11th of December
It's always nice to hear my mothers voice, but when she called today I freaked out and dropped the laptop. I'm just not used to people contacting me here, and therefor will there be no more longer posts. I can't take the time to write at a Internet-cafe. Probably is this how life punish klutzes like me.
The waterfront
7th of December
I’d bought a cheap compass earlier that day and it took me west in the evening. I’d seen a map that morning and I did what I could to remember how lost I could have been. At least I wasn’t walking in circles, but I didn’t really know where I was heading either. It hadn’t quite worked out to get some help with direction during the day; about two out of three that could answer a question had sent me the wrong direction.
I got there, eventually, and it happen kind of a sudden. Around a corner, and there it was. No more houses, the sun settling somewhere else but a beautiful picture of Mumbai across the bay. The waterfront was crowded in the evening and I had to walk a bit along the sidewalk before I could find a free spot on the stone wall towards the water.
It was the type of place you could fall in love at and I was clearly not the first one to think so. Couples occupied the majority of the space and presumably homeless girls had an easy time, comparing with other places, to sell roses. Love was in the air and went for the climax as the sun went down and for the last time that day painted the sky in the colors of romance. I think everyone along the waterfront felt like going home with someone as the city got darker and darker.
I walked a bit to a new spot, not sure why, where I sat down again. The sidewalk was still crowded with people even after sunset, which hadn’t been that common in either India or Nepal. Something in this city was still awake after sunset, even if I think many wanted to head home around me. Some of the couples had probably not yet reached that point of romance required to share a bed, and there was no better place than this to find that last fuel for the passion. If the culture here worked as it did at home on this aspect at least.
I stayed there until my butt was cold, and that didn’t happen too quickly in this climate. Even with the sun down had this place still a lot of beauty left. Beauty and calm was what this place was all about. It’s like if the street sellers visualize the spirit of every place in this place, and here they slowly move up to and respectfully whisper their offers. It’s nice, I wish they would do that in more parts of the city, and not just when selling hash, because that’s just (place for word of choice) creepy.
I’d bought a cheap compass earlier that day and it took me west in the evening. I’d seen a map that morning and I did what I could to remember how lost I could have been. At least I wasn’t walking in circles, but I didn’t really know where I was heading either. It hadn’t quite worked out to get some help with direction during the day; about two out of three that could answer a question had sent me the wrong direction.
I got there, eventually, and it happen kind of a sudden. Around a corner, and there it was. No more houses, the sun settling somewhere else but a beautiful picture of Mumbai across the bay. The waterfront was crowded in the evening and I had to walk a bit along the sidewalk before I could find a free spot on the stone wall towards the water.
It was the type of place you could fall in love at and I was clearly not the first one to think so. Couples occupied the majority of the space and presumably homeless girls had an easy time, comparing with other places, to sell roses. Love was in the air and went for the climax as the sun went down and for the last time that day painted the sky in the colors of romance. I think everyone along the waterfront felt like going home with someone as the city got darker and darker.
I walked a bit to a new spot, not sure why, where I sat down again. The sidewalk was still crowded with people even after sunset, which hadn’t been that common in either India or Nepal. Something in this city was still awake after sunset, even if I think many wanted to head home around me. Some of the couples had probably not yet reached that point of romance required to share a bed, and there was no better place than this to find that last fuel for the passion. If the culture here worked as it did at home on this aspect at least.
I stayed there until my butt was cold, and that didn’t happen too quickly in this climate. Even with the sun down had this place still a lot of beauty left. Beauty and calm was what this place was all about. It’s like if the street sellers visualize the spirit of every place in this place, and here they slowly move up to and respectfully whisper their offers. It’s nice, I wish they would do that in more parts of the city, and not just when selling hash, because that’s just (place for word of choice) creepy.
Lost in translation
6th of December
Watch the movie, and then you know how my experience of Mumbai is. Well, there are some slight differences of course; it’s not located in Japan for a starter. You have to exchange the Japanese for Indians, replace the main character with me, and possibly make it slightly hotter. It’s still pretty much the same, where ever I go is there someone wanting to take a picture of me and people gather when I stop to have a look around.
Then again, there is the saddest difference of them all. The wonderful Scarlett Johansen isn’t there to accompany me, but Mumbai is still awesome!
Watch the movie, and then you know how my experience of Mumbai is. Well, there are some slight differences of course; it’s not located in Japan for a starter. You have to exchange the Japanese for Indians, replace the main character with me, and possibly make it slightly hotter. It’s still pretty much the same, where ever I go is there someone wanting to take a picture of me and people gather when I stop to have a look around.
Then again, there is the saddest difference of them all. The wonderful Scarlett Johansen isn’t there to accompany me, but Mumbai is still awesome!
Checking availability
4th of December
I entered the booking-hut along the beach. It felt cheap all over. The woman behind the desk rose up and pointed her hand at one of the bamboo-chairs.
"Hello, please seat!"
"Hello, do you have any bus tickets, sleeper, from here to Mumbai for tomorrow?"
"You want from Goa to Mumbai?"
"Well, yes."
"Bus or train?"
"As said, a bus ticket sleeper."
"Okay, do you want to book?"
"No, I don’t have the money with me, but I would like to know if there are tickets available."
"Bus to Mumbai?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"No, as I said, tomorrow."
"Okay, we have."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Because the place I asked yesterday didn’t knew and had to check."
"You was here?"
"No, it was another place. Do you know that you have tickets?"
"Yes."
"So I can book it now if I want to?"
"I call and check if there is tickets."
She took up big black phone and slowly pressed in a number, proximately a number a second. She looked as if she hated her job. A few minutes later did she hang up.
"650."
"What? I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"650."
"Yeas, I know the price, I didn’t ask for that. Is there any tickets left for tomorrow?"
"Sleepers?"
"Yes. Are there tickets?"
"Yes."
"Good, then I’ll come back later."
"You don’t want to book?"
"As I said, I only asked if there was tickets so I could come back, because I don’t have the money on me."
"You don’t have money?"
"I'll see you later…"
It's hard to make yourself understood, and sometimes frustrating.
I entered the booking-hut along the beach. It felt cheap all over. The woman behind the desk rose up and pointed her hand at one of the bamboo-chairs.
"Hello, please seat!"
"Hello, do you have any bus tickets, sleeper, from here to Mumbai for tomorrow?"
"You want from Goa to Mumbai?"
"Well, yes."
"Bus or train?"
"As said, a bus ticket sleeper."
"Okay, do you want to book?"
"No, I don’t have the money with me, but I would like to know if there are tickets available."
"Bus to Mumbai?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"No, as I said, tomorrow."
"Okay, we have."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Because the place I asked yesterday didn’t knew and had to check."
"You was here?"
"No, it was another place. Do you know that you have tickets?"
"Yes."
"So I can book it now if I want to?"
"I call and check if there is tickets."
She took up big black phone and slowly pressed in a number, proximately a number a second. She looked as if she hated her job. A few minutes later did she hang up.
"650."
"What? I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"650."
"Yeas, I know the price, I didn’t ask for that. Is there any tickets left for tomorrow?"
"Sleepers?"
"Yes. Are there tickets?"
"Yes."
"Good, then I’ll come back later."
"You don’t want to book?"
"As I said, I only asked if there was tickets so I could come back, because I don’t have the money on me."
"You don’t have money?"
"I'll see you later…"
It's hard to make yourself understood, and sometimes frustrating.
The Laughing Buddha
27th of November
It’s raining. It’s raining a lot. Not like the heavy monsoon a few months ago, and not the soft gentle rain a couple of minutes ago. It’s that heavy rain that makes you wish you’d stayed inside, or possibly brought an umbrella. It’s the rain that, when staying inside or bringing an umbrella, brings the coziest of feelings, possibly only contested by a campfire with close friends a warm summer night. I’d for some reason felt like the day needed to start and took off anyway. I should have stayed in bed.
The road had been bumpy at first but had now evened out a bit. It had started off with a creation of mainly small rocks and mud but had now gradually turned to asphalt which at home would be considered a massive improvement in comfort. The roads here are at some places so poorly constructed that it’s hard to say where one road end and where the next one begins, not to mention the giant holes in the middle of them.
I’d waken up early and then waited out the rain a bit before I took the motorbike out on the road. It was a soft rain by then but just a minute later had it started raining heavily again, just when I got on the main road. I was wet in a couple of seconds and cold for the first time in this country. No time to loose, I’d immediately decided on heading towards the restaurant with the amazing view I found yesterday, called the Laughing Buddha. It was a bit away but at least I’d started the day and wasn’t still in bed. I should have stayed in bed.
The water poured down my sunglasses as I tried to speed up down the deserted road. People seemed have the common sense I didn’t, to know when to stay home for example. I reminded myself that there still were a lot of holes and other natural speed bumps along the way and slowed down a little bit, mainly to ease my conscience, but I was still going pretty fast. It was a beautiful landscape that I passed, and any other day would I think about that and how my hair was playing in the wind. It was licked back today by the rain as water poured down my spine.
I eventually got to the Laughing Buddha, where I ordered a cop of chai and crept down under a blanket, wishing I was back at the hotel in my bed.
It’s raining. It’s raining a lot. Not like the heavy monsoon a few months ago, and not the soft gentle rain a couple of minutes ago. It’s that heavy rain that makes you wish you’d stayed inside, or possibly brought an umbrella. It’s the rain that, when staying inside or bringing an umbrella, brings the coziest of feelings, possibly only contested by a campfire with close friends a warm summer night. I’d for some reason felt like the day needed to start and took off anyway. I should have stayed in bed.
The road had been bumpy at first but had now evened out a bit. It had started off with a creation of mainly small rocks and mud but had now gradually turned to asphalt which at home would be considered a massive improvement in comfort. The roads here are at some places so poorly constructed that it’s hard to say where one road end and where the next one begins, not to mention the giant holes in the middle of them.
I’d waken up early and then waited out the rain a bit before I took the motorbike out on the road. It was a soft rain by then but just a minute later had it started raining heavily again, just when I got on the main road. I was wet in a couple of seconds and cold for the first time in this country. No time to loose, I’d immediately decided on heading towards the restaurant with the amazing view I found yesterday, called the Laughing Buddha. It was a bit away but at least I’d started the day and wasn’t still in bed. I should have stayed in bed.
The water poured down my sunglasses as I tried to speed up down the deserted road. People seemed have the common sense I didn’t, to know when to stay home for example. I reminded myself that there still were a lot of holes and other natural speed bumps along the way and slowed down a little bit, mainly to ease my conscience, but I was still going pretty fast. It was a beautiful landscape that I passed, and any other day would I think about that and how my hair was playing in the wind. It was licked back today by the rain as water poured down my spine.
I eventually got to the Laughing Buddha, where I ordered a cop of chai and crept down under a blanket, wishing I was back at the hotel in my bed.
The Holy Man
26th of November
I found him sitting in his small hut as the first rain in weeks softly fell outside. He was an old man, marked by the years he lived here in the wastelands of India. The ruins from ancient cultures lay all around us in the small clutch of trees where he’d built a new life. Apparently was he from Italy originally, but during travels in this region did he run out of money and settled down at the guru in the temple. They fed him and gave him a place to stay, while he taught him about Shiva and the guru life.
There was no way of telling that he was Italian more than that he spoke English with some difficulties. He looked like any other guru, with the long beard, the long hair and the colored marks on the forehead.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Ehhmmm, maybe more than 20 years.” His voice cracked and the answer was more a whisper than anything else, but he smiled against my interest. He’d been here since 1970’s to be a little bit more precise.
He’s a guru at this local temple dedicated to the god Shiva. There is a small room in the middle of the biggest house in this complex of small huts. Some small trees had found their way through the hard ground around the huts and family of ravens watched us from the tree tops. He’d been a painter when he was younger and had made a big beautiful portrait of Shiva on one of the rocks. At the entrance sat two statues of bulls, also connected symbols of the god Shiva.
It hadn’t been at all what I expected. I’d seen a wise matured man, filled with the wisdom only age can provide but energy and patience mustered by dedication. Someone I could listen to and discuss belief with. This was just an old man, barely capable of getting to his own feet and in no way capable of handling a skeptical young man as me. Sure I could have got free food and bed, but there was nothing spiritual about this place and nothing holy about this man. He was just old.
I found him sitting in his small hut as the first rain in weeks softly fell outside. He was an old man, marked by the years he lived here in the wastelands of India. The ruins from ancient cultures lay all around us in the small clutch of trees where he’d built a new life. Apparently was he from Italy originally, but during travels in this region did he run out of money and settled down at the guru in the temple. They fed him and gave him a place to stay, while he taught him about Shiva and the guru life.
There was no way of telling that he was Italian more than that he spoke English with some difficulties. He looked like any other guru, with the long beard, the long hair and the colored marks on the forehead.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Ehhmmm, maybe more than 20 years.” His voice cracked and the answer was more a whisper than anything else, but he smiled against my interest. He’d been here since 1970’s to be a little bit more precise.
He’s a guru at this local temple dedicated to the god Shiva. There is a small room in the middle of the biggest house in this complex of small huts. Some small trees had found their way through the hard ground around the huts and family of ravens watched us from the tree tops. He’d been a painter when he was younger and had made a big beautiful portrait of Shiva on one of the rocks. At the entrance sat two statues of bulls, also connected symbols of the god Shiva.
It hadn’t been at all what I expected. I’d seen a wise matured man, filled with the wisdom only age can provide but energy and patience mustered by dedication. Someone I could listen to and discuss belief with. This was just an old man, barely capable of getting to his own feet and in no way capable of handling a skeptical young man as me. Sure I could have got free food and bed, but there was nothing spiritual about this place and nothing holy about this man. He was just old.
Hammock
20th of November
Wide-spread tropical beaches, the white sand so soft your feet sink in a few centimeters and you can feel the gentle heat from the sun. The palm trees with its majestic height calmly tilt out over the beach, the green leaves supply enough shade without taking away the natural magical light and warmth. The water is sparkling as the waves give you a calm background sound, the dolphins playing in the distant sunset with a few birds passing a blood-red cloud and you feel like there isn’t a problem in the world.
This isn’t paradise. This is merely nature and there is nothing divine about this creation what so ever. But this can be changed! For only 150 Rupees can you invest in a hammock, this elegant piece of design, which can provide you the comfort that you’ve always wanted. No matter how perfect the view is will nothing make it as godlike as the hammocks of Goa. Once you’ve tried it will you never want to leave it again.
The breeze, the careful warm breeze of the ocean, will sway you in the most romantic of ways, completing this supposedly divine place and make it to its fullest. There is nothing else on the market that can compete with this brilliant design. The comfort alone is worth more than eight times the amount, and with the simple construction is it close to priceless.
For only 150 Rupees can you get this brilliant bed of comfort. To the eye only a sheet of cloth but you know it’s so much more. For only 150 Rupees can you get it. Buy it today!
Wide-spread tropical beaches, the white sand so soft your feet sink in a few centimeters and you can feel the gentle heat from the sun. The palm trees with its majestic height calmly tilt out over the beach, the green leaves supply enough shade without taking away the natural magical light and warmth. The water is sparkling as the waves give you a calm background sound, the dolphins playing in the distant sunset with a few birds passing a blood-red cloud and you feel like there isn’t a problem in the world.
This isn’t paradise. This is merely nature and there is nothing divine about this creation what so ever. But this can be changed! For only 150 Rupees can you invest in a hammock, this elegant piece of design, which can provide you the comfort that you’ve always wanted. No matter how perfect the view is will nothing make it as godlike as the hammocks of Goa. Once you’ve tried it will you never want to leave it again.
The breeze, the careful warm breeze of the ocean, will sway you in the most romantic of ways, completing this supposedly divine place and make it to its fullest. There is nothing else on the market that can compete with this brilliant design. The comfort alone is worth more than eight times the amount, and with the simple construction is it close to priceless.
For only 150 Rupees can you get this brilliant bed of comfort. To the eye only a sheet of cloth but you know it’s so much more. For only 150 Rupees can you get it. Buy it today!
Coco huts
15th of November
On a long stretched white beach, where the waves happily rolls in over playing sun guests without causing disturbance to the resting baskers desperately working on the hungover from last night, amongst the palm trees poking the sun and the playing with the butterflies, there lays a few hotels.
Each year are these hotels torn down and the entire beach deserted for the off season. They are called huts for a reason because more then a luxurious tent with walls is it hard to call it. Well, a lot of imagination might do it, but still. They wall off the beach from the slightly more hectical tourist street running along the waterfront.
On two meter unsteadily looking poles are the huts constructed. On that altitude is every rhythm of romance unfortunately shared with everyone in the complex. They are surprisingly comfortable thou, and costs but a fraction of the price of a proper hotel which makes it ideal for a longer stay.
I would like to call them Coco sheds when I think about it...
On a long stretched white beach, where the waves happily rolls in over playing sun guests without causing disturbance to the resting baskers desperately working on the hungover from last night, amongst the palm trees poking the sun and the playing with the butterflies, there lays a few hotels.
