Tag: snapshots

  • Boudha in Five Lines


    I wanted to offer a more complete answer to the question what is Boudha like? than I have given so far.  In five lines and five senses, maybe I will succeed in sharing at least what my Boudha is like…
    Boudha smells like fried food, cinnamon sticks, half-rotten garbage, dust, a pile of dung, car exhaust, incense, and ripe bananas—not all at once, but in quick succession as I walk through its streets.
    Boudha tastes like endless variations of rice and potatoes most days, the occasional vegetable momo (dumpling), a cup of masala tea, dust, Everest beer, hot lemon honey ginger, prayer amplified by many thousands of lips, salt and unfamiliar languages.
    Boudha feels like dust or a wet shawl, depending on the season, sticky mud oozing between my sandal straps, footsteps on flat stones, hours of darkness during power cuts, circles around circles around the great stupa, sitting cross-legged, hot tea on my lips, cold water on my face, hot sun on my back, a child pulling on my hand and cotton.
    Boudha sounds like dogs barking at four in the morning, mantras playing on loop at record stores, children chanting Namaste, beggars chanting Namaste, monks chanting om mani padme hum, scores of pigeons flapping wings, puja bells ringing, men hacking and spitting, motorists leaning on horns, women shouting from their windows, unfamiliar languages and low-flying airplanes.
    Boudha looks like red, blue, green, white and yellow prayer flags, pyramids of apples and pomegranates, stacks of brightly patterned fabric, men carrying plates of sliced coconut on their heads, human circles around circles around the great stupa, families on motorcycles, funny haircuts, and Sakyamuni Buddha’s eyes framed in gold, forty meters in the air.
    ~

  • One, Two, Tsum*!


    How about an update on my seventeen-day trekking adventure in fast-forward journal mode? Let’s go!
    Day 1 (September 26): Kathmandu (elevation 1400 meters) to Arughat (elevation 600 meters). Ten hours by bus, pointy seats, enough said.

    Day 2 (September 27): Arughat to Lapu Besi (884m). Approximately four hours walking.
    Jesus Travels (our bus, so named for the words painted on its front) takes us from Arughat to Arkhet Bazaar, the starting point of our trek.
    I am content. Sore knee, smushed toe, sore thumb, but wholly content.  Rivers and jagged green valleys—my element.  No thoughts today.  First night of camping, last real shower of the excursion.
    Day 3 (September 28): Lapu Besi to Korlabesi (970m). Three and a half hours, Sherpa flat.
     A waterfall (bpap chu, Tib.) around every corner.  Trail is ‘Sherpa flat,’ meaning little net gain in elevation, but almost constant up and down. Lungi time (bathing wrapped in cotton fabric to preserve modesty) at the river.
    Day 4 (September 29): Korlabesi to Jagat (1340m). About five and a half hours.
    Sitting on the ‘front porch’ of my tent, looking out at the sparsely green cliffs that drop into the icy Buddhi Gandaki river below, the taste of Hannah’s sawdust-flavored oat squares in my mouth, I am taking a break from thinking beyond “how beautiful.”  My thoughts today? “When’s dinner?” Should I put on sunblock? Nah.” “Chill out and enjoy the breaks, Toby; they’re good for you.”  It’s good to be moving, waking up to these mountains (and a donkey outside my tent); it is enough for the moment.
    Day 5 (September 30): Jagat to Lokpa (2040m).  About six hours.
    Walking donkey pace the last two hours—getting stuck behind our donkey train an unfortunate development in the day.  We find out that stealthy leeches abound at this campsite, but I manage to escape leech-free.
    Day 6 (October 1): Lokpa to Chumling (2363m). About three hours, all uphill.
    Happy October. Woke up to rain throughout the night; all gear soaking wet.  Happy October—orange leaves on the ground today!  The most awkward bucket bath of my life, trying to rinse my hair under the waist-high spigot.  One mitten down, one to go.

    Day 7 (October 2): Chumling to Chhekam (3010m).  About three hours, very steep uphill.

