Paragliding, Precipitation, and Perspiration.

Ah, hello. Despite the definite possibility that I would never write another blog post, you decided to check in anyways. Well bravo, Mr. Bond.

I mentioned in the previous post that I went paragliding. Pokhara is a paraglider’s dream in that there are around 330 paraglidable days out of the year. Additionally, when the weather is perfect (which it generally is, barring the months that I am here) one can ride the thermals up to around 3000 meters and glide around the Himalayas, getting a bird’s eye view of the peaks and potentially soiling one’s Gortex in the process. My friend Shyam knows a dude who operates one of the paragliding companies, and thanks to a friendly call I was able to take a ride for free…saving a pretty penny in the process. (Thanks, Shyam!)

Paragliding

I stood on the steep side of a hill, with my pilot (Rajess) strapped on to my back and our parachute laying out behind us. We waited for five minutes and eventually a big surge of wind blew our parachute into the air. Leaning forward we had to run down the hill as fast as possible, as to not be blown backwards. We ran, ran, ran, and before I could really notice the transition, my legs had no more ground to run on, as we floated off into the air. It was quite a pleasant experience. We flew around searching for thermals, and when one was found it gently lifted us up until we hit the clouds. The trip lasted for half an hour, and while we could not see the mountains because of the clouds, we did do some crazy acrobatics over the lake (including one number where we spun back and forth, like someone jiggling a door knob… the G force nearly pulled the camera out of my hand.) It was a crazy little afternoon adventure.

Against my better judgement, I decided to do a few day’s worth of trekking. I found a guide, and we set off on a 30 km circuit in the Annapurna Conservation Area. First, though, we had to take a bus from Pokhara to the entry point. We initially rode on top of the bus, which was quite comfortable except for my having to repeatedly duck down as to not hit my head on low-lying power lines. Also riding on top of the bus were a handful of other people, as well as five burlap sacks containing five living pigs. I was introduced to the pigs with the instructions to “not stand or sit on them.” The livliness of the animals was in question until one unsuspecting fellow stepped on a bag. The pig inside was definitely alive. Anyways, it began to rain, so I rode the last hour inside the bus, bent over like a prostrating giraffe. Also, at one point I hit a small child with my backpack. His mother was very angry. (You can decide whether or not I did it on purpose. Your response is an indicator of how lonely you are.)

This little piggy went to the market... in a burlap sack, this little piggy ate roast beef... in a burlap sack, and this little piggy cried whee whee whee all the way home...in a burlap sack.

**A quick side note for the easily confused: Trekking in Nepal is not like alpine hiking, as one is not expected to pitch a tent and camp at night, and it is not like mountain climbing, as no climbing equipment is necessary. Rather, trekking consists of hiking on trails and stone paths during the day, and spending the night in one of the many tea house lodges which have been set up along the trail. Therefore, there is no need to bring a sleeping bag or dehydrated tofu chili, as beds and food are always avaiable. Class dismissed.**

The first day of the trek was very bearable. We jogged the path at a fast pace and reached our night’s lodgings in two hours, whereas supposedly it usually takes five. We stayed at a little lodge in a place called Hile. The lodge owner’s name was Beem, an excitable little fellow with a passion for English movies and trying to make his guests feel comfortable. The generous character of Beem was best exemplified when we crowded around a small TV to watch “Die Hard 2″ and Beem handed me a Q-tip. “What’s this for?” I asked. “To clean your ears,” he replied, as he began to dig into his head with a Q-tip of his own. Looking around, I saw that he was in good company. I was 1500 meters above sea level, watching “Die Hard 2″ on Pakistani Filmax, surrounded by four guys cleaning their ears happily with Q-tips. I decided to save mine for an emergency.

Gandruk to Nayapol

The second day of the trek ranked very high on the unpleasantness scale and would have made a good plot for a book called, “The Eighty Times I Contemplated Throwing Myself Off of a Mountain, and Other Short Stories.” Our hike primarily consisted of ascending 1300 meters up a hill. There are a few different ways to climb this hill, and while my guide prefered to walk upright, I chose the ‘crying on my bleeding hands and knees’ method. To each his own.
Once at the top, we ate a huge cucumber the size of an elephant suppository, before continuing on to Ghorepani, where we stayed the night.

The morning of day three brought the only noteable mountain views of the trek when we saw bits and pieces of the Annapurna mountains through gaps in the clouds. After this short scenery interlude, we continued to climb up to the highest point of our trek, where we hoped to be greeted by the glory of the Himalayas.

Clountains

*A brief expression of frustration: During my primarily sedentary life, I have participated in a handful of strenuous hikes. However, the discomfort experinced during such hikes is usually fleeting as there is always some beautiful reward, such as a sunrise, a glacial lake, or a scenic view. The discovery of such a reward usually coincides with the post-exercise dopamine rush, and therefore causes me to forget the lactic acid which has gradually filled my body. The reward on this trek was supposed to be the Himalayan mountain range. Yet, upon reaching our highest point at just over 3300 meters, we were rewarded with a white wall of cloud. Thus, if only had I been told that the point of the hike was to see the world’s biggest cloud, would I have been satisfied.*

Anyways, after looking at the Great Wall of Cloud, we continued our third day of trekking by walking down, down, down. It was during this day of descent that we had to take refuge from the rain for two hours. My guide and I spent the two hours sleeping on benches in a lodge, using a table cloth as a blanket. By the time we set out again, the stone path was very slippery and muddy. During this wet part of the trek, I discovered the resiliant nature of leeches. Despite wearing long pants, high socks, and close toed shoes, a few of the suckers managed to burrow their way to my feet where they had a leech keger, drank a year’s supply of blood, and made a mess of the place. I do not know if the leeches had any negative intent, but if they did, the joke is on them. I am O POSITIVE. However, my apologies to the New York Blood Center, as I am fresh out of charitable blood.

Glorious Victory...

We spent our third and final night in Gandruk, before heading back to Nayapol, our drop off and pick up location. Fortunately, this final day of trekking brought nice, clear weather. Unfortunately, the mountains were behind us and a gastrointestinal illness had infiltrated my body. I had a great time in the squat toilets, where I made the discovery that the spiders you see on YouTube, you know the ones which eat chihuahuas without chewing, are real.

All in all, the trek was an experience worth having as I learned a lot about perspiration, perspiration, and blood loss. Make no mistake, though, I would never do it again.

