Diwali

Travel Journal Excerpt, November 27, 2006:

Occuring this year on October 21, Diwali is one of the biggest festivals in India. Celebrated by Hindus, Sikhs, and maybe even others, it is a family holiday involving feasts and many firecrackers. "The festival of lights" it is a symbol of good triumphing over evil and houses are dressed in lights and candles until it looks a lot like Christmas. Although Diwali itself is a specific day, it is celebrated over a whole week and is much more complex that I know. For me personally, Diwali meant that I had an entire week off from class and therefore was free to travel.

After weeks of planning, the students in my program had divided themselves into three traveling groups. One group of nine stayed in Uttaranchal, choosing to travel northwest up from Mussorie for a week long trek to Milam Glacier in the high Himalaya.

Another group of eight elected to head out of the mountains and west into Rajastan where they went to Jaipur and the desert city of Jaisalmer from where they took a day trip riding camels into the Thar Desert of western India.

The third group consisted of myself. I had long before come up with three places in northern India wanted to visit during the program, on weekends or during some time off. This list contained the Punjabi city of Amritsar, Dharamsala in Himanchal Pradesh and Rishikesh in my home state of Uttaranchal. During my week off, I avoided other people's attempts to tag along with me and went to the first two places on the list. (If you are worried that I might not get to every city on the list, you should know that I'm writing this during my last night in Rishikesh.)

A friend I met through couchsurfing.com last spring was traveling through Europe, Egypt and as I found out the day before I left, had been in Delhi visiting a friend of hers for the past two weeks. I emailed her that I was coming to Delhi for a day and we decided she should travel with me for the week.

Leaving Friday afternoon, I took a few hour ride in the back of a crowded jeep down to Kathgodam where the nearest train station is. Even though I was a little car sick coming out of the winding mountain roads, I felt liberated to be rid of the pressures of school and intoxicated by the freedom of traveling alone again.

My night train arrived in Delhi very early in the morning and I found myself in a bad part of town outside Old Delhi train statiom before the sun came up. After fighting off a crazed mongrel dog that appeared out of a dark hole under an overpass I found that some people in Delhi begin their day as early as I did this day. I sat down and enjoyed a cup of tea slowly, trying to kill time as I was supposed to meet Hala at noon in the middle of the city.

The new, and incredibly clean, subway system opened at 6 and I took a train south towards a guesthouse in which I had stayed before. After checking in and taking short nap, I got up and headed out to meet Hala where we had agreed, stopping to grab some pastriesfor breakfast. While I waited I paged through my Hindi textbook and a man who came to offer me a taxi sat and talked with me a bid when he saw I was studying Hindi.

After he left to chase down more people to hawk his taxi business, I walked around and around the block on which I was to meet Hala, but she never appeared. Seeing me pass him a couple times, a man began questioning me on what I was doing and took me across the street for a snack. Finally I used a cabby's cell phone to call Hala and found out she was running late but on her way.

When she finally arrived, she, her friend, Ajay, and I walked around a bit until he had to go. I convinced her to come with me the next morning although she wanted one more day in Delhi and after a dinner at Pizza Hut (I know I know... American restaurant????... WTF?) listening to the pop and crack of 10 million people playing with fireworks, she headed back to her friend's place outside of town and I went back to my hostel.

Dodging the explosions the entire way and filling my lungs with the resulting smokethat filled the streets, I arrived at my dorm bed with a headache, and dehydrated from a long day in the sun with little water.

To make matters worse, I had taken a malaria pill after dinner but hadn't had any water to wash it down. When I layed down on my bed in the tent set up on a rooftop in Delhi, I was exhausted, my head pounded and my throat burned mercilessly.

Feeling too sick to actually get up and walk down to the street to find some bottled water, I allowed myself to drift into a light sleep. For hours that night, I lived in a painful and surreal world. Flashes of red and green filled the room as fireworks exploded outside my rooftop windows, while I lay in a stupor of exhaustion adn dehydration, too weak to attempt to remedy my situation. All sleep to be had came in short stints, interrupted by either a banging explosion from outside, or a painful one from inside my head or throat.

Finally and mercifully I found some form of deeper sleep and woke up the next morning more rested after double digit hours of sleep, but still dehydrated. My throat was sore in one distinct spot for days. Getting up and buying some water, I headed to the train station to meet Hala for the second full day of my week off for Diwali.



[Next stop... Amritsar, The Golden Temple, and the Ninja Turtles!]

Eschool

Travel Journal dated November 3, 2006

For the past couple years, I've been intoxicated by my inescapable lust to wander the globe. One might even say I've become what I never thought I would be, a romantic dreamer. I found inspiration to travel in every lecture hall, in the pages of every book and magazine, and hidden in the contexts of every commercial, television show and movie. Ive become obsessed, and my life's focus has shifted entirely from a career in science and a higher education in academia, to any possible way hat I could work by still feel free and able to fund my lustful habit.

The allure of exploring has drawn my gaze from and diminished my value for passions that would otherwise be keeping me content at home, including climbing, cooking, sports, friends, family and love. While these old or new passions put up a noble fight, I am a slave to my lust and they are unable to keep me alive for long.

However, over the past month, I have found something that has begun to rival my eed to travel, and that has positioned itself as a possible career requiring higher education, that I think I would find rewarding.

While many of the students here, if not most, are still unsure of their projects while we work at an NGO, CHIRAG promoting sustainable practices and assistance to the rural Indians in the Himalaya, I've been spending 4 or 5 afternoons a week participating in mine, often not returning back at our resort-ish skite until well after dark, 6:30-7pm.

After class in the large chairless meeting room at CHIRAG, I have a quick lunch of rice, dhal, vegetables and chapati and I rush to a nearby primary school to teach English to 75 children in 5 grades (1st to 5th) separated into two sparse class rooms.

Usually my friend, Matt, comes with me, and upon our arrival we are greeted by small dirty smiling faces and the tiny children standing and shouting in unison "Good afternoooooon sir!"

For about an hour we attempt to keep their attenion, often losing out to any number of distractions resulting in eruptions of screams and giggles. We spend most days in the room or the 4th and 5th graders because as they are the oldest children, they know the most Hindi (the kids speak Kumaoni at home but are taught Hindi from 1st grade) and English.

Often we do spelling exercises usually involving drawing pictures of common objects and then having them spell out the new words in English. Sometimes we give them full sentences and cover gramatical issues such as this/that, here/there and in/on. Obviously as our Hindi improves, teaching becomes easier as we are able to express the rules in a language they understand. But still, these children are learning English as a third language, often being taught in their second.

Every class ends with a song. Most days, while preparing more exercises on the black board we are serenaded by lines from songs shouted from the bodies piled on the floor. The children knew many English songs already such as slightly different versions of the ABC's, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, Ba Ba Black Sheep, Old Man Babu (old McDonald) ad other songs that I'd never heard before. One worth remembering goes:

Johnny, Johnny!
Yes Papa?

Eating sugar?
No Papa!

Telling lies?
No Papa!

Open your mouth!
Ha-Ha-Ha!

Early in my time there, I decided to teach them Row, row, row your boat. Writing the four lines on the board, I went through each line word by word with the children repeating me loudly. They are well practiced and very good at repeating the teacher. Then I would sing one line at a time and they'd attempt to repeat it, but often they couldn't accurately get all the sounds right. Particularly they had trouble with "life is but a dream."

One line they immediately mastered and which they would repeat during real exercises was "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily!" which they pronounce as "mewiry." Heart-breakingly cute.

After a few weeks, the children had the songs mastered and we could sing the entire song in rounds, without any warmup. On occasion I would even encounter children from other villages on the mountain roads, who knew my name and as we walked away would yell, "row row row your boat!" in a heavily accented, high voice.

I still hear my name sometimes when walkign the main road toward the school from CHIRAG. It feels so fulfilling to not only be allowed to show up to a public primary school and teach the children English or an hour, but to be so obviously appreciated by the students, their families, and the community as a whole. Not only to exist in their community, but to be treated like a respected member of it, who they are grateful is there.

When row row row your boat was mastered, we introduced another, more difficult, song, The Itsy Bitsy Spider. The children appreciate having hand movements while singing and they ook to this song right away. ALthough they never completely mastered it, they developed their own version which is shorter and cycles into itself so it can be sung over and over.

Many days are ended by an invitation to have tea with the one teacher, which is never rejected even if we are in the middle of an exercise or song because of the implication of politness and ettiquete. These days I really appreciate when our friend, Monisha, comes with us because her Hindi is very good and she can translate with the teacher, who doesn't speak English. When she is not there, Matt and I try to make do with our limited Hindi which sometimes is awkward and other times humorous as the phrases we know are strange or even ridiculous. Examples of both are, "This room is large and airy" and "I am a spoon."

By 3:30, we are usually back on the road to CHIRAG because we teach another class at the NGO at 4pm. This class is for adolescent girls and boys, in 8th and 9th grades who volunteer their time and walk half an hour or more after school to learn English. These students know more English and so it is very rewarding to see their improvement over time, even though class is hardly more than three hours a week.

Because of our efforts, along with other student-teachers who volunteer their time to teach more and less advanced students at CHIRAG, the NGO is organizing a permanent program for adolescents willing to take the extra time to learn and practice English. Its extremely rewarding to know that my actions planted a seed that has now been given the opportunity to gow into a potentially very successful program for the underpriviliged youth of this isolated rural area.

Yesterday, Thursday Nov 16, was our last day of teaching both at the school and at CHIRAG. Matt Monisha and I went to the school for the last time, and on the way, we bought out all the notebooks we could find in the small shops, over 70 in all, and presented them to the teacher to be distributed as she felt was right. Monisha translated our intentions to save them for teh very poor students who couldn't afford school supplies, and the teacher responded that all the kids are poor and that she was thankful for our gift. For our last day, the children lined up outside and sang their entire repetoire of songs in Hindi and English while we took pictures and videos and sang along with them.

Even as I write this now, my heart aches knowing that I won't have the honor of being allowed in their lives every day, while their songs warm my heart, make me feel alive, and make me forget my lust to quickly move on. That is significant.

