Bangkok, Kathmandu, Marriott, Nepal, travel

The tipping point

I’d been in Bangkok since last Thursday, night,  or more accurately Friday at 3 am when I was driven in a US embassy shuttle van to the Marriott hotel.  I’m no fan of chain plain jane cookie cutter bourgeois luxury establishments normally but after  a week sleeping outside in a dirt lot near my friends house in Kathmandu,  on pallets {initially –  we graduated to camp beds}  at the US mission not far away and leaning against the side of an Australian air force  aluminum tube at 35000 feet,  I was happy to surrender to an executive room,  a soft bed,  hot showers and meals that weren’t precooked 6 years  ago and packaged for America’s finest to eat in a foxhole under fire.
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But that was inside.  Outside was  the chaos and cacophony that is tourist  Bangkok.  I hadn’t been here since 1999 and  I wasn’t impressed then, with two   kids in tow we rushed through the obligatory tourist highlights ,  the Buddha,  the palace,  the river cruise and floating  market and then high tailed it out on the first train to Chiang Mai.  Bangkok was smelly,  noisy,  jammed,  dirty  and distinctly unrelaxing.  I remember the high point being when my youngest sagely pointed out a tuk tuk going the wrong way down a one way street and said he wanted to leave.

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And now,  outside the bubble of the Marriott, it was just the same.  Well sort of. “What was I doing here?” I thought  as I negotiated a sim card and a pair of shorts across the street.  “I’m supposed to be high in the mountains  on a trek,  not in the urban core of a teeming metropolis”.  I returned to the Marriott,  changed out of trekking pants and looked back at the tectonic shifts of the past few tumultuous days.  

Day 2 of the quake found us shuttling back and forth between  the American mission camp and Birendra’s house and neighborhood.  We’d put aside any thoughts except that of immediate needs.  With all the shops and restaurants closed tight,   no running water or power,  the only food for us was  MRE’s or meals ready to eat.  Sustenance but not satisfaction.  After one and a half meals I vowed I’d never touch them again.  I reverted to hot water,   the occasional trekking bar and a handful of pepitas.  Somehow a banana surfaced,  I don’t recall how.  And I wasn’t that hungry anyway.  I was living on adrenaline…  and purpose. 

I’ve never felt more fully alive.  Helping 3 Nepali  families find some stability in  their new chaos meant I had a role,  not just as passive trekker through  Nepal’s bounty of nature but as a hope,  a rock,  a force for good. 

Sitting with half a dozen older children,  showing them what happened in the earthquake,  why India pushes into Asia inexorably,  explaining the pressure of rock on rock and why,  now the major strain was released,  it would be safe again for many many years.  Whether it was absolutely true was besides the point; it was relatively true.  And the older kids could explain to the younger kids and to their parents too, that it was safe to go in their homes,  safe to start cleaning up, safe to start smiling again. 

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The smiling started with the younger ones of course,  it always does,  the immediacy of the now  outweighing the stern gazes of parents.  They smiled when we smiled; it broadened when we fed then apple sauce from MRE’s, about the only palatable part of the  packaged foods.  It danced across their faces when we played charades with them  it erupted in laughter when one of our jokes was translated into Nepali. And it became action in an impromptu game of cricket.  With kids smiling it became hope. 

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Yet despite all the science in the world the parents were worried about rumors of a deadlier quake within 36 hoursof the  main temblor.  The rumor, apparently engendered  from  the misinterpretation of a radio interview about aftershocks  with a team of  Indian geologists  meant the immediate proliferation of tent camps all over town as people were terrified of being trapped in their already battered homes by falling  brick or concrete plus of course the thousands of already newly homeless.

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These temporary townships had varying levels of sophistication,  ranging from simple tarps held up by slender bamboo sticks with strings tied to available utility poles,  planks ,  plumbing pipe,  anything vertical to your normal average weekend away camp tent, complete with flysheet and picnic table .  The army erected hundreds of their olive green pup tents in these encampments  ostensibly for two but in reality shelter for husband,  wife and two kids,  not to mention the occasional grandma. 

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There were  huge,  maybe 30 foot long  sunshades of colorful pretty cotton or nylon  fabric to help protect those sleeping out in sun and wind.

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And rain it did.  That second night it poured so hard that Birendra’s family overcame their fear of aftershocks and slept  in their downstairs hall with the front door open,  despite the protestations of their neighbors. Birendra said he didn’t sleep a wink of course.  The following night their camp was improved with drainage trenches dug in the sand and mud and slightly better weatherproofing aka more ubiquitous blue tarps. 

