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 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...'