Moving on.

After bidding farewell to Pokhara and a ten hour bus ride (three of which were spent in a hillside traffic jam), I returned to my friend Shyam’s in Kathmandu.

Hot Jam!

As some of you may have commented so diligently, I neglected to tend to my facial hair for the past two months. Unfortunately, local authorities noticed as well, and at gunpoint I was forced to shave because I was “making children and the elderly uncomfortable.” With my facial hair gone, it was also recommended to me that I get a haircut. So, I visited a local barber. The first sign that something was amiss was posted right inside the barbershop door. It was a poster showing six men, likely fresh out of prison, who were displaying what was elegantly called “The Latest Hairstyles.” One of the dodgy characters had “2002″ shaved into the back of his head, while another social deviant had a hairdo which looked like one of the Mario mushroom men after a run in with Edward Scissorhands and a rogue lawnmower. Anyways, despite my request for a disco ball to be shaved into my eyebrows, my hair was cut in a fairly normal fashion, with a pair of rusty scissors and a partially-toothless comb.

When I thought the act was completed, the barber told me to put my head down. I did so, and suddenly felt heavy pounding on my neck and back. Fists clenched, I turned to see that the barber was attacking me! Curious as to why I was receiving this pummeling, I sat up and the man grabbed my eyebrows with his fingers and shook my head with his thumbs pressing into my temples. At one point he even twisted my arms behind my back and yanked on my fingers. When he doused my hair in kerosene, later revealed to be auyervedic oil, I realized I had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book: the ol’ “massage after a haircut” trick. Damn. So the score now stands: Barber – 1, Jody – 0. Yet, the joke once again falls on the antagonist, as this unlikely villain gave me something which I have gone years without. A tan line. Unfortunately, it replaced my once normal neck hairline.

Terrorizing the Children

I have three days left in Nepal, and may never write again.
Thanks for stopping by.

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**For those who were curious, my thanka (Tibetan mandala) painting**

Tibetan Mandala

Pictures and Potential Farewell!

This will probably be my penultimate (or potentially ultimate) blog post from Nepal, as I am leaving to go trekking tomorrow for a few days. After the trek, I plan to return to Kathmandu for a few days before leaving Nepal on September 4th.

I will try to squeeze one more post in before then, but experience has shown that often unpredictability overpowers set intentions.

In the meantime, I finished my thanka and went paragliding. Check out the pictures on Facebook… you will have to click to the last pages.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=10454&id=1583610056&l=989528634d

Discomfort is a way of keeping occupied during the ride.

The literate amongst you may remember the discomfort the Joad family experienced traveling from Oklahoma to California. Steinbeck’s words have finally come alive for me.

As for the illiterate amongst you, hiohoif ihfkhd ruwroiu ckh wehjwelk.

A lot of people who travel in this part of the world have an anecdote about a terrible transportation experience they had which by comparison made the biblical interpretation of Hell seem as tame as a Men’s Warehouse commercial. Well, I have earned my suit as I finally had my horrendous local transport experience. And it was pretty bad. It was even worse than flying Delta Airlines. I guarantee it.

Last week, I stayed the night in a town called Tansen, which was a little more exciting than waiting for an ant to urinate, and the only available transportation to Pokhara was a local bus. I use local transportation fairly frequently, so I did not think much of it. Come departure time and it was pouring rain, which was lousy primarily because the narrow, winding mountain roads are prone to landslides, which are the ultimate bummer in overland travel. Sure enough, we stopped after driving ten minutes and took a two-hour tea and cigarette break (..no Mom, I do not smoke. I am talking about the bus driver), which I later learned was actually a delay caused by landslides. Do not fret friends, after the delay Hell Ride 2009 commenced.

I do not know exactly how to explain the discomfort I experienced during the ride, as it could only be shared with you accurately if I gave a minute-by-minute account totaling 600 minutes in all. If you are curious, it would have looked a little like this:

Get your elbow out of my rib! Get your umbrella off of my lap! Stop vomiting behind me! Stop vomiting next to me! You are sitting on me! Your umbrella is dripping water on me! Leg cramp… Please do not drive over the cliff! Stop vomiting! Why are you yelling? Why is he yelling? You are standing on my bag! Leg cramp… Is she vomiting or laughing? Why are we stopping here? Why is he selling bananas now? That old woman staring at me smells like milled rice! Leg cramp… Could someone please swaddle that baby? Leg cramp…

… and the ride continued for an additional 597 minutes.

Fun Fact: At one of the more ridiculous points in the trip, I counted 24 people in my immediate, 180 degree frontal region. This includes the four people hanging out the front door and does not include the other 40-60 people seated and standing behind me. It seemed that for every stop which let off ten people, twenty more people would try to get on.

I have all sorts of theories as to why some countries’ public transportation has reached a point beyond sanity, but for that you will have to tune into my PBS special. As for now, we will move on with our lives and add my experience to the list of Questions for God (…the title of the next Mitch Albom novel?)

Pokhara is great. I am staying in the Lakeside area, which is a street running along Phewa Tal (one of the large lakes in the region) and on a rare clear day you can see nice views of the mountains. For the last week I have been taking thanka painting lessons. For five hours a day, I sit with my teacher listening to his mix of 70’s disco music and Hawaiin tunes and try to internalize a basic understanding of the very complicated and nuanced style of art which masters generally spend their whole lives perfecting. I only have time to give it a week, though.

Aside from thanka lessons and a few side trips to the hills, there is not much to do during monsoon season in Pokhara except eat, read, and walk around interacting with the touts. I am so thankful for the hawkers who spend their lives enticing tourists to buy souvenirs, food, and illicit drugs. My favorite by far are the hashish sellers whose persistence, despite my non reception, never fails to crack me up. They are not the intimidating Hollywood drug dealer type, but instead are generally teenaged kids, sometimes wearing torn Shakira t-shirts, whose intent is written on their forehead.

I now take any opportunity to mess with them.

When I see of the sellers approaching me, I try to spout the typical opening line before they can: “Namaste! You want hashish?” I ask as fast as I can. This usually stops them in their tracks and produces a laugh, or at least a stutter. The best part is whatever line they can come up with next. So far, the best follow up line I have heard is, “What do you mean? I am a trekking guide. You want to go trekking? … … … If you want, I also have good smoke.” These guys, along with the barbershop touts, who I use the same gig on, consistently provide me with a good laugh.

