The village: Shangri-la, and where we found it.

Warning, a very long post. Summary: Nepal? Been there, done that.

Didn't make it to 'my' village. But found 'it' in some unexpected places nevertheless. The second picture with Eli was taken on the side of the road that leads up to 'Daman,' the town where an observation tower was built many decades ago. Unfortunately I took no pictures there, only camcorder (analog) footage. Which someday I hope to digitize, categorize, back up, etc. with the other 50 hours of tape I've already got. This will hopefully happen in my lifetime, and before I'm a grandfather. Because once I'm a grandfather, I will be too busy filming again.

As mentioned in my last post, we attempted to find Palung, the village where my subgroup of water supply engineer volunteers went for further technical and more intensive language training. (We lived with individual families, and worked on a water supply project during the day.) We met with Shyam Shrestha (formerly a Nepali Peace Corps' staffer - the Peace Corps pulled out of Nepal during the more heated days of the recent Maoist revolution.)

We had Shyam to dinner at the Kathmandu Guest House restaurant. Affable and soft-spoken, he is Newar, which is the ethnic group native to the Kathmandu valley. He offers to take us to Palung or Nagarkot, a nearby town with views of the Himalaaya to the east, including Mt. Everest - that is, if the weather cooperates. This is very generous, as Palung is maybe a five hours' drive to the west of the valley. In our Nepanglish conversation, I accept the offer of a ride to Nagarkot, which is less than half the distance, and tell him we will make our way to Palung by bus - or somehow. Which is the kind of travel to which I gravitate, that is, well, you know what I mean (our recent hellride already fading into the further recesses of my memory...).

We have learned from the hotelier to go to the 'new bus park.' I remember the old one: basically a bare field, with diesel exhaust fumes and spilled oil to take the place of vegetation, and new or rusted out vehicles, parked without any discernable organization. I wonder how we ever found our buses.

So to the new park we go, and inform our taxi driver we'd like to find the bus that goes in the direction of Palung. The driver has heard of the village - a good sign - but he thinks we'll have to get a transfer. As we ride the clock is continuing to tick, and he tells us the bus has probably already left. He has a manner which has earned my trust, so when he begins to tell me that we would be better off taking a cab the whole way, I am inclined to believe he's not just trying to drum up business. In fact, he even says that he wouldn't drive us there, but he could call in a better cab for us.

After negotiating the price, we pile into Krishna's toyota (top picture), the switch made near the top of Swayambunath hill, seen behind Spencer. (So I did manage to get to the top after all...). And head off. We need to pay some of the money up-front to cover gasoline, then we are off. And are quite relieved to find Krishna is quite the careful driver.

We take a turn toward Palung, and drive ever higher into and out of the clouds then back into the mist till we pass over a ridge. The scenery is by turns breathtaking or prosaic. However, no thatched roofs. I begin to wonder if there is still such a thing anywhere in the country, though the existence of a road makes every dwelling we pass 'not village' by definition. Even when we pass through what looks like a village that our driver says is Palung, still no thatch. Or we could walk to Palung from this place - not a likely option. I don't recognize a thing, so we continue on. Occasionally off in the distance there seem to be brown thatched roofs, but my eyesight isn't what it once was. I'll assume such technology is still there - just beyond my depth of focus.

What happened here? On one level, I let go of trying to reach Palung. On another, I gave up on seeking a rather arbitrary indicator of what constitutes a village - thatch roofs. But still, I hoped to find some ineffable village experience, and for my sons to share it.

Our next destination was Daman, the town with the observation tower I had mentioned above. Shyam had mentioned it when we had talked about Palung, and I'd remembered it from the few days I had spent there as a kind of 'self-retreat' I'd taken at the end of my Peace Corps service. It was near Palung where I'd been to visit for a sort of leave taking.

