tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-202809622024-03-07T21:44:20.561-05:00Mark in the WorldThe travelogue of present and past world travels of Mark Heffernan,
co-authored by travel companion Deb KoranskyMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135983834498539702005-12-30T17:58:00.001-05:002010-04-23T20:41:41.762-04:00Kathmandu!!!journal entry,<br />15 feb 2002, 9:00pm<br />Kathmandu<br /><br />This city!! What an assault on all of my senses! From the upper deck of the hotel Kantipur, in Paknojol, Thamel, KTM: city lights sprawling as far as i can see, up to the very edges of the valley; a huge temple (Swoyambathu, the monkey temple) lit on the hills off in the west; terraces on building tops dotting the landscape like islands, some deserted, but just as many inhabited by people idling over an evening cup of tea, chattering away in a language i don't understand, the sounds drifting to my ears on the still, cool air.<br /><br />The sounds of the place!! constant honking horns, madcap drivers revving their engines, dogs braying, conversing amongst themselves; the sound of a broom sweeping a patio down in a neighboring courtyard; bicycle bells ringing through the night, all the sounds of humans and animals magnified by the dark of eveing, yet i can almost hear the stars twinkling!<br /><br />the air of the valley is cool on my bare arms, and the smell of that air, indescribable! It's not the acrid, nostril-stinging smell of New York City or Boston, but a sweet, spicy amalgam of the smells of humanity that fills up the bowl of this holy valley, the scent of fried food mingled with motorcycle exhaust, the scent of incence mixed with the body odor of half a million buddhists and hindus, blended together by the constant stir of activity, creating a recipe for sure nostalgia.<br /><br />My head is spinning from it all! On the drive from the airport, my face was glued to the window of the little red car driven by my guide's uncle, as he navigated the crazy traffic with consummate skill, avoiding oncoming motorbikes at the last moment, dominating huge rumbling trucks and buses to find a safe pocket of space for the little red car, through the explosion of humanity, the likes of which i've never seen! People with wares spread on blankets and tables out of dank caves, 6 foot square shops packed side by side and as close as possible to the tiny winding streets, streets which are packed with people on every sort of conveyance imaginable: bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, scooters, rickshaws, cars old and new, and God-given bare feet, all engaged in a dangerous dance, precisely choreographed by the insticts of pure survival. Crazy! Children and stray dogs play as peers, and people are gathered around fires burning in the gutters...It's absolutely beautiful!!<br /><br />tomorrow, i will be attempting to transact some business in this crazy, wacky town. What an adventure!!<br /><br /><br />love, from kathmandu,<br /><br />mark.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1144439741238225212006-04-07T14:49:00.000-04:002006-04-07T15:59:16.393-04:00Carrying in KathmanduAlways, there are things going from one place to the other, endlessly. In Nepal, we found that there were many creative means of transport, of the organic variety. How people would manage to carry the stuff that they carry is beyond me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1071-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1071-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><center>The traditional way of carrying in Nepal, a <span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;"></span>doko</span> basket. (check out the calves on that guy)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1080-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1080-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>used on construction sites.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1082-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1082-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1086-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1086-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Creative use of a bicycle<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1091-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1091-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>cases of cigarettes<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1115-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1115-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>sunset<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1182-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1182-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Big bundle<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1178-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1178-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>yes, that's a refrigerator.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1150-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1150-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>A cycle rickshaw full of goods, and in the foreground, milk jugs. Cycle powered transport<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1156-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1156-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Who's that guy?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1193-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1193-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Bundle of clothes<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1183-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1183-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Please, have a seat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1249-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1249-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Baskets...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1202-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1202-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>...pots and pans...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1213-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1213-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>...and a portable Tupperware party.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1184-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1184-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Bigger than the car<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1215-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1215-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Ladies carrying bundles of brooms, at Naradevi temple<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1456-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1456-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>In the wedding procession, he carries the holy items.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1388-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1388-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>more construction supplies<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1606-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1606-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>house plants<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/STA_1227-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/STA_1227-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Freight delivery<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1807-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1807-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>bags of rice<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1813-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1813-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The Naradevi Transportation Union sits around and waits for the next job to come along.</center>Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1144435667843026422006-04-07T13:58:00.000-04:002006-04-07T14:48:17.813-04:00Nepal NapsThe siesta is nit as important in Nepali culture as in some others, but folks will grab the opporunity for a nap wherever it presents itself. Here are a few photos of some of the naps that we witnessed in Nepal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1070-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1070-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><center>Napping in Traffic<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1160-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1160-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1088-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1088-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>...can I help you?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1151-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1151-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>This tree is a very popular napping spot: more to follow<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1197-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1197-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>another rickshaw nap...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1212-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1212-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>and another...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1228-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1228-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>note the napping dogs<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1552-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1552-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>recognize that tree?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1357-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1357-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>zzzzzz...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1379-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1379-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>comfy??