We were back at the American mission by midnight that second night  going through the thorough check-in procedure of passport check,  xray machine and metal detector.  I’d bought an umbrella the day before the quake and although it was a steady rain on our walk back through the darkened city  we were dry and  comfortable.  Trekking through a city instead of a mountain pass may not have been our intended path but I felt far more at peace than I could have imagined.  I guess there was no other word for it than love.  The love one feels borne out of compassion,   purpose,  meaning and acknowledgement.  The love that remains when all pretense is stripped away,  when masks drop and people really see and feel each other.  That was better than any meal or soft bed in the world I could have had right then.

And our mission came to be  how we could spread the love.  With word or deed,  with smiles,  a cup of tea,  some  biscuits we found in a shop that was bravely open. Love doesn’t have to be huge,  grand gestures or expectation.  Love is the simple,  the easy,  the pure,  acceptance of what is and creation of hope.

We were sleeping on wooden pallets with thick blankets.  Stephanie  made a pillow out of something.  I flattened empty MRE cartons to create a cushion against sprung nails and a pretense of a mattress. Our fellow refugees were long term expat residents of Kathmandu driven out of  their homes  by cracked columns,  broken pipes,  lack of power and of course a pervasive unease about being in any structure,  just like my Nepali families. 

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But although we are quick to criticize our governments in general,  this is one time they  came forward unreservedly and provided for their citizens. The US state department quickly put together this encampment,  providing food,  jury rigged a pump for hot water for showers from the swimming pool,  wireless Internet was fixed and made available,  water coolers,  tea,  coffee,  basic medical supplies,  daily briefings,  a feeling of safety and more than anything else,  hope – that most essential ingredient,  hope.  Our government came forth in a magnificent and munificent gesture of support for foreigners stranded in this city under stress.  The Canadians had their own tent. 

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The British,  after their embassy decided it couldn’t afford to keep its nationals for more than two days,  sent them to the American compound,  the Australians,  later to be our means of escape,   nationalistically and whimsically hung their own stars and bars on their little area of the main tent. 

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We both decided on that second day to make this bizarre voyage through a  Kathmandu under extreme stress one of positivity,  of progress. To broadcast  optimism, and  hope.   To take a shred of good news and inflate it to cover the city.  Not to give into despair and dark thoughts,  negativity or pessimism.
This was a challenge when an entire nation  saw its livelihood and infrastructure in peril. I started with Birendra,  ferreting out the good stuff,  that Annapurna wasn’t damaged and one could still trek there;  that Pokhara suffered only a little and was still a beautiful lakeside city; that he personally  had enough savings to get through a fallow period.  Talking with the  neighbors,  helping them see the upside; better housing,  improved infrastructure,  a possibly less venal government,  the world focusing finally on this gorgeous benighted country. 

At the neighborhood camps it  was neighbor and neighbor  cheek by jowl in their surface misery and deprivation,  sharing stories and  food,  each extended family  somehow managing on cold  rice,  or surreptitiously cooking  in homes you weren’t  supposed to go into or on outdoor fire pits.  One more organized camp we visited  was fed by the Nepali army and supplemented by the food the mostly homeless residents had managed to bring with them. 

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In the daytime of day 3  improved communications threw an interesting and perhaps auspicious bone at my feet.  A friend in Los Angeles who is  the  project coordinator for a  medical mission non profit focusing on children asked if I could help coordinate the delivery of medical supplies and a connection to a hospital with severely injured kids.  That got me thinking about the value of all the connections I had made over the last few years plus the new ones I was forging in Nepal.  I  called Birendra.  We all set off for  Children’s Hospital and the main  teaching hospital next door to find someone to talk to.  Sadly, it was like having a winning lottery ticket and no place to cash it.  The hospital was calm,  a UNESCO tent in the parking lot treating minor injuries. We couldn’t find a senior doctor or anyone from administration at all. 

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We went back to the compound and started firing off emails to NGO’s and Doctors,  hospitals and aid organizations.  The results are still trickling in.  We may not have immediately found our recipients but we’ve certainly  opened doors and the charity will follow up   

On the third night we found a dimly lit and rough and ready  Indian restaurant.  Two curry dishes only on the menu.  We took them both and asked for seconds. We’d noticed with the power  out over town that ice cream was a big seller whenever a store would open. It wouldn’t stay frozen forever  so the shop owners were basically giving it away and we delighted in bringing chili flavored popsicles to the Nepali kids in the neighborhood encampment.