Each year are these hotels torn down and the entire beach deserted for the off season. They are called huts for a reason because more then a luxurious tent with walls is it hard to call it. Well, a lot of imagination might do it, but still. They wall off the beach from the slightly more hectical tourist street running along the waterfront.
On two meter unsteadily looking poles are the huts constructed. On that altitude is every rhythm of romance unfortunately shared with everyone in the complex. They are surprisingly comfortable thou, and costs but a fraction of the price of a proper hotel which makes it ideal for a longer stay.
I would like to call them Coco sheds when I think about it...
Goa
11th of November
I’d been resting for an hour and felt the drowsy adventurous feeling creep up on me, the one when you really would like some excitement but just isn’t in the mood to make something happen. Now would be a perfect time for some crazy friend with a lot of ideas to call me. No one got my new Indian number thou, so I didn’t put much hope on anyone contacting me for this evening.
I put on my sunglasses, locked the door and strolled on towards the beach. The sun found its way through the leaves of palm trees, reaching for the sky. It was beautifully marine blue, the sky, and not a cloud in sight. Not that there were no clouds, they just weren’t visible for the humidity clouding the clouds. Figuratively. I passed the manager of the hotel and gave him a smile.
“… I knew all the roads but the roads did not know me, guaranteed.” Sang Eddie Vedder as I strolled through the small track of sand down to the beach. I found myself smiling. The sand was rolling over my feet as I walked along the track, I could feel it bounce on my calves. The sand was colder than earlier, and colder then the air. Not that this is considered cold in any way. Even now in the sunset was it warm enough for people to only dress in Speedos.
A breeze of warm air slid across my face as I took my first step down on the beach. It felt like a big bucket of warm water plunging over you in ultra rapid. It was in some ways soothing. I passed the sun-beds and sat down next to the waterfront. Wave after wave came rolling in across the hard sand, a couple of meters from my feet. I knew that the water was still warm, warmer than it ever got at home.
A couple of birds passed on a leisurely flight as the sun grew redder along with the sky. A couple was playing in the water and a man on a bike came to sell ice-cream. I found myself wonder why people tried to make this moment any different in any way. Someone to talk to could sure be nice right now, but beside that didn’t I have a single wish in the world. So how long should I stay here?
I’d been resting for an hour and felt the drowsy adventurous feeling creep up on me, the one when you really would like some excitement but just isn’t in the mood to make something happen. Now would be a perfect time for some crazy friend with a lot of ideas to call me. No one got my new Indian number thou, so I didn’t put much hope on anyone contacting me for this evening.
I put on my sunglasses, locked the door and strolled on towards the beach. The sun found its way through the leaves of palm trees, reaching for the sky. It was beautifully marine blue, the sky, and not a cloud in sight. Not that there were no clouds, they just weren’t visible for the humidity clouding the clouds. Figuratively. I passed the manager of the hotel and gave him a smile.
“… I knew all the roads but the roads did not know me, guaranteed.” Sang Eddie Vedder as I strolled through the small track of sand down to the beach. I found myself smiling. The sand was rolling over my feet as I walked along the track, I could feel it bounce on my calves. The sand was colder than earlier, and colder then the air. Not that this is considered cold in any way. Even now in the sunset was it warm enough for people to only dress in Speedos.
A breeze of warm air slid across my face as I took my first step down on the beach. It felt like a big bucket of warm water plunging over you in ultra rapid. It was in some ways soothing. I passed the sun-beds and sat down next to the waterfront. Wave after wave came rolling in across the hard sand, a couple of meters from my feet. I knew that the water was still warm, warmer than it ever got at home.
A couple of birds passed on a leisurely flight as the sun grew redder along with the sky. A couple was playing in the water and a man on a bike came to sell ice-cream. I found myself wonder why people tried to make this moment any different in any way. Someone to talk to could sure be nice right now, but beside that didn’t I have a single wish in the world. So how long should I stay here?
Sleeper
10th of November
I’ve got no idea why they call it sleepers. Not even a guess and especially not a theory. It is cheaper thou, a 12 hours train ride only cost 150 rupees so I can’t complain there. Compared to the horrible sleep I got waiting for the train would most ways of travel be considered a luxury or at least a walk in the park. This wasn’t.
Sleepers class is a couple of train wagons with an interior of booths. Each booth can carry up to ten passengers, assuming they’re not westerner-sized of course. Above each booth are low shelfs which in European country would take the passengers luggage but here was designed to double the passenger capacity. We fitted eight fully grown, in most directions fully grown, men up there. That was painful and I know, because I was one of them.
Most of us stayed for more than 10 hours on the train. After a few stations did someone bring a peacock-dress, in the size of a bathtub or two, which filled up the remaining air in our booth. I sat and hugged my knees and backpack. This wasn’t comfortable nor in any way considered luxurious. My butt hurt after half an hour which forced me to a half-hearted attempt to change position. I heard some of the other Indian passengers laugh at me.
I was the only foreigner on the train, at least in this part of it. Most people passing gave me an extra look, like they thought I was lost. I could in some ways see why. The reason I got this ticket was that every other already was booked and partly because I didn’t knew any better. I know now, and I wouldn't make this mistake again. Once is an experience, twice is a slow learner.
We grew to be a family by the time most of them were leaving. Many of us had fallen asleep on top of each other, me included, and there hadn't been much of a personal space for anyone. We shook hands and wished everyone a happy life when someone was leaving, because if someone had slept on top of you or the other way around is there a bond and a common decency to follow. I especially remember the family father who slept with a foot under my butt which didn’t really made the pain any less. All thou, there were no other place for it up there on the shelf, so it was either that or letting it hang in the passenger below him, an old lady’s, face. With this I shall end this description and encourage everyone to the same mistake as I did. Once.
I’ve got no idea why they call it sleepers. Not even a guess and especially not a theory. It is cheaper thou, a 12 hours train ride only cost 150 rupees so I can’t complain there. Compared to the horrible sleep I got waiting for the train would most ways of travel be considered a luxury or at least a walk in the park. This wasn’t.
Sleepers class is a couple of train wagons with an interior of booths. Each booth can carry up to ten passengers, assuming they’re not westerner-sized of course. Above each booth are low shelfs which in European country would take the passengers luggage but here was designed to double the passenger capacity. We fitted eight fully grown, in most directions fully grown, men up there. That was painful and I know, because I was one of them.
Most of us stayed for more than 10 hours on the train. After a few stations did someone bring a peacock-dress, in the size of a bathtub or two, which filled up the remaining air in our booth. I sat and hugged my knees and backpack. This wasn’t comfortable nor in any way considered luxurious. My butt hurt after half an hour which forced me to a half-hearted attempt to change position. I heard some of the other Indian passengers laugh at me.
I was the only foreigner on the train, at least in this part of it. Most people passing gave me an extra look, like they thought I was lost. I could in some ways see why. The reason I got this ticket was that every other already was booked and partly because I didn’t knew any better. I know now, and I wouldn't make this mistake again. Once is an experience, twice is a slow learner.
We grew to be a family by the time most of them were leaving. Many of us had fallen asleep on top of each other, me included, and there hadn't been much of a personal space for anyone. We shook hands and wished everyone a happy life when someone was leaving, because if someone had slept on top of you or the other way around is there a bond and a common decency to follow. I especially remember the family father who slept with a foot under my butt which didn’t really made the pain any less. All thou, there were no other place for it up there on the shelf, so it was either that or letting it hang in the passenger below him, an old lady’s, face. With this I shall end this description and encourage everyone to the same mistake as I did. Once.
Mumbai
9th of November
I could feel the freedom crushing down on me, I was on my own for the first time on the trip and I had no final destination. The man at the custom hadn’t been particularly happy about this. But I was free and it felt incredible, I could even smell it. The smell of freedom is apparently the same as old eggs with worse fish here in Mumbai, India.
The information desk, currently occupied by three cute Indian girls and me on the other side, had absolutely no idea where I could find a train going south. Their continuing attempts ask me for a destination were all in vain, mostly because I didn’t have any. It’s possible there was a language barrier here as well since not many seemed to speak English as good as I assumed they would.
After some time could they finally decide on where the closest train station was and I went for a taxi. On the way to the taxi did I ask a man in a business suit the same question and he provided a much likelier answer. The ride there with the taxi was the first smooth ride I’d gotten in months, without any massaging or even hurting vibrations. It felt exotic.
Lanes on a road is useless, as proven by the vehicle-powered citizens of Mumbai. If there ever was a need for them did people form new ones automatically, but the ones existing were just there for the looks. I tried not to breath. The smell of freedom was slowly shifting from bad eggs and worse fish to just eggs, which some might be considered an improvement. These eggs had already passed someone.
Here I encountered the same problem as before, just asking for a ticket going far south was impossible, and the place with a map was apparently not open. I had to settle for a ticket to southern Goa, otherwise I wouldn’t get any ticket at all. The next train I could get a ticket for left in the morning at 6:55. It was currently 01:30 and I really didn’t feel like going anywhere. I took a stroll around the train station.
There were people sleeping everywhere, absolutely everywhere. It was even hard for me to find a free spot when I finally decided to do the same. The smell of worse fish had returned to join the bad passed egg touch to my freedom, and the feeling that I was laying in whatever caused this smell was creeping up on me. It was a really poor sleep. Hopefully would I be a bit more comfortable on the train.
Yeah right…
I could feel the freedom crushing down on me, I was on my own for the first time on the trip and I had no final destination. The man at the custom hadn’t been particularly happy about this. But I was free and it felt incredible, I could even smell it. The smell of freedom is apparently the same as old eggs with worse fish here in Mumbai, India.
The information desk, currently occupied by three cute Indian girls and me on the other side, had absolutely no idea where I could find a train going south. Their continuing attempts ask me for a destination were all in vain, mostly because I didn’t have any. It’s possible there was a language barrier here as well since not many seemed to speak English as good as I assumed they would.
After some time could they finally decide on where the closest train station was and I went for a taxi. On the way to the taxi did I ask a man in a business suit the same question and he provided a much likelier answer. The ride there with the taxi was the first smooth ride I’d gotten in months, without any massaging or even hurting vibrations. It felt exotic.
Lanes on a road is useless, as proven by the vehicle-powered citizens of Mumbai. If there ever was a need for them did people form new ones automatically, but the ones existing were just there for the looks. I tried not to breath. The smell of freedom was slowly shifting from bad eggs and worse fish to just eggs, which some might be considered an improvement. These eggs had already passed someone.
Here I encountered the same problem as before, just asking for a ticket going far south was impossible, and the place with a map was apparently not open. I had to settle for a ticket to southern Goa, otherwise I wouldn’t get any ticket at all. The next train I could get a ticket for left in the morning at 6:55. It was currently 01:30 and I really didn’t feel like going anywhere. I took a stroll around the train station.
There were people sleeping everywhere, absolutely everywhere. It was even hard for me to find a free spot when I finally decided to do the same. The smell of worse fish had returned to join the bad passed egg touch to my freedom, and the feeling that I was laying in whatever caused this smell was creeping up on me. It was a really poor sleep. Hopefully would I be a bit more comfortable on the train.
Yeah right…
The curious girl
9th of November
The flight was delayed several hours so I had some time to kill at Delhi Airport. I’d finally escaped Nepal and was currently on my way to the southern sunny beaches of India. With the time to spare had I unsuccessfully tried to find a currency exchange before settling for an ATM, just to pay for something to drink. With my bottle of water in my hand and a content smile across my face did I take a seat at the gate and turned on my laptop.
A little girl was sitting beside me, about 8 years old and curious about everything. She had a bright yellow hat with big white eyes on, one of those hats parents for some reason find suiting on a child, but in a very humiliating way. The girl and the hat were both curiously facing the movie on my laptop, an American action comedy which none of the girl and the hat likely understood the least bit off. They were both frozen in excitement still.
I offered her an earplug to hear the movie. She smiled big and suddenly got really shy. Apparently hadn’t it dawned on her that her indiscrete tries to watch the movie had been that obvious. Her eyes searched for the safety of her mother’s gaze, who smiled back at her daughter. Then she smiled at me. The girl looked at the movie, then at me and when meeting my eyes she turned to her mother again. This repeated itself about five times before she at last agreed to take an earplug. She was beaming of happiness.
The movie ended shortly after, possibly because I sped forward a bit, so we continued to go through the alphabet. School is much funnier on a computer as we both agreed on. She knew it well after a couple of tries, so we continued with creating words and then sentences. As a nice finish did she lost all interest in the teaching aspect and got confident to just type whatever she felt like. It was something like this:
“
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssjhhhbjhbjhjbjafsassssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggggggggheafajfakglaalcdknafafkbhawbhwbhasldajda;;ca;q214o9r787654345678gtyfyuvggfderyuklnbkujjiuhj
“
I won’t pick up my laptop to teach a strangers child again, no matter how cute they are. Unfortunately was her seat located directly behind mine on the plane, to the regret of both me and the man beside me. Let’s put it like this: None of us got any sleep that last flight.
The flight was delayed several hours so I had some time to kill at Delhi Airport. I’d finally escaped Nepal and was currently on my way to the southern sunny beaches of India. With the time to spare had I unsuccessfully tried to find a currency exchange before settling for an ATM, just to pay for something to drink. With my bottle of water in my hand and a content smile across my face did I take a seat at the gate and turned on my laptop.
A little girl was sitting beside me, about 8 years old and curious about everything. She had a bright yellow hat with big white eyes on, one of those hats parents for some reason find suiting on a child, but in a very humiliating way. The girl and the hat were both curiously facing the movie on my laptop, an American action comedy which none of the girl and the hat likely understood the least bit off. They were both frozen in excitement still.
I offered her an earplug to hear the movie. She smiled big and suddenly got really shy. Apparently hadn’t it dawned on her that her indiscrete tries to watch the movie had been that obvious. Her eyes searched for the safety of her mother’s gaze, who smiled back at her daughter. Then she smiled at me. The girl looked at the movie, then at me and when meeting my eyes she turned to her mother again. This repeated itself about five times before she at last agreed to take an earplug. She was beaming of happiness.
The movie ended shortly after, possibly because I sped forward a bit, so we continued to go through the alphabet. School is much funnier on a computer as we both agreed on. She knew it well after a couple of tries, so we continued with creating words and then sentences. As a nice finish did she lost all interest in the teaching aspect and got confident to just type whatever she felt like. It was something like this:
“
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssjhhhbjhbjhjbjafsassssssssssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggggggggheafajfakglaalcdknafafkbhawbhwbhasldajda;;ca;q214o9r787654345678gtyfyuvggfderyuklnbkujjiuhj
“
I won’t pick up my laptop to teach a strangers child again, no matter how cute they are. Unfortunately was her seat located directly behind mine on the plane, to the regret of both me and the man beside me. Let’s put it like this: None of us got any sleep that last flight.
Roland
3rd of November
I met him yesterday in the hotel lounge. I recognized him on his sailor look from the day before, when both of us spent the day queuing for an Indian visa. When sitting restless and waiting does the surrounding area become far more interesting then usually, and the people waiting with you form a sort of bond. It's the form of bond that almost makes you greet each other when you meet on the street, but just almost. You haven't actually introduced yourself yet.
He was having dinner yesterday when I recognized him. Not that he's overly discrete, he got a big white beard and a sailorcap on top of such a friendly face that I'd never dream could tell a lie. Maybe he recognized me as well, maybe he didn't, but I took my chance and complimented him on the sailor look.
I met him in the lounge today as well when he came in for lunch. He remembered me this time at least, because it was he who took contact. I knew that kind mature voice.
His clothes had a blue theme, from the sailorcap to the linen shirt to the jewelery. It fitted his calm personality perfect. The jewelery wrapped around his thick fingers and wrists as if they've never been removed, each one of them with a big ocean blue stone in the center. His face was old and tired, but happy with it as after a long eventful run. He had obviously a lot of stories to tell.
We sat there and talked for a while. He was, due to himself unfortunately, from America and had been travelling for a year. Most of his stories came from his year in the hotel business, and it was good stories as well. It was those stories that made me hopeful about achieving an interesting life, since it seemed like that just happened to you while you were busy doing other things.
Maybe he'll come by tomorrow as well.
I met him yesterday in the hotel lounge. I recognized him on his sailor look from the day before, when both of us spent the day queuing for an Indian visa. When sitting restless and waiting does the surrounding area become far more interesting then usually, and the people waiting with you form a sort of bond. It's the form of bond that almost makes you greet each other when you meet on the street, but just almost. You haven't actually introduced yourself yet.
He was having dinner yesterday when I recognized him. Not that he's overly discrete, he got a big white beard and a sailorcap on top of such a friendly face that I'd never dream could tell a lie. Maybe he recognized me as well, maybe he didn't, but I took my chance and complimented him on the sailor look.