Dussehra in Nainital

Travel journal October 27, 2006:

Because of scheduling conflicts with one of our professors, Rajesh-ji, my study abroad program has class from Tuesday to Saturday, leaving Sunday and Monday as our weekend. Monday, October 2nd was our first weekend since classes had begun a week before. This day also happens to be Mahatma Gandhi's birthday and this year also the day of the Dussehra festival. Although we weren't exactly sure what to expect, all 18 students boarded a three hour public bus to Nainital for many people's first exposure to a foreign religious festival.

The public bus that runs between the end of the rail line in Haldwani and towns farther north of us stops at a point a half hour walk from the place we stay, Sonapani. Arriving at 7AM, wefound the bus already seemingly full with locals heading in our direction. However, I knew better than to think a bus in India is ever full and encouraged everyone to pile in and fit wherever they could. Many people got seats right away and a few female students were able to sit because local men impressively gave up their seats. However, like similar bus rides I took in the Kathmandu valley, I ended up standing the entire three hour ride.

I wouldn't really mind, and indeed I didn't really mind this time either, except that the roof of the bus was unusually low, even for other buses I've taken, and I was forced to lean and cock my head at a sharp angle while holding myself up with the bars running overhead while attempting, and not that successfully, to prevent my head from banging against those same bars as we traveled the bumpy mountain road.

The one benefit was that when the bus stopped for half an hour in one small village- I found out later that the driver had stopped for chai- I was able to get out and stretch out my neck and legs.

Upon arrival in Bhowali- the end of the line for the bus- we engineered a shared taxi for the remaining 10 km to Nainital. Because I much prefer traveling alone than in a group, when the group stopped for lunch soon after our arrival in Nainital, I waved goodbye and kept moving.

For a few hours I wandered the city alone, passing through the bazaar, sitting lakeside, and venturing up the hills away from the city. I stopped at a quiet restaurant and ate a few samosas- fried dough stuffed with potatoes and spices- and continued on.

Eventually I ended up sitting on concrete bleachers overlooking a large flat dirt field where earlier I'd seen a soccer math finishing and now I watched the set up for the nights festivities.

While I sat, I began to write and finished my entry on my time at Royal Chitwan in Nepal. As I wrote, a small boy, not more than five, kept eyeing me from his mother's side 10 feet away. Over time he summoned up the courage to approach me, and I shook his hand and asked him name in Hindi. Over the next hour he ran back and forth between his mother and me, sometimes speaking to me, sometimes just eyeing me briefly before his courage failed him and he hurriedly returned to the safety of his mother's arms.

When I finished my entry, I heard the unmistakeable sound of a parade behind me coming up on the raod and I left my seat to investigate. A marching band escorted a singer with a microphone on a long cord connected to a lead car clad with many large speakers. Behind followed more trucks with images of deities decorated ceremoniously and pushed by faithful devotees.

The procession continued with trucks containing people in lavish costumes of gods and mythological characters sometimes smiling and sometimes looking bored. Men with ceramic pots filled with burning incense danced in between cars and the streets were lined with Indian and foreign tourst onlookers.

I looked across the parade to see my roommate Nate with our friends Adam and Brittany looking back at me smiling. They crossed the road at a break in the procession and we agreed to walk down to the other side of the lake and maybe take a boat back up for the festival. As we walked, a man playing an instrument in the band motioned for me to join him in the parade and for a few minutes I walked in the middle of the band, near the singer with the long corded mic, while my friends took pictures and laughed at me.

After some time on the far side of the lake, and some more samosas, the four of us walked back to lakeside and negotiated a fair price for a lake crossing in a large rowboat complete with a rower. Nate and I got comfy in the loveseat on one end while Adam and Brittany sat across planks in the middle.

The driver was impressed with Nate's Hindi, and I took advantage of the opportunity to practice the few Hindi words and phrases he had taught me. It is always nice to surprise a local with your knowledge of, or at least effort to learn, their language and customs. It is also nice to shake up the stereotype of an American tourist.

It was getting dark by the time we reached the north side of the lake and after we purchased more fried food, we made our way to the concrete bandstand where I had sat earlier. The seats filled up quickly while we sat and waited and we passed the time telling jokes and spotting our other friends in the crowd and down on the field below.

When a firework went off signaling the beginning of the fesitval, we couldn't see it in the sky above because we sat under a large tree. Quickly deciding to move down into the crowd on the field, we fought our way to the left of the stage and in fron ot the giant paper and wood effigies of the demon king Ravana, which are burned after some colorful acting out of parts of the Hindi holy book, the Ramayan.

Soon the theater begun, but we couldn't see it because we stood to teh side of the stage set up on the field, and the actors waiting their turns lined up on that side, blocking our view of the drama being played out in front of them.

Right before the re-enactment began I noticed a photographer on stage taking many photos of the white faces standing out above the crowd. I decided to wave to the camera to let him know I saw him photographing me so blatantly, and a group of local high school guys next to me began laughing along with me. I grabbed the nearest one, threw my arm around him and together we waved to the photographer. This caused the eruption of a great cheer from his eight or so buddies and my cheering section was formed.

For the next hour, I was their leader and on my cue, we would all shout loudly "yaaaheeeeey!" over the crowd. I demonstrated my power to Nate a few feet away and he was impressed. At one point I spotted a group of our friends sitting together in the stands, 50 yards and 1000 people away, and in response to their waves towards me, I pointed them out to my cheer section and we gave my friends an extra loud cheer while jumping and waving wildly. The students in the stands seemed surprised at my response and all laughed shaking their hands in disbelief of my power.

Soon the theater was over and the real show begun. The two huge effigies were lit one by one, and fire seemed to rise right up into the night sky, the flames tickling the moon. The fireworks began at the same time and the juxtaposition of two 50 foot tall burning images of demons with the grace and excitment of colorful fireworks painted a surreal scene on the black night canvas.

The fires lit up the field and for the first time I was aware that tens of thousands of people were present, on all sides of the inferno and lining the streets above the field opposite us. As the walls of orange and yellow slowly shrank, more fireworks were set off from nearby and burning shrapnel, either from the explosives or from the crumbling effigies, sprang into the air and hurled into the crowd as hundreds of people screamed and dodged out of the way. This was followed by more cheering from myself and my friendly cheer section because we were glad to be unharmed.

When the mammoth wooden structures were reduced to smoldering piles of charred demonic flesh, music floated up from somewhere nearby. Drums beat a catchy rhythm and in my euphoric state after witnessing such a spectacle, I wanted to dance. I yelled to my cheerleaders, "We dance?!" and they seemed enthusiastic about the idea. However, when I cleared some room and took the lead throwing my lanky boidy about uninhibited, my adolescent followers lost their boldness and looked uncomfortable with the prospect of letting loose.

I gave up on them after a few attmepts to get them moving, and after taking a few pictures with them doing what they do best- cheering loudly wiht arms stretched into the air, I said goodbye.

As a group we walked to dinner and were taken home afterward by prearranged taxis, since it was late and the last bus had long sice left on the winding mountain roads towards our home.

The next day, in the Kumoan daily newspaper, there was a picture of Peter, Lindsey and Lisa from our program. Underneath was the caption "Foreign tourists in Nainital for Dussehra." There were actually few other foreign tourists present that night- most of the crowd was Indian tourists- and I really enjoyed the atmosphere of being one of only a few white faces out of so many people gathered to celebrate and cheer on the symbolic destruction of evil and the celebration of life.

Nizam-ud-din's shrine and qawwali

Travel Journal written October 26, 2006:

After a couple days in Delhi spent arguing with hotel managers and developing my taste for haggling with rickshaw drivers, on September 22, I found myself avoiding the sights and fed up with the dirty chaotic city. I had met up with my group with whom I was studying abroad, and the 18 students from the University of Washington, and our program director, Keith, were staying in a hotel in New Friends Colony in south Delhi with one more night free before we were to head up to Uttaranchal and our remote mountainous site where we would begin classes and projects.

Keith had mentioned qawwali- a devotional singing that happened every week in a muslim neighborhood of central Delhi, and two guys, Nate and Pat, and I decided to try and find it. Stuffing ourselves into an autorickshaw, Nate, who had taken a year of Hindi previously, tried to find the words to explain to the driver te neighborhood we wanted to go to. We got dropped off at the outskirts of the right area and began searching the streets, asking people for the restaurant that Keith told us was across the street from where we wanted to be. We probably looked lost, but it was my firset exposure to an all-muslim community and I was naively intrigued. I reflecte dall of the stares the passing people sent my way with a silly grin of an adventurous youth searching for life.

Eventually, and without too much difficulty, we found the restaurant we were lookig for, or at least the back of it, in a narrow, long, winding alley. Next to it we could see through a narrow gate what we thought might be our goal- the shrine of the muslim Sufi saint Nizam-ud-din Chisti who died in 1325. We found a way around to what we had seen, but realized when we got there taht the monument was devoted to someone else. We were still in the wrong place.

At this moment of realization, we apparently looked lost again, and a short man with a big smile introduced himself and asked where we came from and what we were doing here. He spoke a few words of English, but mostly Nate attempted to communicate with our new friend, who I will call Hassan, in his limited, but grammatically correct, Hindi.

After he realized where we wanted to go, Hassan led us through the neighborhood and down streets that seemed to get more and more narrow, dark and teeming with life. As we squeezed through the tight streets of a bustling bazaar selling CDs in arabic and flower petals, we were stopped by Hassan at a seemingly random spot and told to take off our shoes before proceeding. This made us a little worried and we all looked at each other carefully questioning the situation. Nate and I were the first to concede and remove our shoes but Pat was more apprehensive because his expensive shoes were more likely to be stolen than my 10 year old sandals held together by layers of duct tape. Eventually he was conviced and soon we were again following Hassan passed stalls selling the same scarlet-purple flower petals in small baskets. At one stall, Nate as conviced by Hassan to take one, knowing he had to pay for it later and still unaware of its purpose. Around a couple more corners, we stepped onto th marble tiles of an ornate court with a mosque to our left and two shrines set in the middle of the court in front of us.