<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1595-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1595-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1806-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1806-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>there's that tree again<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1612-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1612-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>the temples of Kathmandu<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IMG_1607-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/IMG_1607-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>....<br /><br /></center>Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1143834139020344772006-03-31T14:31:00.000-05:002006-03-31T14:42:19.036-05:00At the Anjani "Hair Dresser Saloon for Ladies and Gents"Men’s grooming is a revered daily ritual in Nepali Culture. Deb has observed that Nepali men are primped and preened until every single hair is in its place, and since she pointed it out to me, I have witnessed it myself. Just as in nature, the male of the species has the finest plumage, so the Nepalese men follow the natural order. Down around the corner at the Anjani Hair Dresser Saloon, one can get an experiential glimpse into this cultural ritual.<br /><br />Every five days or so, when my face has grown bristly, Deb and I take a stroll down into the saloon, where the barbers greet us with great affection and affectation. They offer us a seat in their tiny 6 foot by 10 foot shop while they put the finishing touches on their previous clients, and we get the chance to observe real professionals at work. They wield their tools with great finesse and precision, clicking and clacking their scissors and comb just so. Their hands work with the practiced movements of artists, sculpting and preening their customers with utmost care and skill. It is truly a spectacle to behold, and a fine treatment to be subjected to.<br /><br />I take my seat in the barber’s chair, and hand myself over. The barber begins by applying the first of many products, some sort of white lotion, and massages it into the face. The barber works like he is preparing a fine cut of meat for roasting, massaging it with spice, and tenderizing. Next he swabs the face clean with cotton, primes the beard with a bit of water. Then comes the lather. This part is very important. A little dab of shaving gel, and the shaving brush, and a Hindi film on the TV, and the guy works away for about five minutes or so, working up a lather, and then working it in, and then lathering some more, from this angle and that angle, all the time keeping track of the TV, and doing quite a thorough job of the lathering part. I think that might be a key to the success of the shave. <br /><br />Eventually, he determines that the face is sufficiently prepared for the blade, and, with a blessing (evoking the god of shaving, I suppose) the shaving commences. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/the_shave.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/the_shave.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>A fresh blade in the hands of this skilled craftsman can work wonders on a week’s hard beard growth. He performs his practiced order: first the sideburns, the cheeks, then the throat, then the underside of the chin, the square of the jaw, that little spot under the lower lip, each stroke followed by a flip of the blade over the back of the hand to gather the used lather. He stretches the skin taut between his fingers to catch all of the bristles, a clean shave the first time around. But that is certainly not the end of the treatment.<br /><br />Barbers are talkative people, and they’re delighted to have a foreigner to work on and chat with in their own language. Barbershops are very social places, with people constantly coming and going (I should note that at this Saloon for Ladies & Gents, I certainly never saw a lady, apart from Deb). The barbers chatter away the whole time, asking me about why I came to Nepal, places I’ve seen, what my job is, who’s my favorite Hindi film star (?) etc., so I reply in kind, asking them about their job and training. They go to school for two years to learn their profession, though my barber assures me that nine months is enough to do a decent job (I don’t know who they practice on). After their training, they are subjected to exams (no written exam; only practical). Upon the successful completion of their exam, they are felicitated by the Barber’s Union of Nepal, and granted membership to the sacred brotherhood of Hair Cutters.<br /><br />This is their ritual. Day in and day out, they cut hair. Every day, they perform this shaving ritual many, many times. It is a very involved ritual, and proceeds in a very particular fashion.<br /><br />After the first shave is completed, another shave is performed to perfect the first. This is one of my favorite sensations of the shave; the application of shaving lather on a freshly shaven face feels like silk pajamas and satin sheets. Deee-Luxe.<br /><br />Then come the products: first the dabs of the white lotion stuff, that gets massaged in, then the face is slapped with water, and the clear stone thing is rubbed on (stingy). This is followed by another white product from the little screw-top tub with a little bit of talcum powder, and then little dabs of the pink stuff that smells like mint. Another face massage, (we’re getting there…) and then the spray bottle of water comes out. The water is toweled off, and the shave is finished. But that, of course, is not the end of the treatment. Barbershops double as massage parlours, and part and parcel with the shave comes the head massage. <br /><br />There’s this thing they do with their hands that is impossible to describe in words. It involves folding the hands a particular way, and then these repeated THWAKs on the head. Sounds unpleasant, but it’s not. It is a unique sensation indeed. Their strong rubber-band-like hands massage all of the tension out of the scalp, neck and forehead (they pull it out of the eyebrows). And my favorite guy would do this thing when I least expected it, where he would cradle my head and…CRRACKK goes the neck. Good Morning Folks! Hoo boy! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/at_the_saloon.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/at_the_saloon.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>This is the treatment that one receives down at the Saloon. I have observed a man examining himself in the mirror for a full ten minutes after his shave. I can’t go in for that sort of vanity, but I know that the shave that I get in Kathmandu is well worth every one of the twenty-five rupees I pay for it (even if they do charge me five or ten rupees extra – foreigner price). The feeling of a fresh shave, cheeks as soft as a baby’s butt, can’t be beat.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1140609914424608092006-02-22T06:51:00.000-05:002006-03-10T21:52:43.170-05:00Buddhist Goodbye<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/PhraAjan-01.0.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/PhraAjan-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Phra Ajan says, at our goodbye:<br /><br />"Now, we must separate. If we did not meet, we would not separate. If we did not have to separate, we would not have met. <br /><br />"This is cause-and-release system."<br /><br />We flew from Delhi to Kathmandu 20 Feb.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1141901873410099402006-03-09T05:28:00.000-05:002006-03-10T15:23:36.470-05:00The King's MotorcadeAn ocean of people surge like a tidal force, and we dive in. At Pashupatinath, a quarter million people have converged for Shivaratri, the night of Shiva, and we are among them. People have come from all over the Kathmandu Valley to pay homage to Shiva at one of the most important Shiva temples on the Indian Subcontinent, and Sadhus (wandering ascetic holy men) have made pilgrimage from all over to worship Shiva and take their Prasad, Ganja, the Breath of Shiva.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/SeaOfPeople.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/SeaOfPeople.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>People are packed into the narrow streets between the buildings. Every street that we try, people seem to be blocking the way, welled up like a dammed river. Once again, we go down a street and find it blocked, so we push our way into the crowd. We are overwhelmed, and we find ourselves lost into the hot heaving throng. We are three people together, Deborah, Jiwan and Mark, and we would like to remain that way, so we grip each other’s hands like a lifeline. <br /><br />In a crowd like this, people lose their autonomy, subjugated to the will of the herd. The force of the movement is overpowering, and repeatedly I found myself pushed, lifted, off-balance, feet barely touching the ground. Initially I fought the force, gritting my teeth, and it was painful and difficult. I seemed to get pushed, elbowed and kicked from every direction. Finally, I found it easier to relax into the undulations of the crowd, following the flow, and it became calming, like a sigh, and time seemed to disappear. We floated downstream in the swirls and eddies of the turbulent current. <br /><br />Abruptly, we crash into a wall of blue-suited officers with sticks and rifles, the dam holding back the force of the surge, a crush of men on men. The feeling changed instantly from security to hazard. The sudden hardness posed a threat of injury. <br /><br />Fortunately, one of the officers in the line spotted Deborah, one of the only women in the crushing crowd, and a foreigner at that, and he signaled to her to break through the line. Jiwan and I were attached, so we followed, and we were delivered again to safety. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/inthecrowd.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/inthecrowd.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Once free from the crush, we were able to gain our bearings, and the police who were not on the front lines chatted amicably with us, as Nepalis are wont to do. Upon questioning the reason for the barricade, we found out that the king was coming. He had come to do Puja, to give worship to Shiva, and his motorcade would be coming through any minute. We were trapped between the crowd and the King, in the stifling dusty street.