a week late!). He was 8 lbs. 4 oz. and 21" long and as I read the date and time of his birth my mouth dropped open. Tears of happiness and sadness (for not being there with my sister!) were filling the corners of my eyes when I realized that he was born about 20 minutes before I woke up from my dream of him!!
Now, I've been coming to understand very strongly that we are all connected...but this amazes me. That I would have a dream of him just after his birth from halfway around the world makes me feel a little less far from home. Of course, I really can't wait to meet him - but we'll probably be home by the time he is able to remember us anyway. At least that's what I tell myself to feel okay about missing it.
The other cool thing that I realized - it was June 6th in the USA when he was born, so that is officially his birthday. However, it was June 7th here in Nepal - so Miles is going to have a special birthday with his Aunt Lisa for the rest of his life!!
It was about 1:45am in Ghorepani, Nepal at the time - we were on a trek through a portion of the Annapurna Conservation Area of the Himalaya. After I got up and used the bathroom, I looked out the window and saw clear sky for the first time since we arrived. I immediately woke up Dan, because across from us were the two largest peaks I have every laid eyes on. We were one night away from the full moon and the mountains were illuminated fully, with a backdrop of brightly twinkling stars. He took some photos and we both laid there quietly for a while - awed and unable to sleep with those peaks looming so close. My thoughts kept drifting back to the sweet, young face I had seen in my dream.
When we returned to Pokhara and checked email, I learned that my first nephew Miles had finally joined us (about a week late!). He was 8 lbs. 4 oz. and 21" long and as I read the date and time of his birth my mouth dropped open. Tears of happiness and sadness (for not being there with my sister!) were filling the corners of my eyes when I realized that he was born about 20 minutes before I woke up from my dream of him!!
Now, I've been coming to understand very strongly that we are all connected...but this amazes me. That I would have a dream of him just after his birth from halfway around the world makes me feel a little less far from home. Of course, I really can't wait to meet him - but we'll probably be home by the time he is able to remember us anyway. At least that's what I tell myself to feel okay about missing it.
The other cool thing that I realized - it was June 6th in the USA when he was born, so that is officially his birthday. However, it was June 7th here in Nepal - so Miles is going to have a special birthday with his Aunt Lisa for the rest of his life!!
Monday, June 1
Residual India.
After three months, we are finally ‘settling in’ to traveling life. We talked for many months about spending a year abroad, without really thinking about what that would actually mean. The romanticism and anticipation of adventure overshadowed the emotional, psychological, and physical stress of our daily lives as nomads – and only now are we beginning to understand how our expectations have been fulfilled and disappointed, how our bodies have been strained, and how to endure and handle the constant barrage of tests we face.
In another ‘careening down the mountainside’ type of event, our lunatic bus driver sped through 5km of unfinished road that was littered with piles of materials and potholes. After being tossed around for about thirty minutes in the middle of the night, the bus finally dipped into one fateful crater. The back wheels were under our seats – and as they crested the far edge of the hole, everything on the bus was launched over a foot in the air. Dan cracked his head on the overhead bin, a sleeping child plummeted to the floor, and the unassuming camera bag came crashing down into the aisle. Through the roar of the engine and the moaning and creaking of the beaten bus, I felt silence as I turned to Dan. He bent down and picked up the bag in slow motion. As it rested on his lap, he turned to me and said, “I don’t even want to look.”
Sure enough, the lens had snapped – virtually in half. Torrential emotions shook both of us through the remainder of the ride, and when we arrived in an unknown city at 3:30am in the middle of a pre-monsoonal downpour, the driver shrugged his shoulders at our fate and yelled at us to get off the bus. Adding insult to injury, our bags had been tossed in a puddle and as we bent to pick them up, the bus tore away – blasting thick, black exhaust in our faces.
Dan ended up sending the lens and camera body to a Canon repair center outside of Delhi, India. It took almost a week to communicate with an assistant manager there regarding our circumstances – the need for the repair to be expedited quickly and for the equipment to be shipped on to Nepal. The fix was estimated and completed within a few days – at which time we were told that they wouldn’t accept a credit card as payment and that we’d have to wire/transfer money directly into the company’s account. For five days, we scoured the city for an international money transfer service or bank that would make this transaction. We were online and on the phone with our banks in the U.S. – all of which declined to make the transaction (quoting too significant a risk). This coincided, of course, with the bank holiday here from Friday afternoon to Sunday, the change over from WaMu to Chase (online banking and banking in general were disrupted for three days), and Memorial Day weekend.
Ten days into our 30-day Nepali visa, we had yet to leave Kathmandu city limits. India, it seemed, was haunting us. We finally convinced the assistant manager to ship the equipment without confirmed payment – but with at least the payment details of Dan’s credit card. The time on our visa dwindled and the monsoon season loomed, but with six days to wait for the camera and tracking number in hand, we gratefully headed out to see if we could find some of these so-called mountains.
A great sense of relief and optimism washed through both of us as our bus maneuvered above the pollution-riddled cloud of the Kathmandu valley. I realized, with a faint sense of amazement, that it was the first time I had felt ‘relief’ in almost three months. Though the camera is still not physically in Dan’s hands, the opportunity for us to put India behind us is near.
The three weeks we’ve been dealing with this camera situation have ranged from intensely aggravated to mildly irritated to supremely discouraged – sprinkled with the humor of disbelief and the faith that we won’t be handling such relentless challenges for the entire year. The Nepali people have generally been welcoming and helpful. And in retrospect, the time we’ve been ‘stuck’ in Kathmandu negotiating this elusive transaction has provided us an occasion to decompress. Certainly, we knew we’d encounter difficult times in the course of our travels, but India – overall – was a harsh, taxing place. This is not to say we didn’t see things of remarkable beauty and experience moments of tremendous humility. However, I am just beginning to process it all and it will likely take some time.
In the meantime, we are set to receive the camera tomorrow. We’ll then go to Pokhara, from where we embark on a seven day trek through the Himalaya. Dan’s ankle is feeling pretty strong. Our bellies have had only minor complications. And we are finally feeling rested and ready to take on the next thing. Of course – we hope whatever it is will wait a few weeks!
In another ‘careening down the mountainside’ type of event, our lunatic bus driver sped through 5km of unfinished road that was littered with piles of materials and potholes. After being tossed around for about thirty minutes in the middle of the night, the bus finally dipped into one fateful crater. The back wheels were under our seats – and as they crested the far edge of the hole, everything on the bus was launched over a foot in the air. Dan cracked his head on the overhead bin, a sleeping child plummeted to the floor, and the unassuming camera bag came crashing down into the aisle. Through the roar of the engine and the moaning and creaking of the beaten bus, I felt silence as I turned to Dan. He bent down and picked up the bag in slow motion. As it rested on his lap, he turned to me and said, “I don’t even want to look.”
Sure enough, the lens had snapped – virtually in half. Torrential emotions shook both of us through the remainder of the ride, and when we arrived in an unknown city at 3:30am in the middle of a pre-monsoonal downpour, the driver shrugged his shoulders at our fate and yelled at us to get off the bus. Adding insult to injury, our bags had been tossed in a puddle and as we bent to pick them up, the bus tore away – blasting thick, black exhaust in our faces.
Dan ended up sending the lens and camera body to a Canon repair center outside of Delhi, India. It took almost a week to communicate with an assistant manager there regarding our circumstances – the need for the repair to be expedited quickly and for the equipment to be shipped on to Nepal. The fix was estimated and completed within a few days – at which time we were told that they wouldn’t accept a credit card as payment and that we’d have to wire/transfer money directly into the company’s account. For five days, we scoured the city for an international money transfer service or bank that would make this transaction. We were online and on the phone with our banks in the U.S. – all of which declined to make the transaction (quoting too significant a risk). This coincided, of course, with the bank holiday here from Friday afternoon to Sunday, the change over from WaMu to Chase (online banking and banking in general were disrupted for three days), and Memorial Day weekend.