I met him in the lounge today as well when he came in for lunch. He remembered me this time at least, because it was he who took contact. I knew that kind mature voice.
His clothes had a blue theme, from the sailorcap to the linen shirt to the jewelery. It fitted his calm personality perfect. The jewelery wrapped around his thick fingers and wrists as if they've never been removed, each one of them with a big ocean blue stone in the center. His face was old and tired, but happy with it as after a long eventful run. He had obviously a lot of stories to tell.
We sat there and talked for a while. He was, due to himself unfortunately, from America and had been travelling for a year. Most of his stories came from his year in the hotel business, and it was good stories as well. It was those stories that made me hopeful about achieving an interesting life, since it seemed like that just happened to you while you were busy doing other things.
Maybe he'll come by tomorrow as well.
I've got HBO
2nd of November
Nope, didn’t do shit this day. Only time I left the hotel was when I went out for dinner in the evening. It was a nice day thou, I’ll probably do it again tomorrow.
Nope, didn’t do shit this day. Only time I left the hotel was when I went out for dinner in the evening. It was a nice day thou, I’ll probably do it again tomorrow.
Away
30th of November
That lovely feeling of rebellion struck my body this morning again. The feeling when you wake up, that it’s something wrong with it all and there have to be something done about it, anything, even if it’s just making a big fuzz to draw attention to the problem. Correction, my stomach felt rebellious, and it was either rebelling against me or something else. A big fuzz did it manage to make at least.
This was my last day at the Happy Home, my last day of work, but to be able to blame my absence and lack of work this day on the fact that I was sick felt kind of good. I wouldn’t really miss this work, might miss the kids a bit, for a while, but it hadn’t been the most emotional. The old Orphanage Mother Shila on the other hand was really upset about me leaving, and that made it even more awkward. I felt happy about it.
Just avoiding the kids was a bit easier now since school had started off properly now. It’s kind of ridiculous that this is the first actual normal day that follows the schedule we’ve been trying to plan after for the past weeks. Normal or not, it still weren’t much to do and what could be done could any of the other kids do better than me. It still didn’t feel right in some way.
I took good bye of Shila and gave her some money. It felt like it was expected in a way, and I really don’t know what to do with that feeling. This entire day was confusing, like it was a big cloud of gray covering everything. I just want to get rid of all responsibility to this place and get away. Away to Kathmandu is a start.
That lovely feeling of rebellion struck my body this morning again. The feeling when you wake up, that it’s something wrong with it all and there have to be something done about it, anything, even if it’s just making a big fuzz to draw attention to the problem. Correction, my stomach felt rebellious, and it was either rebelling against me or something else. A big fuzz did it manage to make at least.
This was my last day at the Happy Home, my last day of work, but to be able to blame my absence and lack of work this day on the fact that I was sick felt kind of good. I wouldn’t really miss this work, might miss the kids a bit, for a while, but it hadn’t been the most emotional. The old Orphanage Mother Shila on the other hand was really upset about me leaving, and that made it even more awkward. I felt happy about it.
Just avoiding the kids was a bit easier now since school had started off properly now. It’s kind of ridiculous that this is the first actual normal day that follows the schedule we’ve been trying to plan after for the past weeks. Normal or not, it still weren’t much to do and what could be done could any of the other kids do better than me. It still didn’t feel right in some way.
I took good bye of Shila and gave her some money. It felt like it was expected in a way, and I really don’t know what to do with that feeling. This entire day was confusing, like it was a big cloud of gray covering everything. I just want to get rid of all responsibility to this place and get away. Away to Kathmandu is a start.
Scooter
29th of October
It has been getting colder up here in Pokhara. My room is no longer the sauna during the entire day as it used to be, and by nightfall is it often nice to switch those swimming trunks for some proper pants. During the day is it still warm enough to question the t-shirt you’re wearing. I’ve been busy the last few days with small stuff, so it was time to bring out the bad volunteer inside of me and take a daytrip somewhere. How about renting a scooter?
It’s been years since last time I rode one of these two-wheeled things, and as I recall ended last trip in the ditch. Not to fear, many others I’ve met here in Pokhara said it was no worries, they hadn’t tried it before either and they did fine. They had me convinced just by describing the sensation of freedom. Al thou I lack a driver license could I easily rent one on my old student identity card, and if I’d pushed it a little further could I possibly done it on my library card. There really is no safety in this country.
After a couple of minutes had I gotten used to the left side driving and then was it just to enjoy it. As long as I wasn’t too eager to cut in line did it all run along smooth. Travelling through Pokhara was easy now, compared to the bus that stopped a little bit everywhere and then could take a break for 20minutes if you were unlucky. Crossing Old Pokhara on a scooter, going up and down through the hills it was built on, with the old small houses on the tiny streets and mountaintops where ever you could spot above the houses, was beautiful. Not that I was looking, the driving took my entire focus, but I’m sure it was a picturesque dreamscape.
First stop was Bat’s Cave, apparently not BatCave under Bruce Wains manor as I was hoping for, but bats were there nonetheless. “200 meters long, all adventure” yelled the guide as he took me down into oblivion. Bats were there, a lot, but for adventure speaking could we’ve done more of it on the parking lot. The way out thou was a lot more fun. This was not a trip for a claustrophobic.
After being reborn through a tiny crack in the mountain were the long stretched roads to prefer. Just speeding along and visiting the closest cities made me deeply regret not bringing the camera. The road followed a river for some time, with kids playing out of the stream, a stony bank on each side of the water and levels of trees on the other side. Further upstream could I see the rice fields spread out, heavily populated during a harvest.
At this time I started to get a bit tired, so next stop was the northern Tibetan refugee settlement for a quick nap during a praying session. Al thou magnificent and mysterious, it’s something about those loud horns, deep drums and strange cymbals that just makes me in the mood for a good night sleep. It was a busy day, one of the first since I got here to Pokhara. There really isn’t much to do.
It has been getting colder up here in Pokhara. My room is no longer the sauna during the entire day as it used to be, and by nightfall is it often nice to switch those swimming trunks for some proper pants. During the day is it still warm enough to question the t-shirt you’re wearing. I’ve been busy the last few days with small stuff, so it was time to bring out the bad volunteer inside of me and take a daytrip somewhere. How about renting a scooter?
It’s been years since last time I rode one of these two-wheeled things, and as I recall ended last trip in the ditch. Not to fear, many others I’ve met here in Pokhara said it was no worries, they hadn’t tried it before either and they did fine. They had me convinced just by describing the sensation of freedom. Al thou I lack a driver license could I easily rent one on my old student identity card, and if I’d pushed it a little further could I possibly done it on my library card. There really is no safety in this country.
After a couple of minutes had I gotten used to the left side driving and then was it just to enjoy it. As long as I wasn’t too eager to cut in line did it all run along smooth. Travelling through Pokhara was easy now, compared to the bus that stopped a little bit everywhere and then could take a break for 20minutes if you were unlucky. Crossing Old Pokhara on a scooter, going up and down through the hills it was built on, with the old small houses on the tiny streets and mountaintops where ever you could spot above the houses, was beautiful. Not that I was looking, the driving took my entire focus, but I’m sure it was a picturesque dreamscape.
First stop was Bat’s Cave, apparently not BatCave under Bruce Wains manor as I was hoping for, but bats were there nonetheless. “200 meters long, all adventure” yelled the guide as he took me down into oblivion. Bats were there, a lot, but for adventure speaking could we’ve done more of it on the parking lot. The way out thou was a lot more fun. This was not a trip for a claustrophobic.
After being reborn through a tiny crack in the mountain were the long stretched roads to prefer. Just speeding along and visiting the closest cities made me deeply regret not bringing the camera. The road followed a river for some time, with kids playing out of the stream, a stony bank on each side of the water and levels of trees on the other side. Further upstream could I see the rice fields spread out, heavily populated during a harvest.
At this time I started to get a bit tired, so next stop was the northern Tibetan refugee settlement for a quick nap during a praying session. Al thou magnificent and mysterious, it’s something about those loud horns, deep drums and strange cymbals that just makes me in the mood for a good night sleep. It was a busy day, one of the first since I got here to Pokhara. There really isn’t much to do.
Festival
28th of October
I’ve always liked celebrations, even if I’m horrible in remembering birthdays and anniversaries and all those days. Still I feel like we could do with a lot more celebrations in the west, and fortunately am I not the only one. There have been some lame attempts to make coffee and cinnamon rolls something to celebrate, but to change this for something that actually matters would be amazing. We’ve been celebrating brothers and sisters today.
The celebration started off two days ago with holiday from school, which led to chaos in the orphanage. There were children everywhere, all the time. The tradition said that now was the time to combine singing Christmas carols and going for a classic Trick or Treat, which basically means go and disturb people with your begging singing until they give you something to bother someone else. The orphans were dancing and clapping to their begging singing, and many adults ended up giving money and fruit with a big smile on their faces. From my room could I for two days hear the gangs of kids pick off the area, house after house, to make the biggest profit.
Today then was the end of this celebration and that meant Tikka time. The Tikka being the dot on your forehead, meaning a little bit of everything depending on context, or possibly I just misunderstood this as well. Shila had since a week ago invited me to join her for this ceremony and as the sometimes respectful person I am, was I there on time. Apparently is it the most affective to get your Tikka at 11.55 but what it did could no one tell me. It was still very important that the ceremony began at 11.55 sharp. Sort of.
The ceremony involved a lot of circles of what I guess was holy water, oil combed in your hair and strange local hats. It was kind of enjoyable, all thou I did look like I was in pain through the entire procedure said those watching it. The part that felt most important was the actual coloring of your forehead, which can easily be described as just putting the colors on the forehead. To be a bit more precise would I also mention the person who had to hold you down while doing it, like it was some kind of torture, the mess the colors made everywhere, the good smell of whatever rice-based paste that was smeared on first and the big spoon of red rice that put the last touch on the decoration. First after this we got to eat.
I’ve always liked celebrations, even if I’m horrible in remembering birthdays and anniversaries and all those days. Still I feel like we could do with a lot more celebrations in the west, and fortunately am I not the only one. There have been some lame attempts to make coffee and cinnamon rolls something to celebrate, but to change this for something that actually matters would be amazing. We’ve been celebrating brothers and sisters today.
The celebration started off two days ago with holiday from school, which led to chaos in the orphanage. There were children everywhere, all the time. The tradition said that now was the time to combine singing Christmas carols and going for a classic Trick or Treat, which basically means go and disturb people with your begging singing until they give you something to bother someone else. The orphans were dancing and clapping to their begging singing, and many adults ended up giving money and fruit with a big smile on their faces. From my room could I for two days hear the gangs of kids pick off the area, house after house, to make the biggest profit.
Today then was the end of this celebration and that meant Tikka time. The Tikka being the dot on your forehead, meaning a little bit of everything depending on context, or possibly I just misunderstood this as well. Shila had since a week ago invited me to join her for this ceremony and as the sometimes respectful person I am, was I there on time. Apparently is it the most affective to get your Tikka at 11.55 but what it did could no one tell me. It was still very important that the ceremony began at 11.55 sharp. Sort of.
The ceremony involved a lot of circles of what I guess was holy water, oil combed in your hair and strange local hats. It was kind of enjoyable, all thou I did look like I was in pain through the entire procedure said those watching it. The part that felt most important was the actual coloring of your forehead, which can easily be described as just putting the colors on the forehead. To be a bit more precise would I also mention the person who had to hold you down while doing it, like it was some kind of torture, the mess the colors made everywhere, the good smell of whatever rice-based paste that was smeared on first and the big spoon of red rice that put the last touch on the decoration. First after this we got to eat.
Electronics
27th of October
The difference in using cheats of paper and books compared to using a laptop is huge. The actual writing may be a bit easier on a laptop, but the big difference is in the cheap entertainment you get from game and movies that just happen to end up on it as well. It’s so easy to mentally retreat back home when you have a computer with just a couple of movies. The only time this western bubble collapses is when you need a toilet break.
I woke up with a stomach acting like the French revolution, but it’s possible it didn’t wanted bread. It just wanted revolution, and the pain spread downwards during the day. This gave me a reason to barricade myself from reality for the day, and go through the movies I collected the day before. After just a couple of minutes could I feel like I was home again, sitting in my room with nothing better to do then a marathon of TV series.
The weird part is that it really didn’t make me any happier watching the movies and series. Sure I felt like home and that might be a good feeling, but after each episode or movie was over I just felt like taking on the next one. Compared to reading a book was this such an easy way to satisfy my brain, with no actual thinking involved. Just absorb the special effects and then on to the next one, like I really needed to continue. When I’d read for a while and put down the book I always felt at ease, like happy I’d done something. That feeling was completely absent after a movie.
Having an easier alternative is the killer of my ambition, so this day I got almost no writing done. That could although also be due to lack of energy, I was actually sick this day and didn’t eat that much. I did feel like a big portion of apple crumble, so I took a trip down to the restaurant Once Upon A Time for one of these as a lunch. At that moment it felt good to be sick, since the portion of apple crumble easily could challenge any other portion of food in amount, but it is still a dessert and my conscience was tied down in the cellars during this revolution. As it should be.
The difference in using cheats of paper and books compared to using a laptop is huge. The actual writing may be a bit easier on a laptop, but the big difference is in the cheap entertainment you get from game and movies that just happen to end up on it as well. It’s so easy to mentally retreat back home when you have a computer with just a couple of movies. The only time this western bubble collapses is when you need a toilet break.
I woke up with a stomach acting like the French revolution, but it’s possible it didn’t wanted bread. It just wanted revolution, and the pain spread downwards during the day. This gave me a reason to barricade myself from reality for the day, and go through the movies I collected the day before. After just a couple of minutes could I feel like I was home again, sitting in my room with nothing better to do then a marathon of TV series.
The weird part is that it really didn’t make me any happier watching the movies and series. Sure I felt like home and that might be a good feeling, but after each episode or movie was over I just felt like taking on the next one. Compared to reading a book was this such an easy way to satisfy my brain, with no actual thinking involved. Just absorb the special effects and then on to the next one, like I really needed to continue. When I’d read for a while and put down the book I always felt at ease, like happy I’d done something. That feeling was completely absent after a movie.
Having an easier alternative is the killer of my ambition, so this day I got almost no writing done. That could although also be due to lack of energy, I was actually sick this day and didn’t eat that much. I did feel like a big portion of apple crumble, so I took a trip down to the restaurant Once Upon A Time for one of these as a lunch. At that moment it felt good to be sick, since the portion of apple crumble easily could challenge any other portion of food in amount, but it is still a dessert and my conscience was tied down in the cellars during this revolution. As it should be.
Worlds most dangerous road
22nd of October
What happen? I'd been woken up when the guy next to me heavily bumped in to my side. The bus had slowed down to a full stop, and people around me were cackling in an elevated way while waving wildly in the driving direction. It looked like something very interesting was happening ahead of us, maybe a football game? Only thing missing was matching colors and beer. I was on a bus as it seemed. Always hard to get a grip on reality just when waking up.
So, where was I? On a bus as it seemed, but the bus should be going somewhere. The guy next to me seemed familiar. I don't think I like him for some reason. That's right, I remember now. He had been sitting almost on top of me all the way from Kathmandu and consistently jamming his elbow in my side. The only reason I'm leaving Kathmandu is to get back to Pochara. That makes sense.
Why did we stop then? The conductor had jumped out while the bus slowed down and was now missing. Actually, a more correct term for his profession would be "the guy who tells you 'give me money?' and slaps the side of the bus when to accelerate", but he was missing nonetheless. Must be a narrow part of the road with switching one-way traffic. It happens all the time, even on the nepali equivalence to a highway, and the broken vehicles along the road doesn't really help the already tight route. Still, this doesn't explain why the passenger are being so loud.
Now the driver shut of the engine and left as well. If there was a football game ahead then someone scored a goal about now, because the passengers in the bus increased the flapping of the arms and turned the cackling to a more high pitched twitter. They were growing restless, and it was about two hours since the last stop if I were to believe my phone. I rarely did, but this could be a good time for a lunch stop.
The problem was, as I looked out through my window, that we still were on the road with not a house in sight. The passenger still decided that now was the time to leave the bus. Where we sinking? They didn't seem to bring much stuff. Nope, still not sinking by the looks through the opposite window, but the road was filling up with people.
Where were we exactly? And what had happen? Should I stay in the bus maybe? No point, I was the only one left in here. My stuff on the other hand would not be left behind. If the bus for real was sinking, well, then I needed my passport. And my cookies. Especially the cookies.
On the road was everyone walking concerned towards the start of the queue. It must be something interesting, everyone had that determined wander, not stressed, but the wander were you don't look at your steps or the surrounding view, just where you're heading. I followed for a while before realizing that I had no idea what my bus looked like. The water bottle sounded empty. I headed back.