<br /><br />We stood by the sidelines and chatted with the police for half an hour. The crowd was quite a spectacle, and the crowd control likewise. We would be standing on clear pavement and, over the course of some minutes, the crowd would slowly surround us, and we would once again be in its midst. Then, at some hidden signal, the police would charge the crowd back with their sticks, as we clung to a fence, and we would once again find ourselves in safety. We were given preferential treatment as foreigners, as guests, and we were grateful for it. Besides, the police took a liking to me, a foreigner who spoke Nepali and dressed like a Nepali, “Nepali justi” - just like Nepali! <br /><br />At a lull in the action, we decided to make a break for it, to escape from our trap. Jiwan asked a police officer whether there was any way out, and nobody seemed to know. There was a side street, and we decided to try and make a run up the street away from the crowd, and go home. As we scooted around the corner, a huge crowd bore down on us, people stacked on top of each other, and we realized that the trap was complete. Here we were, and here we were to stay. We found ourselves at the heart of the activity, with crowds on all sides, police and authority figures coming and going, and two police horses which would occasionally make spinning kicks to clear away gathering crowds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/soldiers.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/soldiers.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Finally, after an eternity, in a flurry of flashing red lights, from the main gate came motorcycles and blue trucks brimming with armed soldiers. The crowd hummed with tension. A swarm of dignitaries approached, carrying briefcases, wearing Nepali suits, and then…the king walked by.<br /><br />We were enveloped in the choking fumes and dust of the motorcade, and crushed once again by the crowd, and after some minutes, we were taken up in the outflowing current of the masses. We were deposited onto the free streets, where we made our way home, exhausted, grimy and euphoric.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1140610163030364012006-02-22T07:06:00.000-05:002006-03-10T08:44:11.060-05:00Mathura Mix-upIt's perfect India - What was to be a two hour train ride turned into a ten-hour ordeal, complete with begging dirty children, hassles, yelling arguments with Indian men, and misinformation from all quarters. <br /><br />We bought train tickets from Mathura to Delhi, on the Kerala Express, train #2625. We asked the station master - The Kerala Express was to leave from platform 2 at 1:30 pm. So we camped out on platform 2. We had time to spare. We'd sit, eat a samosa and drink tea. No problem, no problem.<br /><br />An hour passes, and its 1:40. Ten mweinutes late, small change in the world of Indian trains. Then over the loudspeaker, the garbled announcement comes: "sdf!!ke@iu sdf?lj djfk Kerala Express, aso$^i Delhi f^lj??kh sd#fjn, now arriving, platform 1." Platform 1? OK, over to platform 1, quickly. Glance at the ticket: Kerala Express. Look at the train: big sign: KERALA EXPRESS. Look at each other, shrug. Platform 2 / Platform 1. Small change. I ask a guy on the train: "Yehi tren Kerala Express hai??" He acknowledges: "hunh."<br /><br />Ok. On the train we go.<br /><br />Another look at the ticket : seats #s 58, 60, & 72. We find the seats. Luggage is there. hmmm.<br /><br />After some discussion in Hindi and mixed english, we find the our seats are all taken. So we go to find the ticket master. I show him my ticket. "Kerala Express?"<br />yes. Kerala Express. "tara hamro seats nahi hai": but our seats are taken. The ticket master is confused. He tells me "this ticket - not valid." My blood pressure rises.<br /><br />It takes us a half hour of raised voice argument to determine that we got on the wrong train. But no, you might say, our ticket is for the Kerala Express, and this train IS the Kerala Express. But no, this is the wrong Kerala Express. <br /><br />As it turns out, at Mathura Railway station, at 1:30 pm there are TWO Kerala Express trains arriving, one going north (to Delhi - our train), the other going south (to Agra - not our train). Instead of getting on the Kerala Express train #2625, we got on the Kerala Express train # 2626. Who knew???<br /><br />In hindi, one may say: Kuch Snag Hai - some snag is there.<br /><br />Hoo boy was i steamed.<br /><br />All we could do was to ride the train to Agra, and then figure from there. <br /><br />When we arrived, i marched straight to the station master, and told him what had happened. I guess i took an aggressive stance, and i told him that this was a railway mistake. He told me that this was not a railway mistake, that it was my mistake. He said to me, "In my twenty-nine years of service here, many people have come by this same mistake." So i told him (in a slightly raised voice), yes, this is a railway mistake - how am i to know that there are two trains by the same name, arriving at the same station, at the same time? He interrupted me to coolly tell me that this was my mistake, and i must simply buy another ticket, from Agra to Delhi. I consequently laid into him that if for twenty nine years so many people have come to him with the same mistake, that maybe the railway would somehow change this situation to make it a little bit less confusing for everybody, and he decided in the middle of my sentence that he had a very important phone call to make.<br /><br />So we bought a ticket. (In india, ladies go to the front of the line. I gave money to Deb.)<br /><br />After hours of waiting on the train platform, the train arrived (late) and we boarded, headed for Delhi. After five hours, late, dirty, tired and hungry, we arrived back in Delhi, to fly out the next day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/IndianRailway.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/IndianRailway.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1141903866450799942006-03-09T06:30:00.000-05:002006-03-10T08:38:32.206-05:00Dancing in the StreetWalking the streets of Kathmandu is like a dance with so many partners – some days a graceful waltz; some days you get your feet stepped on. Dancing down the street, dodging and weaving with rickshaws, motorbikes, holy cow dung, raucous wedding processions, porters, hawkers, sadhus with flowers in their hair, packs of dogs, the whole flow of life dances with you.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1141903738577472192006-03-09T06:09:00.000-05:002006-03-09T06:28:58.596-05:00Laundry at the Lodge<p style="text-align:center">How to Do the Laundry</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/how%20to%20do%20the%20laundry.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/how%20to%20do%20the%20laundry.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="text-align:center">Strictement Interdit</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/strictement%20interdit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/strictement%20interdit.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="text-align:center">Wash Cycle, Delicates (Deb)</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/wash%20cycle%2C%20delicates%20%28deb%29.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/wash%20cycle%2C%20delicates%20%28deb%29.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="text-align:center">Spin Cycle (Mark)</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/spin%20cycle%20%28mark%29.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/spin%20cycle%20%28mark%29.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="text-align:center">Rooftop Dryer</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/rooftop%20drying.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/rooftop%20drying.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="text-align:center">Laundry Day in Kathmandu</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/laundry%20day%20in%20kathmandu.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/400/laundry%20day%20in%20kathmandu.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1141902566551860752006-03-09T06:00:00.000-05:002006-03-09T06:09:26.553-05:00Dr. D. B. Roka, Ayurved.Kathmandu is not so good for health. The streets are filled with cars and motorbikes, coughing out heavy fumes, unpaved streets raise so much dust that sometimes at night it becomes like a fog. The rivers run thick with waste, and little tiny creatures swim in the tap water, awaiting a healthy host.<br /><br />Last time we were in India, one such little creature caught a ride in Deborah's lower intestine, hunkered down and started a family. We didn't know his name until recently, when he was introduced to us as Mr. Giardia Lambia. Deborah is not happy with her tenant, and she aims to evict him. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/MakaluPharma.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/MakaluPharma.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>With such aim in mind, we visited Naradevi. Naradevi is a little neighborhood in Kathmandu that is known for its Ayurvedic Medical College and hospital. Along the street next to the hospital have sprung up numerous small pharmacies, specializing in both Ayurvedic and Allopathic medical treatment. After asking around a little bit, we went to Makalu Ayurvedic Pharma, and scheduled a consultation with Dr. D.B. Roka, B.A.M.S. (Lko, India) M.D. (BHU, India), Kayachikitsa (Internal Medicine).<br /><br />The doctor’s office was in back of the pharmacy, through a humid dank and stinky dungeon (watch your head) and up a tiny staircase. The smiling doctor welcomed us into his tiny office, and gave Deborah an examination (I decided not to tell Deb about the good-sized rat that scurried across the floor during her exam). In his peculiar broken English, he asked Deb about symptoms, and suggested that we pursue a lab test. So Deb produced a specimen and carried it to the tiny little patho lab across the street, where we paid the 40 rupee fee ($0.56), and a half hour later, we were provided with a result, which we brought back to Dr Roka. After some deliberation, he wrote his prescriptions in messy hindi script (seems that some things are universal). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/DrRokaOffice.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/320/DrRokaOffice.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Then downstairs to the Pharma, the affable gentleman shopkeeper dutifully mixed our prescription up in the mortar and pestle. Deb was given instructions to take this one twice daily after food, and that one five minutes later, this one for 6 days, and that one for a month. The shopkeeper then wrote us a bill for 1131 rupees (mind you, that includes the doctor’s fee of NRs 200 ($2.81)), and we went on our merry healthy way.