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.

Night bus from hell; part ii

Are we 'on the bus' or off?

Here we sit, up in our 'special seats,' the night quickly falling. We come to an unexpected traffic snarl due to some sort of parade going past, lots of saffron-clad women. We never learn what that was about, just that we have to turn this hulking mass of vehicle around and backtrack several miles.

As said, we are sitting right up in the front, our feet sometimes touching the large protruding windshield. If we look, all of India seems to be out on the road this night in their taxi, or motorcycle (perhaps with a sari-clad passenger sitting side saddle behind the driver), or bicycle, or tuk-tuk (with several passengers hanging onto windows and the back door, standing on the bumper), or a rickshaw slowly peddling along. Occasionally the bus screeches to a stop, just inches from an intransigent cow, or pedestrian, or vehicle. Easy to imagine we are riding the Jagannath, as devotees of Krishna throw themselves under our crushing path. The true wonder, however, is that in all our days and rides in Asia, with all of the close calls, we will witness not even a single fender bender. But we didn't have this hindsight yet, and our eyes and tummies lurch with each sudden stop.

Gradually it grows as dark as eternity, and the road becomes less crowded. And narrower. And often ridden with vast potholes impossible to steer around. To lighten the mood, our intrepid driver - I forget his name, I'll call him Shiva, or the 'destroyer' in Hindu mythology - he turns on some blaring Bollywood music. It's particularly loud as we are seated near the speakers up front. As the music plays, there is a plastic icon - Vishnu perhaps? - near the ceiling above the windshield, which emanates strobing colored lights to the sound of the music. A mallah, or garland of plastic red and black flowers is draped over and attached to the sides of the bus. Shiva particularly likes one or two of the songs and plays them over and over (hard to tell much difference - the screeching voices, tabla, sitar, and 'violins on meth' tend to produce a similar tonal effect, regardless of the lyrics; of course not knowing any Hindi doesn't help.) In addition, there is a skip or something in one of his favorites - or it mysteriously keeps restarting on its own. He asks me if I like the music - at least his body language seems to ask that - and I mime back 'it's fine [smile smile], whatever you prefer' - just keep your eyes on the road o demigod of destruction, please! Then I say - what am I thinking? - if you have any Beatles, or Dylan, maybe some Motown, that would be great. Having heard my request, he turns up the volume. We cover our ears.

So far, so good. What am I talking about, you may ask, 'bus from hell?' All this is child's play... Right you are - uncomfortable seats notwithstanding - but wait.

On the open road, Shiva drives erratically, slowing down or speeding up with no apparent reason, or sometimes even coming to a complete stop. Though vehicles generally drive on the left (India having been a British colony) our driver usually barrels down the middle of the road, only moving left when there is an on-coming vehicle. Or a median. Spencer said it was like playing chicken: we'd come upon a slightly slower bus or truck, Shiva would move fully to the right hand lane and floor it. This being a heavy Tata bus it didn't have much oomph, so we would begin the long process of passing. Ahead of us, we would see one, two, or four approaching lights. One or two was not especially worrying, but the four light combo meant that our mirror image was approaching us. And though my eyes rarely shut during this long night, these were some of the moments when they did. We would just barely pass the slower vehicle, and quickly swerve back in front of it, just in the nick of time - as our mirror image would do the same. Chicken, sure, but everybody wins, right?

There I sit, and cross myself, offer up a prayer to St. Christopher, patron saint of safe travel; then cross myself in the Hindu manner - sort of hold your right index and middle fingers in a sort of relaxed scissors position and brush against your forehead then chest and mumble, 'hare raam.' Then take a deep breath, notice the miracle of just being here, hurtling through space and time, on our way to Nepal, my sons surrounding me. Fleeting moments of ecstasy between images of face-plant-skid collision-accident-scene-forensic-investigations-black-and-white-and-red-all-over. One final prayer: s'cuse me, while I kiss the sky!

Stay tuned for the rest of the 'night bus from hell...'