Sitting in the shadow of what hopefully was the right bus and just waiting for people to return I spotted the conductor strolling this way. I tried to ask him what happen, because this really concerned me by now, and the answer was something like "Ha ha, do you know Marley? Bob Marley?" His friend had caught up with him now and they strolled on together while rolling a cigarette with some special ingredient. I didn't want to know what it was, or if the other guy was the driver or not.
It took me about three, four hours before understanding that a bridge had collapsed somewhere ahead, and an other hour before we were rolling again.
What happen? I'd been woken up when the guy next to me heavily bumped in to my side. The bus had slowed down to a full stop, and people around me were cackling in an elevated way while waving wildly in the driving direction. It looked like something very interesting was happening ahead of us, maybe a football game? Only thing missing was matching colors and beer. I was on a bus as it seemed. Always hard to get a grip on reality just when waking up.
So, where was I? On a bus as it seemed, but the bus should be going somewhere. The guy next to me seemed familiar. I don't think I like him for some reason. That's right, I remember now. He had been sitting almost on top of me all the way from Kathmandu and consistently jamming his elbow in my side. The only reason I'm leaving Kathmandu is to get back to Pochara. That makes sense.
Why did we stop then? The conductor had jumped out while the bus slowed down and was now missing. Actually, a more correct term for his profession would be "the guy who tells you 'give me money?' and slaps the side of the bus when to accelerate", but he was missing nonetheless. Must be a narrow part of the road with switching one-way traffic. It happens all the time, even on the nepali equivalence to a highway, and the broken vehicles along the road doesn't really help the already tight route. Still, this doesn't explain why the passenger are being so loud.
Now the driver shut of the engine and left as well. If there was a football game ahead then someone scored a goal about now, because the passengers in the bus increased the flapping of the arms and turned the cackling to a more high pitched twitter. They were growing restless, and it was about two hours since the last stop if I were to believe my phone. I rarely did, but this could be a good time for a lunch stop.
The problem was, as I looked out through my window, that we still were on the road with not a house in sight. The passenger still decided that now was the time to leave the bus. Where we sinking? They didn't seem to bring much stuff. Nope, still not sinking by the looks through the opposite window, but the road was filling up with people.
Where were we exactly? And what had happen? Should I stay in the bus maybe? No point, I was the only one left in here. My stuff on the other hand would not be left behind. If the bus for real was sinking, well, then I needed my passport. And my cookies. Especially the cookies.
On the road was everyone walking concerned towards the start of the queue. It must be something interesting, everyone had that determined wander, not stressed, but the wander were you don't look at your steps or the surrounding view, just where you're heading. I followed for a while before realizing that I had no idea what my bus looked like. The water bottle sounded empty. I headed back.
Sitting in the shadow of what hopefully was the right bus and just waiting for people to return I spotted the conductor strolling this way. I tried to ask him what happen, because this really concerned me by now, and the answer was something like "Ha ha, do you know Marley? Bob Marley?" His friend had caught up with him now and they strolled on together while rolling a cigarette with some special ingredient. I didn't want to know what it was, or if the other guy was the driver or not.
It took me about three, four hours before understanding that a bridge had collapsed somewhere ahead, and an other hour before we were rolling again.
Jump
19th of October
Waking up at five and then stand around waiting for an hour, just out of bed and freezing in the Kathmandu morning, to find out that the booking agency messed up our booking wasn't really what made a good start of a day. This was although a good start for a deep distinct sigh filled with hopelessness, one of those that makes everyone around understand and then pat you on the back for comfort. The daylong bus ride from Pochara to Kathmandu for a chance to bungyjump was more and more turning out to be in vain.
This was not a time to give up hope, but a time to try anyway. This was a time to take an other hours long bus ride for a remote chance of contacting the booking agency and making them sort things out. This was a time to go where a landslide is considered as much a road as anything else and were fear of heights is a biological misstep only mutated by foreigners.
Instability did through out this trip become more associated with the country then anything else. Other contenders to this number one spot were the bus, who had to be repaired in some way at each resting place, and the passenger next to me who felt that short impulsive bounces against the closest environment was a fun way to spend four hours in a bus.
The Instability in the country was growing more obvious with each stop for a police control. I think they were police checks at least, they all started with a militarly dressed, bitter looking man entering and peering suspiciously at us passengers from under his cap. On his chest could I read the proud letters of "Armed Police Force", but by the looks of it was he only armed with a piece of pink paper which he handed to the driver. It felt like a bad idea, but each time I wanted to ask him if an object, only capable of inflicting minor paper cuts, was considered a weapon. I never did, but that thought usually kept me busy until he left.
There was a lot of colorful papers being handed back and forth among drivers and polices. Even some keys changed hands but it was all to complicated to be understood. The truck in front of us, carrying what looked like sand, was regularly checked with long iron rods for anything else hiding in it. This kept my mind busy due to the flashback from old Robin Hood movies where they always managed to sneak by the guards on the back of a transport of hay.
In short, we got to the resort for bungyjump, we got in contact with the booking agency and everything worked out. All of us jumped eventually and after a meal we headed back home.
It was getting dark when we began our trip back. I was still shaking a bit from the jump and my body hadn't really recovered yet. Apparently couldn't the weakest part of my body cope with the jump and still looked a bit purple. This being my eyelids, with it's broken blood cells looking like a bad make up, or as I preferred to call it; a bad beating by my fellow traveler who bounced next to me on the bus.
I could see the ground coming against me, with every part of me regretting the decision to jump. Absolutely no control, no way to get anywhere but down, and then up again. My fellow traveler had told me about a yoga teacher she had that, during a session of "laughing yoga" had suddenly stopped the teaching and focused his eyes on her. He then, in a teaching but still death serious way, said: "Those who don't laugh, they do the suicide!"
So I laughed, from the second my feet left the safety of the bridge, to the time they put be on the bed below. In every bounce could the people waiting to jump see my twisted face, grinning like mad man and filling the gorge with a crazed laughter. The chock of adrenaline had no where to go, I felt no pain or pleasure. Only excitement. I still feel it when I think about it, even if it's just a fraction of the original feeling.
Waking up at five and then stand around waiting for an hour, just out of bed and freezing in the Kathmandu morning, to find out that the booking agency messed up our booking wasn't really what made a good start of a day. This was although a good start for a deep distinct sigh filled with hopelessness, one of those that makes everyone around understand and then pat you on the back for comfort. The daylong bus ride from Pochara to Kathmandu for a chance to bungyjump was more and more turning out to be in vain.
This was not a time to give up hope, but a time to try anyway. This was a time to take an other hours long bus ride for a remote chance of contacting the booking agency and making them sort things out. This was a time to go where a landslide is considered as much a road as anything else and were fear of heights is a biological misstep only mutated by foreigners.
Instability did through out this trip become more associated with the country then anything else. Other contenders to this number one spot were the bus, who had to be repaired in some way at each resting place, and the passenger next to me who felt that short impulsive bounces against the closest environment was a fun way to spend four hours in a bus.
The Instability in the country was growing more obvious with each stop for a police control. I think they were police checks at least, they all started with a militarly dressed, bitter looking man entering and peering suspiciously at us passengers from under his cap. On his chest could I read the proud letters of "Armed Police Force", but by the looks of it was he only armed with a piece of pink paper which he handed to the driver. It felt like a bad idea, but each time I wanted to ask him if an object, only capable of inflicting minor paper cuts, was considered a weapon. I never did, but that thought usually kept me busy until he left.
There was a lot of colorful papers being handed back and forth among drivers and polices. Even some keys changed hands but it was all to complicated to be understood. The truck in front of us, carrying what looked like sand, was regularly checked with long iron rods for anything else hiding in it. This kept my mind busy due to the flashback from old Robin Hood movies where they always managed to sneak by the guards on the back of a transport of hay.
In short, we got to the resort for bungyjump, we got in contact with the booking agency and everything worked out. All of us jumped eventually and after a meal we headed back home.
It was getting dark when we began our trip back. I was still shaking a bit from the jump and my body hadn't really recovered yet. Apparently couldn't the weakest part of my body cope with the jump and still looked a bit purple. This being my eyelids, with it's broken blood cells looking like a bad make up, or as I preferred to call it; a bad beating by my fellow traveler who bounced next to me on the bus.
I could see the ground coming against me, with every part of me regretting the decision to jump. Absolutely no control, no way to get anywhere but down, and then up again. My fellow traveler had told me about a yoga teacher she had that, during a session of "laughing yoga" had suddenly stopped the teaching and focused his eyes on her. He then, in a teaching but still death serious way, said: "Those who don't laugh, they do the suicide!"
So I laughed, from the second my feet left the safety of the bridge, to the time they put be on the bed below. In every bounce could the people waiting to jump see my twisted face, grinning like mad man and filling the gorge with a crazed laughter. The chock of adrenaline had no where to go, I felt no pain or pleasure. Only excitement. I still feel it when I think about it, even if it's just a fraction of the original feeling.
Touristbus
18th of October
The buses here doesn't work as they do at home. No surprise there when I come to think of it, that would make traveling here way to easy. Imagine what would happen if a foreigner actually could travel in this country with a relative ease.
Being on the road here got a much more social feeling then I'm used to, with constant contact with other drivers. Not that much physical contact as in contact by words, but not many seems to be upset about that. Actually, words is an overstatement, contact by word is much more accurate description of the way the drivers communicate with each other. Everyone on the road loves their horn and if not telling someone something specific at the moment then it's used just to state their current position.
Even if some of the trucks or buses got a happy jingle instead of horn, you can't really say they have more then a single sound to use. Only depending on context could this mean absolutely anything. Same thing goes for the other guy working on the bus. Beside his constant yelling, what I by now assume is the destination of the bus, he keeps slapping the side of the bus. Sometimes this makes the driver pull over, sometimes just slow down, sometimes it even makes him accelerate in what looks like a trustfully blindfolded way.
In the city most of their communication revolves around filling the bus with as many paying passengers as possible, but when getting out on the bigger road, they really aren't bigger these roads, it is more a matter of how to pass the guy in front. No European cellphone-talking driver would have a chance on these roads, because if you don't horn you'd get at least overrun all the time. Most trucks even paint in big letters on the back "Please Horn".
Even the ride it self gets more social, it's like one discussion, of whether aloud to pass a truck or not, creates conversations all along the bus. Since I still don't quite master the local tongue is most of my conversations based around one word as well. It doesn't really matter what I say, it's all about context. I had a lovely chat with the guy in front of me last bus ride, me yelling "AAAAAOOOOO" each time he bent my knees while trying to fold his seat backwards. It's more like a family, compared to my regular bus rides where touching someone else on the bus is as insulting as spitting on a long dead relatives grave.
Taking a touristbus back to Kathmandu from Pochara is an other story. It's more Europeen, maybe without the driver being on the phone. Possibly he's stoned instead, but what do I know.
The buses here doesn't work as they do at home. No surprise there when I come to think of it, that would make traveling here way to easy. Imagine what would happen if a foreigner actually could travel in this country with a relative ease.
Being on the road here got a much more social feeling then I'm used to, with constant contact with other drivers. Not that much physical contact as in contact by words, but not many seems to be upset about that. Actually, words is an overstatement, contact by word is much more accurate description of the way the drivers communicate with each other. Everyone on the road loves their horn and if not telling someone something specific at the moment then it's used just to state their current position.
Even if some of the trucks or buses got a happy jingle instead of horn, you can't really say they have more then a single sound to use. Only depending on context could this mean absolutely anything. Same thing goes for the other guy working on the bus. Beside his constant yelling, what I by now assume is the destination of the bus, he keeps slapping the side of the bus. Sometimes this makes the driver pull over, sometimes just slow down, sometimes it even makes him accelerate in what looks like a trustfully blindfolded way.
In the city most of their communication revolves around filling the bus with as many paying passengers as possible, but when getting out on the bigger road, they really aren't bigger these roads, it is more a matter of how to pass the guy in front. No European cellphone-talking driver would have a chance on these roads, because if you don't horn you'd get at least overrun all the time. Most trucks even paint in big letters on the back "Please Horn".
Even the ride it self gets more social, it's like one discussion, of whether aloud to pass a truck or not, creates conversations all along the bus. Since I still don't quite master the local tongue is most of my conversations based around one word as well. It doesn't really matter what I say, it's all about context. I had a lovely chat with the guy in front of me last bus ride, me yelling "AAAAAOOOOO" each time he bent my knees while trying to fold his seat backwards. It's more like a family, compared to my regular bus rides where touching someone else on the bus is as insulting as spitting on a long dead relatives grave.
Taking a touristbus back to Kathmandu from Pochara is an other story. It's more Europeen, maybe without the driver being on the phone. Possibly he's stoned instead, but what do I know.
Bitter post
(Bitter post incoming)
I really don't like that I work in an Orphanage. I love to be there, it's very fun to interact with the kids and the feeling of helping them is amazing, but me actually being there is a bad idea. These kids, some of them not even having relatives to visit during the holidays, got their entire life in this place and it's run by a company based on profit. Even if the company wouldn't consist with this, none of the volunteers I've met here had to take more then a couple of days to independently understand this.
The kids, beside those who have some distant relatives, only have one person at all that always would be there for them, constantly as long as they stay at the Orphanage. The Orphanage Mother, Shila, who been working there since it started and who takes care and comforts them twenty four hours a day. She just got fired because the manager got a complaint. The manager didn't even look in to it deeper for some possible confusion or misunderstanding but just fired her on the spot.
The complaints had come a few weeks ago, so Shila did get those weeks to prepare to lose the job. Problem is that it's her entire life she lost, since she lived here, without any other place to go.
The manager have been around during the day, forcing us to smile and act like we didn't knew about what was going on. The new Orphanage Mother arrived as well and she doesn't speak a single word of English as it seems. How new volunteers would be able to adjust to the work puzzles me since I've learned everything from Shila.
Guess I'm just angry, but the fact is that every volunteer here love Shila, all the kids love her and no one around could find a single error she makes in her work. I want to help her, but not sure how I can. I want to complain to the company but not sure how I can, without making anything worse. I just want it all to change, and we've been many talking about this for a long time. We're all bitter, but we have no solution. It'll continue until someone does something.
I really don't like that I work in an Orphanage. I love to be there, it's very fun to interact with the kids and the feeling of helping them is amazing, but me actually being there is a bad idea. These kids, some of them not even having relatives to visit during the holidays, got their entire life in this place and it's run by a company based on profit. Even if the company wouldn't consist with this, none of the volunteers I've met here had to take more then a couple of days to independently understand this.
The kids, beside those who have some distant relatives, only have one person at all that always would be there for them, constantly as long as they stay at the Orphanage. The Orphanage Mother, Shila, who been working there since it started and who takes care and comforts them twenty four hours a day. She just got fired because the manager got a complaint. The manager didn't even look in to it deeper for some possible confusion or misunderstanding but just fired her on the spot.
The complaints had come a few weeks ago, so Shila did get those weeks to prepare to lose the job. Problem is that it's her entire life she lost, since she lived here, without any other place to go.
The manager have been around during the day, forcing us to smile and act like we didn't knew about what was going on. The new Orphanage Mother arrived as well and she doesn't speak a single word of English as it seems. How new volunteers would be able to adjust to the work puzzles me since I've learned everything from Shila.
Guess I'm just angry, but the fact is that every volunteer here love Shila, all the kids love her and no one around could find a single error she makes in her work. I want to help her, but not sure how I can. I want to complain to the company but not sure how I can, without making anything worse. I just want it all to change, and we've been many talking about this for a long time. We're all bitter, but we have no solution. It'll continue until someone does something.
Culture
16th of October
The idea of not making so much noise must have past their mind at some point in their life. Maybe they sat down and gave it a lot of thought, really dug deep in the idea of not shouting everything they felt obligated to share with others. Maybe they had long philosophic discussion in to the late night about maybe we were created to use our quite voice a bit more, and the biological structure of the lungs might be dimensioned to not make the entire block aware of your current position. There were a few of the kids, "a few" in this context meaning two or less, who still considered this idea. The rest had concluded that it was stupid.
Earlier in the morning had one of the roosters lost a game of Cat 'n Mouse over the roof and therefor traditionally lost his head. The body was now being spared of all unimportant organs by skilled hands while some less skilled hands belonging to the two recruits eagerly watched. The other chickens who survived the previous game where chuckling around as confused as always, observing with an growing interest of what the humans were doing as the pile of feathers and other uneatable body parts grew bigger. The remains of the losing chicken, let's call him George, were dwindling.
It isn't aloud to take photos of the slaughter of the chicken did I found out. No one really had a good reason, so I started to come up with my own once. It could be about the sanctity of life and even thou we had stripped the soul from the body for the food we should desecrate the procedure by taking silly photos. They seemed to enjoy this argument and nodded in agreement. I came up with a couple of other reasons, everyone followed with agreeing nods and mumbles.
"So which one is it? I just want to know why can't I take pictures?" my will to understand their culture were growing impatient.