I would keep writing, but the internet is less dependable than the ATMs (this is also the explanation for the lack of photos. My apologies to the Queen.)

So, without further ado.

Elephant Riding and Buddha Birthing

I have officially passed the half way point of my trip, and like a good all-you-can-eat buffet, it’s only once you are “half way” done that things start to get interesting.

So, I present to you a buffet of interesting things I have done recently.

Royal Chitwan National Park:

It was time to leave the horn-honking capital of the world, Kathmandu, and venture south to the Royal Chitwan National Park, located in the Terai region of Nepal. In the eyes of devout Nepal tourists (whose bible is the Lonely Planet guide book) there are certain things one must do in order to have “done” Chitwan properly. To receive your Chitwan Boy Scout Badge, you must visit the elephant breeding center, go on a canoe ride, take a jungle walk, see elephants being bathed, ride an elephant, and see a cultural dance show. If you miss even one of these attractions, then “ooooh boy, you missed out on the beeest part, what a shame, you are going to burn for eternity, blah blah blah.” Lucky for me, and my soul, I did all of the above… PLUS MORE! (I got sick and lost my voice.)

Me and my pet elephant skull

The elephant breeding center is accessible only by canoe, and one must walk through a field of grazing water buffalo who seem less interested in you, and more interested in their grassy meal which is growing out of a perpetually replenished supply of fecal waste. Before seeing the elephants, we took a brief visit to the center’s museum which proudly displays an elephant skull (~ In the 80s, the elephants tried to unionize, so a park ranger cut off the biggest elephant’s head ~) as well as a photograph of a man riding an elephant, as the elephant rides another elephant. Unfortunately, the breeding center itself is not nearly as exciting as the museum makes it out to be. There are a number of mother elephants chained to posts (they sometimes receive congenial vists by a male elephant from the forest) surrounded by a baby elephants who run around freely and are harassed by camera-touting tourists, like yours truly.

Marsh Mugger

We took a canoe ride down the Rapti River in a handmade canoe (because footmade canoes do not exist) and along the way we saw many exotic winged-creatures, called birds, as well as a really nasty-looking crocodile called a Marsh Mugger. Interestingly, the British borrowed the word ‘mugger’ after seeing Marsh Muggers in India drag villagers into the water. I know this because the crocodiles are really proud and tell everyone.

After the canoe ride ended, the jungle walk began. Before entering the jungle, we were given a preparatory speech about how to handle the wild animals if we come face-to-face with them. The advice ranged from the cowardly (“if you see a tiger, scream”) to the more cowardly (“if you see an elephant, run.”) I was interested to learn that rhinos can run 40 km/h, so “if you see a rhino, run 41 km/h.” Unfortunately, the only wildlife we saw were thousands of little red beetles which scurry around everywhere, and only pose a threat during hunting season when they carry shotguns.

Red is his gang color.

Halfway through the jungle walk, which had less wildlife than my hotel room, we were engulfed in a monsoon rain. I threw my camera into a ziplock bag, and spent the next hour walk-swimming (kind of like the exercises you see 80-year-olds doing in public pools.) There was a bottle neck of stranded tourist groups on the bank of the river, waiting to be rescued by canoes.  There were some characters moaning things like, “I can’t believe how wet I am,” and “I’ve never been so wet before in my life.” These fools have obviously never bathed properly. To be honest, as long as my camera was safe, I did not mind the rain. I prefer rain to be falling out of the sky, then say, forks or tasers.

A cricket the size of a mouse...as seen from the outside of a hotel mug

All I will say about “elephant bathing” is that it should be renamed, “pay to be tossed off of an elephant’s back, as onlookers laugh with glee.” I was one of the ones laughing with glee.

When I was in Kenya, I did a safari in a jeep. Today, I can say I have also done a safari on the back of an elephant. Hell, I may even put it on my resume. Essentially, a bunch of tourists come together, and divide up into groups of four. Big elephants come out, with their driver sitting on their neck (commanding the elephants by speaking some sort of cryptic elephant language, pushing the elephants ears with their feet, and conking the elephants on the head with a big stick. Seriously. Our driver was able to navigate the elephant, tell the elephant to knock down trees, command the elephant to run…), and the four tourists cram into a little box on the elephants back. While sitting in a small box, strapped to a bouncing elephants back, with three other people was not very comfortable, I cannot imagine that having a box strapped to my back, with four people in it, and a guy sitting on my neck kicking my ears and hitting me on the head with a stick, would be a prance through Happyland, either. Yet, it was a fun trip. We saw some rhinos, who we succeeded in scaring the hell out of by surrounding them with four to seven elephants, and sixteen to twenty-eight camera-strapped tourists. Supposedly there was a tiger, too. All I saw was a pair of legs, which looked like a deer, slipping into the forest. It could have been Dolly Parton for all I know.

Nope....not a tourist in sight.

As for the cultural dance show… We watched traditional Tharu dances, which were entertaining. We clapped. Some tourists were invited onto the stage to flop around like nearly-asphyxiated fish.

Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha:

After Chitwan, I ventured west to Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha. I would have expected Lumbini to be more of a tourist attraction, but on the two buses from Chitwan, there was only one other tourist and the rest were local people just riding the bus, as local people will do. On the first bus, a man brought on three crates of baby chickens. Just riding the bus, as baby chickens will do. On the second bus, there was no room inside, so I rode on top of the bus and worked on my gripping abilities. This experience reminded me that in life, we seldom ride “on” the bus (or “on” the airplane for that matter. As George Carlin said, “let Evil Knievel ride on the plane, I am riding in the plane. There seems to be a little less wind in here.)

On the bus to Lumbini

I was also surprised to find that aside from the massive park containing the Maya Devi Temple (the birthplace of the Buddha), as well as many beautifully ornate monasteries, there is not much to see, or do, in Lumbini. However, I gather from the stares I receive, that the circus is in town.

It is said that Maya Devi, a princess from Devdaha and the soon-to-be Buddha’s mother, had a dream about an elephant and upon waking, took a bath in a pond. She came out of the pond and began to feel labor pains. As she gripped a sal tree, she gave birth to Gautama Siddhartha, who would later become the Buddha. After entering the world, the Buddha took seven steps (each producing a lotus flower) and uttered something profound. Ironically, the birth of the Buddha was very similar to my own, except my mother spent the night before the birth sleeping in a bed covered in sandbox sand, and after I was born, I just screamed. Maybe I was preparing for the tigers I would meet some day on a jungle walk.