<br /><br />We’ll be checking back with the Doctor before we go. After all, what’s another 200 rupees in life?Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1141901988169338712006-03-09T05:58:00.000-05:002006-03-09T05:59:48.170-05:00Ram Mandir SangeetThe imposing presence of the Bihari Khayal singer on stage at the Ram Mandir was enough to portend a fine performance. Our expectations were exceeded. His resonant voice flew and fragmented into manifold colors, like light refracted by a diamond. It was like a sound not of this world; from where, I don’t know.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1140610439377549142006-02-22T07:12:00.001-05:002006-02-22T08:49:45.430-05:00Vrindavan, India - 5 amPealing bells and blast of horns fill the dark sky. In the Prabhupada Samadhi Mandir, we sit on bamboo mats on cold marble, eyes closed, legs folded. The echoic chamber is filled with a constant drone and hum, indiscernible from anything else -- chanting humming constant drone <span style="font-style:italic;">hare ram ram ram hare krsna krsna ram hare ram ram ram</span>. In the main temple, monks sing even in the pre-dawn dark -- clapping crashing drumming chanting, dancing, singing, arms raised, blowing horns and crashing cymbals, creating joyous din. We sit still and watch our breath, and still the chant drones on <span style="font-style:italic;">hare rama hare rama rama rama hare hare</span>. The voice hums and echoes, becoming non-different from silence, non-different from the marble walls of the temple. Still the devotees sing and dance in blissful circles, as the stars sparkle in the silent sky, and if you listen softly to the noise, you can hear God.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1140610271209614192006-02-22T07:10:00.000-05:002006-02-22T07:34:15.000-05:00Monkey Trouble<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/1600/vrindavanboats-01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/3496/2028/200/vrindavanboats-01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />"hey! you glass, you monkey trouble!"<br /><br />We laugh at the boy's warning as he points his finger at Deborah. Craig and Deborah and I walk along the bank of the Yamuna river in the morning. The boatmen come and go, bringing boatsful of people from one side to the other, commuters i suppose, families, and men with bicycles. The boats' colorful flags flap in the wind as the boatmen steer with their long bamboo staffs.<br /><br />As we walk along toward the ghats, all in an instant, Deb cries out in shock, and as i spin around, i see the culprit running off. The monkey had come from behind with no warning, snatched her glasses right off of her face, and bounded up into a tree. Deb's cry gathers a crowd of boys who seem to appear from all directions, as if on cue. We run up after the monkey, keeping a close eye on him. He non-chalantly chews on the glasses.<br /><br />The boys, yelling the whole time, clamber up the shrine beneath the tree. One boy pulls an apple from his pocket, and throws it at the monkey. The monkey nimbly catches it in midair, still clutching the glasses in his teeth. The boy tosses a bag of rice, the monkey reaches out, and the glasses drop from the tree. The boy with the rice grabs the glasses, runs down with his quarry, and proudly hands over the glasses. Then all hands come out, eagerly awaiting rupees. I press a 5-rupee coin into rice-boy's hand, small prize from a white foreigner. The boys jump up and down, clamouring, "twenty rupee twenty rupee!" as we push past the crowd and walk on. <br /><br />I've seen some clever ruses in India - There's the well-known gem scam, the sales commissions for rickshaw-wallahs, and the "please buy milk for me (so i can run around the corner and sell it back to the shopkeeper for 5 rupees)" trick. But this - pet monkey, well-trained, boys hanging around with bags of rice in their pockets?? umm, i don't think so.<br /><br />As we walk past the ghats, the old man sitting under the tree snaps his cane at Deb, and shouts "munkeee!" This time we heed the warning.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1139981913644759092006-02-15T00:35:00.000-05:002006-02-15T00:38:33.643-05:00Nepal Travelogues, 2002<span style="font-weight:bold;">The following posts are re-published from my original travelogue from my first trip to Nepal, from Feb 15 to Apr 4 2002.</span>Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135986209325194732005-12-30T18:43:00.000-05:002006-02-15T00:35:00.253-05:00reverse culture shockIt's strange to be home, but for different reasons than i might have thought. My trip has been relatively short. Many travelers abroad travel for 6 months, or a year. My trip was 6 weeks. This shortness lent it an interesting aspect: It was long enough to learn a new world, but not long enough to forget the old. When i returned home after what seemed like a long trip, i expected things to look very different to me, but to the contrary, things looked EXACTLY THE SAME. It was a bit surreal. It felt like i had left this world and gone to another for a length of time, and then zapped back into this world the day after i left. <br /><br />Of course, i was gifted with the relative sight that only such an opposite cultural experience can give. I see things more starkly, the straightness of buildings, and the strangeness of our culture.<br /><br />On the drive home from boston to my hometown, i was struck by the number of cop-cars that i saw. So many, darkly waiting in the median for someone to harass, or lights flashing by the side of the road, a victim in clutches. It's no wonder everbody drives on their side of the yellow line! In Nepal, traffic patterns are creative, friendly and practical. Here we're governed by rules and lines, tickets and fines. The same exists over there, but the lines aren't straight, and neither are the fines. Traffic violations are taken care of on the spot, the 100 rupee fine gracing the pocket of the fining officer. No tickets in triplicate, guilty or not guilty, no repeated visits to the courthouse. Too many rules and regulations. With Nepali traffic rules, there is no one right way; everybody is responsible for themselves, and for not unreasonably endangering their brother. And it works. mostly.<br /><br />Another thing in america governed by straight lines: the buildings. Everything so straight and orderly, plumb and parallel. And entirely incongruous with the surrounding natural environment. In the Himalayas, houses were built from readily available material: rock. In the mountains, that's the element of choice. Imported material is not practical. It's hard to carry 2 tons of factory made brick up a winding mountain trail, so just pick up the rocks from the ground, and build with them. It just makes sense. Not so in america. Everything is from someplace else, brought in on trucks, and assembled into sanitary square boxes that have nothing to do with the ground around them.<br /><br />Same thing with the food we eat. Nothing to do with the ground around us. Its hard to get a wholesome thing to eat in a developed country such as our own. I thought that the gastro-intestinal adaptation to Nepali food would be a challenge for my system, but in fact the reverse has been true. My stomach is challenged by the reintroduction of preservatives and whitebread and the crazy variation of an american diet, and since i got back i haven't had a normal bowel movement. Corn grown in Nebraska and processed in Pennsylvania, packaged in New Jersey, and shipped in a truck to a warehouse in Maine, delivered to the grocery store down the street. Who knows what my body will do with that? On the other hand, rice grown by my neighbor and potatoes from my back yard, that's a little more manageable. Nothing about our lives here has anything to do with ground around us. This is the distinct advantage that a developing country has, head and shoulders above us. They live close to the ground around them, their food and their water and their houses and their primary mode of transport, all straight from the ground. Where does ours come from? Who knows?<br /><br />I don't understand how some of these things came about. Why we have developed the way we have is a mystery. The life in a developing country is easy to understand: things have come about through necessity, through the real needs of humanity. In our "developed" country, though, necessity is lost, and things develop through convenience. Necessity is the mother of invention, but convenience is its in-bred cousin. Living by necessity, one must live in harmony with one's surroundings, because it is the only way to survive. On the other hand, when necessity is cast aside, and convenience becomes the driving factor, things become a twisted mess of fad and fashion, decadence and desire, totally disconnected from the true needs of people, and the true needs of people are forgotten, and no longer met. This is a lamentable state to be in. Although we may be the richest country in the world in some respects, in other aspects, we are the poorest.<br /><br />I spoke to my miith-juu, my soul-friend in Nepal, about the richness of his country. I told him that everybody in Nepal seemed so happy, smiling all the time. He said "If you look inside of us, though, you will see a sadness, a deep grief." I said, "In the same way, you look at us in America, and it looks to you a rich life, but on the inside, we are a poor people, lacking in our true needs, the needs of our spirit. On the other hand, people in Nepal look poor on the outside, while on the inside you are rich, in brotherhood, and love, in the true needs of spirit." Human beings, to be truly happy, must first attend to these true needs that we have all but forgotten in our striving for convenience and our forgetfulness of necessity.