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Day 4 was slightly better.  A few food  stores opened selling local produce and I brought Birendra a large cabbage.  It could  probably be framed as an artifact of the earthquake but I think he turned it into soup.

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He and his neighbors decided to move their families  back home as the 36 hour self-imposed deadline had passed.  His  kids were still scared but reason prevailed finally.  Warm dry beds or intermittent downpours.    Food at arms length or a 50 meter walk to the  bathroom.  The rain had cleared the air and gave birth to a beautiful sunset over the Kathmandu valley reminding us of what a lovely place this was  and would be again.

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We continued exploring the city as it slowly ground back to life.  People were visibly happier and more shops opened,  even optimistically,  trekking stores although most of the tourists had left.    For the fortunate locals who didn’t lose their homes it will be a faster recovery and thanks to extended families,  less problematic than perhaps when a sole breadwinner can’t bring home money.  For the Kathmandu  homeless,  they will survive on the generosity of neighbors and agencies and perhaps government.

The Canadian government put on an evacuation plane to Delhi on day 5.  That got us thinking of how we’d leave Nepal. Power was still out and the well  pumps accordingly  and Birendra had to retrieve by bucket and boil water from his underground tank to drink.  We heard  a rumor of cholera although I didn’t believe it.  Another rumor had fly infested dead bodies spreading disease.  I didn’t believe that either. Stephanie and I discussed the 8 hour bus journey to the Indian border by land and then train to Varanasi or somewhere.  The Indian  government was giving free 7 days visas at any airport and the two main land border crossings from Nepal to assist in evacuation efforts. 

I went to bed.   I awoke to the news that Stephanie had registered us for an Australian evacuation flight to  Bangkok later that day.  There were no guarantees we would get on it and frankly I was torn. Could we continue to help effectively now our local families didn’t really need us?  Professionals were now here. Fairfax County was the first to arrive then  LA County fire department with  60 search and rescue personnel  along with Ojai trained dogs {from the National Disaster Dog Search Foundation}.

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 The encampment was filling up with military personnel,  tons of supplies,  USAID workers and medical response teams.  What could we do?  To  volunteer further,  yes,  but we didn’t yet have an organization to take us and to go it alone meant another mouth for someone to feed.  Besides we were told  that civilians would have to leave the embassy compound and go back to hotels or their homes within 48 hours. 
Birendra’s mother in law’s family had moved into to his house that fifth day as her home was badly damaged and deemed unsafe.  We flirted with the idea of going to the mountains but a chat with a disaster worker said they didn’t need people to clear rubble.  There were  plenty of locals.  Besides,  I had a mission to coordinate this donation for the foundation and I could go that from any Internet and phone connection..

The decision was made for us when we told we had had 45 minutes to muster  at a staging point inside the compound for a bus trip to the airport.  I panicked.  Half our  luggage was at Birendra’s.  It would take half an hour alone to check out of the compound with the security  and another hour walking back and forth to get our luggage.  .  We’d packed all our stuff up  more or less at his house but it would have been impossible to get it in time.  Clothes I didn’t care about but my credit cards were there.  After frantic phone calls,  pleading with the evacuation coordinator who had said no delays and a security guard to escort me to the street outside the  compound without the lengthy passport checkout process  we got Birendra to deliver the luggage on his motorcycle.

The rest  of the day was like one of those Graham Greene spy movies.  The bus took us to the Australian ambassador’s residence for processing and tagging and checking and inspection then we were split  into two groups,  Australians and others – mostly Americans, taken to the airport,  filmed and interviewed  by the Australian media through  which I profusely thanked the Australian taxpayer

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and eventually loaded into the belly of a military C17,  given extra strength earplugs and disgorged in Bangkok after a 4 hour flight

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This quake was born in tortured rock and unleashed misery beyond telling yet  it also  engendered one of the most profound weeks of my life. Tipping points happen when systems are unstable.  It appears  my prior existence too  was due for a 7.8. If so, I welcome the new landscape and will continue to  sweep away my own personal rubble to build an evermore connected,  conscious and compassionate me. 

Bangkok May 2015

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indonesia, Jet lag, Lake Tempe, Sulawesi, travel

From the other side

 Screaming at me silently in large clear letters.  Warning me or welcoming me.  A message,  or harbinger? Or just a simple hello? Whatever it is,  it’s a shock. 