Ten days into our 30-day Nepali visa, we had yet to leave Kathmandu city limits. India, it seemed, was haunting us. We finally convinced the assistant manager to ship the equipment without confirmed payment – but with at least the payment details of Dan’s credit card. The time on our visa dwindled and the monsoon season loomed, but with six days to wait for the camera and tracking number in hand, we gratefully headed out to see if we could find some of these so-called mountains.
A great sense of relief and optimism washed through both of us as our bus maneuvered above the pollution-riddled cloud of the Kathmandu valley. I realized, with a faint sense of amazement, that it was the first time I had felt ‘relief’ in almost three months. Though the camera is still not physically in Dan’s hands, the opportunity for us to put India behind us is near.
The three weeks we’ve been dealing with this camera situation have ranged from intensely aggravated to mildly irritated to supremely discouraged – sprinkled with the humor of disbelief and the faith that we won’t be handling such relentless challenges for the entire year. The Nepali people have generally been welcoming and helpful. And in retrospect, the time we’ve been ‘stuck’ in Kathmandu negotiating this elusive transaction has provided us an occasion to decompress. Certainly, we knew we’d encounter difficult times in the course of our travels, but India – overall – was a harsh, taxing place. This is not to say we didn’t see things of remarkable beauty and experience moments of tremendous humility. However, I am just beginning to process it all and it will likely take some time.
In the meantime, we are set to receive the camera tomorrow. We’ll then go to Pokhara, from where we embark on a seven day trek through the Himalaya. Dan’s ankle is feeling pretty strong. Our bellies have had only minor complications. And we are finally feeling rested and ready to take on the next thing. Of course – we hope whatever it is will wait a few weeks!
Monday, May 25
On writing.
Every time I sit down to write, I end up playing computer games. It started out with Minesweeper, but I’ve moved on. I’ve even developed a specific ‘schedule’ of play – starting out with a game of Freecell to warm up, then moving on to the Fortress in Mahjong Titans (probably the most difficult layout of tiles), and finishing up with a game of Hearts. Sometimes I get stuck playing a number of games of Mahjong Titans – I try to play until I win. If I’m not winning – and getting frustrated – I’ll move on to Hearts and come back to it. Once I’ve completed this circuit of games, I’ll close out the final window and open a Word document. I’ll try to formulate a thought for a few minutes – maybe even write a line or two – and promptly go back to the games. If the block is particularly bad, I’ll go for a game of traditional Solitaire. By this time, my eyes will be tired and dry from staring at the illuminated screen, so I’ll leave the computer entirely and read a little of my latest book. So much for my commitment to writing.
Computers are a funny phenomenon. Writing on a computer, I’ve noticed, is a touch less organic than writing with ink or lead on paper. I have a much easier time just letting the words roll out of the end of a pen, without much concern for how the words would sound to a reader. Perhaps this is a function of the ‘privacy’ of a journal. When I write on the computer, I’m conscious that my intention is to share my thoughts with the online world. I’m constantly ‘backspacing’ and ‘cutting’ and ‘pasting’ and using the thesaurus to make it just right as I go. On one hand, I type faster than I write – so it’s easier for my hands to keep up with my thoughts. On the other hand, my thoughts are often interrupted by constant self-editing.
Another thing I’ve noticed: although computers have provided a far more immediate and widespread ability to communicate with each other, we might actually be more disconnected by using them. Who remembers how intimate it feels to receive a handwritten letter? And is there really any substitute for the sound of a loved one’s voice on the phone? We can communicate with an exponentially larger number of people in an exponentially shorter amount of time – but is the quality of that communication building and/or sustaining any sort of meaningful relationships?
I’m a few months into a trip through Asia that will likely last the better part of a year. In that time, I’ll miss major events in the lives of my closest friends and family – marriages, deaths, births – the dearest of which will likely be the birth of my only sister’s first child. This miracle could occur any day now – any moment, really – and I would be lying if I didn’t admit a significant degree of sadness regarding my absence from this occasion. Furthermore, our first few months have fallen far short of a ‘vacation’ – and the challenges we continue to face cause us to constantly assess our reasons for taking this trip in the first place.
From the time this trip was a glimmer of a dream to the moment we were boarding the plane at Newark International Airport, I had the intention to write diligently of my experiences and thoughts. Why, now, can I not seem to make any sense of our first three months here? Where did the inspiration go that I found in our first 36 hours on a new continent? Why am I putting such an immense amount of pressure on myself to make something of this trip? And is that pressure contributing to my lack of motivation and inability to come up with any cohesive statement? I’ve been experimenting with a new style of writing – somewhat successfully – but is it really my voice?
My 30-year old voice still wavers between timid and uncertain and loud and clear. Still, I feel certain that if I can remain open and aware and let this process happen naturally, I will have made something of this time abroad. India was the most overwhelming place I have ever had the opportunity to visit. I knew I would face some immense challenges during my time there, but I didn’t have any idea how hard it would be to live and travel there. The fact that I haven’t been able to process any of it into coherent thought shouldn’t surprise me. Yet in some ways, it does. Good thing I’m the kind of girl that generally likes surprises.
In the meantime, I shot the moon twice in one game of Hearts this morning!
Computers are a funny phenomenon. Writing on a computer, I’ve noticed, is a touch less organic than writing with ink or lead on paper. I have a much easier time just letting the words roll out of the end of a pen, without much concern for how the words would sound to a reader. Perhaps this is a function of the ‘privacy’ of a journal. When I write on the computer, I’m conscious that my intention is to share my thoughts with the online world. I’m constantly ‘backspacing’ and ‘cutting’ and ‘pasting’ and using the thesaurus to make it just right as I go. On one hand, I type faster than I write – so it’s easier for my hands to keep up with my thoughts. On the other hand, my thoughts are often interrupted by constant self-editing.
Another thing I’ve noticed: although computers have provided a far more immediate and widespread ability to communicate with each other, we might actually be more disconnected by using them. Who remembers how intimate it feels to receive a handwritten letter? And is there really any substitute for the sound of a loved one’s voice on the phone? We can communicate with an exponentially larger number of people in an exponentially shorter amount of time – but is the quality of that communication building and/or sustaining any sort of meaningful relationships?
I’m a few months into a trip through Asia that will likely last the better part of a year. In that time, I’ll miss major events in the lives of my closest friends and family – marriages, deaths, births – the dearest of which will likely be the birth of my only sister’s first child. This miracle could occur any day now – any moment, really – and I would be lying if I didn’t admit a significant degree of sadness regarding my absence from this occasion. Furthermore, our first few months have fallen far short of a ‘vacation’ – and the challenges we continue to face cause us to constantly assess our reasons for taking this trip in the first place.
From the time this trip was a glimmer of a dream to the moment we were boarding the plane at Newark International Airport, I had the intention to write diligently of my experiences and thoughts. Why, now, can I not seem to make any sense of our first three months here? Where did the inspiration go that I found in our first 36 hours on a new continent? Why am I putting such an immense amount of pressure on myself to make something of this trip? And is that pressure contributing to my lack of motivation and inability to come up with any cohesive statement? I’ve been experimenting with a new style of writing – somewhat successfully – but is it really my voice?
My 30-year old voice still wavers between timid and uncertain and loud and clear. Still, I feel certain that if I can remain open and aware and let this process happen naturally, I will have made something of this time abroad. India was the most overwhelming place I have ever had the opportunity to visit. I knew I would face some immense challenges during my time there, but I didn’t have any idea how hard it would be to live and travel there. The fact that I haven’t been able to process any of it into coherent thought shouldn’t surprise me. Yet in some ways, it does. Good thing I’m the kind of girl that generally likes surprises.
In the meantime, I shot the moon twice in one game of Hearts this morning!
Tuesday, April 28
A Walk.