Hassan moved us towards the shrines which were in small buildings with low doors and were surrounded by white gates. Men standing inside the gate saw us and waved us inside and motioned for us to continue through the small door. Inside was what looked like a coffin, only very wide, covered by a cloth with hundreds of the purple flower petals strewn on top and around. As instructed by another man in the shrine, Nate tossed his petals onto the coffin and we moved around the tiny room clockwise- as with all Buddhist and Hindu holy areas. There was barely enough room between the walls and the coffin in the center for two people to stand so we walked single file with the line of men in there with us.

All the other men in the shrine stopped at one point or more to face the coffin, close their eyes, raise their spread hands to within six inches from their chests, palms facing them, and pray. At one point our precession around the room was stopped because we stood awkwardly waiting for the men to finish their prayers and continue. While we all felt uncomfortable not knowing what to do, continue waiting or squeeze past them, Nate took the lead. He faced inward, raised his hands and closed his eyes in an imitation prayer. Seeing him, Pat and I quickly followed suit, assumed the position and faked it. After thirty seconds or so I looked up and noticed many eyes set on my face, questioning who I was and why I was praying like them. When the line was moving we all non chalantly finished our prayers and kept moving.

Exiting the first shrine, we were asked for a donation and were given a bag of small white candies in return. After following the same routine of fake prayer in order to fit in at the second shrine, Hassan brought us inside the mosque a few steps away. We sat on the floor and spoke with him and Nate produced paper and a pen to write on for easier communication in Hindi and English. This is when I learned to write my name, count to five, say "My name is Evan" and "What is your name" in Hindi. This last phrase I practiced on the growing group of boys and young men surrounding us. We opened up the circle and attempted to talk to them either in their broken English, with body language or through Nate's Hindi.

I produced my postcards and showed them around. I motioned for Hassan to choose and keep one, and he chose and kept one of each picture, five or six total, to which I was annoyed but too shy to protest against. We all interacted some more but soon the call to prayer was played loudly over speakers from the mosque and we were quickly ushered out while hordes of men filed in from the bathing sinks outside.

Some young men motioned for us to sit on the ground just outside the mosque and we did so. After a few minutes a man came by with a basket of the white candies mixed with the flower petals and handed them out to the waiting hands of those around us. We too extended our hands into the air and were rewarded. Watching those around us toss the entire handful into their mouths, we again emmulated our hosts and popped candies and petals together into our mouths. The flowers definitely added a distinct flavor to the snack and I found it was very sweet and and a satisfactory treat.

After a few more minutes prayers were over and Hassan again emerged from the mosque and gathered us on the ground in te marble courtyard. Nate sat spreading his legs out in front of him and was quickly admonished by Hassan for doing so. I had heard before that it was extremely rude and disrespectful to show the bottoms of one's feet to anyway and an elderly woman say in line with Nate's feet about 5 yards away. He was very embarrased but it quickly faded with what happened next.

We had been asking Hassan repeatedly if there was to be singing that night, and where and when but I was never fully aware of a direct answer to any of those questions. However, minutes later we heard music from the other side of t shrines and we moved our seats across the courtyard.

The music sprang from two sitting men dressed in conservative muslim garb, one playing a drum and the other a small boxed piano called a harmonium. The harmonium player also sang and his voice wailed loudly over the music in obvious anguish over the sadness of the death of the saints, while the drummer and another clapping man kept beat and sang more in the background.

We three Americans sat in a line, crosslegged on the marble floor surrounded by local muslim Indians and realized we had again come across something special. The rhythms and powerful emotions of the qawwali tickled our ears and mixed in our mides with the surreal setting.

After about ten minutes, Hassan asked if we wanted to leave but I was adament that I wanted to stay longer because I was thoroughly enjoying the pleasures to my senses. Finally, upon Hassan's second request we all stood up, dropped some rupees in the harmonium box and made our way back outside the courtyard, through the narrow streets, passed the stalls to where our shoes and sandals awaited our return.

All of us were hungry and Hassan led us to a local restaurant filled with people who looked like they hadn't seen a white person there for years. It was busy, dirty, and loud- exactly what I look for in a restaurant. Pat and Nate began to say something about going to the popular restaurant that we were looking for earlier, but I assured them that this is where we wanted to eat.

The waiter came by and Hassan asked us if would eat chicken for by saying, "Chicken?! Chicken?!" repeatedly until we agreed loudly. However, hhen the food came, we found chapati and mutton curry. We ate and talked with Hassan some more and he asked how much an airplane ticket to the U.S. costs. We told him about 50,000 Rs and he tried to ask Nate if he could get him a visa and a ticket if he gave Nate the money. It toko awhile but eventually we were able to convey our uselessness in this regard and Hassan gave up the issue.

After some rice pudding with silver flakes for dessert, we left the restaurant and I took a quick picture of Hassan, Nate and Pat- along with some local kids who wanted in- before we said our goodbyes, expressed our gratitude and again piled into an autorickshaw.

Back at the hotel, we told the story of our night to our new American friends who had spent the day sightseeing in a cab. After looking at pictures and video of the singing and hearing the details, they expressed their honest jealousy of our adventure. This is another example and more testimony to the kindness of strangers and the adventures that can be had if you keep your eyes open, and are willing to take te risk of confronting new and uncomfortable situations.

My Nepalese Nickname

Travel Journal September 19 2006:

I don't like being called "Sir." Especially by those much older and more successful than myself. But in Nepal, my skin promotes me from a poor college student with dirty, ratty, patched clothes, duct-taped sandals and a sparse, unshaven scragly face, to "Sir." It's a stratificaton game I don't wish to play. My name is Evan- prounounced any way you want: Eban, Ay-van, Evano, Eevan, whatever. "Sir" must be my Nepalese name. Hopefully not also my Indian name.



[It is stlil kind of my name at the resort place I am staying at, but I'm working on changing it. I am told that the locals young men who are employed here refer to me as Adam someone, because I look like the Australian cricket player. That'll do.]

Royal Chitwan National Park

Hello! I have spent the last few weeks studying Hindi, teaching English, and volunteering at an NGO in the Himalayan region of northern India. Needless to say, where I am staying, the internet is sparse. Please stay tuned to the blog if you want though, because I have many things to write about and I will find time such as today or after December while I travel, to post everything. Thanks for hanging with me!

Excerpt from my travel journal September 23, 2006

Taking an early morning train from Pokhara to Chitwan, I arrived in the afternoon at teh small village, Sahaura, outside the nearly 1000 square km park. I had no reservations for the night and was offered a ride to a hotel for free if I ended up staying for 100 Rs. A short motorbike ride later, I found myself at the Chilax House a short walk away from the Rapti river which acts as a border to the massive national park.

That night I ate in the small kitchen/dining groom which has one table and a candle which dimly illuminated my dinner of dhal and rice. Later that night a German man came to the hotel and he somehow knew the manager. The man makes documentaires in Nepal and is a little ecentric. I asked him questions about his trade and how he got started as I am thoroughly interested and considering the idea of making documentaries myself. I got his card for later reference.

The next morning I began my 3 day 4 night package at a larger resort-like hotel. Usually I would never buy a package deal from a travel agency, but when in Pokhara I calculated the money I would spend at Chitwan and the proposed package included everything and more and was the same price. If I could do it again, I'd come and pay everything separately for a few reasons.

First, the resorts are owned by wealthy businessmen from Kathmandu while the smaller hotels are locally run and money is funneled directly into the local economy. Next, the actual value wasn't that great. The price was so cheap because its the low season - I was the only person at the resort for half the time. The food was all provided and included in the price, but was of poor quality for the price and I often left the dining room still hungry for more.

Lastly, I was severely put ff by the atmosphere of the resort. My first night at the Chilax house, I spoke to the manager as nearly equals, but at the resort I was treated like a superior, a rich guest to please but not be friendly with. This makes it hard to relate or try to make friends. The sterile treatment made me uncomfortable my entire stay. This is where I got my Nepali nickname (see future post).

Th first full day in the park I went on a jungle walk inside the park boundaries. We rode a canoe downriver for about a half hour. The water was high, brown and moving fast since the monsoon was just tapering off in the last couple weeks and rains still pelted the ground in the late afternoons.

Unfortunately we didnt cross paths with any crocodiles- neither the long, narrow mouthed gharial nor the potentially man eating mugger- but saw a myriad of birds as we drifted quickly down the heavy current steered only by a young man with a long bamboo ple like a Venetian gondola driver.

Finding shore on the far bank, we entered the jungle on foot, prepared to walk back to even with our starting point- only a couple hours away. My first time in a tropical ocean of green waves bursting with life, I walked in awe staring at the canopies the ground and all that laid between.

Red insects the size and shape of clothespins scurried across the soil outnumbring mammals millions to one. We stopped to observe monkeys playing overhead in the tall trees and they in turn paused their games to sit and observe us. Green ive-covered clearings transformed to lush thickets of green and brown which then gave way to grasslands which at this time of year were 8 foot high, dense walls of brown grasses, obstructing view of any animals nearby.

Stopping at a lookout tower to peer out over the area, I met three young English and Swedish women who were in medical school in Europe and working in a hospital in Kathmandu for a month. The walk continued for a bit further before we once again emerged from the jungle at the river bank and awaited our canoe back across the water.

That night a few more guests were staying at the resort since it was a weekend and we a piled into the back of a jeep- which I helped push start- and headed to a cultural dance show. The Tharu people were the first to colonize the Terai region, the plains of southern Nepal. They have their own language, way of village life, and I’ve heard they have developed an immunity to malaria, although it’s almost non existent there now.

In a small theater with long benches stretching wall to wall broken only by a small aisle, tourists from all over were brought by their hotel, or came independently, to watch the show. A goofy four-eyed skinny Nepalese man with a large adam’s apple and oscillating voice introduced each song which were then performed by a small band of older men playing drums and singing while a group of young Tharu male dancers shuffled around in a circle, dancing their traditional dances using sticks t hit together in loud, fast violent movements that looked like the rural Nepalese representation of Stomp.

Every week or so, members of the audience are brought up on stage to dance in a circle with the dance team. When this was announced, I was really excited and decided immediately that I had t dance, and though I’d get the invitation because I was sitting on the aisle. When a man made his way down to me and said something like, “you dance?” I nonchalantly made a show of considering it a surprise and got up, although in my head I wanted to run up to the stage.