Anyways, I woke up early one morning, rented a “bicycle” (calling that death trap a bicycle is like calling Laffy-Taffy a suspension bridge), and spent four hours riding around the massive complex (a park with many temples/monasteries, a central canal, a crane sanctuary.) Most of the monasteries are really quite amazing, and my descriptions cannot do the architectural beauty justice, so please look at the pictures.

It is hot in Lumbini, and when I say that I sweated during my tour of the area, I mean I SWEATED. I was riding over fairly flat ground the whole time, but the heat had me producing enough salt water to soak all of the karpas at all of the Passover seders in Brooklyn. This was a sweat which would make even Lance Armstrong call it quits. I would say that I have never sweated so much before in my life, but one flashback to running the mile in elementary school P.E. would disprove that statment. There is a chance that the immense loss of water would have killed me, seeing as the opportunity to buy clean water was far and nill, yet thanks to two wells, one generous janitor, and my SteriPen, I am alive.

The Peace Bell

Me and my pet elephant skull

Marsh Mugger

Red is his gang color.

Bathing elephants/tossing tourists

Nope….not a tourist in sight.

A cricket the size of a mouse…as seen from the outside of a hotel mug

On the bus to Lumbini

A final thought for all of you unemployed folks who have too much internet-browsing time on your hands (or is it the employed who spend too much time browsing the internet? Another case for the Boxcar Kids to solve….) I have enjoyed my time outside of Kathmandu, as I am meeting many fellow tourists. While in Kathmandu, I primarily spent time with Nepalis, so have had very little opportunity to swap stories with my fellow traveler (or culture-destroyer, depending on who you ask.) In Chitwan, I braved the jungle with a Spanish teacher from Chicago, an Indian whom everyone confuses for a South American, and a Serbian girl whose name sounded like “dragon.” Coming to Lumbini, I traveled with an Indian-born woman who has a very philosophical tongue, and an eye for architecture. Never before have a heard so much disdain for concrete. I also met a pair of travelers who spend half the year working and half the year traveling on pennies.

I am in an internet cafe in a town called Tansen. They are blasting Creed over the speakers… a sure sign it is time to sign out.

Tomorrow to Pokhara…

Nepal for the Alpha-Oriented (alt. title: Nepalphabet)

I miss you, Anarchy

A is for Anarchy. As in, “I miss you, Anarchy,” a message I saw painted on the back of a public bus.

B is for Bollywood, which has destroyed the made-for-TV movie genre.

C is for children, of which I will have none, if I have to endure one more bumpy mountain ride on the back of a motorbike.

D is for Dog, the word suggested to me by Sabindra and Sundesh, Shyam’s sons, when I asked for a “D” word which is applicable to Nepal. (…because ‘there are dogs in Nepal.’)

E is for Eyes, where my Dr Bronner’s high concentration, Magic All-One! soap situated itself last week.

F is for Five, the number of hours it took to regain full sight in my left eye after the Dr. Bronner’s incident

G is for Good learning experience. Which is the best way to describe this trip. Instead of 24/7, boogie-boogie, big fun time all the time, I am realizing that trips like this are more of a chance for receiving a strange, yet valuable, education which I would be hard-pressed to find elsewhere.
H is for Heartburn. Which reminds us that eating curry everyday for breakfast and dinner may be why Asia suffers from so many gastrointestinal problems.

I is for Inexpensive, as in “Wow, that bootleg “Everybody Loves Raymond” DVD box set sure is inexpensive!”

J is for “Jesus, that’s a big statue of Buddha.”

Jesus, that's a big Buddha

K is for Keebler elf, another possible accomplice in the theft of my cell phone.

L is for the Laughs I receive when I introduce myself as Jody. “Jodi” means ‘couple’ or ‘pair’ in Nepali, and “Jodi Number One” is a popular brand of condoms.

M is for the Monsoon rain, which has contributed greatly to my clothes smelling like ten-day-old wet towel.

Rain...

N is for Norway, the only country beginning with “N” that I can think of at the moment.

O is for Orthopedic surgeon, who I will be making a close aquaintance of mine, after I have repeatedly crunched my 6′2″ frame into buses made for a 5′ demographic.

P is for a Pogo stick, because the longer I don’t have one, the more I think I need one.

Q is for Quietly, which is how I sit when in a room full of non-English speaking Nepalis (or a pack of tigers.)

R is for Rakshi, the brother of moonshine and the cousin of propane, which would be better suited as a medical sterilizer than as a beverage.

S is for Squat toilets, the reason why the British never colonized Nepal.

T is for Two, the number of times I got lost using public transportation last Thursday,

U is for the Universal language of children worldwide: “Please, one sweet?” As an extended hand reaches out longingly for candy.

V is for “Vvvvvvvvvvvvv!” the sound a mosquito makes in the middle of the night, moments before it meets its creator, by way of my hands.

W is for Water blisters, the strange bumps I have only on one finger, allegedly from bacteria in the water.

X is for Xtremely challenging, which is what finding an applicable word beginning with “x” (aside from xenophobia and Xavier College.)

Y is for Yoga. I took a class with Yogashri Akhil Bhattacharya almost three weeks ago, and my knees are still in pain.

Z is for Zoo, where I learned that if you tease the animals, a flying elephant will make you bleed.

When animal murals attack...

This blog post is in memory of my Dr. Bronner’s Magic All-One! soap, which in a rare shower tragedy, slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor, and in the process emptied itself down the drain.

For those of you who have ever relied upon Dr. Bronner’s for your hair, body, teeth, clothes, and dinnerware cleansing during your travels, you can surely realize what a disasterous blow this has been to my Summer 2009 Nepal Excursion.

Pissing in the River

While a friend (Yadu) was driving me around on his bike, he told me that like women in America, men in Nepal often urinate together. It is not uncommon to see one man go to relieve himself on the side of the road and be followed by many of the males in the vicinity. He proceeded to tell me a story about how this communal urination culture caused Nepal to lose a war:

It was the early morning, and the Nepalese army was in a tedious standstill. The enemy army was just across the battlefield, waiting for the right moment to attack. In the midst of the tension, one of the Nepalese soldiers had the uncontrollable urge to pee, so he stood up and walked to the bushes… and the whole battalion of men followed suite. Just as the entire Nepalese army was relieving themselves in the brush, the enemy decided to launch their attack. Fortunately for them, they literally caught the Nepalese army with their pants down.