"I don't know..." almost whispered the one teaching the others. I gave up and aimed a kick in the direction of the chuckling chickens, who now had started to investigate the pile of remains from George. Apparently didn't it occur to these creatures that this was their former friend, possibly enemy or competitor by the looks of how they treated each other, but still someone of the same species. Cannibalism wasn't culture to me, it was just wrong. I told the owner of the working hands right next to me.
Apparently this was culture as well, from the explanation I got something about the chicken coming from the egg and that there was a rooster doing something funny to the mother chicken. That's why cannibalism was alright, logically, but you may certainly not take any photos. Have some respect for the dead animal. I aimed a last distressed kick at the most curious poultry and left.
An other of the kids had just decided that shutting up was stupid and stated this realization loud and clear to everyone. My smile against this kid, to begin a conversation in a kind and constructive way about screaming not solving anything, must have been misinterpreted as a sign of approval to insight, because he ran of yelling even more and now with a slight skip.
The idea of not making so much noise must have past their mind at some point in their life. Maybe they sat down and gave it a lot of thought, really dug deep in the idea of not shouting everything they felt obligated to share with others. Maybe they had long philosophic discussion in to the late night about maybe we were created to use our quite voice a bit more, and the biological structure of the lungs might be dimensioned to not make the entire block aware of your current position. There were a few of the kids, "a few" in this context meaning two or less, who still considered this idea. The rest had concluded that it was stupid.
Earlier in the morning had one of the roosters lost a game of Cat 'n Mouse over the roof and therefor traditionally lost his head. The body was now being spared of all unimportant organs by skilled hands while some less skilled hands belonging to the two recruits eagerly watched. The other chickens who survived the previous game where chuckling around as confused as always, observing with an growing interest of what the humans were doing as the pile of feathers and other uneatable body parts grew bigger. The remains of the losing chicken, let's call him George, were dwindling.
It isn't aloud to take photos of the slaughter of the chicken did I found out. No one really had a good reason, so I started to come up with my own once. It could be about the sanctity of life and even thou we had stripped the soul from the body for the food we should desecrate the procedure by taking silly photos. They seemed to enjoy this argument and nodded in agreement. I came up with a couple of other reasons, everyone followed with agreeing nods and mumbles.
"So which one is it? I just want to know why can't I take pictures?" my will to understand their culture were growing impatient.
"I don't know..." almost whispered the one teaching the others. I gave up and aimed a kick in the direction of the chuckling chickens, who now had started to investigate the pile of remains from George. Apparently didn't it occur to these creatures that this was their former friend, possibly enemy or competitor by the looks of how they treated each other, but still someone of the same species. Cannibalism wasn't culture to me, it was just wrong. I told the owner of the working hands right next to me.
Apparently this was culture as well, from the explanation I got something about the chicken coming from the egg and that there was a rooster doing something funny to the mother chicken. That's why cannibalism was alright, logically, but you may certainly not take any photos. Have some respect for the dead animal. I aimed a last distressed kick at the most curious poultry and left.
An other of the kids had just decided that shutting up was stupid and stated this realization loud and clear to everyone. My smile against this kid, to begin a conversation in a kind and constructive way about screaming not solving anything, must have been misinterpreted as a sign of approval to insight, because he ran of yelling even more and now with a slight skip.
Confusion
15th of October
In the beginning, the tourist was confused. The local saw that this was good and knew this would provide a lot of money. So he helped the tourist, for a smaller charge, because the tourist was confused.
The tourist is a Piñata avoiding to get cracked open by cunning workers in the tourist business. The confusion has always been vital for actually draining the poor Piñata, but with modern technology the tourist has been less and less confused. So how do you then take their money? Obviously by confusing them again.
I was sitting in front of a doctor for my last vaccination against rabies. Even if it was highly improbable, probably impossible, and never happen before that anyone got rabies from a monkey scratch, he had just told me that the previous doctors made a mistake in the treatment and that I should have got two more shots beside these three. He kept starting every statement with "I am telling you..." even thou he didn't referred to anything he said before besides repeating it, even thou this isn't how to actually make a reference. I knew that he was telling me something. I was sitting right in front of him, unlikely focusing on anything else then his every word, since the topic was my possibly fatal disease and maltreatment.
Further questions never seems to be appreciated by anyone in this country. My thought about it is that they feel very content with their own explanation and when I don't understand it's like a punch on the self esteem. Or, equally probable, that me actually understanding is a crime against tourism. He didn't like my further questions either and started of with an other run of "I am telling you..." and then repeating some of his favorite parts from our conversation.
To ease my mother, I don't feel like there is anything to worry about.
In the beginning, the tourist was confused. The local saw that this was good and knew this would provide a lot of money. So he helped the tourist, for a smaller charge, because the tourist was confused.
The tourist is a Piñata avoiding to get cracked open by cunning workers in the tourist business. The confusion has always been vital for actually draining the poor Piñata, but with modern technology the tourist has been less and less confused. So how do you then take their money? Obviously by confusing them again.
I was sitting in front of a doctor for my last vaccination against rabies. Even if it was highly improbable, probably impossible, and never happen before that anyone got rabies from a monkey scratch, he had just told me that the previous doctors made a mistake in the treatment and that I should have got two more shots beside these three. He kept starting every statement with "I am telling you..." even thou he didn't referred to anything he said before besides repeating it, even thou this isn't how to actually make a reference. I knew that he was telling me something. I was sitting right in front of him, unlikely focusing on anything else then his every word, since the topic was my possibly fatal disease and maltreatment.
Further questions never seems to be appreciated by anyone in this country. My thought about it is that they feel very content with their own explanation and when I don't understand it's like a punch on the self esteem. Or, equally probable, that me actually understanding is a crime against tourism. He didn't like my further questions either and started of with an other run of "I am telling you..." and then repeating some of his favorite parts from our conversation.
To ease my mother, I don't feel like there is anything to worry about.
Wake up
14th of October
The sun, bringer of overbearing heat and extensive dehydration, has almost decided to rise and shine over Pochara Lakeside. The alarm on my phone tells me it's six o'clock and that it's time for me to rise and shine as well. I dropped the phone and took a deep sigh. I was less keen. My bed had about the right pleasant temperature which only happens when the sun had been on a break for a couple of hours and not tending to the otherwise sauna-like environment in my room. I stretch my legs and swept with my arm for the phone. I could hear someone passing on the street in a almost awakened stroll, but that was about the only activity in the area. The city was only just trying to wake up. I concluded my body incapable of rising and shining. I pressed snooze.
The alarm told me the ten minutes had passed and my snooze was over. The city was still just waking up by the sound of it and my bed still felt amazing. The alarm was obviously wrong determined my still sleeping brain and pressed snooze again.
The sun had just past above the horizon of houses and shine in through the thin and boringly brown curtains to my room. This was apparently what convinced me to get up. The phone had gone of in a last alarm and was now laying there glowing proud and powerful while watching me get dressed and leave through the door of mosquito net. It automatically locking the keypad and went back to slumber, the lucky bastard.
I went down the surprisingly cold stone stairs and headed for the front door. It must have been a cold night, or maybe the could stairs surprised me every morning. I couldn't really care which. The front door was not as much a door as it was a gate. A big black folding bar gate of the sturdier model which I by now knew didn't have any magical field to prevent mosquitoes from entering. I had my hopes about that when I first got here, I mean it looked old and rusty enough to be magical, but my heavily bitten legs could prove that theory wrong. The gate was secured each night by a, also big to fit the proportions, iron lock. It had been unlocked now, hopefully by someone in the house, so I skipped in a very drowsy way out and fetched myself one of the broomsticks. Because back problem seemed as a part of the culture, the stick had been removed from each broomstick only leaving a broom. I fetched myself a broom. While heading back up I gave it a suprising thought that I still didn't knew who opened or closed the gate, but then maybe that was something surprising me every morning. I started to dust the floor outside my room.
I had found out that about the only thing to do in the morning was to dust the floors in the Orphanage. Even thou the Orphanage was pretty big with even three stories if you counted the roof, this just didn't take even nearly the three hours we had until we should take the kids to school, and we were four volunteers fighting for job. If I then got up with the sun, almost at least, I would beat the others to dust the second floor and sometimes even the playroom. With a slightly cleaner conscience and still nothing to do I could head for bed. Maybe I stopped by the kitchen first for a cup of the sweetest tea I'll ever drink, they said this was good for the altitude like I needed a reason to consume sugar, before steering towards my room.
By now would the kids be awake and running around, much as kids do. It must be something biological. I had tried before to help them in the morning, with homework, cleaning or anything else a parent usually would help with, but not even the elder kids have the motivation to communicate in English before breakfast. I understand them, I didn't feel motivated for a nepali lesson either. Besides, a big plate of dal bath could really do me good right now.
I went to my room which temperature now had started to climb rapidly. A cool shower might do me better then a warm bed right now, so I compromised to a quick nap in the bathtub. Settlers of ants had for some reason found the bathroom a suitable place for a new colony and dispatched a party of the braves adventurers they could spare to investigate the furthest regions of their new empire. This annoyed me a great deal, since it apparently was me they were gonna investigate. I thought shortly about what karma would say about flushing down this brave group of ants, but it made me remember that the lever to the tap had gone loose yesterday. Karma seemed to have an answer to everything.
The sun, bringer of overbearing heat and extensive dehydration, has almost decided to rise and shine over Pochara Lakeside. The alarm on my phone tells me it's six o'clock and that it's time for me to rise and shine as well. I dropped the phone and took a deep sigh. I was less keen. My bed had about the right pleasant temperature which only happens when the sun had been on a break for a couple of hours and not tending to the otherwise sauna-like environment in my room. I stretch my legs and swept with my arm for the phone. I could hear someone passing on the street in a almost awakened stroll, but that was about the only activity in the area. The city was only just trying to wake up. I concluded my body incapable of rising and shining. I pressed snooze.
The alarm told me the ten minutes had passed and my snooze was over. The city was still just waking up by the sound of it and my bed still felt amazing. The alarm was obviously wrong determined my still sleeping brain and pressed snooze again.
The sun had just past above the horizon of houses and shine in through the thin and boringly brown curtains to my room. This was apparently what convinced me to get up. The phone had gone of in a last alarm and was now laying there glowing proud and powerful while watching me get dressed and leave through the door of mosquito net. It automatically locking the keypad and went back to slumber, the lucky bastard.
I went down the surprisingly cold stone stairs and headed for the front door. It must have been a cold night, or maybe the could stairs surprised me every morning. I couldn't really care which. The front door was not as much a door as it was a gate. A big black folding bar gate of the sturdier model which I by now knew didn't have any magical field to prevent mosquitoes from entering. I had my hopes about that when I first got here, I mean it looked old and rusty enough to be magical, but my heavily bitten legs could prove that theory wrong. The gate was secured each night by a, also big to fit the proportions, iron lock. It had been unlocked now, hopefully by someone in the house, so I skipped in a very drowsy way out and fetched myself one of the broomsticks. Because back problem seemed as a part of the culture, the stick had been removed from each broomstick only leaving a broom. I fetched myself a broom. While heading back up I gave it a suprising thought that I still didn't knew who opened or closed the gate, but then maybe that was something surprising me every morning. I started to dust the floor outside my room.
I had found out that about the only thing to do in the morning was to dust the floors in the Orphanage. Even thou the Orphanage was pretty big with even three stories if you counted the roof, this just didn't take even nearly the three hours we had until we should take the kids to school, and we were four volunteers fighting for job. If I then got up with the sun, almost at least, I would beat the others to dust the second floor and sometimes even the playroom. With a slightly cleaner conscience and still nothing to do I could head for bed. Maybe I stopped by the kitchen first for a cup of the sweetest tea I'll ever drink, they said this was good for the altitude like I needed a reason to consume sugar, before steering towards my room.
By now would the kids be awake and running around, much as kids do. It must be something biological. I had tried before to help them in the morning, with homework, cleaning or anything else a parent usually would help with, but not even the elder kids have the motivation to communicate in English before breakfast. I understand them, I didn't feel motivated for a nepali lesson either. Besides, a big plate of dal bath could really do me good right now.
I went to my room which temperature now had started to climb rapidly. A cool shower might do me better then a warm bed right now, so I compromised to a quick nap in the bathtub. Settlers of ants had for some reason found the bathroom a suitable place for a new colony and dispatched a party of the braves adventurers they could spare to investigate the furthest regions of their new empire. This annoyed me a great deal, since it apparently was me they were gonna investigate. I thought shortly about what karma would say about flushing down this brave group of ants, but it made me remember that the lever to the tap had gone loose yesterday. Karma seemed to have an answer to everything.
To school
13th of October
The way to the school goes along a seemingly complicated but, when you understand it, fairly direct road. Maybe road is not the appropriate word, more a lack of houses, but it's called a road and since everything comes down to semantics is it just a matter of definition. The hard part of getting where you want is to define what actually is a road instead of a driveway, an animal path or something else. Not that it made any difference to the usage, but for your own safety, for example, was this very important. The way to school can surprisingly be quite elaborately described as "take a right and follow the road". It's then a question of defining what "take right" and "the road" really means. Then of course there's the problem, even if you have your definitions clear and ready, of getting overrun by a wheeled local.
Some would say that the motorcyclists here act almost Italian. I'm going to leave that definition pretty open for personal inputs and adjustments, just stating that the horn is the dearly beloved way to communicate with everything, even God (read Gods) and all creatures in his (read their) kingdom. It could mean just about anything, only depending on the context which I always lack. I sometimes wonder if I'm supposed to answer in some way, but then there's the question of whether it's "thank you" or whatever mean sentence I'm currently using. The main thing to remember is, just as animals, that they are more afraid of you then you are of them.
I got to school and sat down to wait. It was just five minutes until the kids would come running through that gate. I had found the school to look rather homely until someone said it reminded him of a Cambodian prison from the 1960s. At least this one got a basketball plan and pretty colors but the view was ruined forever.
There was apparently only one kid from the orphanage left at school and unfortunately she had to take me back home instead of the opposite. I clearly didn't have my definitions right, and it bothered me for a while. I had a cute idea about us skipping hand in hand like an idyllic countryside movie from the early 90s, but gave me a funny look of not understanding and went to her friend. Apparently I was obsolete and, not anymore shockingly, unneeded.
So I took a stroll a couple of steps behind on our way back to the orphanage. The sun had just been covered by clouds and the sunglasses, who in sunlight felt completely inadequate, actually made some difference. The dusty road, that really wasn't a road but more like just dust without houses, was calmer now with people going in a less stressful way. My feet looked almost native, with a deep brown sunburn covered with a thick layer of dust, but it's possible that the sunburn was confused with just an other layer of dust. However where they gonna be cleaned when I got back home. Probably the rest of me as well, just for the sake of it.
I'm sure that there was some bird singing somewhere, but my attention was on the raptors circling over our heads. There were probably no birds singing, not with these magnificent hunters patrolling above. The smell of this place I still don't know since I've had a cold for the past week from my trek. Of what I could see around was this only a good thing but you never knew. Maybe it smelled amazing, even thou previous experience would bet to differ. I looked up at the circling raptors again. Right now I only wanted to wash my feet, they started to dissolve in the dust.
The way to the school goes along a seemingly complicated but, when you understand it, fairly direct road. Maybe road is not the appropriate word, more a lack of houses, but it's called a road and since everything comes down to semantics is it just a matter of definition. The hard part of getting where you want is to define what actually is a road instead of a driveway, an animal path or something else. Not that it made any difference to the usage, but for your own safety, for example, was this very important. The way to school can surprisingly be quite elaborately described as "take a right and follow the road". It's then a question of defining what "take right" and "the road" really means. Then of course there's the problem, even if you have your definitions clear and ready, of getting overrun by a wheeled local.
Some would say that the motorcyclists here act almost Italian. I'm going to leave that definition pretty open for personal inputs and adjustments, just stating that the horn is the dearly beloved way to communicate with everything, even God (read Gods) and all creatures in his (read their) kingdom. It could mean just about anything, only depending on the context which I always lack. I sometimes wonder if I'm supposed to answer in some way, but then there's the question of whether it's "thank you" or whatever mean sentence I'm currently using. The main thing to remember is, just as animals, that they are more afraid of you then you are of them.
I got to school and sat down to wait. It was just five minutes until the kids would come running through that gate. I had found the school to look rather homely until someone said it reminded him of a Cambodian prison from the 1960s. At least this one got a basketball plan and pretty colors but the view was ruined forever.
There was apparently only one kid from the orphanage left at school and unfortunately she had to take me back home instead of the opposite. I clearly didn't have my definitions right, and it bothered me for a while. I had a cute idea about us skipping hand in hand like an idyllic countryside movie from the early 90s, but gave me a funny look of not understanding and went to her friend. Apparently I was obsolete and, not anymore shockingly, unneeded.