For a long 10 minute song, I tried to emulate the quick-footed, experienced young man on my left whose grace was far greater than mine, and it didn’t help that I was a foot taller that he. But regardless of how much I stood out, I did my best t keep my body in motion, knees bent, arms flailing, smile fixed on my face. I let if flow and I was successfully keeping up with the dancers who made up most of the circle as I looked near the end. Most tourists had fallen out of the circle, and few were still dancing, and I was by far the tallest and the whitest.

Sweaty but exhilarated by my performance, I dropped off the stage as the evening was over and everyone was filing out to their hotel’s respective jeeps. A British woman who was staying the weekend at my resort congratulated me on my free dancing and all I could think to answer was, “How often do I get to dance with indigenous Nepalese villagers?”

The next morning I finally got to fulfill one of my deep desires for my trip to Nepal. I got to ride an elephant. By now I had seen elephants walking along he roads, tied up in privately owned stables and at the government sponsored breeding center.

Dropped off at the edge of the outlying forest next to the park, from where the private elephant safaris begin, I climbed up wooden stairs to a loading platform and awkwardly climbed onto the back of a female elephant. A nepalese tourist cuople from Kathmandu joined me in the wooden boxy saddle strapped to her back and we were off.

The driver sits on the elephant's neck and uses vocal commands- aparently trained elephants can understand and respond to over 50 commands- as well as his feet behind the massive ears to steer the giant. The ride on an elephants back is extremely bumy and my legs hung over the side so I could feel the animal's rough leathery skin on her left shoulder and side on my bare feet.

We barreled through the forest, keeping mostly to vague overgrown paths, as we on top were busy dodging branches, thorned vines, and spider webs and their large colorful residents. Along with 3 or 4 other elephants in the area, we circled deer and wild boars, but never sited a rhino or the incredibly elusive tiger. Aftr an hour in the forest, we crossed a pond, the water up to the animal's belly and took a long road all the way back to our resort hotel.

The whole experience was short, dirty, uncomfortable, but amazingly real. I was a dream to mount a giant beast and venture into a preserved jungle inhabited by rare, endangered animals living in the wild, even if I didn't get to set eyes on the rarest. Its a feeling that I can't put into words.

That afternoon I got the opportunity to go down to the river and bathe with a couple of elephants while crocs watched us from downriver. Their master would call out commands and the animals would kneel down in the water allowing climb on its back. Thn another shout would result in a rumbling blow me as the great beast stood again. Consecutive commands led the elephant to dip its trunk into the current below us, fill it with water, and spray it up over its head at me riding on its neck. This repeated a few times and the nthe elephant would lie on its side in the water, and I would scramble up onto its massive chest. Another command from its master standing nearby and I am thrown into the brown water as the elephant abrubtly righted itself again.

Even after only a half hour, I felt so privileged to be able to get so close and personal with a grand creature that is confined to zoos in America.

That evening I elected to ride a bike with a young man that works for the hotel into the forest to a large lake named Twenty Thousand Lake. The ride was 16 km one way, exactly 10 miles. Our one gear bikes didnt reach very high speeds, especially on the horrible roads inside the forest, and I tired quickly.

After only a short time a the lake my guide- whose name means "love" in Nepali- and I peddled back but stopped a couple times to watch large birds, a wild boar, and monkeys playing near the road. We stopped about 30 mins from the hotel because I was incredibly thirsty after biking 15 miles on rocky roads and needed some water from a store. After a half hour rest, we continued in the dark, dodging invisible groups of people in the road and trying to keep the huge mosquitos from flying into our eyes and mouths. For half the time the power went out- very common here- and not even the rare street light was available to light the pot hles and puddles that dotted the road.

I was exhausted after my busy last day in Chitwan and sleep found me quickly. The next day I boarded a bus to the border and I was gone. My time at Chitwan was as variable as ever, the pure adventure was unreal while me role as a tourist was sometimes very frustrating. But after the unique 5 days, I feel very alive and have loads of unforgetable moments to reminisce about for years.



[Up next... INDIA!!!]

I added 2 pics

I added them to the Moment post. I have now one album online of 127 pics from my days at Everest base camp. I sent them to some people, but if you didnt get them, and you care, Ill send them to you. Just leave a comment!

Pokhara

Oh man im falling behind in my writing. Here is a quickly written magicless description of my last day in Pokhara.

Travel journal September 15-17 2006

My last day in Pokhara was one to remember and easily made up for the four previous rain-filled days of boredom. After eating breakfast, buying a new book to read [Clive Cussler's Valhalla Rising- Dirk Pitt is a GOD] and a waterproof cover to my pack, I was on my way to use the internet when a man standing in the doorway of a fabric shop called out to me. This is not a rare occurence as I am often stopped for one minute of small talk bfore I am asked to buy trinkets, or drugs, enlist the service of a guide, or to donate money for a variety of reasons.

This time the man that stopped me asked about my yellow Livestrong wristbands that I wear [and have worn for over 2 years regardless of fashion trends, thank you very much] on both arms. Being stopped for this reason is also not rare as they are often the first thing noticed about me- besides my long hair, light skin, and 6'2'' frame. But instead of asking me to give him one, the mans wanted to knowwhere he could buy one and I tell him the website. (Livestrong.com)

The man and I chat a little bit and he asks me if I have time to come in and sit down for a tea as he assures me he isn't trying to sell me anything. I acept and as I enter to store I am relieved to see that the hanging designed fabrics are of a very high quality. I relax knowing that I won't feel pressured to buy anything if he actually is trying to sell me something since I couldn't possibly afford them.

His name is Krishna, and he is Indian from Rajasthan near Jaisalmer from where the camel safaris start. He is very kind and we talk about a lot of things for about an hour.

He was married in an arranged marriage and we discuss this topic. He asks me about my home, what my parents do and if I have a girlfriend. I give him a postcard of Seattle with my email address and he tellsm e he will be back in Rajasthan this winer and I say we sould meet up for a drink or dinner.

Somewhere along in our conversation, Krishna mentions he is having a party tonight with friends and I should come. He tells me there will be fish and lots of food and drinking and smoking. He asks if I drink and I say yes- although I drink very little on this trip- and if I smoke to which I answer truthfully: only a little, sometimes.

We continue to talk for a few minutes and then we make plans to meet up at the store at 6 in the evening. I leave the store and walk to an internet cafe to respond to emails. Inside an American girl recognizes me, or maybe the UW email website that Im using, and asks if I got to UW and if I'm going to study in Nainital.

She is supposed to be going with us on our program and has spent the last 2 months here in Pokhara volunteering at an orphanage. She told me that she decided to not go to Nainital, something that her mom doesn't know yet. I think she was planning to work in another orphanage for awhile and then decide where to go next.

She had no airplane ticket home and no plans on what to do next. Complete freedom. I am proud of my fellow Seattlite and mention my own lack of faith in the directors of and people on the program. We talk a few more mintues and resolve to meet in Seattle at a later point.

Saying goodbye, I walked outside intending to walk a very long way up to the post office in town, as the lakeside area is more touristy and away from the city proper. On the way I ran into a couple who was staying in the room next to me at the guesthouse and to whome I've spoken a few times. They offered to lend me a bike to ride upill into town and I gratefully accepted not looking forward to the long haul in the sun.

The ride into town was indeed long, hot, and uphill. I only had a basic idea of where the P.O. was since the only map I had came from the Lonely Planet. I had to stop and ask for directions three different time but I made it after about 40 minutes.

On the way up one long wide road that appeared to by the main street, I stopped on the side to allow a maoist demonstration pass. Red flags waved and slogans were shouted repeatedly as the army of young men, and a few women, followed a car with a loudspeaker down the road. A few of the demonstrators saw me and smiled.

That day there was a strike in the city (maybe also elsewhere?) of all taxi drivers, buses, cars etc. The roads were blocked by buses and people were scared enough to not challenge the maoists and kept their vehicles off the roads. Luckily, bikes seemed an okay means of transportation. [I mean Mao was Chinese...]

Back at lakeside, I dropped off the bike and walked to a shop north of the busy tourist area on the way to my guesthouse. I've stopped their a couple times before and talked to the men outside and yesterday one offered me a boat for the lake at a cheap price. So today I returned but had only one hour before I must be back and go meet Krishna.

The boat was long and narrow and the blue paint looked faded from the sun and years of monsoons. I sat in the back and paddled out into the middle of my end of the lake.

Phewa Tal is the biggest of 3 lakes in the area, and the second largest lake in Nepal. I took pictures back toward lakeside, of the stupa at the top of the hill, and down the length of the lake. A canoe carrying 3 young, well tanned boys out for a swim came by to say hello- and ask me for money to buy a soccer ball.

With 20 minutes left I began to paddle quickly back to the store as the sun began to sink behind me.

After packing and showering I walked back to town and met Krishna. We took some backroads outof the way and back to the lakeside raod so I could view the locals' houses free from the tourists.

I sat awhile in the jewelry shop in which he works and waw amazed at the relatively cheap prices of the beautiful precious stones set in gold and silver. He pointed out some of the stones and where they come from.

Soon we were back on the road walking to his home which, he told me on the way, was actually everyone's (all his friends') home also. We entered his building and walked up the stairs to his apartment. Inside, the room was sparse and simple. Against three walls were three small beds that were only slightly more than a matress with sheets.

On the fourth wall a small low table was cluttered with newspapers and personal affects. A small TV and speakers sat in one corner of the room, and the walls were bare save for one poster like those I saw in Tibet.

Mostly a collage, at the top was Mt. Everest and Mt Kailash and then representative pictures of major cities between Lhasa and Nepal were pieced together will all labels in Sanskrit. I recognized Gyangtse and Shigatse as well as Lhasa and both mountains.

Soon his friends started arriving. There were at least 4 other male friends besides Krishna, and one friend's cute German girlfriend. This guy apparently was the boss- I assume the manager of the jewelry ship- but he was the same age or younger (26) and never acted as a superior. He was among friends. I assume there was another room in the building that housed another 3 of them.

At some point a few friends disappeared to the kitchen and began the long slow process of cooking. I was told they were making a fish curry from a fresh fish caught that day in the lake. When one of the coks came in I asked if he was the chef but he gave all the credit to Raj (the only other name I remembered because its short) and said that he was just the worker while Raj was teh lead chef.