I tell this story in order to give some insight into my latest round of travel miscommunications. A fellow I met owns a business in northern Nepal. The other night, he was telling me about the business and its location near the Bhote Kose river.

“My business is on the river”
“Oh, very nice.”
“The river is good to piss in.”
“…what?”
“The river is good to piss in. I piss there all the time… It’s the best piss in the whole country.”
“You don’t say.”
“Maybe we can piss together sometime?”
“Maybe…”
“What? You don’t like to piss?”

I thought the invitation for a friendly co-urination in the river was pretty strange, but remembering the story Yadu told me, I tried to be as culturally sensitive as possible.

It is important to know that in the Nepali language there are aspirated consonants. For example, there is a difference between saying “b” and “bh” (the second is pronounced with an extra breath of air following the “b” sound… most Western languages do not differentiate between the two.) One such consonant is an aspirated “p,” which in Nepali often sounds like an “f.” Thus, many Nepalese people mix up their p’s and f’s when trying to speak English. In Nepali there is also a “sh” consonant which is often pronounced like “s.” Those two sounds are frequently interchanged, as well.

With those linguistic rules in mind, it took me a few moments to realized that I was not being asked to go piss with the man, but rather to go fish.

Hell, maybe we can do both if we have enough time.

Preparing the Sushi Plant

Another miscommunication, stemming from the same phoneme mix up, has been occurring quite frequently:

“Jody, you peeling bhor-ing?”
“…”
“Peeling Bhoring!”
“I don’t know what you are saying.”
“Peel Boring! Boring!”

…as in, feeling bored. Am I feeling bored.

“No, but I can peel potatoes.” (Har! Har!)

One final miscommunication anecdote, which I have deemed worthy of your attention, occurred last week when I was checking into a hotel (in which I was robbed of my phone and my dignity), and I made small talk with one of the employees, named Ram. Ram asked me,
“You like Nepal gul?”
“Gull?”
“Yeah, gul. What you think Nepal gul?”
“As in, the bird?”
“Gul.”
“Spell it.”
“G-U-L”
“What is a gul?”
“Gul, you know, gul!”
“Is it English?”

…I flipped through my English-Nepali dictionary and tried to match up potential translations, with no success (“Fun?” No. “Antiques?” No.) Finally, we reached an understanding… ‘Gul’ = girl.
(I almost asked what the ‘gulls’ thought of the ‘piss’ in the river, but I figured it would only widen the language crevasse.)

Moving on.

Milking the water buffalo... sweet, sweet water buffalo

Thanks to the friendships I have made (and these friends’ possession of motorbikes) I have spent a respectable amount of time seeing the temples and sights around Kathmandu and the surrounding area.

Feel free to see my regularly updated Facebook photo album:

Pictures

I have also been fortunate to spend some time doing some less traditional tourist activities.

Shyam took me to his home village, Kadambas, this past weekend. On the way there, we made a slight detour to see the Nepal-Tibet border, which was not terribly exciting except for that the border crossing spans the Bhote Kose river on what is ironically called the “Friendship Bridge.”

I was deliberately instructed not to take pictures of the bridge, but in another bout of miscommunication, I heard ‘don’t take pictures on the bridge.’ Seeing as I was not on the bridge… I took a picture.
So, coming to you straight from Chinese prison is my photo of the Friendship Bridge!

Friendship Bridge: Where You Are a Friend... unless you take a picture.

We spent the night in Kadambas, a small village on top of a hill side. The houses are spread out and most people tend corn, rice, and water buffalo. The most notable event of the visit was my near loss of consciousness eating Shyam’s mother’s Dal Bhat (staple meal I have mentioned previously: rice, lentils, curry, spicy pickled stuff.) A combination of the mountain humidity, normal heat, the sheer weight and density of eating so much rice, and this particular meal’s extreme spiciness… caused my head to spin and my eyesight to go dodgy. Yet, the dear old woman was sitting there politely watching me eat and I could not stop to explain that dangerous things were going down in Wonderland…so I kept eating.

It was a strange experience, as I literally felt my mouth igniting into flaming agony as my forehead gushed in a cold sweat. Yet, like those who came before me, I prevailed. I emptied my plate in front of me, said ‘mitosa’ (delicious), and lived to tell the tale.

Shyam and his parents

A day's worth of corn husks

Animal Farm

Children of Kadambas

Final note: While showing some things on my laptop to Sabindra, Shyam’s nine-year-old son whose English is quite good, a picture came up with Hebrew. I read the Hebrew to him, and he asked me,

“You know how to read Chinese?”

“No, that language is called Hebrew.”

“Oh, in Nepali we call it Chinese.”

…such ignorance.

Chibrew

ROBBED! … in my sleep by a gnome?

Everyone stay calm.

I WAS ROBBED!!!

I said to stay calm, damn it.

The details of the incident will both shock and astound you. The response may cause an undue backlash against the gnome community, as I am positive they are to blame.

The details:

Tuesday, 28 July in the year of our lord 2009. Approx. 11:30pm

I retire from a night of Nepaliness, to my room at the Hotel Red Planet. I have two English language newspapers in hand, and as my consciousness begins to fade, I set the alarm on my phone to 8:30am, and place the phone atop my wallet on the counter adjacent to my resting head. I get up to turn off the lights and slip into a deep, oblivious-to-the-fact-that-I-am-about-to-become-an-egregious-victim-to-an-act-of-theft sleep.

Wednesday, 29 July in the year of the Ox 2009. Approx. 8:45am

I awake from dreams of candy canes and world conquest, to the suspicion that I slept through my alarm. Reaching for my phone, my hand finds only the sticky vaneer of a cheap nightstand. “Hmm, I must’ve knocked it on the floor,” says I, in the most innocent of voices… as I begin to thrash violently through sheets and English newspapers in search of my hidden phone. Not finding success, I go to where any level-headed individual would look for a lost phone. The bathroom.

Upon entering the lavatory, I chance upon a strange sight: my debit card, insurance card, drivers license, and blood donation card strewed about in the sink… like some sort of wallet card pool party gone horribly wrong.