<br /><br />A bit of perspective is all we need. To see our decadent lives in relation to the lives of these bare survivors helps, but it is not enough. We must throw away our superiority, our desire to bring them "UP" to our level, and we must learn from them what they have to teach. I have never had to think for a day in my life where my food is coming from, the effect of the sun and the rains on my crop. This is an impoverished way of nourishment. I have chosen instead to put my knees in the dirt and learn these things. I do not live the hard life of the mountain people, nor can i pretend that i ever have, carrying my 20-pound backpack up past the porter laboring under his 220-pound load. But i have learned from these things, learning to appreciate the real stuff of life, how to nourish the deepest seed of life, and how to feed the human soul. I wish that everyone would step back and take a look at their life from the outside, to see the way that we live for what it is, to live another way for at least a day, in order to gain a wider perspective of how to truly live. Whatever you do, give it a try.<br /><br />most sincerely,<br /><br />mark andrew heffernanMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135986152904455032005-12-30T18:40:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:42:32.916-05:00Around the World and Back AgainI arrived back to the USA on 4 Apr 2002, after a long <br />and arduous 3<br />days in transit, that in-between state, between here <br />and there,<br />between now and then, neither one place nor the other.<br /><br />I woke at 5:30 am Nepal time (it was late afternoon <br />the day before at<br />my final destination) and rode to the airport in a <br />haze of<br />sleep-muddled confusion, and fought the queues and the <br />chaos of<br />check-in, finding my way through barriers of questions <br />by blue<br />uniformed officials speaking two different languages, <br />finding my way<br />to a cup of tea and five minutes of calm, and then <br />confusion, finding<br />myself in the company of my fellow travelers, sitting <br />with no place<br />to go. Our plane was not to fly, not at at the 8:10 <br />that it was<br />supposed to, not this morning either. Rumour has it <br />that we shall<br />leave at noon. OK, what to do? Go to the Hotel <br />(which Hotel?) and<br />have some breakfast. How shall we go to the hotel <br />(the hotel? which<br />hotel?) The white van shall take you to the hotel. <br />Where is the<br />white van? The white van? It has gone to the hotel. <br />How shall I<br />get to the Hotel? You can't get to the hotel. <br />Sitting talking to<br />blue-uniformed officials, who only feed my confusion, <br />confusion which<br />is turning to hunger and pale anger. Who put these <br />men in charge? <br />Are they in charge? Who's in charge here? How do i <br />get to the<br />hotel? The white van. Oh the white van. Where is <br />it? This way. <br />Waiting, waiting, and then this way to the white van. <br />Ah the white<br />van! White on the outside white on the inside, white <br />linen seat<br />covers, and we are off to the hotel, and then sitting <br />at white tables<br />on green manicured lawns, somewhere, but nowhere, at <br />that place in<br />between.<br /><br />So here i find myself waiting in Kathmandu, a city i <br />said goodbye to<br />yesterday, waiting at a four star hotel (compliments <br />of the airline),<br />with white linen tablecloths and seat covers, banquet <br />breakfast and<br />buffet and only 50 rupees in my pocket, waiting for a <br />plane that we<br />feel will never come. Tommorrow, Nepal Bandh, and the <br />city will shut<br />down for a week-long strike, so we must leave today, <br />or stay. I walk<br />from the hotel into the streets of Kathmandu, these <br />streets where i<br />have walked daily, but today i feel like a phantom, <br />like i'm not<br />really here at all. Even though the street hawkers <br />offer me<br />miniature chess sets and tiger balm and hashish, even <br />though my<br />physical person is here in the streets, Kathmandu <br />thinks that i am<br />gone, and so do i. So i return to the hotel, the <br />surreal transitory<br />state, neither here nor there, eating from the buffet <br />and sitting<br />back beside the pool, hands bound behind my head, <br />watching the sky<br />change through my sunglasses. The sky changes from <br />day to night,<br />hope changes, rumoured plane departure changes from <br />noon to midnight,<br />and still i sit, in transit, but unmoving.<br /><br />Royal Nepal Airlines has but two planes, and one of <br />them is bound to<br />the ground, technical difficulty preventing our escape <br />from<br />Kathmandu, with the Bandh imminent. The other left <br />for India this<br />morning, and will be back later. When? Some time <br />tonight. The<br />buses line up in front of the hotel at midnight, <br />carrying us would-be<br />travelers to our point of transit, Tribhuvan airport, <br />Kathmandu. We<br />hundred pass through the circuits of security, and sit <br />expectant in a<br />room, and an airplane approaches the windows, looming <br />up out of the<br />dark, engines whining. A murmur arises, hopeful and <br />doubtful at the<br />same time, "our plane?" and lightning splits the sky, <br />silhouettes the<br />huge shape, and the lights go out. Expectancy hushes <br />us hundred<br />travelers, and rain begins to fall, big drops on the <br />still-warm<br />tarmac, and we sit in darkness, lit by lighning only. <br />Then the<br />lights flash on, and the door is opened. We dash out <br />across the rain<br />spattered runway and up the stairs, into the plane <br />that is finally<br />ours, taxi to the runway, and with a roar, we rise <br />into the<br />lightning-torn sky at 3 in the morning, and we are on <br />our way.<br /><br />I was meant to have a day waiting in Bangkok, to catch <br />my flight in<br />the morning from Thailand to Taipei, but with the 19 <br />hour delay in<br />Kathmandu, my day in Bangkok dwindled to what might be <br />a few minutes.<br /> The Royal Nepal airplane touched the ground at <br />7:55am, leaving me to<br />run for my 8:25 departure, only to reach it and find <br />no seat to sit<br />in. So my few minutes in Bangkok becomes once again a <br />day in<br />Bangkok, 24 hours in-between, neither here nor there.<br /><br />So once again, i find myself in the surreal world of <br />four-star hotel<br />buffet dinner courtesy of Royal Nepal Ailines, and i <br />have a chance to<br />wander the sweltering, busy streets of Bangkok, <br />sampling spicy-hot<br />Thai food, sipping cold coconut milk straight from the <br />shell, walking<br />among markets selling cheap chinese factory goods, <br />amidst the<br />bustling metropolis of four-lane highways and shiny <br />cars, the other<br />side of Kathmandu's coin.<br /><br />I had a candle-lit dinner by myself, overlooking the <br />city from the<br />Sky lounge of the 43 story hotel, and i was still <br />in-between, in<br />transit. But for the fact that it was dark, it could <br />have been<br />morning or midnight or midafternoon. I had not slept <br />all night, and<br />then i slept all day, and my body did not know which <br />way was up, and<br />which way i was going. It all fed the surrealism of <br />the situation,<br />finding myself serenaded a woman in an evening gown, <br />by the light of<br />a candle and the city below. I rode the elevator <br />down, stopping on<br />the way to sleep for the night, and then went straight <br />to the airport<br />again, to resume my travel.<br /><br />And so i found myself on another plane, flying to <br />another place, and<br />after 6 hours, i was there, in Taipei, Taiwan. The <br />news i had heard<br />was that an earthquake had just struck Taiwan, but i <br />did not see<br />anything of it. Being in the airport of Taipei is <br />entirely different<br />than being in Taipei. Airports fall into this <br />category of places<br />that are not actually places. Other place that are <br />not actually<br />places include highway rest areas and elevators. <br />These are not<br />places that people go TO, only places that people go <br />THROUGH. There<br />is a sort of suspension of reality in these places, a <br />sort of<br />semi-existence. Sitting in the Taipei airport <br />drinking a cup of tea<br />is like sitting NOWHERE and drinking a cup of tea, <br />except for the<br />fact that people speak Chinese. So i sat nowhere for <br />4 hours,<br />drinking a cup of tea, just waiting to go somewhere <br />else. And<br />finally it was time to go somewhere else, so i got on <br />another<br />airplane, an airplane flying to New York, USA.<br /><br />It takes 16 hours to fly from Taipei to NYC, and 16 <br />hours is a long<br />time to be in a pressure sealed cabin 6 miles above a <br />vast wide<br />ocean, confined to a space of 4 sq.ft. 16 hours is a <br />long time to<br />sit next to the same elderly Chinese man, who had the <br />same bad breath<br />the whole time, and the same 2 granddaughters <br />constantly shuttling<br />back and forth between grandma and grandpa, squeezing <br />past my knees<br />every time. 16 hours is a long time to entertain <br />oneself with two<br />movies and one book. 16 hours is a long time to be <br />awake due to one<br />regrettable cup of coffee after dinner. 16 hours is a <br />long, long<br />time. But after 16 hours, the plane landed at JFK in <br />NYC in USA, and<br />i was once more in my native land.<br /><br />As soon as i was in New York, i knew it. I was <br />greeted with that<br />beautiful New York charm. The man behind the <br />immigration counter<br />spoke to me with that Brooklyn warmth, saying "Hey <br />buddy, do I look<br />like the only guy heah? Move it on down the line!" <br />The baggage<br />people were very helpful, telling me, "Dere's an exit <br />sign on da<br />ceiling, it says EXIT. Use it!" On the way through <br />customs the guy<br />says i can go, and then says "go on, move it before I <br />change my<br />mind!" The baggage checkers were kind enough to tag <br />my baggage with<br />the wrong airline tag, and then promptly lost my <br />luggage. Ah, back<br />in the USA!