A waft of burning plastic awakens my sense of smell, in turn, my sense of sight. Eyes open to a new day in India and I remember – every day is new. Maybe today, I will love it here.
The first step outside is not into a pile of shit, though I will watch closely every step that I take. Thirteen pairs of rickshaw-driving eyes leap to life at the sight of me – perhaps today’s first opportunity for a ‘foreigner’ fare. Despite the crumbling sidewalk and chaos that awaits me, I opt for a walk. Thirteen ‘no thank yous’ later, I am on my way. I wonder if number thirteen was feeling especially lucky this morning – if he truly believed I’d choose his ride after turning down all the others. Five meters past the end of this three-wheeled, black and yellow, soot-stained line, I hear the familiar sound of a two-stroke engine slowly approach. Rickshaw? No. No thank you this time.
The dust has nearly settled from the morning sweep. Only one brightly wrapped woman lingers, slowly and deliberately brushing the remnants of yesterday’s traffic from her stoop. It will sit in a tidy, dirty pile off to the side until a bus blares by or any animal comes rummaging for a morning snack. For now, she has cleared a small space and continues L-bent, spreading an intricate pattern of talc. It will linger, welcoming visitors much longer than the dirty pile remains tidy.
The air is suddenly thick and the back of my throat knows before my eyes do that the source of my awakening this morning is only moments away. A neighbor has ignited her tidy, dirty pile of metallic cellophane, plastic bottles and street soil. Eyes burning, scarf held securely over nose and mouth, I step blindly through the dense smoke. Please, let my foot land on solid ground and not in a steaming pile. I can barely make out the silhouette of bovine hips a few meters ahead. My foot is safe, but the tail is raised and as the air clears I feel the gentle spatter of cow urine on my ankle.
I step quickly aside – wary of sidewalk crumbles underfoot – around a corner and into the street. My sense of time and space is instantly overwhelmed by the unyielding blare of a horn. Though the worst thing I can do is hesitate, I freeze for a moment. Countless obstructions come sharply into focus. I know, after two months here, to say farewell to that focus sooner than it arrives. It is best to just keep moving, shifting, drifting. Constantly and carefully, one foot in front of the next.
Right hip dodges fruit cart. Left shoulder escapes sideview mirror. Left foot narrowly misses a freshly hocked loogie. Left leg is less fortunate, roughly grazed by a bike pedal. Right foot high steps over a pile of defeated shoes. Left hip shirks an ox cart. Right hand draws up just in time to avoid contact with the outstretched hand of a beggar – wait, is that hand attached to an arm – or directly to a shoulder? Barely time to notice that feet protrude directly from hips. I just passed a torso with ten fingers and ten toes.
My walk continues. I don’t need sunglasses, thank you. Sugarcane juice? No thanks. Come look, my shop. Not now. Earrings? Necklace? Drum? Map? Postcard? You don’t have to buy, just look. No thank you. Looking is free. Nothing is free. Just look. Nope. I’m walking and fear the slightest pause.
Left foot sidesteps unidentified puddle. Left shoulder bangs an elbow slung casually across the back of gentlemen friends. Right shoulder skirts the basket on a brightly wrapped woman’s head. Right hip eludes child’s foot – a child dangles by one arm over this woman’s shoulder. As one hand balances the basket, the other carries the wrist of her flailing toddler.
An abrupt pain courses through my right breast. My head turns, catches a uniformed boy – maybe ten – trotting away, looking back, smirking. Through the onset of disbelief, my body follows my head and I am walking swiftly and angrily after him. He glances again and is surprised to see me following. Paces quicken. Suddenly, I stop. What am I going to do to this kid? He catches up with his friend and before I turn away, I see them giggle maliciously. A ten year old boy just slapped my breast for fun. I was publicly molested, and except feeling helpless and violated, there is nothing I can do about it. No one else seems to have noticed. (Did I mention this was a fun/ny thing for a 10 year old?!?)
As I shake my head and begin to walk, the sputtering behind me slows. Rickshaw? No!
I’ve never trusted rickshaw drivers. Now, I don’t trust children. I am slowly and painfully learning to distrust everyone I encounter in this country. As I am much more of an idealist than a cynicist, this is very difficult for me. My light skin is a permanent blemish – a hindrance to any sort of fair negotiation or honest dialogue. Light skin = foreigner = money.
Equals survival. In this country of over one billion people – of which almost 400 million survive on the equivalent of roughly $1.25 a day – the psychology of living is contrary to my own. Can I spare the extra 50 rupees (Rs 50 ~ $1) I’m charged to travel the same distance (as a local) in a rickshaw? Why shouldn’t I pay Rs 250 to see this temple while an Indian pays Rs 10? Who’s more likely to buy a necklace – someone who earns Rs 100 a day or someone who earns $100 a day? Should I bargain down to Rs 100 for this shawl so you can by your family dinner – or pay the Rs 500 you ask of me so you can feed your family for a week?
I don’t have to be here. I chose to be here. Why? To peak my curiosity? To stoke my sense of adventure? To create an opportunity for learning? To alter my perspective? To experience a different psychology of living? If I made the willing decision to come here and had every intention of remaining open-minded and open-hearted, why do I feel so damn frustrated? What – exactly – is all this about?
The pungency of stale urine assaults my olfactory nerves like the Allied forces on the beaches of Normandy. I have just stepped over another unidentifiable puddle into an open air, tile corridor. Looking up without pausing, I notice four men facing the wall to my left, legs shoulder width apart. Before my twinge of embarrassment escalates, I have passed through and stepped out of this public urinal. Just another drop in this immense bucket – but I’ve had enough for today.
One more corner to turn before the refuge of my Rs 400/night room. Done walking, I’ll read and write and ruminate there for the afternoon – and maybe I’ll love India tomorrow.
The first step outside is not into a pile of shit, though I will watch closely every step that I take. Thirteen pairs of rickshaw-driving eyes leap to life at the sight of me – perhaps today’s first opportunity for a ‘foreigner’ fare. Despite the crumbling sidewalk and chaos that awaits me, I opt for a walk. Thirteen ‘no thank yous’ later, I am on my way. I wonder if number thirteen was feeling especially lucky this morning – if he truly believed I’d choose his ride after turning down all the others. Five meters past the end of this three-wheeled, black and yellow, soot-stained line, I hear the familiar sound of a two-stroke engine slowly approach. Rickshaw? No. No thank you this time.
The dust has nearly settled from the morning sweep. Only one brightly wrapped woman lingers, slowly and deliberately brushing the remnants of yesterday’s traffic from her stoop. It will sit in a tidy, dirty pile off to the side until a bus blares by or any animal comes rummaging for a morning snack. For now, she has cleared a small space and continues L-bent, spreading an intricate pattern of talc. It will linger, welcoming visitors much longer than the dirty pile remains tidy.
The air is suddenly thick and the back of my throat knows before my eyes do that the source of my awakening this morning is only moments away. A neighbor has ignited her tidy, dirty pile of metallic cellophane, plastic bottles and street soil. Eyes burning, scarf held securely over nose and mouth, I step blindly through the dense smoke. Please, let my foot land on solid ground and not in a steaming pile. I can barely make out the silhouette of bovine hips a few meters ahead. My foot is safe, but the tail is raised and as the air clears I feel the gentle spatter of cow urine on my ankle.
I step quickly aside – wary of sidewalk crumbles underfoot – around a corner and into the street. My sense of time and space is instantly overwhelmed by the unyielding blare of a horn. Though the worst thing I can do is hesitate, I freeze for a moment. Countless obstructions come sharply into focus. I know, after two months here, to say farewell to that focus sooner than it arrives. It is best to just keep moving, shifting, drifting. Constantly and carefully, one foot in front of the next.