In the middle of South Sulawesi lies a shallow body of water.  Tempe Lake is the remnant of an ancient gulf,  now landlocked.  It’s about an hour across in fast longboat,  roughly 50 square  miles of open water dotted with mats of water hyacinths,  reeds, water vegetable gardens.  Herons,  cranes and ducks share this aquatic  paradise with traditional fishermen and their ingenious bamboo framed nets. The water level and lake size ebb and flow with the seasons. 

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Here and there are floating houses.  Built on  bamboo rafts and tethered to an anchoring pole,  they swing to and fro with the wind.  Simple structures,  assembled piece by piece on the rafts from bamboo poles and slats,  corrugated iron sheets or woven matting for walls and roofs,  timber floors.  Wide verandas and rudimentary kitchen and toilet facilities. 

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Fish,  eat,  sleep.  Dry the fish,  inhabit for a month or two a  year  and then go back to terra firma to  sell the fish and to your other house and another job,  a real one,  farming perhaps,  or laboring of one sort or another. There’s tourism.  The lake is a star attraction.  It’s about eight dollars for a fast,  comfortable longboat across  from town to the floating villages.  Some enterprising  fisherfolk supplement their income by offering tea and refreshments to visitors.

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We drove from the other side of town to a muddy bank by the side of a fast flowing river.  Against the current, through a  riverine cityscape of warehouses  mosques,  workshops on one side;  homes on stilts in the mud,  sheds for boat repair and barges for fuel and fishing supplies on the other.

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The river opened up suddenly to the wide expanse  of the lake. 

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An hour of fast driving later we pulled up to one of these floating homes perhaps a tiny bit less ramshackle  than the other dozen or so in the village.

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Of the 4 people on board the  only defined role seemed to be that of the woman in the kitchen aft.  She made the tea and fried the bananas.

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  The men just sat and smoked,  talking. We were  on  the foredeck verandah in the breeze,  watching the birds and absorbing the serenity of the lake. 

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The walls of this particular craft were made of unpainted corrugated sheet metal. As we were leaving  I noticed in one corner was a word,  like one would spray as a graffito on a brick wall.  Yellow-red,  in large clear letters was the word “Randi”.

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  It didn’t register right away but unconsciously  I pulled out my camera and snapped it.  Then a minute later it  hit me.  My first thought; it’s an Indonesian word. I asked what it meant.  Heads shook.  Not Indonesian.  I went to my online translator.  Confirmed.  Not Indonesian. Randi  was the name of my wife, properly capitalized and spelt,   now dead 18 years.  What was that uncommon in English let alone non-Indonesian word doing on a piece of tin wall on a lake boat in the middle of Sulawesi?  Why did our driver pick that boat for tea amongst two or  three others?  Why did I happen to look up at that section of wall just as we were about to leave?

Some events spur one to action.  Others freeze you in fear.  Yet others are just ineffable,  insoluble  puzzles.  Setting aside the incredible,  the impossible,  the unbelievable and the unlikely,  what am I left with?

There isn’t an explanation …  except..   except… a message from the other side….  
  
July 31st, 2014,  Sulawesi Selatan,  Indonesia.

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Annapurna, Nepal, Pokhara, travel

All you need is love

I’m in Pokhara after a 9 hour bus ride for less than 200 miles.  God knows why we didn’t fly.  The roads  are beyond atrocious  …  But it’s pretty here

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Lake Fewa,  late afternoon

and in the end,  that’s all that really matters,  the aesthetic.  Assuming there’s  food  water and shelter surely a beautiful something,  anything,  is reason to bless the day.

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Our bus,  at a rest stop

I  can look and find it even on a thoroughly uncomfortable stuffy  bus ride,  with a ticket that says “Air Conditioned Luxury Bus” but isn’t,  where the question is met with an indifferent shrug yet a smile.  Because it is the smile that’s the payoff,  right? 

I’m sure there’s not much disagreement that love is a form of beauty.  Even though the building below is,  well let’s call a spade  a spade,  ugly,  it surely was named beautifully

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It’s an orphanage  in  the middle of the journey somewhere. 

And I found some of that love on the t-shirt of one of the kids, 

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I  Love Nepal the t-shirt says.  Sure,   not hard to do.  It’s a lovely  country with much beauty amidst the ugliness.  And much ugliness amidst the beauty. 