    It’s cold here! Trying to finish crocheting mitten number two before my fingers fall off.  The winter hat and down jacket have made it out of my backpack.  Landscape shifted to pine forests today.  Rock cairns emerging from the mist along the trail.  Real cowbell music, accompanied by the very talkative wearers.  A horse and rider trot smartly across an iron suspension bridge: hello, Tsum.
    Day 8 (October 3): Chhekam to Ngakhu (~3100m). Less than an hour.
    The present has become very much a mystery, as well as a gift.  Popo-lak(grandfather, Tib. The lak, pronounced ‘la,’ is honorific) Dawa Doje and Amma-lak (mother, Tib. Used indiscriminately to address village women) Pasang Dolma wander in and out of the kitchen while Traci and I wonder what exactly to do in our new homestay.
    Day 8-11 (October 3-6): Homestay at Ngakhu.
    Grain threshing, snot-nosed children spinning, bag carrying and other fun and games (and work) at the field behind our house.  The women here are beautiful and ageless; twenty or fifty, they look older than their years and do the same back-breaking work together.  A day long trail ride through the surrounding area in the most uncomfortable saddle I have ever experienced. Still, I can’t think of a better way to see Tsum than cantering along a narrow alley between stone walls, slouched back slightly the way they ride here.  Pancakes for breakfast: inji (foreigner) food, I suspect.  The rhythmic clicking of amma-lak’sloom fills the sun-lightened air for a few minutes one morning.  Strips of blue green turquoise, red pink burgundy, thread onto the empty page and the music fills with pattern.  Little brother Samden sings Justin Bieber’s “Baby” to baby shimi (cat, Tib.): the silliest thing ever.  Pasang Dolma drags a bull three times her size by his nose ring.  She ties the legs of the female tso(yak-cow hybrids) together and the lilt of her humming draws milk into the wood pail between her knees.  Her head scarf tied neatly, mountains framing the picture—no photos of this moment; memories will last longer.  A sick and sleepless night slows me down, and I spend some time recuperating from a sinus infection/cold.
    Day 11 (October 6): Move to campsite at Lar (3245m). Colder and windier.

    Day 12 (October 7): Camping in Lar.

    Hot sun, cold wind, wide expanse of bleached, smooth stones hiding trickling tributaries to the icy blue river beyond.
    Day 13 (October 8): Lar to Chumling. A few hours downhill.
    Hannah and I do a bit of stretching on the second story of the building by our campsite.  Apparently the most interesting to happen to our riveted audience in weeks.
    Day 14 (October 9): Chumling to Jagat.  About ten hours, including a long lunch break.
    5:00 am wake-up. 3:45, really, thanks to the porters’ usual habit of regular pot banging as they make breakfast.  Snickers bar turned white and crumbly from two weeks of rough travel. Still tasty.  I have had more candy bars in the last month than in my entire life prior.
    Day 15 (October 10): Jagat to Kani Besi (~720m) Ten hours, lunch break included.
    Many more trekkers heading up as we hike out.  Glad to miss the crowds.
    Day 16 (October 11): Kani Besi to Arughat.  Many hours.
    Happy birthday to me! Hot walk in the sun and a long wait for trusty Jesus Travels to deliver us from Arkhet Bazaar.  A rum and coke to celebrate twenty-one years of life, a lovely birthday cake, and a night sleeping under the stars make up for it.
    Day 17 (October 12): Arughat to Kathmandu. Ten-ish hours.
    Wake-up at some horrible pre-five o’clock hour. Much more comfortable bus. Cappuccino and a slice of chocolate musse cake at Flavors Cafe to celebrate my return to Bodha.

    Lest you think classes were absent from this trip, most mornings featured Tibetan language class, and many afternoons we heard lectures from our traveling entourage of teachers and scholars. Unfortunately, these happenings failed to make the final cut for this post.

    *Tsum is the name of the valley where we trekked. Sum means three in Tibetan. Chik, Nyi, Sum translates as One, Two, Three!