I wish I could have helped because I love to cook and I miss it, but I was told to sit and relax and to not worry. As the guest I didnt want to overstep my boundaries in any way that might belittle my hosts' hospitality.

I hadn't eaten lunch and was told that they ate very late, often at 11 at night. This was the case this night as well. While we waited, we hung out sitting on the fllor of Krishna (and 2 others') room and listened to music, chatted- mostly in English- and well, smoked.

They passed around a metal pipe that was tapered at one end called a chillum. It was heavy and filled with "skunk" and tobacco. One smokes it by holding in upright, placing a thin piece of cloth on it and holding both hands to one's mouth in a variety of ways and puffs through their fingers.

I told them this was the first time I'd smoked from, or even heard of a chillum. I took a small toke and tried to pass it as I didn't want to miss out on the night- and very little will do very much to my head- but the boss jokingly told me I smoked like a woman so I had to make him proud.

More conversation- at this point I can't remember many topics- and I was passed a small bong made from a sprite bottle, for my first ever time. Needless to say that if I was hungry before, now I was starving.

At some point I was asked to pick a CD from one o the German girl's two CD cases. I picked Jimi Hendrix but the CD was broken and wouldn't play. So they put on some hiphip underground stuff- Mixmaster Mike or something. I was disappointed because I knew- because I had seen- that the other case contained music I would have loved to listen to such as The Who, The Doors, Nirvana unplugged and more. The girl asked what kind of music I likedand I said old rock music which sent her on the hunt for her Pink Floyd album that she never found. I miss music.

Finally the food was ready and was served on plates by Raj and others. The seven of us ate with our hands sitting on the floor of the room using newspaper covering the carpet as a tablecloth.

The fish came complete with hundreds of tiny bones that made it difficult ot eat. Also the sauce wasn't spicy and lacked a strong flavor but I gladly soaked it up with my chipati as I was famished by this late hour.

At one point the power went out again while we were eating. [By the end of my stay in nepal it went out about twice a day.] Almost immediately a candle was lit on teh low table that cast an orange glow on the scene and everyone continued to tear chipati and slurp fish meat away from teh bones without any complaints, or even acknowledgement of the inconvenience that the power had indeed gone out.

After dinner, I joined Raj, Krishna, the boss and the girl out on the balcony. They smoked more and asked me more questions. Raj has long dark hair and dressed well in a sweater that one might find in Eddie Bauer or a similar store. I think he could do very well with American women. He told me I don't have an American accent. I'd heard that before in Kathmandu and I know what he means.

What I speak to people whose first and often second or third languageis not English, I unconciously, habitually change my speech pattern. Speaking slowly and clearly and using commone, simple words to convey my meaning I often think I sound like some European- maybe Swiss or Austrian.

It sounds like English isn't my first language and peole are often surprised to find out I am American I assume because I don't use American slang or generally sound like other Americans they've met. I believe this makes it easie to communicte as the person with whom I'm speaking understands me easily and therefore is more likely o open up and be more friendly that with someone who makes them feel like their language skills are inferior.

At about midnight, Krishna offer two of his friends to take me back to my hotel on their motorbike, because its a long way and was raining hard. Three of us squeezed on the seat with me in the middle holding my backpack on my leg with my left hand and some rail beneath my other lef with my right.

They were only able to take me so far- within a five minute walk because there was a police checkpoint and they didn't have a license. They were very apologetic about this, but I tried to assure them that it was very close and the were very kind. These two friends I believe lived in the building, but they hadn't been with us the rest of the night.

I jogged awkwardly through the rain back to my guesthouse. Unlocking the door to my room, I collapsed on the bed as I was exhausted after such a long eventful day, and smiled, satisfied at another unique encounter with generous locals on this trip.

When will it happen again?

The Kumari Devi

Excerpt from my travel journal, September 11, 2006

I was lucky enough to spend a week in Kathmandu during the Indra Jatra festival during which the Kumari Devi makes a rare appearance outside her house near Durbar Square and is pulled around the city in a grand temple chariot.

This is a huge deal in Kathmandu as thousands of locals show up in brightly colored traditional dress and even the King and his wife attend in order to get a blessing from the young Kumari.

The Kumari is so imporatant because she is a real living goddess, a peaceful incarnation of the goddess Kali. She is chosen from a certain caste of goldsmiths when she is between the age of 4 and puberty. There are 32 physical conditions such as eye color, teeth shape and hte sound of her voice that indicate who the new Kumari is.

All possible candidates are gathered in a dark temple where priests attempt to frighten the young girls with blood buffalo heads, scary masks and demonic songs and dances. Of course a goddess would not be afraid of these tricks and so the Kumari is the one who stays calm throughout the trials.

She then moves into a house near all the temples of Durbar Square and is worshipped as the goddess until her first period or an accidental loss of blood which transforms her back into a normal girl and the search must start again.

She never leaves the house except on rare occasions, including once in September for a three-day journey around the city on an huge and elaborate chariot pulled by locals, because, as a goddess, her feet cannot touch the ground.

I arrived at Durbar square at 3 in teh afternoon, a couple hours before the start of the festival, but the place was already packed. I had been told earlier that one temple in the square was reserved for foreigners and I made my way across the sea of humanity and leaned against a large statue of a lion in front of the temple.

To my right was a tall temple with large steps on which sat hundreds of brightly dressed women and children. It was an organic pyramid of oranges, blues, purples and greens.

Further down the square, a temple's side was filled with camera-wielding professionals standing beneath a sign simply stating "PRESS." Straight across the square was the Kumari Bahal- the building which houses the living goddess and her family. Lastly, back towards me on my left stood the newly repainted, white, neoclassical building that used to serve as the King's palace.

In a few minutes, military started arriving in a line of trucks and stood, dressed in full ceremonial dress, in neat lines in the center of the square, forcing all onlookers outward and often onto our temple platform. I don't think anyone really minded the increasing crowd of young Nepalese men at the foreigner-designated temple, except for the blue fatigue wearing security force that was actually in charge of the order in the square.

They came through and cleaned out all the locals which left us foreigners with more room, but with less a feeling of taking part and mor a feeling of watching this ceremony as we weren't sharing it with locals all packed together like sardines on the edge of the temple platform all vying for a good view.

This was no problem for me as the average Nepali man stands below my chin. I didn't even mind later when I realized someone had unzipped my back pocket and made off with about 700 rupees in all the pushing and shoving.

We waited a long time and were entertained in the meantime by the exotic sights and sounds. Soon a group of young men yelling and accompanied by a drum and symbols scampered into the square and up to the front of the palace. Men in elaborate costumes with large colorful masks and wigs the size of a large beach ball [think Disney Land characters costumes- same size] colored red and orange danced primitively along with the instruments. I had seen this same group dancing earlier that day in a small street, and then again on my last night in Kathmandu. Apparently the costumed man drinks a lot of alcohol and is transformed into a god when the wig and mask are worn. Then brave souls try, one at a time, to slap the god wit ha small towell while the god attempts to grab his attackers. I believe this is just a show of manliness.

Eventually the King arrived in a large convoy and made his way up to the balcony looking over teh square. Later I overheard one Nepalese man telling a western girl that no one likes the King, and indeed I had expected a more boistrous reception.

Not long after his arrival I heard a commotion at the other end of the square and soon I saw the chariot appear from the other side of the palace. The Kumari was pulled around to the front where I assume she blessed the King- although I could not see her well. She sat in the center of the monstrous golden vehicle and people- who I can only assume were her family and friends- stood around the outside waving and cheering to the crowd.

After a few minutes she was pulled in front of the press temple and then quickly out of the square and out of site, on her tour of the city. After her leave, more youths showed up running, shouting, and dancing with a large cardboard cow costume worn by at least two young men. When they too extied the square a few minutes later, the King made his way back to his official car, drove away, and the whole ceremony ended as suddenly as it began.

I follwed the lines of people pouring out of the square and was back in my hotel room by 5:30. Although the actual ceremony was short, the festival is more complex that I know and lasts for days. The excitement was contagious and the anticipation of seeing the goddess heightened the electricity in the square. I think a culture is understood best in a short time by experience of its festivals. I know I learned a lot about Nepalese culture and religion by the unforgetable sights, sounds and emotions I experienced in my short time standing on that temple in Kathmandu's main square.

Kathmandu: Broken Down According to Evan

Excerpt from my travel journal, September 8, 2006:

My week in the Kathmandu Valley has been sufficiently up and down that I couldn't come up with a good way to chronicle my experiences and thoughts on the city. Indeed, I am left with a convoluted sense and often contradictary impressions of the city, and to be sure, with no final resolution to the complexities and nuances that is Kathmandu. Instead, I record a somewhat disorganized collage of experiences and observations that I hope will convey well the scale and the spectrum of senses and emotions I have enjoyed.

The People

The city buzzes with activity from early morning, its narrow side streets reluctantly shared by pedestrians, bicycles, rickshaws, motorbikes and cars. To a point, I believe my time here is a good warm up for the incredible crowds in a major Indian city as there is a great deal of pushing and pulling on a busy street here in the tourist neighborhood, Thamel. Although I imagine India to be on a whole different scale altogether with its ginormous population and related problems.

In general, I find the locals here to be very charming and generally interested in where we are from and especially in what American's think of Nepal. A few times I was left to give the answer to the latter question by explaining the heterogenous nature of the American people: some simply don't know and/or care about Nepal, others may know enought about the recent history of civil unrest to be afraid to come, while others would come but are too bust living the "American Dream" to get up and travel. In truth, I believe the vast majority of Americans belong in the first category, but I assured my interogaters that I think very few Americans think Nepal to be a violent or unsafe country and, if anything, are more likely afraid of the normal unknowns common with travel to all foreign countries.

The Nepalese youth seems to enjoy their exposure to Western culture. I was told priorly that professional wrestling is very popular and this has been confirmed in my mind by the high number of shirts branded with some steroid jockey's face and muscles I've seen worn throughout the city. Other T-shirts featuring Kurt Cobain, Britney Spears, Bob Marley, and random if not clever quips written in English are also popular. Just today I read "I was born intelligent Education ruined me," on one young man's shirt.