*profanities!*

After a brief, but efficient, profanity break, I begin the dash through my room in search of my other belongings.

Laptop? check.

Camera? check.

Passports? check.

Cell Phone? ROBBED

Wallet (containing about $15)? ROBBED

David Hasslehoff toothbrush? Seeing as I have never owned one,  ROBBED!

I notify the front desk, and they come to conduct a professional examination… tapping on doors, looking under the bed, checking the light switch. A real Sherlock Holmes style investigation. They conclude that it is a mystery…

Both of the main entry points into the room, the door from the hotel hallway and the door to the balcony, are bolted from the inside. Therefore, no one (even if they have a key) could gain entry from the outside without some sort of space age transportation device. The two windows, which potentially a thief could reach through, are barred. Furthermore, the window nearest to the location of the stolen belongings is situated on a 2nd story balcony, which is also heavily barred. Thus, my only conclusion is that some tiny, contortionist of a gnome climbed through the 1ft by 1ft hole in the barred window of the bathroom, entered my room, took the phone and wallet, took out my most valuable cards (including my blood donation card, thank god!!!!), deposited them in the sink, and flushed himself down the toilet.

It is the only reasonable explanation.

The hotel owner was supposed to come meet me at the hotel… but was half an hour late, and seeing as I didn’t have all day, I headed out on the day’s adventure with a friend from Columbia who so graciously showed me around the valley during these most troubling of times.

I returned in the evening, only to find that the hotel owner was still MIA. At the current moment of typing (Thursday, 30 July in the year of our gourd 2009. 9:43 am), I am awaiting the mysterious hotel owner’s arrival, so we can hold hands and walk to the tourist police to file a sweet little claim.

So, plain and simple. I am a victim, and I will be opening a scholarship fund when I return to the US:

A Gnome Caged is a Phone Saved: Scholarship Fund for Regular-sized Law-Abiding Citizens.

(Crime Scene Depictions are Recreated for the Sake of Internet Sensationalism)

This is not where I usually keep my drivers license.

Potential way of entry #1: The adjacent open window (note the barring)

The site of my once beloved (it was actually a POS) phone and my trusty wallet of five years.

Potential entrypoint #2: Adjacent window (note the bars, plus, this window leads to a balcony which is also heavily barred)

Bolted doors! (Camera flash added for effect)

Doors bolted from the inside… impossible to enter without transportation device or medieval battering ram.

The survivors of the cowardly attack on American material possession freedoms!

Expert estimation of the thief’s height.

Potential point of entry #3

Potential Point of Entry #4

Was it him? … no too big.

Was it him? … no, too many arms.

Or was it him? … no, too golden.

It definitely could’ve been him.

(Click on the pictures to enlarge)

Look folks, I’ve said it once and I will say it again. Gnomes are not to be trusted, get them out of your lawn.

———————————————————————————————-

30 July 2009. 2:39pm

Well, folks. I met up with the hotel owner and we made the report to the tourist police…which turned into a three hour ordeal. However, after inspecting the room, and interrogating me and the hotel workers, justice has been served! The police decided that since the case is too confusing it means the phone has not been stolen. They reason that either

A) I am lying. After all, who is more likely to steal my phone than me? Am I right? eh, yeah?

or

B) The case is too confusing and  since no culprit can be found, it means the phone was never stolen. After all, if no thief is found, there could have been no crime.  That makes sense, right?

Hurray… case.. solved…

Seven Weeks in Nepal (Not starring Brad Pitt)

“I sit beside the dark
Beneath the mire
Cold grey dusty day
The morning lake
Drinks up the sky

Kathmandu I’ll soon be seeing you
And your strange bewildering time
Will hold me down,”

- ‘Katmandu’ by Cat Stevens

Like most Cat Stevens songs, I have no idea what the hell he is talking about, so I decided to find out for myself.

During my pleasant flight from Doha to Kathmandu, I sat next to a Nepalese man who did not speak English, yet insisted on teaching me about cloud formations. (Without a common language, how do I know what he was saying? Even a goat could teach me about the water cycle after pantomiming for three hours.) Our plane descended through the thick monsoon clouds which covered the Indian Ocean, and a beautiful expanse of Nepal’s broad forests, hills, and a bit of the Himalayan base was revealed. Not bad for a Sunday morning, not bad at all.

Sunrise over clouds (which are formed by water which used to be on the ground, but when the clouds get full, they drop rain...good to know, eh?)

Look, I know how you internet audiences are, really, I do. You don’t like pleasant stories of butterflies eating candy corn with Keebler Elfs. Those romantic-June Cleaver-esque sentiments only make you want to lose your lunch. Yeah, I get it. You want trial, tribulation, and anecdotes of adventures gone wrong.

First of all, you are sick, second of all, yeah, I’ll have a few of those stories. Just sit tight and keep your cool.

The Himalayas at sunrise, as seen from the village of Nagarkot (Usually the view is more spectacular, but seeing as it is monsoon season, the clouds have a strong presence)

Snafu #1: Before I arrived, I knew that I needed $100 and two passport pictures to get the proper tourist visa for my time in Nepal. Yet, come my arrival in Kathmandu airport, I realized that I forgot the passport pictures. Look, common mistake, lay off. Anyways, it was no problem, there was a photo booth. As for the money, I had it…really, I was good for it. I left my money in a secure place, with a close friend named Mister MasterCard. Yet, the story only gets interesting when I am barred entry into the country because I need $100 cash… no bank cards allowed. Cash only. What am I, a drug dealer?

So, I reason with the Dudes at the Door of the country, to let me go find an ATM outside. I began my epic adventure for cash by jogging through the labyrinth of an airport, gaining entry through every gateway with the magic phrase, “IjustarrivedonanairplaneandIdidn’thaveenoughmoneyforavisasonowIamlookingforanATMfortheloveofgod(s)pleaseletmethrough,” and voila, it worked.

Exiting the airport was the first battle. The second battleground awaited me outside, where I was faced with a battalion of new friends. Allegedly. At least, I was their friend, as they only referred to me as “my friend, my friend … come into my taxi/let me loan you some money/you want hotel?” Ah, so many friends, and I was only in the country for forty minutes! One of my new friends led me to the ATM (and was even kind enough to watch me put my PIN number into the machine. A good friend.) Ah, the ATM was “out of service.” A lovely trend in Kathmandu. Show me a Kathmandu ATM with money, and I will show you a lineup of tourists longer than the line for Disneyland’s Splash Mountain.