And, of course, the place was still near. So we drive on up another ridge and come to the tower. Some development had occurred there since my 'retreat' 25 years ago. There is now a 'hotel' next to the place, but we learn of an even better hotel further up the road. Which we discover runs about $200 per room (we'd need two). It is a fair distance back from the road (I couldn't see it), so ask the kids to go check it out, see what the big cost was about. Their verdict: waste of money. It would also have been pretty far from the tower - a longish hike for me, and a few miles car ride. So I say let's see what options might lie ahead - there seemed a ridge top within view.

And there was another hotel. It was much more reasonably priced, had a nice interior (we didn't ask about wifi), but afforded views that were not particularly inspiring. However, I liked the proprietress, and wanted to give her some commerce for the time she'd spent showing the rooms, and besides, it was mid-day.

While we waited for daalbhaat to be prepared - took about an hour - Spencer pointed out the hill across the street, and suggested we hike to the top of it. Eli was having a teen moment - you know, kind of embarrassed that we were there to have lunch, and 'what a dumb hill to hike,' etc. - and was not interested, preferring instead to rest in the taxi. Miller was enlisted to 'help me get up the hill.' And carry the camera, which took the picture of me sitting with him above, having reached the summit. Spencer was very encouraging, and of course very strong helping me walk up the now quite challenging terrain. After our 'trek,' Spencer played with some very young children who were taking turns rolling a tire, teasing it along with a stick, letting it roll down hills, and generally whooping it up. I told Miller that's what he'd be doing if he didn't have tv/computer/laptops/etc. About to become a teen himself, he gave a grunt.

Spencer camcordered the kids, then played back the tape which they thought was hilarious. One child was fascinated with Spencer's braces, and pantomimed his interest in touching them, which Spencer allowed. This little roadside 'hotel/restaurant' was feeling like the Holy Grail at last, the slower we went, the more village-like it became.

Eli joined us for daalbhaat, and we all ate well. I remember he liked it ground up for him as a baby, as did Spencer. Miller on the other hand... He ate plenty of plain rice, and a dad required dollop of daal. Maybe I even made him eat a leaf of some kind of mystery vegetable.

Then we drove back down to look at the 'blue hotel.' The one by the tower. After negotiating the price, we moved our stuff in. Eli watched some TV - I think there was one English language channel, but Spencer came over to Miller's and my room for some cards. Krishna was there, in our room. Our trip negotiation included taxi only - no food or lodging. I had decided to feed him, but figured he could take care of his sleep. In the taxi if necessary - the weather was mild, it was nothing I wouldn't do myself - even nowadays, if it became necessary. (Not sure, but I think the hotelier found a 'free' spot somewhere in one of the buildings for him, he seemed well rested the next morning.)

Spencer suggested we play a game of cribbage - a game we'd played many times during the trip, making up and agreeing to new rules such as: if you actually get zero points in your hand (what is sometimes referred to as the 'big nineteen' since lore has it there is no way to score exactly 19 points in a hand), then you get one point, sort of a consolation prize; or, if the cards in your hand add up to 19 points - including the crib card - then you get nineteen peg points; or, if you start the 'play' with a card that matches the crib card, and say 'see one, play one,' you get a point. Which all must sound excruciatingly tedious to non-cribbage players (and maybe to those who play too!). But it was fun, good father/sons bonding time.

So we played, while Krishna watched. Spencer asked whether I could teach our friendly taxi driver to play, which I started to do, and he played a game with us. At this point, Miller wanted to join, and learn how to play 'kitty,' a nine card game. We'd seen people play this at the 'Casino Royale' in Kathmandu, the most inviting feature of which (for my sons anyway) was that there was no lower age limit - only lowest bet limits. My favorites were the free cups of chai, and at 6:00 p.m., free dinner. All told, we spent maybe $50 there, and had a very good time. The boys had the chance to see how 'the house always wins' (with my money anyway). Eschewing the games of chance, I instead flirted in Nepali (not really Dwan!), with the cute but bored looking chai waitresses. In our blue hotel, Krishna was more than happy to show us how to play the game (similar to the British game 'nine card brag' wiki just informed me). It's sort of an instant Rummy, 98% luck based, at least as far as we understood it. Miller was fascinated by it, and particularly by the way he (and most Nepalis) shuffle cards. (You can see how it's done here. Unfortunately, I didn't film Krishna doing it.) And they deal counter-clockwise, a habit Miller has happily adopted.