A few nights into my stay, my traveling friends, a couple of Spanish men Jose and Julio, and I went to a restaurant that had a few plastic tables outside and sat down for a drink next to a group of 20-something Nepalese men. They began asking me questions across the tables so I quickly took advantage of the situation, grabbed my chair and joined them while my friends were speaking Spanish to each other. Soon the guys and I were having the usual discussion of where we live, why I'm in and what I think of Nepal, and other normal foreigner/local topics. I learned that two of them have been great friends for 15 years and noticed that htey were very affectionate in their drunken state. Nepalese men are often seen holding hands walking in public which I have read is normal behavior for close friends and has no homosexual connotations as homosexuality is officially illegal.

One of the friends is married and I learned that it is normal for Nepalese to get married around the age of 20. This same man loves cowboys- not an uncommon fascination for a foreigner to have from what I've seen- and wants to come to America and go to Texas for the cowboys and Tennessee to see where Jack Daniels is made, as he is a huge fan. I admittedly was a little buzzed myself and was probably more jovial for it. This is evidenced by the unmarried one declaring on multiple occasians that I was fun and he liked me. [I pause to put to rest the questions of this man's sexuality as he clearly and using explicit language explained his fondness for women.] So of course this guy was my favorite and I gave him a coveted postcard. I actually found out later that they came by my hotel looking for me later that night but unfortunately the Spaniards and I were out late eating dinner.

The true charm of the Nepalese people is manifested in the unshy smiling faces of the young children. It is commonplace to be walking down a side street in the valley and, hearing a loud high-pitched "Hallo!", turn around to the excited waving arms of a small group of Nepalese toddlers. On our day trip to Bhaktapur I had the fortune to be approached by five such brave souls dressed in their little school uniforms complete with collared shirt and necktie. They repeatedly competed with each other to be in the photos I was takin gof them and laughed hysterically when I showed them their bright faces on my digital camera. I gave a slight tug on one boy's tie and he slapped his face with both hands giggling uncontrollably and soon they were holding their ties out for me with which to take and flap them lightly on the nose, catapulting each into fits of laughter.

Nepalese women are another source of my fondness for the people. Short and petite, the young women are oftne fashionably dressed and have strikingly exotic features. Because of their small stature, I think the girls appear much younger than they actually are, which is only apparent when view of their mature faces is available. I admit I am attracted to their dark features and slightly curved noses, but alas I have yet to speak with one, as I find them much more reserved that their male counterparts and more often than not accompanied by one. Indeed, the majority of motorbikes humming through town are driven by a young man- probably with relative money- with his magnificently cute girlfriend riding behind him. [Its also common to see an entire family of 4 or 5 riding on one motorbike!]

It is clear that I have favorable words for nearly all groups of the local people and it somewhat pains me to end this section with a summary of one group that I quickly disliked.

One my second full day in Kathmandu, I decided to spend time in the nearby Dubar Square, sitting high on a temple's steps and read, write, and watch the flow of humanity before me. However I left with a sour taste for the cities principal center square because of my constant harrasment by guides trying to bet me to pay for their services. In less than one hour I had to rebuff seven guides that one by one came up and sat next to me, always asking the same questions. "What country are you from? How long have you been in Nepal? Can I give you a 1 hour tour of the square and explain the temples and history?" Getting annoyed at their attempts to guilt me into paying for a tour, I remember that I am constantly fighting the good fight against Ugly Americanism abroad and kept me composure, always politely refusing their advances.

For some naive reason I thought the young man who sat next to me would be different. We began just chatting as usual and he did tell me a great deal about Hindu celebrations and answered every question I had as we discussed some points of their traditions. He was clever enough to thoroughly engage me in what seemed like friendly conversation- exchanging knowledge of our homelands- before revealing his true agenda by asking me if I wanted him to explain the history and temples and in return I donate whatever I felt fair to his education. Of course I hadn't- indeed still haven't- developed a strong enough behavior to reject him after a half hour of discussion and so I reluctantly agreed.

Soon his two friends showed up and they attempted to take turns giving me histories of the temples and the religion. The other two had more difficult accents and talked in a sufficiently confusing manner that I'm sure I'd have learned more reading my Lonely Planet. [Im also sure it didnt help that I was distracted by the disatisfaction I felt for being tricked into the tour.]

Afterward I presented them with what I thought was a very significant payment of 1000 rupees because, again, I'm a horribly soft sucker. (Other guides started the price negotiations at 500 rupees for a 1 hour tour.) The of course seemed disappointed at the amount and tried to convice me in the friendliest way for 500 more to save for his studies, because come one, we are friends! To my credit I politely refused to pay any more and eventually they gave in and got very friendly once more. Giving me their names and phone numbers they told me it's all about making friends and other bullshit until I made an excuse to leave.

I returned to me hotel dazed and disappointed wiht myself at being taken again. I'm sure they only tried to be friends because I told them I was here with friends who were somewhere else (one good excuse to not take a tour) and they wanted me to bring them for a tour in the next couple days. I felt jaded the rest of the night, until that is, I met those guys at the restaurant and successfully flipped my impression of locals on its head.

Indeed, like any big city, a tourist in Kathmandu will find people who see them as a potential money-making opportunity, and people who see them as a potential friend depending on where the tourist chooses to spend time. I was lucky enough to find both in the same day. Without the former, I think I would have not had the same appreciation for the latter, and I am always open to learning from my mistakes, even if I continue to repeat them.

The City and the Weather

Kathmandu is, like I imagine many other big cities are, busy, dirty and often utterly chaotic. This chaos is magnified on the major streets and in the busy tourist area of Thamel by the disorganized traffic, and masses of shopkeepers, artisans, fruit vendors and rickshaw drivers all hawking their goods and services, repectively.

I found few, if any refuges from the madness. Hotels can be so cheep that finding a single room that is affordable is very simple. Exiled in my hotel room I can hear the early risers shouting in the alleys at 6 in the morning. My earplugs provide the only relief from the roar of the city 5 storeys below. It is indeed an early riser's city. The main streets and squares that are so bustling with life by 7 in the monring are equally devoid of it by 10 in the night. This resulted in at last one dinnerless night as I spent each day with two Spaniards, Jose and Julio, to which a meal at 8 pm is very early. Once we did find a revolving restaurant open late and spent the evening eating overpriced food and literally rotating between decent views of the city just beneath us and views of the kitchen door.

This night we had to walk outsie our side street which is lined with restaurants, becuase the power had gone our, and stayed off for the entire evening. This apparently is not an uncommon occurence as a couple nights later it happened again in Thamel while luckily our neighborhood remained with power. A man working in our hotel told us that often there is simply not enough power to go around.

If these blackouts have to do with the day's weather, I don't know. As for the weather in the city, it was as variable as the people I met. The night we arrived, we were drenched in hte torrents of a monsoon. The following day and another after were very sunny, but then the heavy rains again flooded the city streets for days. Indeed, my last days in Kathmandu were all rainsoaked, the rain only rarely easing up enough to enjoy a walk in the muddy streets.

While my written words describing the chaos, blackouts and rain may paint a bleak picture of Kathmandu, I never found this city this way. Because I was just visiting and my experiences with these inconveniences were brief, I found them more adventurous than hassles. I view myself lucky to view the reality of a city- the beauty with the problems- rather than a neatly wrapped package handed to the visiter that many tourists seem to prefer in their pursuit of comfort and luxury.

The Foreigners

I wanted to include a short bit on my experiences with the other foreigners in Kathmandu. Although the glory days of hippie life in the city like it was in the '70s are over, some remnants of this lifestyle can still be seen, such as one temple in Durbar Square being commonly referred to as the Hippie Temple. Indeed I believe that there remains a steady current of hippies and those seeking alternative lifestyles flowing through, or more accurately, floating in, the city.

I found at least one common hangout for such folk and I shared a meal with an aging trio of consumate hippies of an American, a Scott and an Englishman, and youths from France, Greece and Israel. Playing chess and smoking dope, throughout the night they told stories of the drugs of their youth and gave me advice on where to go in India and Nepal, as I trust they've spent many years bumming around in these countries.

The drug scene in the city is very visible as people smoke freely in restaurants and bars. I witnessed on many mornings in the cafe where we ate breakfast, a group of Nepalese teenagers rolling joints with their cups of tea. I joked that many gruff people in the street must think my face looks Middle Eastern because they constantly mistake me for someone named Hashish.

Along with hash-smoking hippies I encountered yoga students on break from months of study in India, and also many young western girls with Nepalese boyfriends.

It was an eclectic group I encountered, but one to which I felt an outsider because I had no plans, nor any great desire, to spend an indefinite amount of time in this city or any other in the region. Our lusts went unshared as I feel compelled to wander constantly to new places and they are quite comfortable to stay months or years in one place provded the alternative life is accepted, and the drugs are cheap.

Nepal

Excerpt from my travel journal, September 6, 2006:

My first experience in Nepal was driving down to the border on the Friendship Highway from Tibet. Although I knew better, I held the image that Nepal was entirely mountainous like Tibet. I was completely surprised by the dramatic change in scenery and climate as we dropped off the Tibetan plateau and down towards Nepal's northern border. Immediately reminded that this is a tropical country, I sat awestruck in the back of our Land Cruiser as rough brown hills devoid of any shrubbery for the grazing goats and yaks quietly transformed into a thick and lush jungle with steep cliffs and powerful cascading waterfalls that washed the Tibetan dust off our windows. I though out loud that this is how I expected much of South America to look, but not what I thought to be a strictly Himalayan country.

By the time we had reached the border, monsoon rains pelted the windshield with heavy, unrelenting drops. Passing through customs and obtaining a visa completed, we piled into a tiny truck to drive a short distance to reach the cab we agreed to hire. The steep road downhill was full of mud and we drove quickly over the large bumps and holes with our car often bouncing high off the road and throwing us in the back around like the untethered passengers we were as if we were traveling over a flood of bowling balls. I very much enjoyed this adventurous drive, stuck in the back seat next to and as often on top of my Spanish friends. That is, however, until we got into our propper cab for the 4 hour drive south to Kathmandu and I found out that the bone-shattering bumps we endured work just as well at shattering LCD screens on digital cameras...

