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.

Night bus from hell; part iv

Which will be the last installment, I promise.

(The picture above shows the three Nepali men who rode in the bus behind our 'most excellent seats.' They were very friendly, and occasionally helped me understand what was going on. Mainly their presence just made me feel vaguely - tacitly - supported, and hopeful about the human race, when causes and conditions led me to feel otherwise.)

It occurs to me you may be wondering why and how I 'let' this all come to pass. As mentioned in an earlier post, I love to travel without any specific plan. Fly to Delhi, and go overland to Nepal, end of plan. I love that. However, I don't particularly enjoy discomfort, terror, disgust, or any of the other unfortunate mind states that this bus trip occasioned. In my defense, I will only offer up the parable of the frog in the slowly warming pot of water. At first it's pretty nice, the frog floating on his amphibious back as the temperature is very relaxing and spa like. This stage analogous to the nice hotel concierge, the pleasant and smooth micro-bus ride. Then gradually the water heats up - cramped bus, crazy traffic driving around Delhi, uncomfortable seats, etc. As the water nears the boiling point - games of chicken, pedophilic overtones, etc. - there seems no escape. What would we do at three a.m. by the side of a desolate Indian road, not knowing the language, etc? My fancy for planless travel notwithstanding...

However, in spite of it all, and the loss of control of the situation - the veritable submission to mother India - something intangible is gained. A deepened appreciation for the small comforts of life? For my relative health and dear sons? To spell it out like this makes it sound banal and formulaic - and obvious. But there is something more, something that makes me still want to be carried helplessly by the quixotic winds of the great cosmic mystery from time to time. Perhaps it is in - or following - these moments of total release, that feelings of euphoria can arise.

Back to our tale: Just before dawn - the darkest hour - the road (by now quite narrow, but thankfully hardly used) kind of forks. One tine leads up to a defunct bridge, and the other down to what appears to be access to ford the river. The river isn't very wide, but the current seems brisk. We stop, the headlights kept on. The driver and a couple scouts walk down to the river's edge. One fellow wades out and is soon up to his thighs, turns around and they all come back to the bus. There will be no attempt at that crossing: I feel both relieved and forlorn at the prospect. The boys and I thought the thrill would be worth the risk - such has the night rent our faculties of reason.

Once the bus is turned around - this takes a while - we are informed that another road detours maybe five kilometers away, no worries sahib. We ride along in silence - Shiva and Soro murmuring quietly together (perhaps plotting - but I only suspect this in retrospect, as I still don't apprehend The Sting on the bus. As we ride along, the globe slowly rotates in the direction of the sun, and we begin to see houses, trees, the occasional early morning jogger (this really surprises me - I'd never seen a non-western jogger in India or Nepal). Perhaps they were fugitives making a hasty retreat from some macabre crime scene, their blood soaked hands having been rinsed in a monsoon puddle, providing a nice little breakfast treat for the mosquito larvae. (Such thoughts do not cross my mind - only as I type this later do such thoughts arise.) I am just too tired this morning, after night bus hells one, two, and three: the passing images outside the bus windows come as if in a dream or hypnotic state. I'm vaguely aware that the houses are beginning to look a bit more like those I remember in Nepal - though not a one has thatched roof, a commonplace 25 years ago. Tin is now the standard, which is not nearly so pleasant to look at, but I know from experience does a much better job of shedding the rain.

We pull up to our 'station' (it's more like a tea shop, there are no other buses there, or much place to park really), before day has broken - it's maybe five a.m. There are many Indians walking about, however. Which reminds me, for the entire trip not one of us carries a watch and must always ask somebody for the time of day. Neither I nor my sons ever wears a watch (I used to carry a pocket watch, but that has been replaced with a cellphone - always showing the correct time - except on the other side of the planet where there is no Verizon service). Bleary eyed, I ask the boys to unload our carriage, and be sure to post one of them with the bags out on the ground, and be on the lookout for, well, the context is obvious, I don't need to supply a noun here. Which it turns out is the very wrong place to suspect thieves...

I ask Soro where I might be able to change some money (we are still in India) to pay for transit to the border (still a mile or so off). This question was my first mistake of the morning. He and Shiva assure me that they will take care of that, find me a tuk-tuk, and handle the money. I pull out a ten dollar bill - thinking they will exchange it for rupees for me - and hand it to Shiva. Mistake number two. Soro says no, that will definitely not be enough, do I have any more? I pull out a $50 bill, and exchange it for the ten I had just given. Exactly as I make this hand off - mistake number three - the Entertainer sounds loud and clear in my mind. They say yes, that will be enough, jump off the bus, and begin their impenetrable haggling with the horse drawn carriage just in front. I am cursing to myself in several languages at this point, repeating one of my favorites, 'haidenai!' (a German approximation of 'dagnabit'), as it dawns on me - and I explain to my sons - what just happened.