We went up later into the tower for some chai and naan, and the hotelier - nice young fellow wearing a blue polo shirt and green Chinese sneakers - joined us for some more 'kitty.' The clouds lifted at one point to reveal a couple majestic white peaks. Which would be the only we saw during the approximately 12 days of our time in Nepal. However, the rich cross-cultural experiences we had on this side trip definitely made up for that.

After returning to Kathmandu, I called Shyam to set up a time to head to Nagarkot. He borrowed a friend's car for this, and for such a mild-mannered guy, he seemed surprisingly equal to the rigors of the traffic patterns. However, the gridlock was so bad for so long, after two hours we were still in Kathmandu. We decided to change plans and go to Pashupatinath, the main Hindu temple on the Bagmati river. This is a very holy site, and only Hindus are allowed access to the inside of the temple; however, there are extensive grounds to cover, and sights to see. the fourth picture was taken at this site.

I sat near where this picture was taken, in a shaded alcove, as I was exhausted already to have walked what seemed the miles from where we parked. Maybe it was half a mile, probably less, but hey... In this comfortable alcove, I sat on a stair and chatted with like situated Nepalis, while Eli, Spencer, and Shyam went ahead to the temple. Miller sat with me, and began to lobby me to be permitted to buy one of the souvenir knives being sold. Though it didn't seem a very spiritual pursuit, I was gradually worn down. And, what the heck - he's a week or two away from turning 13. 'But you won't be able to bring it to school.' With the secret service presence there, I don't worry too much that he will disobey that.

I was talking to a young security guard in 'uniform' (blue shirt, black pants, a badge) about life, etc., when I smelled the strong aroma of burning hair. Just across the river their are several funeral platforms (biers?) where pyres are built and lit. In the picture you can see smoke rising behind us. The picture was taken by Shyam, but it's now obvious he should have been in the picture with us. C'est la vie. The guard also smelled the burning hair, which I mentioned, and he told me that is a very auspicious thing.

I realize the subtitle of this post sounds rather grandiose, and I have tried to do it justice, but ultimately the quotidian nature and slow pace of our visit can only go so far. In as much as our trip was laid back and natural, my idealized memories of village life were given some context - and also left unmarred by present day realities. I think the boys got a taste of Nepal, and a new appreciation for the comforts and luxuries of our middle class life here in the U.S. Numerous like moments were experienced while in Kathmandu. And Miller had plenty of opportunity to hang back at the hotel when he felt like it.

This post has turned into a marathon - and probably a rather jumbled one at that - and for that I apologize. Of course, so many more details come to mind, but I will leave them now. Like Shyam and me looking for a tailor to make a seersucker suit (couldn't find suitable - ha! - material anywhere); and our search for the apartment near the wooden temple that Loret had rented. We couldn't find it. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, or to the uncertain fate of my and my sons' memories.

Namaste, over and out.

The village.

I would put these images down closer to the text that might give them context, but I haven't figured out how to do that. So just look and wonder for now.

(The boys are back in school, including Spencer driven up to Connecticut last week, and things are beginning to settle down here. Time to get back to some travelogue. And by the way, I have returned to feelings generally favorable to the great nation of India, and it's billion or so inhabitants. I have a ten rupee note with the picture of Mohandas Gandhi on it to remind me - however ironic such an image on a unit of currency may strike some - of the inherent goodness of the people dwelling on the vast sub-continent: the cradle of so many spiritual insights and traditions. Not to mention many an excellent culinary art.)