<br /><br />One more airport, one more plane, and then i arrived <br />in Boston, on a<br />late night flight, and so, after 49 hours on the <br />ground waiting at 5<br />airports and 2 four star hotels, with 5 complimentary <br />buffets, and<br />27 hours in the air flying in 4 different airplanes <br />with 5 airline<br />meals and 3 packets of peanuts, through 11 time zones, <br />across 1<br />international dateline, i finally arrived home 3 days <br />later, with my<br />body not sure if it's day or night, breakfast lunch or <br />dinner time,<br />time to sleep or time to wake. <br /><br />Regardless, it's good to be home, with a deeper and a <br />wider<br />perspective than i had before i left. I feel like i <br />was lifted out<br />of this world and dropped in another entirely <br />different world for 6<br />weeks, and then dropped back into the same world i <br />left, the world<br />unchanged but my perspective of the world altered <br />slightly, like<br />looking through a different lens. It may be a <br />challenge to hold on<br />to the focus of my experience, being thrust back into <br />american<br />everyday, but my experiences in the other world have <br />certainly<br />changed the way i see. I would highly recommend this <br />sort of<br />experience to everybody, just to give some perspective <br />to our<br />everyday lives, to REALIZE the way we live, and not to <br />just live it<br />blindly. To learn how others choose to live, or how <br />others MUST<br />live, is to learn how it is that we actually live. <br />It's hard to see<br />from the inside, but from the outside, one is given a <br />point of<br />reference, and the opportunity to see our lives as <br />they look to<br />others, and the perspective to appreciate some aspects <br />of our lives,<br />and to call into question others.<br /><br />Now i am home from Nepal, but this does not mean my <br />trip has ended. <br />I still have some adventures from the other side of <br />the world to<br />share, and some perspectives from this side of the <br />world. I hope<br />that the fact that these emails come from someplace as <br />close to home<br />as massachusetts or upstate NY does not alter their <br />interest to you. <br />I still have more to share, and i sincerely appreciate <br />the interest<br />that all of you have shown thus far. Thank you, and <br />keep in touch.<br /><br />much love,<br /><br />mark andrewMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985888915788342005-12-30T18:37:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:38:08.916-05:00Holi Ho!Today was madness in Kathmandu. Holi is a festival of <br />craziness, and<br />of all the colors of the rainbow. It is a celebration <br />of the first<br />full moon of spring, and the coming of the cooling <br />monsoon. Water is<br />being sprayed everywhere, and water balloons coming <br />from rooftops,<br />colored with dye, and everybody throwing color powder <br />and smearing<br />each other with color. It is particuarly risky for <br />white people to<br />go outside, as we make particularly good targets (we <br />color easier). <br />This morning i was not able to walk safely to my <br />friend's house in<br />Dholpu, a 7 minute walk. I got pegged from rooftops, <br />chased through<br />the streets by a guy with a bucket full of orange <br />water, and yellow<br />powder smeared on my face. And that was before the <br />fun started! <br /><br />I am one to put myself in the way of danger from time <br />to time, and so<br />i did today. Yesterday, i bought a whole outfit of <br />white clothes for<br />450 rupees, and i went out today at the mercy of <br />Krishna, and before<br />5 minutes, i was a mess, covered in red dye and soaked <br />with water. <br />The whole town was painted, and water was flying from <br />every<br />direction. We walked to the heart of Thamel, the <br />tourist center of<br />Kathmandu, and it was a mad scene. Multi-colored <br />people were packed<br />in the street, boxes of powder being sold at every <br />corner, red yellow<br />orange green silver gold black white blue, people <br />covered head to<br />toe, water battles going between rooftops and us down <br />on the street<br />soaked and colorful. There were battles between the <br />ground and the<br />rooftops, and the best shots were wildly applauded by <br />everyone,<br />sometimes a roofdweller getting it in the back of the <br />head, or a<br />bucketful of water dumped from three stories up. <br />Everytime a clean<br />person tried to sneak by, a roar rose from the crowd, <br />and the poor<br />victim was surrounded and attacked by a rainbow of <br />hue. There was a<br />purple bearded madman jumping up and down, and <br />spraying his color<br />everywhere like a maniacal smurf. Motorbike riders <br />became quite<br />colorful, and cars that tried to squeeze through the <br />crowd with an<br />unlocked door or tailgate were in trouble. The door <br />would be opened,<br />and a crowd would descend upon the unfortunate <br />passenger with powder<br />and water and color paste. In a word, it was <br />madness!! And some<br />real good fun! <br /><br />As far as i can tell, America doesn't know about <br />festivals, how to<br />have real good fun! For one day, everyone in Nepal <br />cuts loose and<br />sprays all of their brothers and sisters, and no one <br />is allowed to<br />get mad at each other. There were some minor <br />altercations that i<br />witnessed, but the instigator would get a bucket <br />dumped over their<br />head, and somebody would yell "Holi Ho!!!" and the <br />bad feelings<br />would dissipate quickly, and the fun would start <br />again. It was the<br />most fun i've had in one day, and i wish that more <br />people in our<br />country knew how to do it. <br /><br />At the end of the day, i was covered in red and green <br />and purple, my<br />clothes dyed, and also my feet and my face and my hair <br />and hands. I<br />think in a week or so, i will be my original color <br />again, 4 showers<br />later. We'll see.<br /><br /><br />Kolorful in Kathmandu,<br /><br />mark.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985818999881292005-12-30T18:36:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:36:59.003-05:00A Primer in Nepali Language and LifeWhile in Nepal, I've had the great advantage of being <br />constantly in<br />Nepali company, and i've learned the Nepali language <br />to the point<br />where i can hold a decent conversation while walking <br />up the trail<br />with somebody, or haggling over prices (EVERYTHING is <br />negotiable!),<br />or sitting on the dirt floor in the kitchen drinking <br />tea. It's given<br />me an entirely different perspective, allowed me to <br />get inside the<br />country instead of being such an outsider, and i've <br />had many great<br />conversations with great people. <br /><br />Here are some of the most useful things i've learned:<br /><br />Namaste: hello and goodbye, the most used word in the <br />foreigner's<br />vocabulary<br /><br />Kweeri: foreigner. I like this word: it says that <br />white people are<br />weird. They eat pizza and drink beer, Kweeri food. A <br />little bit<br />queer. What's wrong with Dhal Bhat?<br /><br />Dhal Bhat: lentil soup and rice, about all that the <br />average Nepali<br />eats.<br /><br />Ramro cha: It is good. This is a useful phrase: it <br />says a lot. <br />Where english has ten or twenty words: nice, good, <br />fantastic,<br />wonderful, etc... Nepali has one word: Ramro. Good. <br />You can use<br />this phrase to say: Nice Weather today, Huh? or Your <br />home is very<br />nice, or The mountains are amazing, or you are <br />beautiful, or Good<br />Food! Useful phrase, that.<br /><br />Dheri: very, as in DHERI ramro cha, that is Very Good<br /><br />Mathi: up<br /><br />Tholo: down<br /><br />Garu: difficult<br /><br />Sojile: easy. all 4 useful words in the mountains <br />(you don't use<br />sojile all that much, actually)<br /><br />Bistarai: slow. also a useful word in the mountains, <br />as in Bistarai<br />Zahun, Slowly we go.<br /><br />Thik cha: OK. Somebody asks you how you're doing (Ke <br />Cha?), say<br />Thik Cha. I'm OK.<br /><br />Thikai cha: Not bad. This is if you're not doing so <br />hot.<br /><br />Kati ho: how much is this? <br /><br />Mongo cha: That's EXPENSIVE! I find it a very useful <br />phrase when<br />used thus: "AYA!! MONGO CHA!" coupled with a step <br />towards the door.<br /><br />Sasto Cha: That's cheap. as in: "Sasto cha, Ramro <br />cha"<br /><br />Sathi: friend. Someone who you like, and who gives <br />you a cheap<br />price.<br /><br />mero: mine. Mero sathi, my friend.<br /><br />tapaiko: yours.<br /><br />The nepalis are very happy to talk to me. As i walk <br />past, they say<br />Namaste, and i reply in Nepali and ask them how <br />they're doing, and<br />then i'm talking for a half hour at least. They love <br />to chat,<br />especially if you take the effort and learn their <br />language.<br /><br />They live slower here, talking more and enjoying each <br />other's<br />company. It seems that in America our lives are all <br />filled with a<br />whole lot of nothing, running to stand still. We're <br />too busy with<br />ourselves to pay attention to our fellows. Here they <br />all address<br />each other as brother and sister and friend, <br />EVERYBODY. Its a good<br />life here, even though its hard. They live closer to <br />the essentials,<br />thinking about the food that they grow, or the house <br />that they build,<br />instead of all the stuff that they have.<br /><br />At the same time they live slower, they also live <br />quicker. THe<br />average Nepali man lives to about age 50. By the time <br />somebody can<br />talk, they learn how to do business, and a boy of 13 <br />is already a<br />Man. They smoke a lot of cigarettes, climb mountains <br />barefoot with<br />100 Kilos on their head, ride on the top of buses, and <br />all sorts of<br />other things that we would consider risks, and we've <br />made laws<br />against. Its a different life. People die a lot <br />here, and its<br />accepted as a part of life. Western thinking does not <br />accept death,<br />and we do everything to avoid it. But here, in their <br />buddhist<br />thinking, death is just another part of life, another <br />go 'round. <br />It's a better way. After all, we're all going to die.<br /><br />Everybody asks me where i'm from (Kun Desh? Which <br />Country?), and i<br />tell them america, they say, "Ah, Ramro Desh". I <br />reply, "Ho,<br />America Ramro cha. Tara Nepal dheri ramro!" (ho: yes. <br />tara: but)<br /><br />one of the best phases i know is:<br /><br />Ramro jindogi: Good Life<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Tomorrow is Holi, a mad festival where everybody <br />throws water<br />balloons filled with color dye at each other. Damn, <br />who though this<br />up? What a great idea! I wish we had holidays like <br />this!<br /><br />Nepal-ma, Ramro jindogi!<br /><br /><br />Tapaiko dheri sathi Nepal-ma,<br /><br />mark.<br /><br />much love.