Right hip dodges fruit cart. Left shoulder escapes sideview mirror. Left foot narrowly misses a freshly hocked loogie. Left leg is less fortunate, roughly grazed by a bike pedal. Right foot high steps over a pile of defeated shoes. Left hip shirks an ox cart. Right hand draws up just in time to avoid contact with the outstretched hand of a beggar – wait, is that hand attached to an arm – or directly to a shoulder? Barely time to notice that feet protrude directly from hips. I just passed a torso with ten fingers and ten toes.
My walk continues. I don’t need sunglasses, thank you. Sugarcane juice? No thanks. Come look, my shop. Not now. Earrings? Necklace? Drum? Map? Postcard? You don’t have to buy, just look. No thank you. Looking is free. Nothing is free. Just look. Nope. I’m walking and fear the slightest pause.
Left foot sidesteps unidentified puddle. Left shoulder bangs an elbow slung casually across the back of gentlemen friends. Right shoulder skirts the basket on a brightly wrapped woman’s head. Right hip eludes child’s foot – a child dangles by one arm over this woman’s shoulder. As one hand balances the basket, the other carries the wrist of her flailing toddler.
An abrupt pain courses through my right breast. My head turns, catches a uniformed boy – maybe ten – trotting away, looking back, smirking. Through the onset of disbelief, my body follows my head and I am walking swiftly and angrily after him. He glances again and is surprised to see me following. Paces quicken. Suddenly, I stop. What am I going to do to this kid? He catches up with his friend and before I turn away, I see them giggle maliciously. A ten year old boy just slapped my breast for fun. I was publicly molested, and except feeling helpless and violated, there is nothing I can do about it. No one else seems to have noticed. (Did I mention this was a fun/ny thing for a 10 year old?!?)
As I shake my head and begin to walk, the sputtering behind me slows. Rickshaw? No!
I’ve never trusted rickshaw drivers. Now, I don’t trust children. I am slowly and painfully learning to distrust everyone I encounter in this country. As I am much more of an idealist than a cynicist, this is very difficult for me. My light skin is a permanent blemish – a hindrance to any sort of fair negotiation or honest dialogue. Light skin = foreigner = money.
Equals survival. In this country of over one billion people – of which almost 400 million survive on the equivalent of roughly $1.25 a day – the psychology of living is contrary to my own. Can I spare the extra 50 rupees (Rs 50 ~ $1) I’m charged to travel the same distance (as a local) in a rickshaw? Why shouldn’t I pay Rs 250 to see this temple while an Indian pays Rs 10? Who’s more likely to buy a necklace – someone who earns Rs 100 a day or someone who earns $100 a day? Should I bargain down to Rs 100 for this shawl so you can by your family dinner – or pay the Rs 500 you ask of me so you can feed your family for a week?
I don’t have to be here. I chose to be here. Why? To peak my curiosity? To stoke my sense of adventure? To create an opportunity for learning? To alter my perspective? To experience a different psychology of living? If I made the willing decision to come here and had every intention of remaining open-minded and open-hearted, why do I feel so damn frustrated? What – exactly – is all this about?
The pungency of stale urine assaults my olfactory nerves like the Allied forces on the beaches of Normandy. I have just stepped over another unidentifiable puddle into an open air, tile corridor. Looking up without pausing, I notice four men facing the wall to my left, legs shoulder width apart. Before my twinge of embarrassment escalates, I have passed through and stepped out of this public urinal. Just another drop in this immense bucket – but I’ve had enough for today.
One more corner to turn before the refuge of my Rs 400/night room. Done walking, I’ll read and write and ruminate there for the afternoon – and maybe I’ll love India tomorrow.
Monday, April 20
Hampi: Heat.
Every day, the heat grows like a crescendo. It is April fifth and we have been in India one month. We have been in Hampi one week – this place is magical and oppressive. Air is ripe with the sweet smell of rice and dense with its moisture. After rising with the sun, the heat settles over the day like a thick woolen blanket, heavy on my chest.
We have found what we were looking for. Boulders sprinkle the landscape as far as the eye can see and nature has created the most perfect scene of balance. Only nature can. Among the seemingly infinite sea of granite, man has woven in three layers of devotion and a thin, sad layer of waste. From my hill-top perch, the sun is slipping silently away and the energy of evening begins to stir.
My fingertips are tender and hot and reveal the consistent stress of my intermittent activity. I have attempted to solve this problem a number of times, but my body has not yet found what my mind tirelessly searches for. I will know when to rest. Flesh and blood have been taken by this rock, but will is steadfast and remains intact. The solution relies on the smallest of adjustments and if it does not arrive now, I will wait patiently. Its fruition will seem effortless; the practice of body and mind coming energetically together is a discipline. I have just returned to it.
We are tired. Nights are no longer for sleeping. In order to play with the rocks, we merely nap at night and again at mid-day. Despite this mid-day inactivity, we don’t come alive again until dusk. It is hard work carrying a thick, woolen blanket around all day.
We have found what we were looking for. Boulders sprinkle the landscape as far as the eye can see and nature has created the most perfect scene of balance. Only nature can. Among the seemingly infinite sea of granite, man has woven in three layers of devotion and a thin, sad layer of waste. From my hill-top perch, the sun is slipping silently away and the energy of evening begins to stir.
My fingertips are tender and hot and reveal the consistent stress of my intermittent activity. I have attempted to solve this problem a number of times, but my body has not yet found what my mind tirelessly searches for. I will know when to rest. Flesh and blood have been taken by this rock, but will is steadfast and remains intact. The solution relies on the smallest of adjustments and if it does not arrive now, I will wait patiently. Its fruition will seem effortless; the practice of body and mind coming energetically together is a discipline. I have just returned to it.
We are tired. Nights are no longer for sleeping. In order to play with the rocks, we merely nap at night and again at mid-day. Despite this mid-day inactivity, we don’t come alive again until dusk. It is hard work carrying a thick, woolen blanket around all day.
Saturday, April 18
Hampi: Boulders.
We have spent the last two weeks rising with the sun. It is cool in the early morning hours and the rocks remain unbaked until ten o’clock. After a hot cup of chai, we wander slowly through the dew-soaked rice paddy, careful with our hazy steps. The sun rises more steadily than our selves, but our chatter grows as bodies warm and begin to work again. Muscles – some stiff after a day’s rest – are stretched up and out and around. The rock and thorn-strewn path has led us to an area called Little Cave and it has been two days since I was last confronted with this challenge.
My route is in the shade now, though the unforgiving sun creeps silently closer. Time is limited in this small way and I am glad. Before long, I will put this problem to rest. First – a swig of water. Feet stuffed into sticky shoes. Hands lined with chalk. I look up at my former nemesis and squint. As my heart begins to crawl a little higher in my chest, I notice it looks a little different today. My body reads the rock and seems to recognize it. A deep breath into my belly reigns down my heart and I place my hands on the first two holds.
Exhale completely. Of the four extensions from my body, only my right hand holds solid. Left fingertips use a small seam in the stone for balance and the sticky balls of my feet utilize friction against the rock. My body has a memory of this movement and my left arm rises as I stand taller on the texture. It finds its place quickly and my fingertips fit snugly into jagged grooves. Right hand mimics left, though this one feels sharper and my time on it is less. Feet step up to the smallest of dimples and I hug strongly into the rock as my legs elevate my torso just high enough to let go of the painful right hand.
There it is – my eyes catch it first – and suddenly my arm is outstretched and my hand is securely embracing this elusive hold. Immediately, my right foot slips and my left hand barely meets its match. My heart leaps north again, but I am stronger now than last week and hold fast. Energy moves quickly into my core and I find my feet pulling up onto a beautiful little shelf. With one final extension upward, I am stepping atop this sun-soaked boulder.
Squinting in the bright morning sun, my smile is as wide as this panorama. I have never been to this particular vantage before – I have not been able to reach it. Today I understood how and my body was ready to translate. Another deep breath draws in sweet morning succulence. Behind me is a landscape littered with boulders – as if someone much greater than me is playing a wicked game of marbles. They teeter precariously upon one another as I balance lightly on this edge. Before me, the rock drops sharply down to the rice paddy we crossed some moments ago. Beyond that, a river runs, a temple towers and ruins reach out as far as I see.