My epic continues as I am unable to get cash, still need a Visa, and have to somehow gain reentry into the airport. Hit the rewind button. I reenter every exit in the airport with the magic phrase, “pleasepleaseletmebackinbecausebeforeIdidnothaveenoughmoneyforavisasoIwenttotheATMbutitisemptywhichdeservesanexplanationatsomepointbutanywaysIdon’thavetimetomakesmalltalkIneedtogogetavisawithmylackofmoneypleaseletmein.” Lo and behold, it worked.

Conclusion number one, Tribhuvan Airport has the worst security ever.

Long story longer, I eventually worked it out with the aiport visa people, and bought a short term visa, which will have to be extended at some point. (This story receives an 8 on the excitement scale, no arguing.)

Changu Narayan - The oldest Hindu temple in Nepal

Nyatapola Temple in Bhaktapu - The tallest temple in Nepal (I am standing with my buddy, Gyanendra...and there is an Indian tourist in the picture, as well. He is not my buddy.)

For the last week, I have been staying with a friend named Baghwan Giri, but his nickname is Shyam (pronounced kind of like “Sam.”) Shyam is friends with Jeremy Graham, who is a colleague of my mom, Dr. Mary Noble. You can discover how the connection was made by reading the aforementioned names in reverse alpha-order.

When Shyam picked me up from the airport, I foolishly asked, “Where is your car?” “Here,” he says, pointing at his motorbike. Yama-yehaw! Clinging for dear life, and nearly soiling my quick-drying REI pants, I used my abductors to stay centered on the bike (all the while trying to counterbalance my 40 lb backpack), as we wove through traffic (i.e. – cars, vans, buses, rickshaws, cows, other bikes, people, sleeping dogs) from the airport to Shyam’s home in Lokanthali (just outside of Kathmandu.)

A brief glimpse at traffic from the semisafety of a taxi

Quick sentimental reflection: when I first visited New York in high school, I thought, ‘Wow, traffic sure is bad in the big city.’ When I lived in Israel after high school, I often thought, ‘Wow, traffic is terrible in Israel.’ When I was in Kenya at the beginning of the summer, I relented “dear lord, traffic cannot get any worse.” Here, in Nepal, I just whimper.

Seeing as no words can truly justify life’s experiences, I will try my best to explain the traffic situation:

If James Bond’s driving instructor were to be cloned one thousand times, and each clone were given either a motorbike, a bus, or a three-wheeled van (called a tempu or autorickshaw), and let’s say that a quarter of the clones were blind, another quarter were angry, and everyone (save a few who are cowering in the corner) were made just a little bit insane, and these clones were put on a dusty, bumpy road, and these clones are being chased by a 100-foot tall, fire-breathing chinchilla… then that’s the traffic situation.

Truth be told, I have been riding on the back of motorbikes for a week now, and have actually come to really enjoy the experience. They are much more agile than cars, they make climbing hills and getting to mountain towns much faster, and they can be perceived as pretty fun, especially when the brain is choked of oxygen thanks to the airborne specks of dirt and diesel which have forcefully clogged up my lungs.

Getting the most out of my insurance policy

I am seeing LOTS of Buddhist and Hindu temples/stupas (there are allegedly 33 million incarnations of the three main Gods– Brahman, Shiva, Vishnu– and there are almost as many temples).

I am eating lots of flavorful food. Dhal Baat (lentils and rice, usually serviced with curry) is the staple meal here. We usually eat it twice a day. I am living every three to seven-year-old’s dream, as the messy dish is eaten with a cupped right hand (… unfortunately, the left hand is reserved for cleaning the other end of the food consumption machine.) I have also been drinking lots of tea… tea massalla, milk tea, tea tea. I have never been so anti oxidized before in my life.

Drinking tongba, a hot drink made from fermented millet. It has an evil cousin, called rakshi which I had a few nights later... turns out it is Nepali Moonshine.

Yesterday, I saw a cow lying in the road, with red dye on its forehead and it was wearing a flower necklace. Seriously.

Last week, one of Shyam’s nephews showed me around Thamel, the main tourist district of Kathmandu. We ended up at his friend’s workplace, where there is an editing suite for Nepalese films. I told his friend about the film project I worked on in Kenya, and he asked me to help edit for one of their movies. So, for about an hour, I sat and edited what will be one of cinema’s most horrendous films. Like Bollywood films, Nepaliwood  (a term I coined… at least none of the editors had ever heard it until I said it) relies upon dubbed sound and silly special effects. I was told that since Nepal is not as technologically advanced as the USA, the audiences loooove the special effects.

There was one scene which typifies the abuse of effects: a girl is standing in a park, and the camera repeatedly cuts to her face, then back behind a fence where she is seen in the distance, then to her face again…but this time the screen is diagonal, then back behind the fence. Then, in slow motion the legs of someone walking, cut to her blurred diagonal face again, legs, face, legs… then the camera sees her from behind a tree, then the camera turns diagonally and speeds up in a zoom to her back, cut to her blurred face, then return to the back of her head…then in a slow motion pan it is revealed that her boyfriend owns the mysterious legs which were walking towards her.

After watching this scene, the editors asked me, “so, where can we add more effects?” Dear lord.

I formally apologize to anyone who ever has to see this film.

I have been lucky in that I have met a fair number of English-speaking Nepalese people, which has helped me see a lot of different sights and villages. One friend, Yadu, drove me around on his bike for two days to many places surrounding the Kathmandu Valley. We went to a place called Nagarkot (which usually has amazing views of the Himalayas, but because of the thick monsoon clouds, the mountains were only visible for sunrise), to a huge Buddhist monastary in the hills called Nommabuddha, and to quite a few small villages along the way.

During this trek, we stopped to visit two holy men, called Kali Babas (which means that they follow the teachings of Shiva (?)). While both holy men gave me at least twenty minutes of advice and wishes for well being, the truth is that their advice was only half understood as their accented and broken English made for an interesting conversation dynamic. All in all, I left the interactions with the impression that they were nice dudes who live a very simple ife consisting of meditation, minimal food consumption, teaching, and smoking a lot of ganja.