Dust.  Nepal is dusty.   It’s pervasive dust,  choking,  irritating,  cloying,  filthy,  penetrating and definitely ugly.  It’s just not right to see  a once green urban  tree struggle to  photosynthesize wearing its coat of grey or the dawn sun always colored blood red,  or the views of the majestic mountains surrounding Kathmandu and north of Pokhara obscured by thick haze.  Blame geography  as much as traffic or lack of sidewalks or the desiccated landscape  9 months of the year. The topsoil of the entire North Indian plain  ends up blowing towards the Himalayas and relief comes  only from the monsoon rains. I bought a mask

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Yeah,  call me Darth

It helped with the dust immensely.  And it had the curious side effect of feeling like I was in my own private burqa (it’s actually a niqab but lets not split hairs) in the  sense I could feel protected and anonymous at the same time.   Safe almost.  Isn’t that the whole point made by supporters of the tradition?  I say  walk  a mile in their shoes before you have an opinion..

I saw pretty yesterday  walking around the back streets of Kathmandu away from the trekking area.  Incredible falling down  architecture

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And the biggest laundry basket I ever saw

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Obviously an ancient public spring/bathing area  put to timeless  use.  Even with all the dirt in the air the women (not the men)  mostly look fresh and clean in their traditional clothes.

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A devotee at a Hindu festival with lots and lots of candles

And a bit of  cultural tolerance..if you look at it that way

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In Nepal it’s  not a specifically Jewish symbol…  And ironically the Hindu cultures also use the swastika cross  but with the arms pointing  the  correct way,  not the perversion of  the Nazi symbol.

Cooks will fall in love with this photo. 

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There’s a whole area of the street markets devoted to spices.   Just next door was a seller of dog muzzles,  fabric pouches designed to stop your friendly guard dog barking its head off all night.   Strangely enough he also sold tape measures. 

We are leaving tomorrow at 5.30 am for the 20 minute/50 mile flight North  over the Annapurna range to the start of the trek.  If the weather is bad the flight will be canceled (it looks good now at 8 pm)  and we’ll have to take another bone jarring 12 hour drive instead…  I hope for a great view of the range  as we fly over and  expect to see a whole lot more  beauty on this  trek as I  continue my love affair with this incredible land. 

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Kathmandu, Nepal, Swayamphu World Heritage Site, travel

All in a day

Yesterday I took a break from touristy Thamel and equipment shopping and decided a museum was in order.  I also wanted to spend time with my friend’s kids and give them a day out with a hopefully educational bent.  For those of you reading who are my children or who are familiar with my media business  (you know who you are haha) you know that imparting knowledge to  children is as much food for my soul as a good salad and a well balanced pinot is  nourishment for my body.

So much for my conceived plans.  The nine year old didn’t want to go.  She wanted to spend time with mom,  so Subham,  the 13 year old boy and I set off for the Natural History Museum on the other side of town.  I had this idea that a kid born and bred in Kathmandu would know the local geography somewhat but that too,   I was to find out,  was another  misconception. 

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This is a road.. Well a future one anyway. 

The roads in Kathmandu are in a state of disrepair,  to put it mildly.  No one seems to know why they are dug up with some grand plan in mind (probably sewers and sidewalks)  and left for years half finished.  Corruption,  graft ,  bad planning,  budgets…  Take your pick.

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This is a gleam in a planner’s eye,  I assume. 

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And this a little further along.  5 years the locals said (in this dormant pre-road  state!) 

We set off on a real traffic choked road (i. e lots of potholes but a bit of asphalt)  and grabbed a taxi to go to the museum..  Now Kathmandu is not London and there’s maybe only 5 or 6 museums.  The driver assured Subham  (my Nepali translator too)  that he knew exactly where it was as my young companion didn’t have a clue),  a fare was negotiated ($2.50 for the record). And off we jounced.  10 minutes in we end up on a very wide completely torn up road to the National Museum (closed anyway) and it became painfully apparent after aimless drivng for twenty minutes more that the taxi driver (who wouldn’t even acknowledge he was lost)  had no comprehension,  either geographic or linguistic of the words “natural”  or “history” and certainly not together..  He was obviously loathe to display his ignorance and ask anyone either. That make him a typical male?  It took me jumping out of the taxi at a stop to go ask another taxi driver the way. 

At the museum entrance he asked for twice the fare. Long way he said. It was actually shorter if he had gone  straight there but I gave the rogue half the extra he asked for and told him to go learn geography,  culture and English,  in any order he chose. 