This is a special place, an unforgettable moment. A personal challenge achieved through discipline and a small tap into a universal energy source. Rocks are not merely climbed here. A relationship develops between a body and a boulder – and only when the mind is removed from the equation, does this connection truly occur. Funny, I realize, a body doesn’t always need a mind to fully understand.
My route is in the shade now, though the unforgiving sun creeps silently closer. Time is limited in this small way and I am glad. Before long, I will put this problem to rest. First – a swig of water. Feet stuffed into sticky shoes. Hands lined with chalk. I look up at my former nemesis and squint. As my heart begins to crawl a little higher in my chest, I notice it looks a little different today. My body reads the rock and seems to recognize it. A deep breath into my belly reigns down my heart and I place my hands on the first two holds.
Exhale completely. Of the four extensions from my body, only my right hand holds solid. Left fingertips use a small seam in the stone for balance and the sticky balls of my feet utilize friction against the rock. My body has a memory of this movement and my left arm rises as I stand taller on the texture. It finds its place quickly and my fingertips fit snugly into jagged grooves. Right hand mimics left, though this one feels sharper and my time on it is less. Feet step up to the smallest of dimples and I hug strongly into the rock as my legs elevate my torso just high enough to let go of the painful right hand.
There it is – my eyes catch it first – and suddenly my arm is outstretched and my hand is securely embracing this elusive hold. Immediately, my right foot slips and my left hand barely meets its match. My heart leaps north again, but I am stronger now than last week and hold fast. Energy moves quickly into my core and I find my feet pulling up onto a beautiful little shelf. With one final extension upward, I am stepping atop this sun-soaked boulder.
Squinting in the bright morning sun, my smile is as wide as this panorama. I have never been to this particular vantage before – I have not been able to reach it. Today I understood how and my body was ready to translate. Another deep breath draws in sweet morning succulence. Behind me is a landscape littered with boulders – as if someone much greater than me is playing a wicked game of marbles. They teeter precariously upon one another as I balance lightly on this edge. Before me, the rock drops sharply down to the rice paddy we crossed some moments ago. Beyond that, a river runs, a temple towers and ruins reach out as far as I see.
This is a special place, an unforgettable moment. A personal challenge achieved through discipline and a small tap into a universal energy source. Rocks are not merely climbed here. A relationship develops between a body and a boulder – and only when the mind is removed from the equation, does this connection truly occur. Funny, I realize, a body doesn’t always need a mind to fully understand.
Friday, April 17
Technical difficulties.
So, I finally wrote a couple more blogs - and I just logged on to post them - however, they are not saved in a format this computer can read. Woo hoo! I'll have them up as soon as I can figure it out.
For now - Dan is officially published online! Go to www.climbing.com and he's right on the front page - if you click on his reader blog, you'll find an entry and a few photos from Hampi, India. We just spent almost 3 weeks there bouldering and hanging out with some great people.
We're in Delhi at the moment - a chaotic, smelly corner of the world - and will get to spend tonight (Dan's birthday!) with my friend Sara. She's also in India (down south in Kerala) for a few months studying and working...but had a holiday week and we'll be crossing paths. Always great to see a familiar face!!
Some news: Dan has contracted rabies. Well, we're not sure he is actually rabid - but he was attacked by some random dog on the street in Hyderabad the other day (check out his blog for the full story) and is now receiving the rabies vaccine. Funny - and not so funny - all rolled into one - the first shot he received was directly in his buttocks!
Also, I walked straight through a public urinal yesterday. I'm not sure how it happened - but I was following Dan around this crazy corner and we didn't pass through any doorways or anything - yet suddenly I was engulfed by the rancid smell of stale urine and there were four guys lined up with their backs to me. Public urination and defecation are pretty much everywhere here - apparently, railroad tracks are also a perfectly acceptable and often utilized 'dumping area'. We saw a lot of bare bottoms during the 26-hour ride north!!
Every day is an adventure - hope yours are too!
For now - Dan is officially published online! Go to www.climbing.com and he's right on the front page - if you click on his reader blog, you'll find an entry and a few photos from Hampi, India. We just spent almost 3 weeks there bouldering and hanging out with some great people.
We're in Delhi at the moment - a chaotic, smelly corner of the world - and will get to spend tonight (Dan's birthday!) with my friend Sara. She's also in India (down south in Kerala) for a few months studying and working...but had a holiday week and we'll be crossing paths. Always great to see a familiar face!!
Some news: Dan has contracted rabies. Well, we're not sure he is actually rabid - but he was attacked by some random dog on the street in Hyderabad the other day (check out his blog for the full story) and is now receiving the rabies vaccine. Funny - and not so funny - all rolled into one - the first shot he received was directly in his buttocks!
Also, I walked straight through a public urinal yesterday. I'm not sure how it happened - but I was following Dan around this crazy corner and we didn't pass through any doorways or anything - yet suddenly I was engulfed by the rancid smell of stale urine and there were four guys lined up with their backs to me. Public urination and defecation are pretty much everywhere here - apparently, railroad tracks are also a perfectly acceptable and often utilized 'dumping area'. We saw a lot of bare bottoms during the 26-hour ride north!!
Every day is an adventure - hope yours are too!
Tuesday, April 14
Location changes. People don't.
I'm just as awful about posting blogs from India as I was from the USA!! The heat in South India has been melting my brain for the past few weeks - and we settled into a place with a ton of climbing - so I haven't been writing much. In my head, I've been composing lots though - so check back in a few days - we've got a 26 hour train ride ahead of us. Hightailing it for the Indian Himalaya!!! Until then...
Sunday, March 15
Ooty to Calicut.
My knuckles are about eight shades whiter than my sunburned wrists. We spent three hours on horseback in the high-altitude sun of Ooty yesterday, but that is of no importance now. Now, we are careening down a steep slope of hairpin turns on a bus that seems to be driven by one of this country's many deities rather than the man at the wheel.
The ride began at about 2240 meters above sea level and we were unlucky to find seats in the rear of the bus. We knew the first portion of this journey would be a few hours winding through the same tea plantations and national forest that welcomed us here. As the bus engine groaned and clunked to life, we looked at each other and questioned what was coming.
The first hour of the journey passed as expected. A little concern arose when the bus braked and something moved and banged under my feet resting on the rear wheels. But my place next to the window allowed fresh, dusty, engine-stained air to flow freely and saved my motion sensitive stomach from catastrophe. The woman behind me wasn't so lucky, and she left her breakfast on the steps of the bus at the first rest stop.
A half hour passed and we came upon a stopped, broken bus and forty waving people. We pulled into the oncoming lane of a blind corner and waited for them to board - a precarious position, no doubt. But people move quickly here and we were off within minutes, standing, sitting and hanging on for dear life.
The bus cleared at the two-hour stop. We moved to the open front seat and were happy to further protect our bellies. With three hours to go, we did not know what road was ahead. This is where we turned to the West and the coast and everything new again.
Three hours passed the same as the first. Tea plantations tended to by brightly colored women sprawled across the steep slopes through which we traveled. Cows and dogs and goats and people littered the road, sadly decorated with plastic bottles, newspapers and melon rinds. Bustling mountain towns provided stops for coming and going and a changing population on our bus. The sun fell low and illuminated graying clouds the best it could. We wondered why there was no ocean in sight when darkness grew bold.
Now, our estimated time of arrival in Calicut has passed. The sky is black and moisture has begun to condense and fall from the sky. From our front seat vantage, the windshield quickly becomes spattered and I wonder how the bus driver can see the cows and dogs and goats and people that continue to litter the road. He stealthily weaves through them and chatters with the ticket collector and I wish for him to stop chattering and focus on driving.