So I took a stroll a couple of steps behind on our way back to the orphanage. The sun had just been covered by clouds and the sunglasses, who in sunlight felt completely inadequate, actually made some difference. The dusty road, that really wasn't a road but more like just dust without houses, was calmer now with people going in a less stressful way. My feet looked almost native, with a deep brown sunburn covered with a thick layer of dust, but it's possible that the sunburn was confused with just an other layer of dust. However where they gonna be cleaned when I got back home. Probably the rest of me as well, just for the sake of it.
I'm sure that there was some bird singing somewhere, but my attention was on the raptors circling over our heads. There were probably no birds singing, not with these magnificent hunters patrolling above. The smell of this place I still don't know since I've had a cold for the past week from my trek. Of what I could see around was this only a good thing but you never knew. Maybe it smelled amazing, even thou previous experience would bet to differ. I looked up at the circling raptors again. Right now I only wanted to wash my feet, they started to dissolve in the dust.
A cage for freedom
12th of October
The headline is of course completely untrue and even slightly false, but just slightly. This cage, that wasn't a new cage but more a reconstruction of an other old cage, provides more space for the inhabitants of the cages, whoever thy might be. More space however have never really been the same as freedom, even if this probably have been an reoccurring expectation among trill seekers over the years, but going in to space or diving far in the oceans is never really freedom as long as it's in a cage. I can't therefor actually say that providing an other cage would give factual freedom, maybe call it something more in style with increasing space which results in a lot more comfort to the inhabitants, even thou said inhabitants probably deserved freedom a long time ago.
After a longer discussion with the aggressive Kung Fu Chickens on the roof could I descend their aggression to them not wanting to stay in their cage, mostly because it was too crowded and the hence wanted some privacy. I couldn't quite follow their cackling but it seems like they learned the aggressive pecking and scratching from cabdrivers in possibly Narangath, which they correctly guessed was intended to call for attention.
I decided to reconstruct the shreds of the cage located just below the currently used one, and after breakfast I started working, sort of. By then had the Orphanage Mother already emptied the nearest neighborhood of nails, about ten she managed to collect, brought out the least useful wood I in retrospect could find and released about half of the chickens, who by now stood under the water tank and looked suspicious. Apparently had the chickens, while convincing me to build an other cage, planned an escape during the construction. The confusion had paralyzing when the cage door was friendly opened and some of them even given a slight push out, that not all of them even could coordinate their legs to walk out. By now they were drawing blueprints of the old cage and planning a way to break back in. To, you know, oppose the conspiracy.
When studying the badly repaired old cage and sensing that the Orphanage Mother intended to continue on this winning concept, did I make up a story of me doing this all the time back home and then telling her that her expertise most certainly was far more needed elsewhere. Even if the last part was true it took me some time and a big part of my vocabulary to say this in the nicest way possible while still being understood. I just needed some tools and they could count on a quick and good job. The little boy beside the Orphanage Mother stuttered for a while before managing to say that there was no more tools.
I commenced the operation with a hammer, a sickle intended for cutting crops and by now a lot less nails then what the Mother gave me. The chickens had, this time completely wrong, figured out that i hid candy for them just under the pile of nails. Despite this did the cage stand there finished a couple of hours later, after some smaller incidents mostly involving chickens taking dump where ever they (word of own choice) pleased, and a shorter stop to find more nails, something to cut the net with and unsuccessfully try to find a saw because the sickle just wasn't cutting it.
There was a festival this evening, celebrating something to me impossible either remember or pronounce. My first thought was that the cage had been rebuilt for no reason since the chickens obviously where about to be sacrificed. With no other animals in the house beside some tiny bug-eating reptiles I still find this to be a logical assumption.
The festival didn't sacrificed any chickens but had instead some fun parts, mostly revolving me not having a clue what was going on while shamelessly being stared at as if I was dipped in a bucket of bright red paint. Possibly would green paint be a better comparison since many still had half a dish of red rice all over their forehead from what I believe to be an other festival ending yesterday.
The most fun thou might be when Nepal decided to shut down the power and no one really managed to get the reserve generator going.
The headline is of course completely untrue and even slightly false, but just slightly. This cage, that wasn't a new cage but more a reconstruction of an other old cage, provides more space for the inhabitants of the cages, whoever thy might be. More space however have never really been the same as freedom, even if this probably have been an reoccurring expectation among trill seekers over the years, but going in to space or diving far in the oceans is never really freedom as long as it's in a cage. I can't therefor actually say that providing an other cage would give factual freedom, maybe call it something more in style with increasing space which results in a lot more comfort to the inhabitants, even thou said inhabitants probably deserved freedom a long time ago.
After a longer discussion with the aggressive Kung Fu Chickens on the roof could I descend their aggression to them not wanting to stay in their cage, mostly because it was too crowded and the hence wanted some privacy. I couldn't quite follow their cackling but it seems like they learned the aggressive pecking and scratching from cabdrivers in possibly Narangath, which they correctly guessed was intended to call for attention.
I decided to reconstruct the shreds of the cage located just below the currently used one, and after breakfast I started working, sort of. By then had the Orphanage Mother already emptied the nearest neighborhood of nails, about ten she managed to collect, brought out the least useful wood I in retrospect could find and released about half of the chickens, who by now stood under the water tank and looked suspicious. Apparently had the chickens, while convincing me to build an other cage, planned an escape during the construction. The confusion had paralyzing when the cage door was friendly opened and some of them even given a slight push out, that not all of them even could coordinate their legs to walk out. By now they were drawing blueprints of the old cage and planning a way to break back in. To, you know, oppose the conspiracy.
When studying the badly repaired old cage and sensing that the Orphanage Mother intended to continue on this winning concept, did I make up a story of me doing this all the time back home and then telling her that her expertise most certainly was far more needed elsewhere. Even if the last part was true it took me some time and a big part of my vocabulary to say this in the nicest way possible while still being understood. I just needed some tools and they could count on a quick and good job. The little boy beside the Orphanage Mother stuttered for a while before managing to say that there was no more tools.
I commenced the operation with a hammer, a sickle intended for cutting crops and by now a lot less nails then what the Mother gave me. The chickens had, this time completely wrong, figured out that i hid candy for them just under the pile of nails. Despite this did the cage stand there finished a couple of hours later, after some smaller incidents mostly involving chickens taking dump where ever they (word of own choice) pleased, and a shorter stop to find more nails, something to cut the net with and unsuccessfully try to find a saw because the sickle just wasn't cutting it.
There was a festival this evening, celebrating something to me impossible either remember or pronounce. My first thought was that the cage had been rebuilt for no reason since the chickens obviously where about to be sacrificed. With no other animals in the house beside some tiny bug-eating reptiles I still find this to be a logical assumption.
The festival didn't sacrificed any chickens but had instead some fun parts, mostly revolving me not having a clue what was going on while shamelessly being stared at as if I was dipped in a bucket of bright red paint. Possibly would green paint be a better comparison since many still had half a dish of red rice all over their forehead from what I believe to be an other festival ending yesterday.
The most fun thou might be when Nepal decided to shut down the power and no one really managed to get the reserve generator going.
Western Standards
11th of October
In the tourist area of Lakeside in Pochara can you enjoy most of the Western Culture you would need, from icecream and cake to an English bookstore and a proper clean toilet. You have food from all over the world, just slightly adjusted to fit the supply of raw material, which I imagine is pretty local or extremely limited. All and all, they make a pretty good impression of a western society, it's even filled with westerners by the looks of it.
That's as far as it goes around here, unfortunately. When passing the cake shop and seeing the cakes in the window, even thou my mouth is watering up, I know that they taste horrible since I've already tried them. If you are one of those overly positive people you might put it as "not as the ones at home" but the attitude would be the same. The manager will comment that it's a newly produced cake, baked just two days ago and that it never left the refrigerator, which makes the question of what actually goes for a refrigerator due to the manager, since the cake was warm when I got it.
The icecream doesn't taste as bad, just "not as the ones at home" and not rarely with some additional pieces of plastic mixed in to remind me that I'm still in Nepal. This usually makes me head for the bathroom, in a discrete motion, to steal a roll of toilet paper. Even if the hotel got a proper and sometimes kind of clean toilet, it rarely comes with any toilet paper. The department store knows this and charge more for a single roll then for a can of soda.
The western culture might have reached Nepal and makes a pretty good charade of it as well. It's just that the western standards are still far away, much of this wouldn't people charge for at all back home. It's like building a boat but not making it watertight, you may very well call it a boat but it just won't float. Therefor I stay with a slightly more nepali culture, and continue to eat my Dal Bath.
In the tourist area of Lakeside in Pochara can you enjoy most of the Western Culture you would need, from icecream and cake to an English bookstore and a proper clean toilet. You have food from all over the world, just slightly adjusted to fit the supply of raw material, which I imagine is pretty local or extremely limited. All and all, they make a pretty good impression of a western society, it's even filled with westerners by the looks of it.
That's as far as it goes around here, unfortunately. When passing the cake shop and seeing the cakes in the window, even thou my mouth is watering up, I know that they taste horrible since I've already tried them. If you are one of those overly positive people you might put it as "not as the ones at home" but the attitude would be the same. The manager will comment that it's a newly produced cake, baked just two days ago and that it never left the refrigerator, which makes the question of what actually goes for a refrigerator due to the manager, since the cake was warm when I got it.
The icecream doesn't taste as bad, just "not as the ones at home" and not rarely with some additional pieces of plastic mixed in to remind me that I'm still in Nepal. This usually makes me head for the bathroom, in a discrete motion, to steal a roll of toilet paper. Even if the hotel got a proper and sometimes kind of clean toilet, it rarely comes with any toilet paper. The department store knows this and charge more for a single roll then for a can of soda.
The western culture might have reached Nepal and makes a pretty good charade of it as well. It's just that the western standards are still far away, much of this wouldn't people charge for at all back home. It's like building a boat but not making it watertight, you may very well call it a boat but it just won't float. Therefor I stay with a slightly more nepali culture, and continue to eat my Dal Bath.
Reserve
10th of October
It's impossible to book things in Nepal, not that people are lazy or too incompetent to handle a calender but more the country acting a bit indecisive, like it's still in bed on a Sunday morning not quite sure yet if it want to deal with the agenda of today. Most things can only be booked up to a week in advance, which might be why there are no, for example, cinemas around. You wouldn't know what movie you payed a ticket for since it most likely would change, even thou I know from own experience that mistakenly ending up on a horror movie instead of a romantic comedy on a date could work out pretty well.
Meeting up with someone local is the hardest part since all they tell you is that they'll be seeing you sometime during that day. Actually, this isn't hard at all, but for a stressed European the thought of waiting possibly sixteen hours on a person is about as tempting as french kissing a buffalo. I'd rather not get that physical with a cattle if just a person could give an estimated time on arrival. A good European wouldn't consider reading a good book during that time, or maybe take some time for calming meditation. The good European would seize the day by planing the next one.
I met up with the Orphanage mother of Happy Home Pochara today and this went smoother then usual. She was only almost on time, counting in the nepali way reading a clock. The orphanage she works on, and from no one me as well, has been a hotel, is built of red bricks and hosts a total of 19 kids. Most importantly, they got keep about 10 aggressive Kung Fu Chickens on the roof, skilled in roundhouse kicking anything possibly helpful to them and peck at everything that could provide food. Them will I have some longer discussions with in the nearest days, in how to behave against strangers and the art of acting after personal interest. In this case me continuing to bring them food.
This place seems nice and I'll be staying here for more then a week. Since I'm in Nepal and the calender for the next week haven't been printed yet makes it unfortunately impossible for more accurate predictions on how long I'll be staying.
It's impossible to book things in Nepal, not that people are lazy or too incompetent to handle a calender but more the country acting a bit indecisive, like it's still in bed on a Sunday morning not quite sure yet if it want to deal with the agenda of today. Most things can only be booked up to a week in advance, which might be why there are no, for example, cinemas around. You wouldn't know what movie you payed a ticket for since it most likely would change, even thou I know from own experience that mistakenly ending up on a horror movie instead of a romantic comedy on a date could work out pretty well.
Meeting up with someone local is the hardest part since all they tell you is that they'll be seeing you sometime during that day. Actually, this isn't hard at all, but for a stressed European the thought of waiting possibly sixteen hours on a person is about as tempting as french kissing a buffalo. I'd rather not get that physical with a cattle if just a person could give an estimated time on arrival. A good European wouldn't consider reading a good book during that time, or maybe take some time for calming meditation. The good European would seize the day by planing the next one.
I met up with the Orphanage mother of Happy Home Pochara today and this went smoother then usual. She was only almost on time, counting in the nepali way reading a clock. The orphanage she works on, and from no one me as well, has been a hotel, is built of red bricks and hosts a total of 19 kids. Most importantly, they got keep about 10 aggressive Kung Fu Chickens on the roof, skilled in roundhouse kicking anything possibly helpful to them and peck at everything that could provide food. Them will I have some longer discussions with in the nearest days, in how to behave against strangers and the art of acting after personal interest. In this case me continuing to bring them food.
This place seems nice and I'll be staying here for more then a week. Since I'm in Nepal and the calender for the next week haven't been printed yet makes it unfortunately impossible for more accurate predictions on how long I'll be staying.
Bad volunteers
9th of October
I left my home in the search of people in need of my expertise, possibly my culture, maybe my muscles or just a piece of extra fat to keep a door open, and then went to Nepal. Volunteering was a glorious way for me to help out in a part of the world who needed me more then my own country did, to give something back to the world and, if there was any time to spare, learn some things about myself. Not that I was entirely wrong, but it haven't quite worked out this way.
Today I went paragliding. In this paragraph you can between the lines of text read "the holiday from volunteering continues". A fun experience, to sum up the day. Maybe a little bit overpriced, but in all worth it.
My overall feeling of volunteering in Nepal would I say is quite similar to the feeling of a Piñata during a Mexican fiesta. Even thou we volunteers look weird and colorful but still nice, they still want to smack us open and take our candy. Candy is in this case a metaphor for money. This most of course be done in a mannered way which mean gathering as many of your friends to share this spectacular creation and hang it up in a rope, while playing music and showing off their culture in all ways possible. The problem is to actually get the candy from the Piñata, since you really can't see it. Previously was this no problem, it was just to keep swinging in the air until hitting something, but nowadays the Piñatas got internet and cellphones to contact other Piñatas and learn what is about to happen, that they are about to lose all their candy.
I feel a bit bad about moving from the monastery, and even worse for taking a holiday during my volunteering. I feel like an awful volunteer and that feeling sticks for a while, maybe five or six seconds. That's when I remember all the small things the volunteering coordinators do to make extra money from us. The big house some of them lives in and the constant question "Where is the money going?". I really don't feel needed, it's just a conning business to make money of rich youngsters who just found out about karma. I even heard one of them complaining about having to make up some place for the volunteers to work, like our free work more or less was made up.
Still, I feel like it's time to get back to my made up work and head for my placement. I can always take a new holiday when the lack of work gets to overbearing.
I left my home in the search of people in need of my expertise, possibly my culture, maybe my muscles or just a piece of extra fat to keep a door open, and then went to Nepal. Volunteering was a glorious way for me to help out in a part of the world who needed me more then my own country did, to give something back to the world and, if there was any time to spare, learn some things about myself. Not that I was entirely wrong, but it haven't quite worked out this way.
Today I went paragliding. In this paragraph you can between the lines of text read "the holiday from volunteering continues". A fun experience, to sum up the day. Maybe a little bit overpriced, but in all worth it.
My overall feeling of volunteering in Nepal would I say is quite similar to the feeling of a Piñata during a Mexican fiesta. Even thou we volunteers look weird and colorful but still nice, they still want to smack us open and take our candy. Candy is in this case a metaphor for money. This most of course be done in a mannered way which mean gathering as many of your friends to share this spectacular creation and hang it up in a rope, while playing music and showing off their culture in all ways possible. The problem is to actually get the candy from the Piñata, since you really can't see it. Previously was this no problem, it was just to keep swinging in the air until hitting something, but nowadays the Piñatas got internet and cellphones to contact other Piñatas and learn what is about to happen, that they are about to lose all their candy.
I feel a bit bad about moving from the monastery, and even worse for taking a holiday during my volunteering. I feel like an awful volunteer and that feeling sticks for a while, maybe five or six seconds. That's when I remember all the small things the volunteering coordinators do to make extra money from us. The big house some of them lives in and the constant question "Where is the money going?". I really don't feel needed, it's just a conning business to make money of rich youngsters who just found out about karma. I even heard one of them complaining about having to make up some place for the volunteers to work, like our free work more or less was made up.
Still, I feel like it's time to get back to my made up work and head for my placement. I can always take a new holiday when the lack of work gets to overbearing.
Slumdog
8th of October
A rapid drummer disturbs our slow and peaceful breakfast at a restaurant along the, by now well known for us, tourist street a block from the lake. The disturbances comes from a young nepali kid, sitting in the middle street and rhythmically beating his worn drum while yelling what sounds as encouraging invitations for donations in his language. He could be about 7 years old, dressed in torn jeans and a unbuttoned shirt, witch a dirty face and hungry but decisive eyes.