I left off having arrived in the Nepali city Mahendranagar - more of a sprawling village bazaar, which is kind of how one might describe even Kathmandu, just a much larger scale. We had no desire to find a bus to take us on the even worse condition roads to the capital city, so after one night at the Opera Hotel, we rode a sort of taxi/jeep with several other passengers to Dangadhi (pronounced done-guddy) airport, about a fifty kilometer trip. The seats were comfortable - perhaps a tad cramped - and we alternated between chatting with the Nepalis, spacing out, and playing 'twenty questions,' or Botticelli. No games of 'chicken.' Passed only an occasional motorized vehicle.

The air was warm and humid, the day overcast with monsoon clouds. There were no flights to be had that day, so I bought tickets for the next. We were recommended and went to another 'fancy' hotel. I think the rooms were about $20 each, and were quite comfortable, if somewhat spartan. There was even an elevator, which made our fourth floor rooms manageable for me. The hotel grounds were surrounded by a wall, and we entered through a gate. The surrounding neighborhood was basically tin roofed shanties. Most of the town was for that matter. That afternoon I rode a rickshaw in search of a cup of 'chiyaa' (this is the same as Indian chai), and a samosa, and had an experience that brought me back to the day. Nothing earth shaking; I could have easily ordered such from the hotel restaurant/room service.

The shop owner wore a perspiration soaked tee shirt (it was sunny out now, and he worked over a hot stove inside). He had short black hair, a stout build and bearing, and a polite taciturn manner. He didn't make any big deal about the tall white guy who speaks Nepali who'd just blown in. They also had Seven-Up, and given the heat I had one instead of the chiyaa. The samosa was savory, and not too spicy. An elderly man (probably between the ages of 50 and 70 - but looked more like 80) stopped and chatted a while with me. I gave the young boy who bussed our table a one rupee coin (which is about as miserly as it sounds - it was more just to do it - tipping like that was very uncommon back in the day). I also gave him a bright shiny penny telling him what it was. The elderly man said he had a collection of over 100 foreign coins from as many different countries. Impressed, I offered him a quarter, but he declined - already had three of them.

Later, back at the hotel, Spencer said that he felt 'bad' staying in such a fancy hotel surrounded by such poverty. The next morning, he said he wanted to get his hair cut at the barber shop in a shanty just across the lane, so we went, paid about a dollar for the cut, and tipped about a dollar. I can't remember a nicer looking cut. Spencer was glad to have patronized the place, but he was a little worried about getting infected by the straight razor. (No such infection arose.)

We made it to the airport in plenty of time, and rode a Yeti Airlines' twin-prop to Kathmandu. As we flew, we were served a little bag of peanuts (the ingredients read: "Peanuts, Edible Oil [sic], Iodized Salt, etc. [sic]"), and were offered a choice of soda pop, 7-up or Miranda (similar to Fanta). I chose plain water, what is called mineral water, and comes in a plastic bottle (with which we are quite familiar in the U.S. where we just call it water). And the loud noise of the propellors left little room for chat with my seat neighbor, Eli. Instead, I considered our trip, what we might find in Kathmandu, and what we didn't do in Dangadhi.

Topping that list - what we didn't do - was go to 'my' village. Dangadhi is in the far western region of Nepal, same as the tiny village of Khateda where I had spent most of my time in the Peace Corps. It lay a considerable distance from the nearest road head - maybe a ten hour walk. That is, ten hours for a young and healthy me. It was likely that we wouldn't be getting any closer during our trip. To get to the village now would require that I be carried there - and the way things seemed to have gotten so expensive in Nepal, I was having to rethink a village visit. The training village, Palung, that I and 7 other engineers trained at I knew lay relatively close to a road head (maybe an hour hike), and just several hours drive from Kathmandu. This became my new hope.