The road curls steeply and sharply down the Western Ghats toward the ocean. In the bus, we are bigger than the turns and the black and white striped barriers come too close and too fast. I think the bus will not clear the barriers - I see where other vehicles have not - and as my hand grips the arm rest mightily, my body leaves the seat. I am ready to throw my weight to the uphill side of the bus so that we do not plummet over the edge and tumble thousands of feet to our end. As the dark and wet and danger begin to overtake my sensibility, the driver chatters happily with his mate and steers us through the maze that is an Indian road.
Dan and I love each other and say so now because it seems quite possible we won't have another chance. I think of family and dear friends and hope they are dry and safe and know I love them too. When I think I can't take any more, the road becomes wetter, the turns come more quickly and the driver decides to pass the government truck in front of us. I have just seen a 'No Passing' sign and wonder how he missed it! And, who in their right mind would even consider passing at a moment like this?! This man is cheerful and mad and steering us through impossibility all in a day's work.
I can't keep my eyes open and the end of this journey is now two hours overdue. I must have read the time wrong and my lids gratefully shut so that I don't have to witness the last forty-five minutes of madness. When this vessel finally releases us into the wet night air of Calicut, I feel relief, understated. My body feels tense and weak and ready to stand on solid ground, which is slightly cleaner here in the state of Kerala. We have two hours before the train and will feel full and ready to rest when it whisks us away into the night and toward the North.
The ride began at about 2240 meters above sea level and we were unlucky to find seats in the rear of the bus. We knew the first portion of this journey would be a few hours winding through the same tea plantations and national forest that welcomed us here. As the bus engine groaned and clunked to life, we looked at each other and questioned what was coming.
The first hour of the journey passed as expected. A little concern arose when the bus braked and something moved and banged under my feet resting on the rear wheels. But my place next to the window allowed fresh, dusty, engine-stained air to flow freely and saved my motion sensitive stomach from catastrophe. The woman behind me wasn't so lucky, and she left her breakfast on the steps of the bus at the first rest stop.
A half hour passed and we came upon a stopped, broken bus and forty waving people. We pulled into the oncoming lane of a blind corner and waited for them to board - a precarious position, no doubt. But people move quickly here and we were off within minutes, standing, sitting and hanging on for dear life.
The bus cleared at the two-hour stop. We moved to the open front seat and were happy to further protect our bellies. With three hours to go, we did not know what road was ahead. This is where we turned to the West and the coast and everything new again.
Three hours passed the same as the first. Tea plantations tended to by brightly colored women sprawled across the steep slopes through which we traveled. Cows and dogs and goats and people littered the road, sadly decorated with plastic bottles, newspapers and melon rinds. Bustling mountain towns provided stops for coming and going and a changing population on our bus. The sun fell low and illuminated graying clouds the best it could. We wondered why there was no ocean in sight when darkness grew bold.
Now, our estimated time of arrival in Calicut has passed. The sky is black and moisture has begun to condense and fall from the sky. From our front seat vantage, the windshield quickly becomes spattered and I wonder how the bus driver can see the cows and dogs and goats and people that continue to litter the road. He stealthily weaves through them and chatters with the ticket collector and I wish for him to stop chattering and focus on driving.
The road curls steeply and sharply down the Western Ghats toward the ocean. In the bus, we are bigger than the turns and the black and white striped barriers come too close and too fast. I think the bus will not clear the barriers - I see where other vehicles have not - and as my hand grips the arm rest mightily, my body leaves the seat. I am ready to throw my weight to the uphill side of the bus so that we do not plummet over the edge and tumble thousands of feet to our end. As the dark and wet and danger begin to overtake my sensibility, the driver chatters happily with his mate and steers us through the maze that is an Indian road.
Dan and I love each other and say so now because it seems quite possible we won't have another chance. I think of family and dear friends and hope they are dry and safe and know I love them too. When I think I can't take any more, the road becomes wetter, the turns come more quickly and the driver decides to pass the government truck in front of us. I have just seen a 'No Passing' sign and wonder how he missed it! And, who in their right mind would even consider passing at a moment like this?! This man is cheerful and mad and steering us through impossibility all in a day's work.
I can't keep my eyes open and the end of this journey is now two hours overdue. I must have read the time wrong and my lids gratefully shut so that I don't have to witness the last forty-five minutes of madness. When this vessel finally releases us into the wet night air of Calicut, I feel relief, understated. My body feels tense and weak and ready to stand on solid ground, which is slightly cleaner here in the state of Kerala. We have two hours before the train and will feel full and ready to rest when it whisks us away into the night and toward the North.
Saturday, March 7
Opposite color.
Tonight, there is no better feeling than the gentle rustle of a bedsheet against bare skin. I lay awake in the first warm darkness and a fan whirs overhead. We have slept most of the day and part of the night. In the pre-dawn hours, we are both alert and wondering what the light will bring.
We hear a knock at the door - room service. Would we like coffee/tea/breakfast to go with the paper that has slipped under the door? The man appeared as if anticipating the flip of a switch inside our room – and I wonder how long he has been ready to provide this service. It is early. The sun is just beginning to illuminate the cool gray concrete of the wall outside our window.
An army of rickshaw drivers greets us as we step outside the protective walls of our lodge. With so many pairs of deep brown eyes pleading for our business, how do we choose? It is morning cool and we will walk.
Through a maze of motion, we soon realize that caution will not serve. Bicycles weave through mule carts weave through motorbikes weave through rickshaws weave through buses – a tightly knit fabric. People fill spaces without hesitation. As we step off the curb, I remember playing ‘Frogger’ as a child and quietly smile.
The onslaught of sound is deafening – horns blaring, motors chugging, men chattering – all of it echoing the assault of cacophonous smells. The sweetness of jasmine. The pungency of urine. The earthiness of sandalwood. The acrid waft of burning plastic. As my darting gaze tries to match sight with smell with sound, I see the silhouette of a cow through the haze of smoldering trash. It’s like a barnyard fell into a town fell into a landfill fell into a city. Though there appear to be no rules, there are no collisions. Every space is full, everyone is present.
For some reason, we have decided to visit the zoo. I find this funny, for I always go to the zoo when I travel, but never where I live. Also, most zoos are similar - and I usually end up feeling quite sad for the animals. This morning, I welcome the tranquil shade that greets us beyond the gate and feel soothed.
I recognize the faint discomfort of looming eyes immediately. It began out on the street, but there was way too much happening to mind. There are a lot of people in this country – and so far, it seems there are mostly men. No less than three at a time and sometimes eight or nine – standing, walking, eating, selling, riding, watching. Here, they are watching the animals and they are watching me.
It is subtle at first. As the sun rises higher in the midday sky, so does their audacity. Eyes follow me from a distance; keep watch as I approach; stare from inches away. When my gaze meets theirs, I am the first to smile or turn away. They have no sense of discomfort, nor curiosity. I have both. There is merely a stare. Sometimes a simple word – hello. And then there are children.
Before we know it, we are surrounded by children and they are curious and smiling and saying hello, where are you from? Can we take a picture? They are pressing small bodies onto the bench beside us, lining up behind us, and sprawling on the ground in front of us. Their teacher holds the camera. I am under the impression we will be talked about more than the giraffe or the hippopotamus and wonder what they will say – what they are saying as I sit here and smile. It is innocent and fun and exciting and when they move on to the chimpanzee, this charge dissipates from the air as quickly as it came .
I miss their enthusiasm immediately. For a moment, it mirrored my own and I felt at ease. It is my first day in a new place and while I don’t appear any different to these animals, I appear very different to these people. The next group to approach is more reserved. The men speak to us in English; the women smile demurely from a distance. After we tell them where we are from and learn that they are managers on a company outing, we begin to move on. Then, there is a space on the bench among the women and I am invited to sit down. Everyone crowds around and as Dan lines up the shot, I hear giggles behind me. ‘Opposite color,’ they observe. I turn and laugh and nod my head yes, opposite color.