My poor 13 year old was a bit upset as I am sure his mother told him to look after me and he knew he had abjectly failed.  Well perhaps in Nepali terms but I assumed him vehemently that everything was fine. 

The museum turned out to be a  very large shed-like structure full of stuffed animals. 

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An enormous stork.. 

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A monkey out on the town

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Flat animals (must be endemic)

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Three guesses (it was gorgeous)

More of a research lab for the local University..  But it held our interest for half an hour. 

We walked up the adjacent  hill to the Swayamphu stupa.  Although overly commercialized with sellers of religious bric-a-brac the world heritage site was rather lovely. 

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And

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And I love this one…  Look at the top of the head… 

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But the highlight for me was a meditation hall with several monks playing music and praying.  The lovely thing about Buddhism is that it welcomes you in to have your own experience.  Subham , being a good Hindu,  wouldn’t go in the room. 

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I sat for a quiet twenty minutes,  feeling peaceful.  The last time I meditated in Nepal I fell off a mountain (yes,  you can ask)  but this time I was a bit more careful and only slipped on a step

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while I was taking a photo..  They were kinda steep… 

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Going down sir?

We walked back home on those pseudo roads above with the benefit of no traffic  other than the occasional foolhardy motorcyclist,  until we got to one of  the market areas where we took tea..  Subham hadn’t a clue where he was or indeed how to get back to his neighborhood. But being the superb navigator that I am…. 

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Selfies! 

The poor kid was tired out by the time we got home but just right near the  house on  a building site I saw a bunch of kids… 

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Heavy Lego?  I guess you play with what’s available.. 

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Kathmandu construction is generally  brick…  And the unregulated brick kilns contribute to the foul air.

At least I’m in far better shape for the trek now..  I’ve walked maybe 20 miles in last 3 days… 

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Nepal, travel

Where’s Waldo

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Zoom in..  You’ll be horrified. 

Prepping for a trek in Nepal is pretty simple.  You really only need to bring your well broken in boots and a few personal items. Although  trekking companies give you comprehensive lists of gear to bring  it’s all available here and at about a quarter to half the price of the US or Europe.   So no need to schlep vast amounts from home, just  come to the world’s largest emporium for hiking equipment. 

It’s a bit of a knock-off a knock-off racket.  Nepali companies copy designs from the world’s leading equipment companies like North Face,  Mammut,  Columbia and so on,  build the gear and embroider the branded names.  To the  unskilled eye they look real and frankly,  the quality isn’t half bad.  For the casual trekker it’s fine.  But they go one step further; now they are knocking off the  Chinese copies of the Western brands!

Temptation  rears  at every turn of the road with dozens of shops selling the same stuff.  I’ve now bought three pairs of trekking pants!  Anyone need a backpack cheap? 

I suggested to one  factory owner he start his own brand and sell a little bit less than the fake brands.  He immediately offered me a discount on a  fourth pair of trekking pants! 

But they are all very pleasant and somewhat low key.  Not a bad shopping experience. 

The list includes all the normal gear for trekking  and you are also  suggested to buy water purification tablets and drugs too such as broad spectrum antibiotics,  codeine, diamox for altitude sickness.  Off to a pharmacy I go. Yes the photo at the top of the page is indeed a pharmacy.  Zoom in and see if you can find anything.  How the owner keeps track of things is beyond comprehension.  But he knew exactly what pile to burrow through.   I’m now fully  equipped and ready to conquer Mustang! 

 

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India, Nepal, travel

The bumping

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I’m Mumbai –  Fly Me!

It was time to leave my friends in Powai and head off for my flight to Kathmandu.  Conveniently they live only 4 km from Mumbai Airport,  known as BOM on your luggage tag.  And until last  year it really was a BOM,  because the old international terminal was a disgusting mess and a bomb would have been an improvement! 

The first rickshaw driver must have been having some kind of  trouble with his license because he refused to take me,  telling me he could only go to the domestic terminal.  He passed me off to the next guy in line who didn’t have a problem.  Off we went. 