In front of him dances an other boy in the same age, with equally torn jeans and the same hungry eyes on an as dirty face as his coworker. He does a self thought belly dance and some exhibitions of his flexibility, all of them to me kind of repulsive to me were I sit, stiff like an uncooked asparagus, in the morning and eat my overprices breakfast menu. I try not to pay attention to the show, as my bacon arrives.
It got the feeling of Slumdog Millionaire, with these independent looking kids, performing the poverty they live in for us rich people. Not even the poverty in Lakeside feels real, like everything, from the supermarket and bookstore to the massage centers and the holy Hindu begging, is designed to capture and spend our money. This isn't Nepal, it's a comfortable Asia in the eyes of an outsider, with every citizen watching the passing tourists as a lion prowls on the horde of grass eater.
The skepticism ends here, because Lakeside got some fun accessories that I don't care if they're real or not. Not to mention all of them, but my favorite most be the transportation of buffaloes along the main tourist street in rush hour. These isn't the buffaloes I saw when I was a little boy on wildlife programs, whose life consisted of a never ending rush hour, panicking along the savanna and getting eaten by crocodiles. These water buffaloes are hardcore gurus in meditative strolling and looking goatishly interested at passing people or vehicles. If someone trained them not to care they certainly did a good job and should receive a bonus.
A rapid drummer disturbs our slow and peaceful breakfast at a restaurant along the, by now well known for us, tourist street a block from the lake. The disturbances comes from a young nepali kid, sitting in the middle street and rhythmically beating his worn drum while yelling what sounds as encouraging invitations for donations in his language. He could be about 7 years old, dressed in torn jeans and a unbuttoned shirt, witch a dirty face and hungry but decisive eyes.
In front of him dances an other boy in the same age, with equally torn jeans and the same hungry eyes on an as dirty face as his coworker. He does a self thought belly dance and some exhibitions of his flexibility, all of them to me kind of repulsive to me were I sit, stiff like an uncooked asparagus, in the morning and eat my overprices breakfast menu. I try not to pay attention to the show, as my bacon arrives.
It got the feeling of Slumdog Millionaire, with these independent looking kids, performing the poverty they live in for us rich people. Not even the poverty in Lakeside feels real, like everything, from the supermarket and bookstore to the massage centers and the holy Hindu begging, is designed to capture and spend our money. This isn't Nepal, it's a comfortable Asia in the eyes of an outsider, with every citizen watching the passing tourists as a lion prowls on the horde of grass eater.
The skepticism ends here, because Lakeside got some fun accessories that I don't care if they're real or not. Not to mention all of them, but my favorite most be the transportation of buffaloes along the main tourist street in rush hour. These isn't the buffaloes I saw when I was a little boy on wildlife programs, whose life consisted of a never ending rush hour, panicking along the savanna and getting eaten by crocodiles. These water buffaloes are hardcore gurus in meditative strolling and looking goatishly interested at passing people or vehicles. If someone trained them not to care they certainly did a good job and should receive a bonus.
The lake
7th of October
Beside some excessive queuing at surprising places, like mountaintops, and the rare but still constantly reappearing realization that not a single piece of clothing you own is clean enough to wear, our trip to the lake this afternoon was the first resembles of home. Since I've grown up having plenty and regular encounters with water, even being trained from an early age in the rules, conducts and common decency on the sea, I got really annoyed and frankly insulted when the local renter of boats had a little argument with me. After some unneeded and worsening attempts to guide our boat to shore, he accused me of not knowing how to handle a simple paddle.
His paddle, supposedly made of wood, had sunk in the middle lake, like it suddenly came to life when coming in contact with the water and decided that the bottom of this possibly quite deep lake was a good place to start off his or her pension. The renter wouldn't find this very believable and had early made up his mind about me being an other inexperienced and most likely drunk tourist. When those few occasions occur that this isn't the case it gets quite hurting and now brought up a few bad memories from my time at the supermarket. So I paid him his money and went to get drunk and try stuff I've never done before.
Later that night, when watching the moon over the lake and letting the last intoxication enchant the view, a group of fellow drinkers passed my bench, clinging to each other for what could be physical contact, maybe mental support but most likely just balance. They were white guys, with hair in random creations and loose, hippie-like clothing, all of them drunk beyond dignity. It was a sad view, fun from time to time as they slowly tumbled past but still sad.
This, Pochara Lakeside, isn't better then any other vacation resorts, just possibly a bit cheaper if you like dal bhat. I was probably the tenth white tourist that day that was complaining to the renter, of course he didn't believe me. Although, a paddle of wood should sink.
Beside some excessive queuing at surprising places, like mountaintops, and the rare but still constantly reappearing realization that not a single piece of clothing you own is clean enough to wear, our trip to the lake this afternoon was the first resembles of home. Since I've grown up having plenty and regular encounters with water, even being trained from an early age in the rules, conducts and common decency on the sea, I got really annoyed and frankly insulted when the local renter of boats had a little argument with me. After some unneeded and worsening attempts to guide our boat to shore, he accused me of not knowing how to handle a simple paddle.
His paddle, supposedly made of wood, had sunk in the middle lake, like it suddenly came to life when coming in contact with the water and decided that the bottom of this possibly quite deep lake was a good place to start off his or her pension. The renter wouldn't find this very believable and had early made up his mind about me being an other inexperienced and most likely drunk tourist. When those few occasions occur that this isn't the case it gets quite hurting and now brought up a few bad memories from my time at the supermarket. So I paid him his money and went to get drunk and try stuff I've never done before.
Later that night, when watching the moon over the lake and letting the last intoxication enchant the view, a group of fellow drinkers passed my bench, clinging to each other for what could be physical contact, maybe mental support but most likely just balance. They were white guys, with hair in random creations and loose, hippie-like clothing, all of them drunk beyond dignity. It was a sad view, fun from time to time as they slowly tumbled past but still sad.
This, Pochara Lakeside, isn't better then any other vacation resorts, just possibly a bit cheaper if you like dal bhat. I was probably the tenth white tourist that day that was complaining to the renter, of course he didn't believe me. Although, a paddle of wood should sink.
Poon Hill
6th of October
The sunrise seen from the top of Poon Hill is said to be amazing and something you shouldn't miss, which unfortunately the 300 other tourists in the close region this morning decided not to. The queuing for the top started after just a few minutes on the said to be one hour walk. They say a lot of things around here, but we clearly doesn't learn. The pilgrimage for the top continued in a slow pace, covered in coughs, yawns and sneezes from the hundreds of people dancing the conga along the headlamp lit track uphill. I entertained myself with working out a good charade for "personal space" since there was a clear language barrier between me and the man behind me.
The view from the top was actually quite spectacular; the tourists were everywhere trying to set up their tripods on a spot with no one in front to interrupt the pending sunrise. With a constant flow of more headlamps and tripods this made for some pretty fun encounters.
The clouds lied thick over the view of the mountains with more of the rolling with the wind, making the tripod-owners go restless. The little coffestand was having a hayday amongst all the freezing and disappointed tourists. First back at the hotel we realized that the view of the mountains was almost as good there, just without all the clouds
The sunrise seen from the top of Poon Hill is said to be amazing and something you shouldn't miss, which unfortunately the 300 other tourists in the close region this morning decided not to. The queuing for the top started after just a few minutes on the said to be one hour walk. They say a lot of things around here, but we clearly doesn't learn. The pilgrimage for the top continued in a slow pace, covered in coughs, yawns and sneezes from the hundreds of people dancing the conga along the headlamp lit track uphill. I entertained myself with working out a good charade for "personal space" since there was a clear language barrier between me and the man behind me.
The view from the top was actually quite spectacular; the tourists were everywhere trying to set up their tripods on a spot with no one in front to interrupt the pending sunrise. With a constant flow of more headlamps and tripods this made for some pretty fun encounters.
The clouds lied thick over the view of the mountains with more of the rolling with the wind, making the tripod-owners go restless. The little coffestand was having a hayday amongst all the freezing and disappointed tourists. First back at the hotel we realized that the view of the mountains was almost as good there, just without all the clouds
Goats who stare at men
4th of October
Now and then, when passing a village and peering in through the door to a different millennium, you can see animals standing autistically just beside the people working, eating or sleeping. More often then rarely is the animal in the shape of a goat, with the interest in its eyes glowing like a lightbulb during a nepali electricity shutdown. They look as absent as a bad Greek statue, the only sign of the goats even being alive would be the movement of their chewing mouth, still they stand there and stare with their interested like broken lightbulbs.
The stairs continued for hours this day but the view was amazing, when you had the energy to turn your head. At a break did my craving for chocolate pudding get to a critical size and had to be soothed with Dairy Milk and music. With the landscape spreading out through valleys for miles, a sweet taste of chocolate and a tingling sensation spreading through the body, possibly from the "special coke" our guide suddenly pulled out, I let Cocorosie put the final touch on the moment with Rainbow Warrior. Bea, if you're reading this you would know the feeling.
Now and then, when passing a village and peering in through the door to a different millennium, you can see animals standing autistically just beside the people working, eating or sleeping. More often then rarely is the animal in the shape of a goat, with the interest in its eyes glowing like a lightbulb during a nepali electricity shutdown. They look as absent as a bad Greek statue, the only sign of the goats even being alive would be the movement of their chewing mouth, still they stand there and stare with their interested like broken lightbulbs.
The stairs continued for hours this day but the view was amazing, when you had the energy to turn your head. At a break did my craving for chocolate pudding get to a critical size and had to be soothed with Dairy Milk and music. With the landscape spreading out through valleys for miles, a sweet taste of chocolate and a tingling sensation spreading through the body, possibly from the "special coke" our guide suddenly pulled out, I let Cocorosie put the final touch on the moment with Rainbow Warrior. Bea, if you're reading this you would know the feeling.
Trek
3rd of October
It's always a struggle meeting new people, no matter how socially adapt you are. I've left Pokhara to go trekking in the Himalayas for a couple of days, which means I'm still on the run from the actual volunteering. In this case it could be described as a convict fleeing from a warm bed and three meals a day.
The group had taken a quick stop for lunch after a not too smooth bus trip followed by a shorter walk down through a couple of tiny villages. There are tourists everywhere, geared up to the teeth with different gadgets and tools to ease the walking, often with a local man just behind carrying the rest of the backpack. It's even sometimes pathetic when the sporty rich couple, going through their midlife crisis, load up a native with the 60 kilos they're not capable of carrying and then take a stroll through the Himalayas, just to ease their conscience.
The quick part of our lunch stop was somehow confused with a long part, but since most of us just met the rest was this a good time for some people studies. Everyone keen on telling their own experience of travel lead to a lot of embarrassing silences when you really could hear the heads work out a proper follow up question to the current discussion. I quite enjoyed it, not even remotely trying to help the conversation but instead leaned back and observed. The reason to this could also be the massive headache I had, most likely from last nights drinking and dancing.
The big brown river thundering by replaced the constant sound of crickets, with the sound bouncing back and forth on the steep slopes surrounding the valley. The embarrassing silence was occasionally interrupted and the discussion took speed again. I lightened up when it ended again.
It's always a struggle meeting new people, no matter how socially adapt you are. I've left Pokhara to go trekking in the Himalayas for a couple of days, which means I'm still on the run from the actual volunteering. In this case it could be described as a convict fleeing from a warm bed and three meals a day.
The group had taken a quick stop for lunch after a not too smooth bus trip followed by a shorter walk down through a couple of tiny villages. There are tourists everywhere, geared up to the teeth with different gadgets and tools to ease the walking, often with a local man just behind carrying the rest of the backpack. It's even sometimes pathetic when the sporty rich couple, going through their midlife crisis, load up a native with the 60 kilos they're not capable of carrying and then take a stroll through the Himalayas, just to ease their conscience.
The quick part of our lunch stop was somehow confused with a long part, but since most of us just met the rest was this a good time for some people studies. Everyone keen on telling their own experience of travel lead to a lot of embarrassing silences when you really could hear the heads work out a proper follow up question to the current discussion. I quite enjoyed it, not even remotely trying to help the conversation but instead leaned back and observed. The reason to this could also be the massive headache I had, most likely from last nights drinking and dancing.
The big brown river thundering by replaced the constant sound of crickets, with the sound bouncing back and forth on the steep slopes surrounding the valley. The embarrassing silence was occasionally interrupted and the discussion took speed again. I lightened up when it ended again.
Pochara
2nd of October
The most visible difference here from any other part of Nepal is the majority of tourist that roam the streets. Possibly it's just this tourist area called Lakeside that's infested by us foreigners, but it's even hard sometimes to spot the natives. I really can't blame them thou, I've never felt such ease in just living somewhere like I do here, just walking down the street feels a lot simpler then at home.
The cost of living, even if it's multiplied by a lot here, is still way below at home. The food is amazing, the hotels follow western standards, the temperature is just perfect and there is a lot of activities. I feel like never leaving this place, and it isn't just me that felt the same way.
The most welcomed difference is finally being able to talk to people, further then the previous short questions for direction. Meeting Europeans, Americans and Australians really makes a big difference after a while, it even seems to have calmed my stomach.
The lake beside Lakeside, still working on why they call it that, is astonishing in the sunset, and quite beautiful in the day as well. I met up with some of the volunteers I encountered in Kathmandu and by renting a boat did we cross the waters in a search for a waterfall.
The first thing you can't miss about Nepal is that the electricity shuts down a couple of hours a day, not necessarily in the easy-living Lakeside, but Pochara got some minor features as well. Like the rain around four o'clock each day. This caught us entirely unprepared, and there where casualties for our ignorance.
The most visible difference here from any other part of Nepal is the majority of tourist that roam the streets. Possibly it's just this tourist area called Lakeside that's infested by us foreigners, but it's even hard sometimes to spot the natives. I really can't blame them thou, I've never felt such ease in just living somewhere like I do here, just walking down the street feels a lot simpler then at home.
The cost of living, even if it's multiplied by a lot here, is still way below at home. The food is amazing, the hotels follow western standards, the temperature is just perfect and there is a lot of activities. I feel like never leaving this place, and it isn't just me that felt the same way.
The most welcomed difference is finally being able to talk to people, further then the previous short questions for direction. Meeting Europeans, Americans and Australians really makes a big difference after a while, it even seems to have calmed my stomach.
The lake beside Lakeside, still working on why they call it that, is astonishing in the sunset, and quite beautiful in the day as well. I met up with some of the volunteers I encountered in Kathmandu and by renting a boat did we cross the waters in a search for a waterfall.
The first thing you can't miss about Nepal is that the electricity shuts down a couple of hours a day, not necessarily in the easy-living Lakeside, but Pochara got some minor features as well. Like the rain around four o'clock each day. This caught us entirely unprepared, and there where casualties for our ignorance.
The next escape
1st of October
I decided at last that the humidity and warmth here in Chitwan was a bit overbearing, when the only time you got to a descent body temperature was by taking a cold shower in the middle of the night, so I headed for higher grounds and higher latitudes, Pochara.
If the bus down to Chitwan from Kathmandu was horrible and amazing then the ride up to Pochara was worse and better in every possible way.
I decided at last that the humidity and warmth here in Chitwan was a bit overbearing, when the only time you got to a descent body temperature was by taking a cold shower in the middle of the night, so I headed for higher grounds and higher latitudes, Pochara.
If the bus down to Chitwan from Kathmandu was horrible and amazing then the ride up to Pochara was worse and better in every possible way.
Oasis
30th of September
On the end of an surprisingly populated road, just by a slowly passing brown river and both fenced rice fields and widespread pasture field in all other directions, lays an oasis containing a couple of houses. From the dining room located on the second floor can I sit for hours, just watching the animals passing on the fields at the moment.
One of the people I met in Kathmandu set me up with this place. It's a lot cheaper but mostly a lot more natural. It's all just very genuine, it's how I always pictured it being on a safari, beside the slight lack of big four wheel driven cars and guys with guns. They are guns here thou, but they're all semiautomatic.
A couple of women in long colorful dresses and with big black umbrellas watch over the large herd of water buffaloes on the field. I can vaguely hear the bells toll from the otherwise tranquil wander when the herd is assembled. The occasional trumpet from an elephant can be heard in the distance, sometimes the peacocks fly of to a better location, and the never ending song of the crickets.
My guide took me out in the wild to show me all the animals that were left out in the movie of the Jungle Book. The deer are practically everywhere, there are some wild boars here and there digging for food, monkeys playing in the trees and a couple of rhinos sipping water from a stream. After gently sipping enough water the rhinos apparently like to also act like a sort of customs office, just only being very interested in taking very close look inside everything passing.