  • Through the Bazaar: My First Nepali Journey

    Tashi Delek (“Auspicious Greetings” Tib.) from Nepal, officially!
    It would be difficult to exaggerate the toll that being sick took on my first week’s experience of Nepal.  Having gotten some kind of food poisoning day three, I spent the following five days deluding myself that I was recovering, when really, sleep-deprived and on an involuntary starvation diet, I could barely function.  The daily 8am-6pm classes and meetings didn’t help either.  Finally admitting defeat, I went to the doctor Thursday afternoon, and a day of antibiotics later (yesterday) I had enough energy for our first free afternoon in Kathmandu.
    Danny, one of our teachers, led our group of 21 SIT students through a series of streets, intersections and ‘rotaries’ from the Garden of Dreams (more to come on this another time) to the Bazaar in Old Kathmandu.  Passing through Tamel, the tourist district, very quickly, I noticed not one, not two, but ten or fifteen stores selling nothing but Toby Pants.  Toby Pants, for those who don’t know, are technically harem pants, but can also refer to a range of styles of colorful cotton pants, which, no matter what milieu I find myself in, always seem to be unique to me.  So imagine my excitement to find so many on one street! Striped Toby Pants, billowing Toby Pants, wide-legged, trimmed with woven ribbon, Toby Pants in every variety.  Toby Pants I hadn’t even known existed.  I had to return.
    Racing to follow Danny down crowded alleyways, I didn’t quite keep track of our route, but I vowed to find my way back to the pants street.  At the center of the Old City, I learned that our “drop-off” assignment was to find our way back to our homestays in Boudha (pronounced Bodha), located at the Northeastern edge of Kathmandu, after exploring the city as much as we liked.  Thus released, I immediately set off first to wander the Bazaar, and then to locate my pants.
    I wandered through the Nepali bead market where ropes of bright green, red, and yellow glass beads glittered in the sun.  Women in equally bright saris sat on the ground in some of the stalls to examine certain strands.  The space between stalls proved too narrow for the volume of people wishing to visit them, and I had to shove my way out, or be shoved.  I quickly walked through seemingly endless alleys piled with T-shirts, sneakers, underwear, and other clothing of little interest.  A few stalls stacked with fabric and shawls I sketched into my mental map.
    Slightly lost, I found my way back to the open square where I had started, at the center of which stood an enormous table covered by towers of scarves.  I set out in the opposite direction, towards Tamel.  I knew I had taken the right street by smell.  At the first intersection, fruit: rickshaws loaded with baskets of bananas, pyramids of fist-sized pomegranates, neat piles of red and green chilies, juice carts with pre-cut pineapple.  At the next intersection, the distinct smell of fish emanating from a hidden location; at the next, cumin and coriander wafting from sacks of spices.  When I took a wrong turn, I retraced my steps and sought out the right scent—there’s the cumin; I’ve been here before.
    At every intersection stood small stone stupas, shrines, some with metal carvings of Buddhist and Hindi deities.  Red powder for puja, too.  The spaces around these stupas served well enough as traffic circles, and every narrow street and alley accommodated two-way traffic.  Motorcycles asserted their supremacy, honking loudly, while pedestrians, bicycles carrying 10-foot ladders or bamboo poles, and rickshaws ambled on indifferently.
    Toby Pants Street, when I found it several wrong turns later, was everything I had hoped it would be. 
    Satisfied, but tired and ready to return to Bodhanath, I made my way to New Road, where, theoretically, I could find a bus.  Considering the size of Bodha’s stupa (more to come later), I was surprised at how many people had never heard of it when I asked directions—I don’t think my pronunciation could have been that bad!  Those who understood me continually directed me farther down the street to the correct spot to wait for my bus.  The minibus to Bodha did arrive, and the stick-thin fare collector directed me to a seat that had not existed a moment before.   The fourth to squeeze onto a three-person bench, I at least had a seat, which is more than could be said for the next ten passengers to press on.  We lurched through traffic at maybe ten miles per hour, and since I could not move my arms, I took the opportunity to count passengers.  At its fullest, this minibus (offering perhaps twenty seats on a good day) held thirty-five!  An appropriately crowded conclusion to my bustling introduction to Nepal.

  • The Caterpillar Who Crossed The Road

    Safe and sound in Nepal! First access to internet since arrival, so more to come soon, but here’s something for the moment.
    ***
    “This is a deeply Buddhist country,” Isabelle, our academic director, told us in her proper English accent.  She casually breast fed her six-month-old daughter in what I would term a shock and assimilate orientation philosophy.

    A few days later, rounding a bend in the road to Pharping[i], where we stayed in the Dakshin Kali Village Resort, I came face to face with a man in a motorcycle helmet urging a caterpillar onto the shoulder with a tattered plastic bag.  Taking the life of any living creatures is painstakingly avoided by many here.  He watched me defiantly, it seemed, through his tinted visor as I walked by.  I heard the sound of an engine starting behind me as I moved away from the rescue scene.


    [i] Located at the Southwestern edge of the Kathmandu valley.