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985759313909912005-12-30T18:34:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:35:59.316-05:00it's okay, i escapedsorry to leave you in suspense last time, with myself <br />in police<br />custody in Nepal. Everything worked out (the police <br />just have<br />nothing to do way up there in the mountains, and they <br />needed somone<br />to talk to). The security at the Nepal Tibet border <br />is somewhat<br />present, but way up in the mountains, the police force <br />is somewhat of<br />a rag-tag bunch, and they're all just guys after all.<br /><br />It was a beautiful, bright night sky, the night of the <br />full moon,<br />nestled way up in the mountains. Timure sleeps <br />cradled in the Bhote<br />Khola river valley. Dogs keep sentinel all night, <br />barking at nothing<br />in particular, or just barking at everything. <br />Standing on stone<br />terrace of the low stone house where i stay, I can see <br />Tibet, that<br />forbidden land across the line, Shangri-la in the <br />moonlight. But i<br />am IN Tibet, Tibet in exile, the uprooted village with <br />a history as<br />old as people. These mountain dwellers care for me <br />like one of their<br />own, or even better. I stay in this family's home, <br />eat with them,<br />drink tea with them, talk with them (in my limited <br />Nepali language); <br />I am given the largest bed in the house, and a <br />comforter to keep me<br />warm (and some fleas to keep me company). They are <br />hospitable to a<br />fault. I ate until i was ready to burst, because they <br />keep filling<br />my plate, until i learned to say "Pugyo!!" ("Enough!")<br /><br />I returned in the morning to Briddim, walking with <br />Kamal, mero sathi,<br />and Pema, mero miith-juu, and stayed on with my <br />Tibetan family for<br />another night, and then, after parting ways with my <br />Miith-juu, and an<br />extended family farewell, tromped on around the <br />mountain with Kamal,<br />taking the high road up the Langtang river valley, Up <br />to Kyanjin<br />Gompa, an ancient monastery high in the glittering <br />mountains. As we<br />traveled up the way, up to 8000 feet, 10000 feet, <br />12000 feet, the hot<br />jungle sun gave way to the crisp sharp snow sun of the <br />Himalaya, and<br />we arrived at our lodge in Langtang Village just as a <br />snow storm<br />barreled down between the ridges above us, screaming <br />white snow<br />hurling against the windows, obscuring the outside <br />from our vision,<br />snow finding its way in between the cracks to the warm <br />room where we<br />sat huddled around the small stove, burning yak dung <br />to keep us warm.<br /><br />I awoke in the cold of morning, after a fitful night <br />of sleep, and<br />snow was still blowing against the windows, and <br />everthing outside our<br />door frosted with sugar. We huddled around the stove, <br />and at noon,<br />with all the feirceness it had come with, the storm <br />cloud broke in<br />two, and the sun shone. We walked up across the high, <br />rock strewn<br />alpine meadow, up and over the lip of a bowl, and <br />there lay the<br />village of Kyanjin Gumpa. <br /><br />The Monastery is a old, rude stone building, some 500 <br />years old, here<br />in the high mountains, surrounded by the crytal spires <br />of the<br />Himalaya, shimmering pearl in the sun. It now used <br />only<br />intermittently, on the full moon and other special <br />occasions. There<br />is a village of lodge that has grown up around it, a <br />tourist village<br />that is starved for life. "Less tourist, this year," <br />everybody<br />says.<br /><br />I met a charming couple of Australian doctors, great <br />company, and<br />together we conquered Kyanjin Ri, what WE called a <br />mountain, and here<br />it is known as a "Hill".<br /><br />So, after a journey of almost two weeks up, we left <br />Kyanjin Village,<br />and tumbled down the valley, rumbling like the River <br />we followed,<br />fumbling down through the jungle, and then finally <br />crumbling into a<br />bed in Shayfru Besi, at the end of the trail, <br />returning from the<br />snows to the roads in one day, and my legs hurt for <br />two.<br /><br />Now i'm in Pokhara via Kathmandu, did some business in <br />the city then<br />back up into the mountains, and i leave tomorrow to <br />head up to<br />Muktinath, and then to Marpha.<br /><br />more later...<br /><br />"Jahun Bistarai" (take it easy)<br /><br />markMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985584341956242005-12-30T18:26:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:33:04.343-05:00To the Edge of TibetIn the afternoon of the last day of February, the day <br />of the full<br />moon, we walked north from Briddim, a party of eight. <br />Kamal, Pema<br />Lama (miith-juu), Dorche Lama, myself, and then four <br />young men, one<br />of whom was going to Timure, the next village, to ask <br />for a woman's<br />hand in marriage. <br /><br />We walked down out of the village into the jungle, <br />past a cascading<br />river, and up to the next chowk, set on the opposite <br />shoulder of the<br />mountain overlooking the village. <br /><br />There are chowks set along trail in various places, <br />landmarks to mark<br />one's progress. They are usually marked by flapping <br />prayer flags,<br />and there are stone walls built by the side of the <br />trail, just high<br />enough for a weary porter to set down his burden, to <br />give his head<br />and feet a rest. This particular chowk is marked by <br />two stupas, one<br />rust-red, and the other gleaming white in the sun.<br /><br />We sit for a while, and Dorche Lama is talking the <br />whole time,<br />chattering away in Tibetan language, gesticulating <br />with his hands,<br />entertaining our party. The men pass around a dirty <br />yellow plastic<br />bottle, each taking a couple of gulps of the clear <br />liquid. They pass<br />it to me, and i decline, thinking it is water (i have <br />my own water<br />bottle, with iodine), but they thrust it upon me, <br />saying "Khane!", so<br />i shrug my shoulders, and take a belt. The bottle <br />contains the local<br />rice wine, called rakshi (pronounced like "roxy" with <br />a bit of a<br />drunken twist). It's strong stuff, more like liquor <br />than wine,<br />strong enough to make the walking and talking flow a <br />little easier.<br /><br />They have a saying in the mountains, "Bistarai Jahun," <br />or "Slowly-we<br />go." And so we went, taking it easy, walking and <br />talking, for a few<br />hours, stopping every now and again for a rest and <br />another belt off<br />the bottle. <br /><br />Timure is another small Tibetan village, just 1/2 <br />hour's walk from<br />the Nepal/China border, and as a result of this <br />proximity to the<br />communist country, it is a restricted area, and we had <br />been warned by<br />a Canadian traveler that we would get some trouble <br />from the police. <br />So we prepared ourselves.<br /><br />As the sun fell behind the mountains, we arrived at <br />the edge of<br />Timure, and the men stopped to fill up the ceremonial <br />wooden carafes,<br />two with rakshi, one with cyang (fermented rice beer), <br />and then the<br />hopeful wedding party, decked with liquor and Khadars, <br />walked up<br />between the stone walls of the village, and Kamal and <br />i were left<br />behind to wrangle with the police.<br /><br /><br /><br />to be cont'd....<br /><br /><br />markMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985173425956182005-12-30T18:25:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:26:13.430-05:00LangtangIt was wet and rainy as we left Kathmandu in the dark <br />of morning,<br />headed to the Langtang Mountains, on the Nepal/China <br />border. We<br />drove out of the valley and up into the mountains, <br />Hindi music<br />blaring ecstatically from the speakers of the rocking <br />bus, Nepalis<br />packed in elbow to elbow, and i the only white guy in <br />the crowd. We<br />ascended into the clouds, the road dwindling to what <br />might more<br />properly be called a "path". As the rain broke and <br />the clouds<br />parted, i caught glimpses of the valley, miles and <br />miles below, and<br />it felt more like we were flying than driving. Out <br />one side of the<br />bus, there was the mountainside, just 1 or 2 metres <br />from the window,<br />but from the other side, nothing was visible except a <br />gut-wrenching<br />drop that, if taken, would surely render the bus <br />unrecognizable, and<br />afford the ocupant's souls a quick trip into the next <br />plane of<br />existence, not a bad deal for Rs150. I began to see <br />why Nepalis live<br />so much in the moment, with a smile for every waking <br />day. This bus<br />ride affirmed the fact that i was alive: I started <br />alive and i<br />arrived alive. It was a good day.<br /><br />I spent the last bit of the bus ride on the roof, <br />leaning on a sack<br />of melons, enjoying the dramatic scenery of the <br />Mountains as they<br />rose on every side of my, and the bus crawled along <br />the trail, far<br />above the roaring Langtang Khola down in the valley, <br />and then, after<br />11 hours on bus, we rode into Shaypru Besi, a small <br />coal-mining town,<br />the End of the Road, gateway into the mountains. <br /><br />We trekked up the trail the next day, the stones <br />glittering silver in<br />the sun, trekking above the turquoise and white waters <br />of the Bhote<br />Khola (the Tibet River), green rice paddies terraced <br />into the<br />mountainside, and mountains rising high above us. We <br />walked up the<br />trail for a few hours, and then rounded a shoulder, <br />and there,<br />nestled in the elbow of the mountain, high above the <br />river, lay<br />Briddim village, red and blue and green and yellow and <br />white prayer<br />flags flapping in the wind, a huddle of small stone <br />huts with smoke<br />rising from the rooftops. We descended into the <br />village, stone walls<br />bordering the trail, and we dropped our packs on the <br />front porch of<br />the Village Lama's house. We were welcomed <br />immediately, and were<br />served cups of Bhote Ciya, Tibetan tea flavored with <br />butter and salt,<br />and Roti, a cracker-bread that is shaped into a <br />tibetan knot, to be<br />soaked in the ciya and then eaten.