Driving into Kathmandu after dark on Saturday is madness. When empty, I imagine the main highwas into town would appear to have 6 lanes, 3 in each direction. However, as we drove in, I discovered bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, taxis, SUV's and buses shared the road and the presence of lanes, indeed even coherent general directions of traffic, vanished into pure exhaust-filled chaos. I'm glad I wasn't driving.

We got dropped off at an ATM to withdraw money with which to pay our driver, and then awkwardly ran through the re-energized monsoon for a few minutes to our hotel. Arriving soaked to the bone, I was led up 5 flights of stairs and offered a single room with shared bathroom for 150 rupees (2 $US). Exhausted and drenched, I layed out all my damp belongings and lay myself on the 1 inch-thick foam mattress relieved to be finished with this leg of the journey, but so far unimpressed with the capitol city.

[My impression did improve in the daylight]

The Moment

Excerpt from my travel journal, September 4, 2006

Waking up at 5200 meters will inflict a range of maladies on an unacclimated individual. Headache, sore throat, runny nose, sore muscles, nausea, foggy head and overall grumpiness I found are common. I have faith in western medicine and am at least skeptical of most wholistic remedies. However I found relief not through pills- although Im sure they helped- but from a psychological and physiological response to a natural experience...

My least favorite part about camping in snow or in the winter is having to leave the comfortable confines of my tent and sleeping bag to relieve myself in the middle of the night. (That and Dad snores). And it was no better leaving my pile of blankets to brave the bone chilling wind to relieve the gallons of tea I drank the night before at EBC. (Staying hydrated is supposed to be a GOOD thing!) And so it was again when I awoke in the morning, pulled on my cold boots, layered on my jackets and excused myself to my groggily awakening tent mates in order to run around the back of the tent in an urgent response to nature's call.

I face south and get midstream before I look up with eyes half open in the ecstacy of release. But soon my eyes are opened wide as I continue to look upward, and up, and up. My eyes follow the ridge on the horizon and my own groggy brain takes half a second to compute what it is my eyes are already aware of. They Mother has overcome her modesty, shed her shroud of clouds, and is dancing gracefully in the midmorning sun.

My next instinct is that I must share this with my companions as I realize I am the only one outside with full view of the Goddess Mother's impressive physique. Zipping up quickly, I sprint to the door of our tent, poke my head inside long enough to violently slur some sort of announcement to the others, and keep running all the way to the top of the hill. At the top I keep over and suck a few huge breaths to stabilize myself before I can even get a picture off. And for less than a minute, I am getting a private showing of the Goddess's sensual skylit pose.

Not far behind me comes Trevor and soon we are surrounded by a hoard of visitors of different nationalities who- like us- made the long journey in hopes of setting their gaze on the tallest mountain that Mother Nature could create.

The show lasts a full thirty minutes during which time I took nearly a hundred pictures of different angles and zoom. But after I had saturated my eye with every framing imaginable, I put my camera away, and sat alone on the mountain side of the hill. I allowed my eyes to relax again, and my gaze to unfocus, and for a couple minutes I breathed deeply the air of the satisfaction only felt at the realization of a dream. It is a feeling of complete inner happiness that defines a life and I am very blessed because I had felt the same peace once before.



Writing this now it is very easy to draw parallels between reclining in the sun on that hill in Tibet, basking in the warmth of the Goddess Mother's image and reclining in a chair on the sun drenched balcony of my apartment in Siena, sipping an espresso and staring out over the beauty of the rolling Tuscan countryside only a year and a half prior. Both are unforgetable moments occupied by a self-reflection revealing utter contentment with the present and symbolize the successful completion of a life goal. More than never forgetting these moments, I commit the rest of my life, as should other's there's, to the pursuit and realization of these fleeting glimpses oif a perfect world, whatever they may be.

EBC Day 2: Meeting the Mother

Excerpt from my travel journal, September 3 2006:

Late to bed, early to rise. The altitude and dry air limits me to only a few hours of weak sleep. With a sore throat and slight headache, I join the others for a quick breakfast and we hit the road, the Mother awaits.

Tibetans call the peak Qomolangma which roughly translates as "Goddess Mother of te Universe." The goddess that dwells at the mountain is one of five famous Tibetan dieties which predate Buddhism. And we were in a rush to make her acquaintance.

But our plans were quickling put on hold when Friday realized he had forgotten one of the necessary permits. Leaving us at the checkpoint in a small village [Andre the German would say "willage"], he backtracked the 10k to Shegar to fix the problem. We were immediately aware of our good fortune to be left where we were. Allowed to wander through the rural village, we take in a uniquely Tibetan lifestyle.

Hundreds of goats were corralled in pens built of mortar-less rock walls four feel high. Donkeys were tied to posts on a short leash while many dogs were free to roam the grounds. While the villagers were hard at work, they were polite enough to greet our alien faces with a smile and the Tibetan greeting "Tashi delek!" A river bed cut deeply into the terrain downhill of the village, and looking across it a half mile away I could see what appeared to be an old ruined castle.

The hour we were set free on the village was remarkably fulfilling. Far from the Chinese influence which belies Lhasa's historical and religious significance and suffocates real Tibetan culture, this town functioned independently and from what I could see was nearly fully self-sustaining.

Before long, Friday returned and we big farewell to the anthropological interests of the village and focused on the geological ones at hand.

Up about two dozen switchbacks and over another pass we arrived at the end of our journey in the car. 8 km (5 miles) from EBC the road stops at a monastery. Our foursome decides unanimously to forgo the pony-drawn carts taht most visitors take the rest of the way in favor of a nice short trek. The way is slightly uphill the whole way and is made difficult only because we are just shy of 17,000 ft above sea level, and half our group arrived in Tibet only 2 days before (thats me!).

Still, we made short wor of the hike and arrive in camp to find what appears a makeshift Main street with semi-permanent tents serving as stores, hotels and a post office lining both sides. Only a few steps down the hundred yard street and we are greeted with the same sterile English greetings as we could find in a market in Lhasa. Not surprisingly, all the Tibetans in the street were there to sell us something, old stale food, a trinket, fossil, or a berth inside a tented hotel. Tourism dependency has reached the top of the world.

Since all hotels were priced exactly the same- how COMMUNAL for these Tibetans- we chose the nicest looking interior and sat down to rest while our gracious Tibetan host tirelessly refilled our tea cups with hot water heated by burning yak dung inteh central stove.

Within the next few hours a pair of Basque cilmbers stopped for a cup tea in our tent and we asked them many questions. Even though it is late in the climbing season, they will try for the summit within the next couple weeks if the weather holds out. I should remember to find out about the results of their summit attempyt.

The sun begins to set and I am just beginning to get comfortable in our tent- bundled up with all the warm layers I brought- when Andre walks in and informs us the mountain is poking her head out of the seemingly endless clouds. Those remaining in the tent jump to and I run up the short hill just on teh mountain end of main street, quickly losing my breath and nearly passing out before I reach the prayer-flag lined top.

The setting sun casts a shimmering orange glow on the summit which is exposed while the great body of the beast remains hidden behind the cloud. At first glance it is easy to miss the golden pyramid because it floats much higher in the heavens than I expected. And for the second time in two days, my spirit was lifted to heights rivaling the massive Mother and I put to rest any worries about an disappointing adventure as I imagined this moment as the summit of our short journey. But this summit proved to be false, as again I found the next day that the true summit was actually loftier than expected.

EBC Day 1

Starting early as we had a long day ahead, we drove up to Kamba-la Pass which- when clearer than our foggy day- affords views of the magnificent many-armed Yamdrok-tso lake. Our path took us back down the pass to teh Friendship highway- which links Lhasa with Kathmandu- and on to the second largest city in Tibet, Shigatse.

We stopped for a couple hours in Shigatse to visit the impressive Tashilhunpo Monastery. It was magnificent and I loved the architecture, and religious sculpture, paintings and artefacts. I am not what I would call a spiritual person, but I felt uplifted by the aura around the stupas. After taking many pictures our time was up and Trevor, Andre and I headed back to the car because we couldn't find Justin.

At first it was nice to have a little time to buy a snack and people watch. But our driver, Friday, was getting impatient because we still had hours and hours to drive. Soon I was impatient too. I contemplated going back up to look for him again, but the calmer Irishman pointed out that, as the oldest of the foursome, Justin should be responsible enough to not need a young'un like me to look after him. But as we saw in the coming days, age is not a direct indicator of maturity or responsibility.

Arriving 45 minutes late, Justin just seemed to laugh off our unhappiness of his cavalier treatment of all of our time. Although he did apologize in a joking way, I remember him saying that if we had said we would stay 2 hours instead of only 1 hour and a half, he would have only been 15 minutes late, which would have been reasonable. Totally justified.

The rest of the 6 hours of the drive was highlighted by getting stuck stuck behind a line of cars who were themselves stuck in the mud that had formed with the combination of heavy rain and dirt road over another pass. It was very dark and I got out to help and tried to push a van through the mud. But the traffic jam was not cleared until Friday appeared with a shovel and in only a minute had the van moving forward again- a significant improvement over the sideways sliding it had done for the hour we were there.

Back on our way again, we didn't reach our night's stop at Shegar until 11:30pm- over 14 hours after we left Lhasa. Dirty and exhausted, we all shared what we ordered at the hotel restaurant and headed up to the loft for a short night's sleep.

Lhasa

Excerpt from my travel journal September 3 2006:

Waking up early in Chengdu, I took a short shuttle ride, provided by the hostel, to the airport. I meet an interesting American guy and we chat up a Dutch couple while we wait to depart for Lhasa- the capitol city of the Tibetan Autonomous Region. The flight is short and we pass over some white-capped mountains.

Upon arrival in teh city, the American, Justin, and I take a bicycle rickshaw to a budget hotel and get a couple beds in a four-bed dorm room. Minutes after we sat down to rest our altitude-sick heads (Lhasa sits at 12,000 ft above sea level) our dormmates arrive.