We hear a knock at the door - room service. Would we like coffee/tea/breakfast to go with the paper that has slipped under the door? The man appeared as if anticipating the flip of a switch inside our room – and I wonder how long he has been ready to provide this service. It is early. The sun is just beginning to illuminate the cool gray concrete of the wall outside our window.
An army of rickshaw drivers greets us as we step outside the protective walls of our lodge. With so many pairs of deep brown eyes pleading for our business, how do we choose? It is morning cool and we will walk.
Through a maze of motion, we soon realize that caution will not serve. Bicycles weave through mule carts weave through motorbikes weave through rickshaws weave through buses – a tightly knit fabric. People fill spaces without hesitation. As we step off the curb, I remember playing ‘Frogger’ as a child and quietly smile.
The onslaught of sound is deafening – horns blaring, motors chugging, men chattering – all of it echoing the assault of cacophonous smells. The sweetness of jasmine. The pungency of urine. The earthiness of sandalwood. The acrid waft of burning plastic. As my darting gaze tries to match sight with smell with sound, I see the silhouette of a cow through the haze of smoldering trash. It’s like a barnyard fell into a town fell into a landfill fell into a city. Though there appear to be no rules, there are no collisions. Every space is full, everyone is present.
For some reason, we have decided to visit the zoo. I find this funny, for I always go to the zoo when I travel, but never where I live. Also, most zoos are similar - and I usually end up feeling quite sad for the animals. This morning, I welcome the tranquil shade that greets us beyond the gate and feel soothed.
I recognize the faint discomfort of looming eyes immediately. It began out on the street, but there was way too much happening to mind. There are a lot of people in this country – and so far, it seems there are mostly men. No less than three at a time and sometimes eight or nine – standing, walking, eating, selling, riding, watching. Here, they are watching the animals and they are watching me.
It is subtle at first. As the sun rises higher in the midday sky, so does their audacity. Eyes follow me from a distance; keep watch as I approach; stare from inches away. When my gaze meets theirs, I am the first to smile or turn away. They have no sense of discomfort, nor curiosity. I have both. There is merely a stare. Sometimes a simple word – hello. And then there are children.
Before we know it, we are surrounded by children and they are curious and smiling and saying hello, where are you from? Can we take a picture? They are pressing small bodies onto the bench beside us, lining up behind us, and sprawling on the ground in front of us. Their teacher holds the camera. I am under the impression we will be talked about more than the giraffe or the hippopotamus and wonder what they will say – what they are saying as I sit here and smile. It is innocent and fun and exciting and when they move on to the chimpanzee, this charge dissipates from the air as quickly as it came .
I miss their enthusiasm immediately. For a moment, it mirrored my own and I felt at ease. It is my first day in a new place and while I don’t appear any different to these animals, I appear very different to these people. The next group to approach is more reserved. The men speak to us in English; the women smile demurely from a distance. After we tell them where we are from and learn that they are managers on a company outing, we begin to move on. Then, there is a space on the bench among the women and I am invited to sit down. Everyone crowds around and as Dan lines up the shot, I hear giggles behind me. ‘Opposite color,’ they observe. I turn and laugh and nod my head yes, opposite color.
Friday, February 20
Change.
The funny thing about life is: no matter what you plan, things always change. Dan and I have been talking about this year-long trek and climb through Asia for over a year now - and the only 'plan' we've made is the one-way ticket to Bengaluru we purchased about 7 weeks ago. We don't even have a reserved place to stay the first night we arrive! One small element of a 'plan.' And now, two weeks before we go, Dan is on crutches. Really, we couldn't have planned much less. But now that we're uncertain how he'll be walking and if he'll be able to carry a pack on March 3rd, even the one thing might change.
People think we're crazy for traveling like this. For living like this. But now that this one fluke, out-of-our-control thing happened - I have to say, there is a lot less to think and/or worry about if the 'plan' needs to change. Frankly, it's a relief!
People think we're crazy for traveling like this. For living like this. But now that this one fluke, out-of-our-control thing happened - I have to say, there is a lot less to think and/or worry about if the 'plan' needs to change. Frankly, it's a relief!
Tuesday, February 17
The plunge.
I'm 30 and I just jumped in a lake. In upstate New York. In February. Air temperature was about 33 - water temperature was about 40. It was refreshing. I liked it so much the first time, I back-flipped in for a second dip. When I hit the water, I felt for a split second that I wanted to stay under. There was no sensation of cold - just the pure silence of stillness and the faint thump of my heart. Then, I felt ice crystals forming on my legs. My legs, quite literally, became slushy.
I'm not sure exactly where I'm going with this. I could take it to the 'rebirth' arena, but it wasn't quite that profound. It was fun! It made me feel jubilant and new. This time of year - when it's easy to feel sedentary and stale - it's important to jar your senses. It was an exercise in staying present. In the moment.
I feel like part of a swift-moving current. I'm about to take the second plunge of my 30th year. Two weeks from tonight, Dan and I will be on a plane headed for Bengaluru, India. I'm not sure how I feel about it at the moment. With so many other things that need to be done before we leave, it's hard to even consider being excited! I'm not sure if excited is the word. Maybe there isn't a word to describe how I feel. Ill-prepared? Completely prepared. Nervous? Calm. Uncertain? Surer of myself than ever before. We have no plans. We bought one-way tickets. We have some money in savings. What could go wrong? What is 'wrong'? Whatever happens happens. It is what is.
Now that's profound.
I'm not sure exactly where I'm going with this. I could take it to the 'rebirth' arena, but it wasn't quite that profound. It was fun! It made me feel jubilant and new. This time of year - when it's easy to feel sedentary and stale - it's important to jar your senses. It was an exercise in staying present. In the moment.
I feel like part of a swift-moving current. I'm about to take the second plunge of my 30th year. Two weeks from tonight, Dan and I will be on a plane headed for Bengaluru, India. I'm not sure how I feel about it at the moment. With so many other things that need to be done before we leave, it's hard to even consider being excited! I'm not sure if excited is the word. Maybe there isn't a word to describe how I feel. Ill-prepared? Completely prepared. Nervous? Calm. Uncertain? Surer of myself than ever before. We have no plans. We bought one-way tickets. We have some money in savings. What could go wrong? What is 'wrong'? Whatever happens happens. It is what is.
Now that's profound.
Sunday, February 1
30.
It's almost here...the day I'm no longer in my 20s. I haven't thought much about it until today - the first day of the month I turn 30. But it's a little weird to think I'll be 'in my 30s' in only 6 days. These last few years of my 20s have been challenging, to say the least. But I guess life is always challenging. Growth only happens in the handling of challenges.
Like the bug that just crawled down my shirt. You know when you feel like something is tickling you a little - say, right above your shirt on your neck...so you scratch it - only to find that there is something in your hand. And suddenly, there is a 1 1/2 inch long bug on your lap - with big, beady eyes and sprawling legs. It's way too big to kill. I mean, it's not really nice to kill bugs anyway because they're harmless living things, too. But there is a threshold of size at which it's no longer comfortable to crush a bug. And this one was too big. So I scooped it up and started to carry it outside, when it jumped and I lost it again! The only thing worse than a big, ugly bug on you is a big, ugly bug that you know is in the room, but can't find. There's no telling what will happen with the elusive bug!! Worst case scenario: It makes its way to your bed and crawls in your mouth while your sleeping. Why is that the first thing that pops into your head every time you lose a bug in the house? It's totally disgusting!
Of course...in my new, 30s outlook on things - I better stop freaking out about the bug and realize that in about 5 weeks, there's a good chance I'll be eating an insect that big! It's all about perspective...