It was 9 am and  a good 2 hours before departure.  Now a rickshaw ride through snarled Mumbai traffic is  a bit like a pinball table minus the flippers,  weaving and bobbing around stalled cars,  disgorging buses, potholes the size of small cars,  open sewers,  piles of  bricks and trash,  kids on bicycles and little old ladies who are either blind,  careless or protected by one or more gods in the  Hindu pantheon. And there’s the ever present feeling of bouncing from car to bus to truck in the clogged traffic.    I wouldn’t recommend it for the faint-hearted or those with a bad ticker of any sort especially as the driver kept turning around to talk to me. I found out in short order he’d been driving rickshaws  for 20 years, two school age  kids,  wife didn’t work,  lived in a slum,  will vote for Modi (almost certainly India’ next Prime Minister ) hated his job and   wanted to lose weight.  I told him he should walk 5 km a day and  do yoga.  He laughed and asked me about weight lifting.  I guess I’m a stupid foreigner.  Indian men of his caste don’t do yoga perhaps…  How was I to know? 

He took the short cut to the airport entrance road behind the  police station and about a thousand rusting bicycles stacked against the rear wall with goats wandering hither and yon and we left India,  well THAT India,  and entered the brave new India,  the granite and steel  India,  the architecture of the future India,  the spotlessly clean and hyper efficient India that frankly  I wasn’t sure I had seen before.  I tipped the fat driver generously (well percentage wise,  the entire 4km trip was about 80 cents,  so I gave him double the fare)  and told him to eat lots of fruit and lay off the naan bread  as a parting shot. 

I entered an elevator the size of a bus coming up from the drop off point and walked to the check  in.  Oh I was in a good mood ,  I was even humming a tune.  My jaw dropped as I entered.  This was a stunning building looking like a series of inverted ufo’s with graceful fluted  pillars holding up the structure.  I could definitely see the essence of the  architecture of Rajasthan and the classic Hindu temple motif but it was so powerfully subtle it did not detract from or clash with the modernity.

Sauntering jauntily up to the Jet Airways counter I was was told the flight was oversold,  no seats left.   But,  but,  but,  I stammered,  I have a paid seat.  That’s a first for me..  At least with a full fare ticket.  Bumped… 

I begged,  pleaded,  implored,  threatened and even involved the name of a dead Nepali government minister for a fictional but vitally important meeting. Get me a seat.  Bump someone else,  it’s 2 hours before the flight,  not everyone has  checked  in yet…  No dice.   They had,  according to the counter agent..  We’ll give you 4000 rupees as compensation and see you tomorrow.. 

After going on like this for 10 minutes my bluster finally worked and I was told to come back in half an hour which I negotiated down to 15 minutes. I got my seat.  And the plane had about 10 empty seats when we took off. 

So the building might have been space age but the systems weren’t,  obviously.  Same old India dressed up in a shiny new suit.  What’s the expression?  Silk purses from sows ears?  No matter,  if only LA or JFK had a terminal like the new BOM

Alighting in Kathmandu at ramshackle Tribhuvan made even the old BOM look good..  But I did get through immigration in about 4 minutes and I wasn’t bumped from my taxi into town. 

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India, travel

Mumbaikers

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A huge rock outcropping between two high rises in Powai, Mumbai. I don’t think they’ll be building there for a while. Note the ever-present Mumbai rickshaw. It’s just, well, ever-present.

I screwed up..  Really I did.  I left my camera in the apartment. The plan was to take photos of my day and write about them. I was so exhausted that first few hours on Indian soil that I even  forgot I had a  phone camera. I ended the day with a picture of a rock and a haircut’s before and after.  I promise I’ll do better next time.

Dawn broke cool,  breezy, cleansing somehow through the pervasive dusty  haze .  A curious  Mumbai crow,  glossy black and deep blue,  sat on the iron railing of the the window frame.  I lay in bed watching it (him/her? How do you sex a crow?) as it watched me,  head turning this way and that in that strange jerking motion common to all  birds,  the organic stepper motors kicking in as presumably instinct or desire attracted a look in a different direction.  I looked at its head and wondered about its peripheral vision,  the eyes  being set on either side  so widely.  It was a strange communion,  my sleepy gaze and the sinister stare of this half pound scavenger.  I got out of bed and it hopped to a higher railing,  doing a sort of feng shui defensive dance swiveling to the open sky behind.  Every now and again an ant ran  across the window sill and opening that black shiny scimitar of a beak,  the crow would devour it  like a  tapas snack.   After a few of these morsels,  the crow yawned;  I did too.  We were obviously tired of each other.   It  flew off and I stumbled into the shower to drive me into a semblance of wakefulness.  Good morning Mumbai!

Refreshed somewhat and hungry,  I  went off in search of my own tapas.

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