We arrived at the Tribhuvan airport, and found a taxi large enough for us and all our luggage. Then went to check into the Kathmandu Guest House that would be our home away from home for about ten days. There are a range of lodging options from deluxe to 'simplicity' the lower end costing $4 per night, and consisting of little more than a bed, with access to a common bathroom. We chose something near the middle. While there, we took several side trips to see the sights in the Kathmandu region, including the famous Swayambunath, or 'monkey temple,' where Eli and Spencer had a great time feeding the wild primates their favorite snack, biskut (kind of a mildly sweet cracker - in the tradition I think of England and the Raj). The temple lies at the top of a hill with hundreds of steps leading to it. After about fifty steps, I sat down (and waited for the boys to make the ascent and return) near one of the many vendors selling Buddhist or Hindu tchochkes. Jewelry, carvings, bells, etc. I provided some interest for the pilgrims on their way up to the temple: 'hey, look at the monkey who speaks Nepalese!' Actually, kidding aside, had a nice conversation with a young man - a Hindu - and the vendors nearest me. It seemed that there was little distinction made about Buddhist vs. Hindu pilgrims at the various temples we visited. (Note the picture of me with two Sadhus, or Hindu holy men, at the base of the Buddhist temple.) Both religions are very tolerant - the one having evolved from the other - and as such they stand in stark contrast to the Abrahamic religions of the west and middle east. This past weekend a 'Unity Walk' was held here in D.C. - perhaps elsewhere too? - a very timely idea. The walkers were to visit a Sikh temple, a synagogue, a church, a mosque. Wish I could have made it.

This travelogue grows tiresome I imagine. All the dramatic and death-defying stuff was covered in Hellrides i to iv. Though there is much to say about our time in Kathmandu - the temples, the shops, the food, the people, and so on - I want to point out one last feature of the valley: our transportation. Usually in a taxi.

We'd usually hail and ride in a Tata taxi. What, never heard of Tata? I've read that they are one of the largest commercial truck, bus, and car manufacturers in the world - perhaps bigger than our 'big three', maybe bigger than Toyota, Honda, Hyundai, or Volkswagen. Twenty five years ago I don't think they made small cars - taxi size - but they do now. Perhaps because of a less than high quality pedigree, most Tata taxis in Kathmandu have a big translucent 'Suzuki' sticker covering the upper third of their windshields. Which provides the passengers two small comforts: first, for partially obstructing the view of oncoming/merging/brake-slamming traffic - the drivers were thankfully always short enough to have good visibility; second, for providing the likely false sense of security that in the event of a head-on collision, the glass would be less prone to shatter in life-threatening shards. Without that, the chance that the glass is designed for safety seems ludicrous. Many of the taxis don't even have seat belts.

Always an adventurous ride, but I have to say that after the night bus, any jack-rabbit starts, brake slams, and very close calls were seldom worth more than a yawn.

But the streets of Kathmandu were just teeming with taxis, motorcycles, tuk-tuks (smaller motorized taxis), bicycles, rickshaws, and pedestrians. The ratio of these modes of transit had changed markedly after 25 years. And resembled the traffic conditions of Delhi. Where back in the eighties the roads would be packed with pedestrians, bicycles, and rickshaws - with only an occasional motorized vehicle - it is now completely changed. Pedestrians and bicycles take their lives into their hands by setting out into this crowded smoke-filled frenzy. Or so it always seemed. We never saw an accident, however, though there were plenty of near misses.

For the first couple of weeks after our return home, my driving became relatively pretty reckless. As my Nepali language skills had improved each day with use and immersion, it seems I was unconsciously soaking up the driving style as well. I did manage to keep the car on the right hand side of the road - usually - but I gotta say, riding in India and Nepal had some side effects. Passing a car one evening after dark I hit a (newly installed) "Stop for Pedestrians" sign at the Capital Crescent Trail (a 'rail to trail' bike and pedestrian path in Bethesda) where it crosses a fairly busy street. The sign post was flexible - some kind of hard plastic - as was the sign itself, so nothing was damaged beyond some paint chipped off of the right side view mirror. Spencer was riding in the car, and will not let me forget that incident. For me it was cautionary, to be sure, and my driving has returned more or less to the slow and careful mode I've long practiced.

The title of this post is 'The village,' but so far I've only hinted at such. Next post will explore the topic once and for all. Now it's time for a break.