The short trip might have cost at most 500 rs. (less than ten bucks) if I'd been able to exchange into Indian currency and haggle. I wonder who pockets the difference? My good friend Shiva the crazed pedophile, and his side-kick Soro, that's who! At least it seems obvious to me they do. It serves as a slap in the face to wake me up. I climb off the bus and shake hands with our erstwhile captors, smile, congratulate them on their excellent hustle - no joke, that's really what I said (maybe Soro understood, maybe not) - and wish them godspeed the heck back to that godforsaken wasteland they call home. It will take several days for me to get to the point where I no longer refer to India as 'teeming with thieves and knaves' (my best approximation in Nepali: chhormaanisharu - subbai badmaas!) which is a sentiment shared by many Nepalis. My boys load the cart with our belongings, help me on, and try to calm me down. And really, as the buggy plods along - hard wooden planks grinding my raw butt at each pothole - there is much to be thankful for, and I do calm down. I tell them that night was at least as bad as any hardship I ever faced in the Peace Corps. Of course I'm now twice the age I was, and have the welfare of three children to consider. But still. They say it wasn't so bad, which I find very relieving, I've perhaps been successful in shielding them from some of the worst. Or they are just saying that to comfort me.

We roll along peacefully through forest and rangeland. Until, that is, we come to a 'gate' - seemingly in the middle of nowhere - with indecipherable signage. We are informed it won't open till 6:00 a.m. Which it soon does. We roll slowly on to the Indian checkpost. The official is maybe 35 or 40, casually dressed, and speaks English pretty well. We fill out the customs forms, hand over our passports, and wait the requisite half an hour, swatting flies and mosquitos. All the while dozens of what appear to be Indians and Nepalis freely traffic in both directions, not needing to stop. This 'racial profiling' as it were, only vaguely gets under my skin, and I make a snide comment to Eli who is helping fill out the forms. He shushes me: a role reversal, I sound like the teenager. It could have been far worse - I remember sitting in a bus once for upwards of three hours at the Nepal border. We are neither asked for bakshish (bribe money), nor given any such hints. The fellow informs me of the fine print on our visas that says we would be unable to return to India sooner than two months from today. Which I think would be far too soon anyway. However, I explain that our visit in Nepal was only to last two weeks. He tells me we could get that changed at the Indian embassy in Kathmandu.

He stamps our visas, and we are free to go. In contrast, after we cross a wide river over a hydroelectric dam, the Nepali pass control doesn't even look at our passports, let alone any visas. What they want, is a thorough look at the contents of our luggage. To which search we willingly oblige the camouflage clad security officers. With whom I can speak! In Nepali! We are soon back on the road. However, it turns out there is indeed a pass control that checks our visas, etc. But by now my mood has completely come back, bobbing to the surface like an apple in a barrel at the Shrovetide fair - a mood higher even than the helter-skelter at said fair! (Thanks Fyodor D. for these similes' inspiration.)

I am able to change some money, then haggle with two or three (was it four?) bicycle rickshaw drivers for portage to the Hotel Opera, the finest hotel in Mahendranagar (about $15 per room - after haggling - of which we need two). Soon the rickshaw I'm riding in is overtaken by one of the boy's, and I am tagged 'it.' The drivers quickly get the gist of the game, and help out with the chase. Gradually we fall back into a normal pace. Then I am over taken by Miller pedaling his own rickshaw, the driver and luggage in back! Then comes Spencer, and the race is on! Eli and I hang back as weary passengers, Spencer and Miller far ahead. I'm having a great time chatting with my driver, and ask how much the other rickshaw drivers will pay for the ride they are getting. He laughs, and he points out one of his sons walking in the opposite direction. When I mention that my wife recently died, he offers to help me find a 'new wife' in Nepal. Nice of you to offer, I say, but I have a girlfriend back home. Can she prepare good daalbhaat, he asks (the national meal of Nepal)? No, but she's a great cook. Besides, I can make excellent daalbhaat!

We are now finally in Nepal - it's just the flat netherland know as the Terai, not the middle hills in which I and most Peace Corps volunteers lived and worked - but nevertheless, the place feels like Shangri-la. Lush vivid green rice paddy lined with lentil and potato and corn, and the occasional 'weed': pot plants taller than me. Blue skies, hills in the distance - and only rarely does a motorized vehicle pass by.

Just read a fascinating article in the New Yorker about an Indian named Madan Kataria who advocates and teaches 'laughter yoga.' It may seem to some that the Indians in this tale of woe on the open road had the last laugh, but as I remember us racing off in our bicycle rickshaws, I'm laughing still.

May Soro and Shiva be free from suffering. May we all be free from suffering.

Namaskaar!