Kali Baba - Lives alone on a hill called Mahancal

Guitar (Kali) Baba - Met him in Panauti, but he travels to a new place every four months

I am tired of writing and you are also probably tired of reading. So, I will leave you with the comment that the rumors are true, the people of Nepal (at least the ones I have interacted with so far) are very nice. And while everyone always says the same thing after returning from their travels: “ooooh the local people were so nice and soooo welcoming and so blah blah blah…” this is actually the first country I have visited where complete strangers have been so nice as to invite me back to their homes for food, conversation, to see their village temple, to drink tea, to ask if they could purchase my Blackberry from me, etc. etc.

As Sarah Nepalin would say, “Well, gee golly, I just don’t know what else I could say except that you have been a great audience and that’s just so great.”

The Chronicles of Qatarnia

I was in Qatar the other day.  It is a country in the Middle East (which, like the American midwest, has less to do with true cardinal directions, and more to do with some fool’s misguided egocentrism) Recently, I was given the inane task of describing Qatar in one word.  Now listen, if I could describe Qatar in one word, I wouldn’t take the time to write a blog.  Instead, I would type that one word and email it to you.  I would then ask that you email that one, all-descriptive word to ten friends, and if you succeeded in the task you would become the sole heir to Richard Nixon’s estate.  So, let’s Qat the qrap and get down to business.

Flanked by Arabian Knights (alt. title: The NSA's Worst Nightmare)

Background: I bought a plane ticket to Nepal on Qatar Airways. There was a built in layover in Doha. So, I turned my layover into a stayover (eat your heart out, Qatar Tourism Board) and decided to visit two friends, Ali and Abdulla Albinali. Both Ali and Abdulla were students at Eastern Washington University and lived in Spokane when I was in high school. My friends Jon and Zack met the brothers at EWU, and we became friends …as Jews and Arabs will do. The last time I saw Ali was last November when he was working at the United Nations on behalf of the Qatari government.

Qatarsky and Hutch

Foreground: Without exaggeration, Qatar Airways provided me with the most comfortable flight I have ever experienced. (With exaggeration: flying with Qatar Airways was the single greatest phenomenon of my life, I found God, and they even let me land the plane.) I had a spacious seat in the exit row, where I learned that you must be wearing shoes during taxi, takeoff, and landing, and I sat next to an Indian Sikh from Kuwait who practices dentistry in Philadelphia. She regaled me with delightful anecdotes about the Gulf War, Sikh customs, and molar extraction. I returned the favor by forgetting her name three times and trying to recount what I knew about Kuwait based solely off of the IMAX film, The Fires of Kuwait, which I saw in 1997. As the sages state: ‘when you don’t know the facts, think IMAX.’

There is a saying in the Persian Gulf (or so I have been told, as I am by no means knowledgeable in the axioms of the Gulf countries) that ‘Kuwait is the present, Dubai is the future, and Doha is the next future.’

Doha’s desire to grow and outpace its big brother, Dubai, is remarkably evident. Separated by the waters of the Persian Gulf are the old and new sides of Doha. The old side of the city has its classic architecture and well-known Middle Eastern establishments, such as the souq (market). While the new side of the city is flanked by construction cranes rising above the skeletal foundations and luminescent sheen of newly built skyscrapers. Doha is also working on constructing a man-made island, called the Pearl, which will be the site of luxury condominiums. Maybe if I work hard and earn a modest income, one day, I too can live the American dream and retire to a man-made island. If anyone was still delusional by romantic notions of the Arab world being dominated solely by sand and camels, Doha serves as a nice wake up call.

I managed to do and see quite a bit of things during my 30 hours in the country, but seeing as you have better things to do, like check your FaceSpace or Fantasy Shuffleboard League, I will save you the bore and will instead summarize in one, all-inclusive, grammatically-correct sentence:

I went to the Qatar Islamic Cultural Center which had a very interesting presentation about Islam and free tea, and I went to the Museum of Islamic Art which had nice art but even better architecture, and I walked around Souq Waqif in the 104 degree heat and contemplated the implications of my offensive body odor, and I went to a few very nice restaurants with Ali and appreciated his remarkably generous hospitality, and I saw the Amir’s purebred Arabian horses which made me wonder if Mr. Ed was ever lonely, and I took a boat ride in the Gulf which made me run through multiple Somali-pirate-hostile- takeover scenarios (all of which ended with me crying), and I saw lots of men wearing all white and lots of women wearing all black, and lots of people wearing whatever they wanted, which made me realize that a hypothetical nudist colony in the 100+ degree heat of Qatar would be a great place to sell Aloe Vera lotion.

Museum of Islamic Art (new Qatar downtown seen across the water)

Look people, I only spent 30 hours in the country (six of which were spent sleeping, and two of which were spent watching an Arabic news program about a doctor who does surgery on camels) so I do not claim to be an expert on the sentiments or political groundings of the millions who live in the Persian Gulf. I will say though, that not once was I ever treated poorly/stared at/or treated with anything other than kindness.

Which, in my mind, made the trip a failure.

I would’ve liked to have a good story about the time I managed to escape an angry mob of non-Westerners by my cunning and ingenuity alone. Next time… next time.

Anyways, my friends and my foes, I am in Nepal now and have lots to share. However, the internet is spottier than a teenager working the deep-fryer at McDonalds, so you will just have to wait quietly, and maybe spend some time with your family, instead of sitting on the internet all day looking for pictures of the Hilton Hotel in Paris.

♫ The hip bone is connected to the large larvae looking thing, the large larvae looking thing is connected to the should pads and butterfly wing looking things... ♫

* I apologize for the egregious grammar and spelling errors from before. This is why I go to college.

A few notes on Italy…

I had plans to do a quick write up about Italy, but unfortunately the heavens sent forth thundershowers which delayed our plane out of Venice for four hours… We got back at 5am, and are leaving for Israel tomorrow afternoon. Since I am lacking the proper time, you will have to accept my sincere apologies. I will plan on writing about Italy and Israel when I return in the end of August.

Until then..

A few pointers about Italy:

1) Considering the Italian love for red wine and tomato sauce, dining in a white shirt is not recommended.

2) Dr. Atkins was “hit” by the Italian mafia in defense of their gastronomic honor.

3) The canals of Venice are beautiful, yet filled with water vile enough to keep the Britta water filter company in business until they find enough dirty water on Mars.

Speak with you soon,

Jody

Thunderstorm moving in on Venice

A canal in Venice

Talia and I in Rome

The Coliseum