Like the bug that just crawled down my shirt. You know when you feel like something is tickling you a little - say, right above your shirt on your neck...so you scratch it - only to find that there is something in your hand. And suddenly, there is a 1 1/2 inch long bug on your lap - with big, beady eyes and sprawling legs. It's way too big to kill. I mean, it's not really nice to kill bugs anyway because they're harmless living things, too. But there is a threshold of size at which it's no longer comfortable to crush a bug. And this one was too big. So I scooped it up and started to carry it outside, when it jumped and I lost it again! The only thing worse than a big, ugly bug on you is a big, ugly bug that you know is in the room, but can't find. There's no telling what will happen with the elusive bug!! Worst case scenario: It makes its way to your bed and crawls in your mouth while your sleeping. Why is that the first thing that pops into your head every time you lose a bug in the house? It's totally disgusting!
Of course...in my new, 30s outlook on things - I better stop freaking out about the bug and realize that in about 5 weeks, there's a good chance I'll be eating an insect that big! It's all about perspective...
Thursday, January 29
The best job in the world.
And it's not the one I'm doing right now...though it's not so bad living in the quiet north country under a peaceful blanket of snow for a few months. Especially before a trip to the cacophonous land of India. But, I heard about this job in Australia - caretaking an island! - that I need to get my butt in gear to apply for. I've been thinking about trying to find a caretaking job in the mountains for years - why not in the tropics? And I freakin' loved Australia! Saw a lot of it - but didn't spend enough time in many places...plus, Queensland has everything an adventure traveler could want! So, I'm embarking on the process it will be to make an application video. Since I don't know much about multi-media computer stuff, it'll take some effort - but Dan will help and I figure, I'm definitely not going to get the job if I don't apply. But if I do...well, then at least there's a chance!
Friday, January 23
Blurry vision.
I did the weirdest thing this morning. It happened like this:
Going through the motions...putting my contacts in. First the right eye, as usual; then the left. As I gently placed the lens on my left eye, I noticed my vision get really blurry. Almost worse than it is when I don't have any contacts in! Confused, I put my hand over one eye at a time to check out how my individual eyes were seeing things. The right eye was not great...the left eye was horrible! What is going on?! I thought. Did I just spontaneously lose my ability to see - even with contacts!? Everything was fine yesterday! Saramago's book Blindness popped into my brain - at least I'm not driving...at least I'm in the comfort of my own home. I ran downstairs and asked my mom if this had every happened to her - she's the experienced one with 35 years of lens-wearing - I have a measly 15 years of practice. The only thing she could think of was one morning when she put both contacts in one eye...but I couldn't have done that! I always put the right eye in first.
Turns out, I did do that. At some point in my childhood, I was told that it creates new pathways in your brain to do menial tasks in different ways periodically. At the time, that meant walking a different way to school. Or washing my hair before my face in the shower. Or putting my left sock on before my right. It's funny how many things we do in the same way every time we do them! Today, I must have subconsciously remembered this little ditty of information - and in an effort to keep the synapses firing sharply, I decided to put the left contact in first. Then, I promptly forgot and put the second contact in my left eye, too. After a dramatic few minutes of praying for my vision back, I got it.
So...either there is someone up there granting wishes...or I need to get my short-term memory checked!
Going through the motions...putting my contacts in. First the right eye, as usual; then the left. As I gently placed the lens on my left eye, I noticed my vision get really blurry. Almost worse than it is when I don't have any contacts in! Confused, I put my hand over one eye at a time to check out how my individual eyes were seeing things. The right eye was not great...the left eye was horrible! What is going on?! I thought. Did I just spontaneously lose my ability to see - even with contacts!? Everything was fine yesterday! Saramago's book Blindness popped into my brain - at least I'm not driving...at least I'm in the comfort of my own home. I ran downstairs and asked my mom if this had every happened to her - she's the experienced one with 35 years of lens-wearing - I have a measly 15 years of practice. The only thing she could think of was one morning when she put both contacts in one eye...but I couldn't have done that! I always put the right eye in first.
Turns out, I did do that. At some point in my childhood, I was told that it creates new pathways in your brain to do menial tasks in different ways periodically. At the time, that meant walking a different way to school. Or washing my hair before my face in the shower. Or putting my left sock on before my right. It's funny how many things we do in the same way every time we do them! Today, I must have subconsciously remembered this little ditty of information - and in an effort to keep the synapses firing sharply, I decided to put the left contact in first. Then, I promptly forgot and put the second contact in my left eye, too. After a dramatic few minutes of praying for my vision back, I got it.
So...either there is someone up there granting wishes...or I need to get my short-term memory checked!
Thursday, January 22
Wow, I suck at this.
This is my official resolution to get better. I haven't really been making any time for myself over the past few months - negotiating life with my mom again (after 7 years of living on the other side of the country!) has been quite a challenge. And although it's temporary, life here in quiet, snow-laden Hague is pretty darn hectic. Granted, I have discovered Sudoku and now spend what some might consider too much time playing with the newspaper in the morning. Also, we've had tons of really light, fluffy snow to adventure in - so I've spent a decent amount of time snowshoeing and learning to ice climb. And - I've finally committed and disciplined myself to practicing yoga on a regular basis again. I mean, I can't really show up in India (aka the mother ship) and not be able to get into downward dog with some semblance of body awareness. So, I'm back in the saddle - though only time will tell if I stay true to my word. I mean, I'm not getting paid to do this...yet. But I do need to make time for myself and to put my thoughts into some kind of form.
40 days. Forty days from right this minute, our plane destined for Bengaluru, India is scheduled to depart from EWR. We have a ton to do before that happens - including my turn into the big 3-0 - but all in all, I feel more prepared for this trip than any other I've ever taken. Maybe it's because we have a one-way ticket and there is no time pressure...no fitting everything in...no "how much time can we spend here?"...no "we don't have time to go there"...we are limitless. And for the first time in my life, that doesn't scare the crap out of me. Ask me again in 41 days and I might have a different answer, but for now, I feel really grounded. Like there is all good stuff ahead. Maybe it's because I've started to learn how to take things as they come...and how to let them go. My filter for the 'important stuff' is engaged and I become more keenly aware of my most essential stuff each day - and I have to say, it really lightens the load to just let all the gunk that comes flying at me pass right through and leave as quickly as it comes. I am more present than I've been in many years. And light-hearted. As I charge toward my 30s...I feel ready to embrace intention. My intention has slowly been evolving - pieces falling into place and becoming clearer with conversations and encounters and in the quietest of moments. It's funny that I've had to make a practice of slowing down and being still. Seems like we spend so much time trying to fill up our time. What if we don't fill it up? What if we rest a moment? What if we discover that fullness comes from inside and spreads out - that it doesn't just happen around us? Find some ground. Make some space. Allow it to unfold.
40 days. Forty days from right this minute, our plane destined for Bengaluru, India is scheduled to depart from EWR. We have a ton to do before that happens - including my turn into the big 3-0 - but all in all, I feel more prepared for this trip than any other I've ever taken. Maybe it's because we have a one-way ticket and there is no time pressure...no fitting everything in...no "how much time can we spend here?"...no "we don't have time to go there"...we are limitless. And for the first time in my life, that doesn't scare the crap out of me. Ask me again in 41 days and I might have a different answer, but for now, I feel really grounded. Like there is all good stuff ahead. Maybe it's because I've started to learn how to take things as they come...and how to let them go. My filter for the 'important stuff' is engaged and I become more keenly aware of my most essential stuff each day - and I have to say, it really lightens the load to just let all the gunk that comes flying at me pass right through and leave as quickly as it comes. I am more present than I've been in many years. And light-hearted. As I charge toward my 30s...I feel ready to embrace intention. My intention has slowly been evolving - pieces falling into place and becoming clearer with conversations and encounters and in the quietest of moments. It's funny that I've had to make a practice of slowing down and being still. Seems like we spend so much time trying to fill up our time. What if we don't fill it up? What if we rest a moment? What if we discover that fullness comes from inside and spreads out - that it doesn't just happen around us? Find some ground. Make some space. Allow it to unfold.
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