Trevor Murphy is a 29 year old Irish primary school teacher in London, and Andre Schaffer is 31 and lives in Dresden in eastern Germany. After the normal pleasantries and questions are exchanged, we begin talking about things to do in Lhasa and Tibet. Trevor describes an eleven-day journal out to sacred Mt. Kailash where a 3-day trek around the mountain comes in the middle of 8 days at 12 hours per day of driving in a bus on a horribly bumpy road. Im glad I have no time for this trip.

Then the Irishman casually drops in that he is trying to get a fourth person to join him and two Thai girls on a four-day trip to Mt. Everest Base Camp- known throughout the tourist agencies in Lhasa as EBC.

I had done smoe research, but frankly was a little unprepared for what to do in Tibet because of the length and size of my trip. But when he said "Everest Base Camp," my interest immediately peaked. I've read books and articles on the mountain, seen movies and even talks about people who've climbed the epic peak. But I never thought, even though I was going to be in the area, I'd ever get a chance to go to base camp and see the mountain itself.

[The way to travel to the numerous monasteries, lakes, cities and treks around Tibet is to hire a Land Cruiser and a driver from one of the multitude of agencies around Lhasa. Even solo travlers are able to do this by putting their information with an agency and then posting messages on boards at the common hotels in the area. Sometimes it takes a long time to find others who want to do the same trip that you want to do. For example, Trevor said he waited about 5 days before getting together some Israelis for the Kailash trip. I imagine many solo or paird travelers can wait a few days between every trip, and often time is wasted staying in Lhasa. This is significant when considering that on my first day in Lhasa, I was able to book a trip to EBC for the next morning. After I returned to Lhasa, I had the fortune to find a trip to the Nepal border in the same amount of time. But thats another story...]

After talking to a couple agencies in Lhasa about hiring a car and driver, Justin and Andre voiced that they also may want to go and we could make it a 5 day trip with an extra night at EBC instead of the shorter trip the Thai girls were trying to organize. We went to lunch to decide and before our food had arrived we were all committed to the journey.

The rest of the day was spent similarly to the start of my one day in Chendgu. The four of us set out in search of an ATM and after scouring the city for hours, we finally found one that worked. We payed the agency, saw the car and met our driver, whose name is Tibetan for "Friday," and we were all set for our Everest adventure...

Chengdu

Excerpt from my travel journal 8/26-8/29 2006:

Yesterday started out poorly but by the end I had had one of the most memorable days ever in my travels. After I woke up in my hostel in Chengdu, I headed downstairs to the front desk to buy a plane ticket to Lhasa.

[A plane ticket from Chengdu to Lhasa required purchase of a "permit." This "permit" is never printed, or shown to the purchaser of the ticket, but since the reservation can only be made in China, it is necessary to buy it. It is more of a phantom cost. Lets hear it for Chinese bureaucracy.]

I only had Y222 left and I put Y200 deposit down for the ticket and went to get cash (the ticket costs Y1850) to pay the rest. I was given directions to the bank- I immediately took a wrong turn- and when I made it to the bank my card couldn't withdraw cash from any of the three machines. I got worried that my bank had put a hold on the card as it said I was "not allowed to withdraw from the account." I attempted to get cash at two more ATMs on the walk back to my hostel with the same result.

Now I only had Y22 left in my pocket-which is less than $3 US- a credit card maxed out, a useless debit card, and no American cash and no travelers checks. Images of me sleeping on the street while my parents are out backpacking for 2 days and therefore unable to contact me flashed in my head. I decided I could make it a few days in the hostel if I could get the Y200 deposit back.But of course I couldn't. The ticket had already been ordered and waiting for me to pay the rest. I am screwed.

Why didnt I tell my bank I was leaving for Asia? Why didn't I bring travelers checks and US cash? Why did Washington Mutual change their debit cards from Visa to Mastercard?

The nice young woman at the hostel desk doesn't seem to grasp the severity of the problem- maybe because I hide my worry well and am remaining calm. She suggest trying another bank- but I protest, saying I've tried three already. I waited a few minutes to use the free internet to email my parents and I tried to think of anyone else who maybe able to help. But I decide to try one more bank first.

I locate another Bank of China on my map and head out. When I arrive, the ATM looks newer and there is a Mastercard sticker- promising. I attempt to withdraw Y2000... and it is slow... and finally it works!! I am beyond relieved! As I walk away I think that if I spend Y1850, I will only have Y150 left, without any guarantee that my card will work in Lhasa, since by my experience it only works in 1 of 4 banks. So I walk back and take out an additional Y1000. I should be set for the rest of my stay in the PRC.

So what started out as a stressful and scary day for me got better after I decided to spend the rest of my day doing what I love to do when I travel. Ignoring museums, galleries and tourist traps, I resolve to spend my day in a park- reading relaxing and people watching.

The nearest park to the hostel costs money to enter- which I am not excited about- so I decide to make the long walk to the more famous, larger Renmin Park. Right before I cross over the Nan River entering the city center, I stop to read a chapter in a small park with a decorated pond and rock formation fully equipped with grandparents and babies playing in teh water and in large cauldrons near where I sat.

After I take a few picture, I head on again to the People's Park. When I arrive, I take a little stroll in the gardens, breathing deeply the sweet air, and sit to watch and photograph families feeding large numbers of colorful carp in a pond. When I decide to move on, I wander some more until I hear some chinese music being played nearby. Feeling very bold, I follow my ears to a corner of a long covered walkway and sit down near some old men and begin reading while listening to the soft sounds of their tall chinese fiddle. There are many musicians in the immediate area, and I watch 2 young boys being given a music lesson from an old veteran while their mothers look on with pride.

Soon more musicians show up toting a violin, accordians, and bamboo flutes with a microphone and amplifier. Band practice begins. I continually meet passing stares with a smile, and eventually I feel that some of the musicians and onlookers don't mind my presence. I continue to read while they warm up when a man surprises me by walking straight up to me and asks in understanding English what country I am from.

"England? Germany? Netherland?" His pronunciations are far off but I understand and reply, "America." This seems a surprise and he sits down next to me seemingly delighted and begins digging into his old single strap bag. He pulls out a small map of the US with the states labeled with postal abbreviations and Chinese characters. He asks me which state and I point to Washington on his map. "Ohhhhh, Washington. Seattle?" "Yes! Seattle!" And a new friendship was forged.

For the next two hours we went over topics of the US vs. China in terms of size, population, weather and more. We talked (mostly he talked) about famous places in Europe and what they are famous for. France has great frangrances and wine and The Netherlands has flowers, tulips and windmills. He asked me questions starting, "In your country..." and anytime he said something I didnt understand, he wrote down the word or sentence in very passable handwriting and better spelling than many highschoolers in America. He even did this when I did understand, seemingly just for practice.

He told me about meeting other "foreign friends" in the park and showed me a page of pleasantries in French, German, Spanish and Thai. His pronunciations of these words were far worse than his English. He shows pictures of himself playing flute at festivals with many people watching [one was a woman festival?] and had an excerpt from an article on BBC in which he was quoted as an old man who told the reporter he "liked Roger Moore."

During our dialogue, other locals came up to us and stared at me and asked him questions about me to which he seemed annoyed. But it wasnt until I pulled out my stack of post cards of Seattle [which I learned is a great way as an ice breaker and also to write down your name and email for people you meet when traveling] that I became a real star. All of a sudden Iwas surrounded by smiling Chinese looking at me and my pictures of Seattle, and my friend was almost overjoyed with them and he declared Seattle was "very pretty" and then spelled it out for me.

Now that I was accepted into this small group, my friend began to play his bamboo flutes with the other musicians who were beginning to play full songs while a couple singers took turns adding thier lovely voices to teh soft, melodic rhythms.

This encounter alone would have been one of my best ever but just when I thought my day had reached a climax, it soared to new heights. Another man, this one much younger and wearing a rarely seen outfit of tanktop and shorts walks by, sees me, smiles and asks what country I am from.

It turns out this man is an English teacher in a nearby city and he owns his own school. His wife who is with him speaks a little English as well. I find out that it's her sister playing the accordian and her brother on the two-string fiddle that I have been listening to. The man asks me questions on and off for about a half hour and then asks me if I like Chinese music. I reply that I do because it is very relaxing and beautiful in the garden setting. This pleases him a lot and one of his next questions is if I will come with his family to eat dinner when the park closes in half an hour. I say, "I'd love to!" which he doesnt understand, so I just say "yes, I will come." I am very excited for the next half hour and when the band stops, I meet the family and another woman who was singing takes pictures of me on her phone.

As we walk out of the garden, we chitchat a little and I ask and he explains the significance of a giant monument. It has something to do with people sacrificing to save a train.

We walk right outside the park and across the street for dinner. There are six of us and the small restaurant has not room inside, so we sit on tiny stools at twon low square tables just outside. The man and his wife order food and soon we are all joking and having a great time [the man translates for the entire table]. Large bottles of beer appear and I am asked by the man's wife's brother sitting to me left if I would like beer. I enthusiastically accept and soon my glass is continuously being refilled by the brother. The food arrives a couple dishes at a time and we each have a small bowl and chopstives with which we scoop food off the plates into the bowl and usually then quickly into our mouths. They are impressed I can use chopsticks and I try to explain that many Americans do when eating asian food.

I am continually pressured to eat more, "don't be shy," and by the end I have eaten maybe twice as much as the next person. Spinach and scallops, spicy beef and onions, "chinese eggs," chicken and veggies and some sort of soup all accompany bowl fulls of rice, endless flowing beer and about four cigarette supplied by the quieter, older man whose relationship is unclear to me.

During the meal I am encouraged to chug my small glass of beer with the brother and old man- I always win- and am told I am very handsome by the wife. I even think they tried to set me up with the cute young waitress.

After the food is gone, the wife gets up and pays inside before I can protest that I chip in. And suddenly the meal and encounter is over. They say a short goodbye and head down the street. I luckily catch the old man, sister and brother for a quick photo but will hope the man contacts me using the postcard I gave him earlier.

I am a little buzzed and get a bit lost as I try to get back to the hotel. But nothing can wash away the contentment and satisfaction I feel after the best encounter I've had while traveling.



[I apologize for changing tenses and sometimes out of sequence thoughts. I just type out what I write and I write what I remember as I remember it. If I had time I could start and end the post better as well. Also apologies for the length- it was a great day. Future posts- Tibet and Mt. Everest!]