<br /><br />I was welcomed into the family's household, and i <br />ducked down through<br />the door into the smoky, dark dwelling. The tibetan <br />household is<br />centered around the fire, which is constantly kept <br />burning, and the<br />smoke drifts up and out the eaves, rather than up a <br />chimney. The<br />walls and ceiling were velvet black from years of <br />smoke, and the<br />beams were decorated with fresh painted designes from <br />Lhosar, the<br />tibetan New year. A shaft of sunlight created a <br />diagonal bar of<br />illumination, falling across the hut, and pooling on <br />the floor.<br /><br />We sat in the hut, drinking Bhote ciya and munching on <br />Roti, and<br />speaking with the family in a mix of rudimentary <br />english and my<br />limited Nepali. The eldest son, Pema Lama, spoke good <br />english, so we<br />talked. He is also a young man of 24 years, like me. <br />He said to me,<br />"You and me are miith (pronounced like "meet"), and <br />then explained to<br />me that this means soul friends, and that tomorrow, we <br />would hold a<br />ceremony which would create a brother-like bond <br />between us. In<br />celebration, the family called upon a neighbor to kill <br />a chicken<br />(being Buddhist Lamas, they do not kill anything them <br />selves), and we<br />had a solemn party, a feast of Dal-Bhat (rice and <br />lentils) and Khukra<br />(chicken).<br /><br />The next day, there was a ceremony, and Pema and i <br />each put a tikka<br />on the other's forehead, and we were prestented with a <br />Khadar, a silk<br />scarf that is bestowed as a sign of welcome. Thus we <br />became<br />Miith-juu, and i was welcomed as a part of the family.<br /><br /><br /><br />more later...<br /><br />love, <br /><br />markMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985122659821632005-12-30T18:24:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:25:22.660-05:00Step into the Sky...Tommorrow I leave for the mighty Himalaya, Land of <br />Snows. I travel<br />to the Langtang Region in the north of Nepal, <br />bordering Tibet. I am<br />going by Nepali bus, which by all accounts will be an <br />interesting way<br />to travel, a little dunk in the local color, you know? <br />I will be<br />trekking up to Kamal's wife's village, a little <br />Tibetan refugee<br />village, where they are just winding down with their <br />Lhosar<br />celebration, the Tibetan New Year. Then i go for a <br />walk in the<br />mountains.<br /><br />More when i return to the civilized city...<br /><br />love, <br /><br />mark in the mountains.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135985052735131022005-12-30T18:23:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:24:12.746-05:00Quiet Day in KathmanduToday and tomorrow, all Nepal is closed down. All <br />businesses are<br />shut up tight, and in the valley, there is no <br />transportation moving. <br />The shut-down was ordered by the Maoist rebels. The <br />government<br />declared a state of emergency in the country yesterday <br />as a result of<br />an attack by Maoists on a remote police post this <br />week, where 153<br />police and army soldiers were killed. So it is a <br />quiet, peaceful day<br />in Kathmandu, and i sat in the hot sun on the upstairs <br />terrace,<br />playing cards with the hotel staff. <br /><br />I have talked to many people about the situation, and <br />they all seem<br />to feel that the situation is beyond their control; <br />they shrug their<br />shoulders, and say, "as long as i can do my business, <br />it's OK". But<br />they are unhappy with the situation because there are <br />less tourists,<br />where most of their business comes from. <br /><br />Everybody i talk to says there is no danger for me. <br />Maoists target<br />strictly government targets, they never attack <br />tourists. This way,<br />they avoid drawing international attention. Kamal <br />says that i have<br />nothing to be concerned about, and i trust his word. <br />In fact, in the<br />villages, he has many maoist friends, and he stops and <br />talks to them:<br /> They say "Hello Kamal! How is trekking?" he says <br />"Good! How is<br />your fight?"<br /><br />So things are OK with me, nothing to worry about. And <br />the government<br />situation here, who knows? Time will tell, and i will <br />keep you<br />posted.<br /><br />Love, markMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135984108527904502005-12-30T18:07:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:13:33.080-05:00PashupatinathOn monday, Kamal and i went to Pashuputinath, by the<br />Bishnumati<br />River. This is the place where all the Hindus in the<br />valley cremate<br />their dead, the portal to the afterlife. It is a very<br />sacred place,<br />and very powerful. There are many steps and terraces<br />and little<br />ancient stone temples, in which reside different<br />deities. Many Sadhus<br />(ascetic hindu Yogis) live here, lounging about,<br />sleeping in the sun,<br />sitting by fires, smoking their ganja, showing off for<br />tourists.<br />They all dress in orange and yellow, and paint their<br />faces, and rub<br />their bodies with bone charcoal from the funeral<br />pyres. I would look<br />them in the eyes, and they looked back with piercing<br />eyes, looking<br />deep inside me. They are different than i thought<br />they might be,<br />though, these holy men, more commercial than i<br />thought. They wanted<br />me to take their picture, then they asked for money. <br />I gave them<br />some american dollars, and some tobacco from my pouch,<br />and we sat and<br />hung out for a while. They are showmen. When a<br />tourist comes by<br />with a camera, they all strike a pose, doing a<br />headstand or putting<br />their foot behind their head. They all sat and joked<br />with the crowd<br />that gathered, and they packed a chillum and smoked<br />it, then popped<br />some pills from a little green packet, then they sat<br />and chanted for<br />a while, one of them playing on a little hand drum.<br /><br />The smell of the place was distinctive, the smell of<br />human bodies<br />being incinerated into ash, the soul's earthly vehicle<br />returning to<br />whence it came, to the fire, water, air and earth. It<br />is a thick<br />odor that settles over the ancient place, ever-present<br />in the breath<br />of the yogis who live there. Kamal says aabout the<br />sadhus, "It is a<br />good life! No worries about government, the political,<br />the<br />development of country. Only waiting for dying."<br /><br />We sat by the river and watched the monkeys play,<br />climbing the cliffs<br />by the river, and then jumping into the river with a<br />splash! We<br />walked downriver, past the Ghat, where a body was<br />being cremated. We<br />stopped there, and watched. They threw grass onb the<br />fire, soaked<br />with water from the river, creating a thick column of<br />smoke for the<br />soul to ride to heaven. Kamal says:" Mark, you know,<br />some people<br />take picture for pocket, you know? But this, this is<br />for you. You<br />keep this. This is a life, you know?"<br /><br />We walked together over the bridge, past the people,<br />and up the<br />street a quiet street with no cars, and a quiet<br />serenity filled me,<br />as we walked up the street together, under the trees,<br />back to the<br />land of the living.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />namaste.<br /><br />markMark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20280962.post-1135984014260280062005-12-30T18:06:00.000-05:002005-12-30T18:06:54.263-05:00Journal excerpt: sun 17 febJournal excerpt:<br /><br />sun 17 feb<br /><br />I am doing some business in Kathmandu for my friend <br />susan, so today i<br />learned Nepali business. I drank about 18 cups of <br />tea, sitting in<br />this shop or that, chatting about this and that, <br />waiting, and<br />sitting, living on Nepali time. Nepali time is like <br />this: you say<br />"i'll meet you at 3" then you show up at 5 or 7 or <br />tomorrow. My<br />sherpa guide, kamal, says there is tourist time, and <br />then nepali<br />time. Tourist time, 3 is 3. Nepali time, see above. <br />today went like<br />this:<br /><br />11 Sit with kedar and Laxmi, have a cup of tea, do <br />some business.<br />12 Sit with Hari, have cup of tea, wait for Rishi.<br />1 Sit at Yak Wool house, have cup of tea, wait, then <br />do business.<br />2 Sit at Ganesh Music with Didi Nanda, have cup of <br />tea.<br />2:30 Sit with Hari, chat, have cup of tea, wait for <br />Rishi<br />3 Sit with Didi Nanda, have cup of tea, do business<br />4 Sit with Didi, have another cup of tea, chat.<br />5 Sit with Didi, have another cup of tea.<br />6 Sit and wait for Kedar, have cup of tea.<br />end of business today.<br /><br /><br />Mon 18 feb<br /><br />Today Kamal and i rode up to Nagarkot, a mountain <br />overlooking the<br />Kathmandu Vally, on Rishi's motorcycle (don't tell <br />mom). Little<br />winding roads, with thatched roof huts alongside the <br />road, families<br />eating outside, staring at the American riding by. On <br />the way down,<br />we saw a film crew shooting a movie, so we stopped to <br />watch, and i<br />became the spectacle, a white skinned bearded american <br />in a wide-brim<br />leather hat, and the crew wanted me to be in the <br />movie. <br />TUnfortunately, the sun was going down, and they <br />didn't have time for<br />another shot, so i guess i won't be a nepali film <br />star. Oh well.<br /><br />Kamal and i have eaten every night at a little Tibetan <br />joint in<br />Chetrapatti. They have the most amazing food in this <br />neighborhood. <br />Little places that you stoop down into, you might not <br />know it is a<br />restaurant except for the smell of the wonderful spice <br />wafting out of<br />the door. Not the cleanest place, but amazing food! <br />We sit upstairs<br />at this tibetan place, in the room where the family <br />sleeps. We sit<br />on the floor, people packed in elbow to elbow and knee <br />to knee,<br />speaking nepali and english, eating mo-mos and veg <br />fried rice off two<br />little tables, drinking thomba, some sort of hot <br />millet beer, "real<br />nepali style" says Kamal. <br /><br /><br />That's the news from Kathmandu, i'll write more <br />tommorrow. "Bhole<br />beto-lai!" See you tomorrow!<br /><br />love,<br /><br />mark.Mark Heffernanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17031690097926253863noreply@blogger.com0