Still, this place, called Sauta Shook (possibly) in the Chitwan district, is all about elephants. Riding with them was a lot of fun, bathing them even more. Mostly fun thou, would have been to see them in the yearly game of football that occurs on the a field close to my "oasis". Then they don't seem to be treated very well, which really takes lot of the fun from it. The hooks they use to control them could be used to catch whales, not that I'm a fishing expert, but it doesn't feel like it's supposed to be like this. If there was a creator I don't think she meant it to end up like it currently is.
On the end of an surprisingly populated road, just by a slowly passing brown river and both fenced rice fields and widespread pasture field in all other directions, lays an oasis containing a couple of houses. From the dining room located on the second floor can I sit for hours, just watching the animals passing on the fields at the moment.
One of the people I met in Kathmandu set me up with this place. It's a lot cheaper but mostly a lot more natural. It's all just very genuine, it's how I always pictured it being on a safari, beside the slight lack of big four wheel driven cars and guys with guns. They are guns here thou, but they're all semiautomatic.
A couple of women in long colorful dresses and with big black umbrellas watch over the large herd of water buffaloes on the field. I can vaguely hear the bells toll from the otherwise tranquil wander when the herd is assembled. The occasional trumpet from an elephant can be heard in the distance, sometimes the peacocks fly of to a better location, and the never ending song of the crickets.
My guide took me out in the wild to show me all the animals that were left out in the movie of the Jungle Book. The deer are practically everywhere, there are some wild boars here and there digging for food, monkeys playing in the trees and a couple of rhinos sipping water from a stream. After gently sipping enough water the rhinos apparently like to also act like a sort of customs office, just only being very interested in taking very close look inside everything passing.
Still, this place, called Sauta Shook (possibly) in the Chitwan district, is all about elephants. Riding with them was a lot of fun, bathing them even more. Mostly fun thou, would have been to see them in the yearly game of football that occurs on the a field close to my "oasis". Then they don't seem to be treated very well, which really takes lot of the fun from it. The hooks they use to control them could be used to catch whales, not that I'm a fishing expert, but it doesn't feel like it's supposed to be like this. If there was a creator I don't think she meant it to end up like it currently is.
Meeting with Mowgli
29th of September
I'm bumping over the rocky road on the back of his motorcycle, peering out on the rice fields on the left and the water buffaloes feeding on the other, each on with their own little white bird loyally walking beside picking insects of their big muddy companions body. The driver shouts at a couple of passing people and then pits on a big charming smile.
His name is Amit and he's my guide through these exotic terrains, beaming with confidence and urbanity. He's a slightly bigger fella, not at all fat but just not the one you would want to hurt in any physical or mental way, mostly because of the way he would be capable of hurting you an awful lot more. Not that this would ever happen because he seems truly peaceful, driving his motorcycle accustomed through a smaller village.
The wind pours over my head as we ride along, not as the fresh breeze I'm used to but more like putting your face in a slightly lower density 35 degrees Celsius waterfall that have a slightly oily feel. I don't mind this at all, as I secure my feet on the side of the motorcycle, spread my arms and tilt my head backwards, watching the clear blue sky above.
As we pass an elephant on a slow strull along the road, not seeming to care much about anything around him, the guide promise me that we'll more of them, maybe tomorrow. It's a lot of maybes. He's used to pick up tourists like myself from the bus stop since he has done it all his life.
About 30 years old I would say he looks to be, but my judgment of age is terrible. "I was actually born in this jungle!" he said and cracked up in an other of his big harmless smiles. He continues to tell me the story of how hes mother went in to labor while still in the jungle and that he now when growing up works as a jungle guide.
"You're like the guy from the Jungle Book! He's the guy from the Jungle Book! The boy from the Jungle Book!" is all I can think of while having one of those proud excited moments when meeting a celebrity.
I'm bumping over the rocky road on the back of his motorcycle, peering out on the rice fields on the left and the water buffaloes feeding on the other, each on with their own little white bird loyally walking beside picking insects of their big muddy companions body. The driver shouts at a couple of passing people and then pits on a big charming smile.
His name is Amit and he's my guide through these exotic terrains, beaming with confidence and urbanity. He's a slightly bigger fella, not at all fat but just not the one you would want to hurt in any physical or mental way, mostly because of the way he would be capable of hurting you an awful lot more. Not that this would ever happen because he seems truly peaceful, driving his motorcycle accustomed through a smaller village.
The wind pours over my head as we ride along, not as the fresh breeze I'm used to but more like putting your face in a slightly lower density 35 degrees Celsius waterfall that have a slightly oily feel. I don't mind this at all, as I secure my feet on the side of the motorcycle, spread my arms and tilt my head backwards, watching the clear blue sky above.
As we pass an elephant on a slow strull along the road, not seeming to care much about anything around him, the guide promise me that we'll more of them, maybe tomorrow. It's a lot of maybes. He's used to pick up tourists like myself from the bus stop since he has done it all his life.
About 30 years old I would say he looks to be, but my judgment of age is terrible. "I was actually born in this jungle!" he said and cracked up in an other of his big harmless smiles. He continues to tell me the story of how hes mother went in to labor while still in the jungle and that he now when growing up works as a jungle guide.
"You're like the guy from the Jungle Book! He's the guy from the Jungle Book! The boy from the Jungle Book!" is all I can think of while having one of those proud excited moments when meeting a celebrity.
Life among the monks
27th of September
It's a clear beautiful morning after breakfast when I sit and read my book to slowly wake up from the early morning prayer and digesting the nutrition meal of more rice. I sit by the passing stream in total calm, taking a short retreat to the proper English only books can provide here. There is guaranteed no one in the nearest miles that's able to understand this book, still I've got 20 kids around me trying to follow along in the story.
The breakfast is directly after the almost two hour pray we have each morning. I would call it night however because of the numbers my clock shows at that time, and of course the fact that it's pitch black. After breakfast does the monks tend to their area of cleaning and then some personal studying until lunch at eleven. Then there is more study.
They really study a lot these kids, but usually it's only trying to remember the spares workbooks they've got. You can hear them from far away plowing through the book over and over, chanting the content in a monotone jingle. Usually I try to go around a help them with this chanting, correcting the pronunciation or just giving some encouragement. To actually try to learn them some useful English, like making a discussion or just have a conversation have been entirely impossible. They just don't understand the use for this, which I can understand when every test is on the concept of writing the answers to questions from the workbook.
It's such a brainless learning, but without more founding I can't see a solution. These kids need money for better education, not an other teacher eating their food.
Around four in the afternoon it's time for some physical exercise. Anything from shopping wood to sow on the field. You really feel like a real farmer doing these things, plowing through the field with an old classic wooden tool and big blisters on your hands. The back hurts constantly, but the work have to be done. No one ever complains about anything. Ever.
At this time it's important to pay attention, because suddenly the evening prayer starts. It starts of about the same as the usual morning prayer by rounding everything holy in the monastery three times, but then it's slightly different. For starters we don't use the same temple as for the morning prayer. Either we use a slightly bigger temple filled with instruments and colorful drapery in front of three human sized figures of what possibly could be gods and goddesses or maybe Buddhas, or we are outside.
If you didn't pay attention when it all started you have to do an other round of chanting after this two hour sitting of preaching, before it's time for rice. Even the kids call it "Eating rice", not "Eating food". I found that somewhat amusing. Amusing and sad.
By now it's dark enough to get lost and end up in the stream or latrine, so many go to bed. Maybe because it's dark without much to do with no electricity which often goes out now, or because in eight hours a new day starts off with morning prayer.
It's a clear beautiful morning after breakfast when I sit and read my book to slowly wake up from the early morning prayer and digesting the nutrition meal of more rice. I sit by the passing stream in total calm, taking a short retreat to the proper English only books can provide here. There is guaranteed no one in the nearest miles that's able to understand this book, still I've got 20 kids around me trying to follow along in the story.
The breakfast is directly after the almost two hour pray we have each morning. I would call it night however because of the numbers my clock shows at that time, and of course the fact that it's pitch black. After breakfast does the monks tend to their area of cleaning and then some personal studying until lunch at eleven. Then there is more study.
They really study a lot these kids, but usually it's only trying to remember the spares workbooks they've got. You can hear them from far away plowing through the book over and over, chanting the content in a monotone jingle. Usually I try to go around a help them with this chanting, correcting the pronunciation or just giving some encouragement. To actually try to learn them some useful English, like making a discussion or just have a conversation have been entirely impossible. They just don't understand the use for this, which I can understand when every test is on the concept of writing the answers to questions from the workbook.
It's such a brainless learning, but without more founding I can't see a solution. These kids need money for better education, not an other teacher eating their food.
Around four in the afternoon it's time for some physical exercise. Anything from shopping wood to sow on the field. You really feel like a real farmer doing these things, plowing through the field with an old classic wooden tool and big blisters on your hands. The back hurts constantly, but the work have to be done. No one ever complains about anything. Ever.
At this time it's important to pay attention, because suddenly the evening prayer starts. It starts of about the same as the usual morning prayer by rounding everything holy in the monastery three times, but then it's slightly different. For starters we don't use the same temple as for the morning prayer. Either we use a slightly bigger temple filled with instruments and colorful drapery in front of three human sized figures of what possibly could be gods and goddesses or maybe Buddhas, or we are outside.
If you didn't pay attention when it all started you have to do an other round of chanting after this two hour sitting of preaching, before it's time for rice. Even the kids call it "Eating rice", not "Eating food". I found that somewhat amusing. Amusing and sad.
By now it's dark enough to get lost and end up in the stream or latrine, so many go to bed. Maybe because it's dark without much to do with no electricity which often goes out now, or because in eight hours a new day starts off with morning prayer.
Balloons
26th of September
There is a risk that i accidentally happen to spread capitalism and suffering in this monastery. In some way did one of the monk boys manage to spot the balloons I'd packed to brighten up the life of the young children I was looking forward to help. We all know the magic of balloons. Soon everyone came to me asking for balloons, which was a great motivator to make them talk English.
When I first got to the monastery I never looked my door. A simple Buddhist non-violent vegetarian monastery, I never thought anything could happen to my stuff except possibly getting dusted sometime. Everybody was always so helpful and caring. After a couple of days I had the feeling that around a thousand rupees was missing that had been laying under a couple of books on my bed. As the slouch I am I was sure I'd just misremembered and left that, but when I a couple of days later saw a some of the children play with balloons on the yard I got suspicious. There was only 4 balloons left in my bag and I'm sure I packed more then that.
I've got a favorite amongst the monks, it was kind of hard really not to get one. He's 15 years old, extremely helpful and dedicated and trying all he can to be the big brother for the kids that he always wanted for himself. I'm sure he looks up to me and he also gave me his bracelet, a link of 12 wooden pieces with pictures of Buddha. I feel like a very over appreciated rich white guy amongst all these poor monks and therefor it feels really awkward that he gives me anything at all. How can I repay him?
Most of the boys have been asking me constantly for balloons for a couple of days. They really have nailed the begging part of the English language, just like the beggars in the city. They haven't quite understood the answering part yet thou, so they keep asking, begging for these balloons like that's all they need at the moment. Some of them have still got their balloons left and keeps them unbanged like it's the an old heirloom. Anyone not being the closest of friends looks at the balloons with sad eyes, as they are the reason for their suffering.
Every student here also seems to enjoy the music players I brought along, being deeply fascinated by the western songs I listen to for a brief retreat home. Since I brought two, would giving one of them to my 15 year old little monk brother be such a bad idea? He is always sharing whatever he got, always helping who ever needs help and never show any egoistic features. Then again, he never got one of these western capitalist balloon.
There is a risk that i accidentally happen to spread capitalism and suffering in this monastery. In some way did one of the monk boys manage to spot the balloons I'd packed to brighten up the life of the young children I was looking forward to help. We all know the magic of balloons. Soon everyone came to me asking for balloons, which was a great motivator to make them talk English.
When I first got to the monastery I never looked my door. A simple Buddhist non-violent vegetarian monastery, I never thought anything could happen to my stuff except possibly getting dusted sometime. Everybody was always so helpful and caring. After a couple of days I had the feeling that around a thousand rupees was missing that had been laying under a couple of books on my bed. As the slouch I am I was sure I'd just misremembered and left that, but when I a couple of days later saw a some of the children play with balloons on the yard I got suspicious. There was only 4 balloons left in my bag and I'm sure I packed more then that.
I've got a favorite amongst the monks, it was kind of hard really not to get one. He's 15 years old, extremely helpful and dedicated and trying all he can to be the big brother for the kids that he always wanted for himself. I'm sure he looks up to me and he also gave me his bracelet, a link of 12 wooden pieces with pictures of Buddha. I feel like a very over appreciated rich white guy amongst all these poor monks and therefor it feels really awkward that he gives me anything at all. How can I repay him?
Most of the boys have been asking me constantly for balloons for a couple of days. They really have nailed the begging part of the English language, just like the beggars in the city. They haven't quite understood the answering part yet thou, so they keep asking, begging for these balloons like that's all they need at the moment. Some of them have still got their balloons left and keeps them unbanged like it's the an old heirloom. Anyone not being the closest of friends looks at the balloons with sad eyes, as they are the reason for their suffering.
Every student here also seems to enjoy the music players I brought along, being deeply fascinated by the western songs I listen to for a brief retreat home. Since I brought two, would giving one of them to my 15 year old little monk brother be such a bad idea? He is always sharing whatever he got, always helping who ever needs help and never show any egoistic features. Then again, he never got one of these western capitalist balloon.
Imagine this
25th of September
The sun set a couple of hours ago and the moon have risen over the treeline to spread its dim beams of light through the evergreen jungle and give everything long unsteady shadows. The jungle creaks in its own mystical way while the crickets sing their ordinary song. There is an overall atmosphere of calm you know isn't exactly real.
Some of the shadows are moving quickly. Not that you see them but you certainly can feel that there's something not as calm as everything seems. Just out of sight are they advancing slowly and cautiously. They are many, maybe 10, maybe 20, maybe 30. They are everywhere.
They are thieves of the night and you know what they want. They want what is yours and they will take it unless you stop them, but then you must stop them all. They are many.
You step back in defense as the lonely guardian against the oncoming horde of thieves. You search for a strategic point from where you can protect your belongings from every direction. You can see them now. They poke at your defenses, looking for the weakspot which you do all you can to hide. You reach for a weapon, a long and solid stick perhaps, or a couple of rocks would also do fine.
Even thou you fend of a couple of these bandits at the time there are always someone testing you from a different angle. They keep up the assault, the siege, like a pack of monkeys attacking an immobilized tiger. Talking about monkeys...
It isn't in the middle of the night, it's a warm sunny day and the crickets are playing their ordinary song in the calm shadow of the jungle. A couple of butterflies pass playfully. You can't see them yet, but you can certainly feel the approaching monkeys. The entire jungle sens it.
They got what they wanted this time eventually, as they always do. These persistent thieves are determined to raid you of all that is precious and trash whatever you're not looking after.
I like these monkeys, I find them very exotic and cute. Can't see why no one else here seems to like them.
The sun set a couple of hours ago and the moon have risen over the treeline to spread its dim beams of light through the evergreen jungle and give everything long unsteady shadows. The jungle creaks in its own mystical way while the crickets sing their ordinary song. There is an overall atmosphere of calm you know isn't exactly real.
Some of the shadows are moving quickly. Not that you see them but you certainly can feel that there's something not as calm as everything seems. Just out of sight are they advancing slowly and cautiously. They are many, maybe 10, maybe 20, maybe 30. They are everywhere.
They are thieves of the night and you know what they want. They want what is yours and they will take it unless you stop them, but then you must stop them all. They are many.
You step back in defense as the lonely guardian against the oncoming horde of thieves. You search for a strategic point from where you can protect your belongings from every direction. You can see them now. They poke at your defenses, looking for the weakspot which you do all you can to hide. You reach for a weapon, a long and solid stick perhaps, or a couple of rocks would also do fine.
Even thou you fend of a couple of these bandits at the time there are always someone testing you from a different angle. They keep up the assault, the siege, like a pack of monkeys attacking an immobilized tiger. Talking about monkeys...
It isn't in the middle of the night, it's a warm sunny day and the crickets are playing their ordinary song in the calm shadow of the jungle. A couple of butterflies pass playfully. You can't see them yet, but you can certainly feel the approaching monkeys. The entire jungle sens it.
They got what they wanted this time eventually, as they always do. These persistent thieves are determined to raid you of all that is precious and trash whatever you're not looking after.
I like these monkeys, I find them very exotic and cute. Can't see why no one else here seems to like them.
Crash course in morning prayer
24th of September
It's night and you are sleeping, not particularly good but you are sleeping. You've even moved down to the floor because it was a little bit softer then the bed, and longer then 1,50. You slowly start to realize that it's your alarm that is waking you up, which should mean that the time is close to 4 in the morning. It could also be something else if you are a clever person and wake up after 7.
You can't find the alarm so you try to open your eyes to ease the search. It doesn't work. So you try again to find out that you'd already opened your eyes and was now only lifting your eyebrows in a surprised manner. You take a deep breath and prepare to get up. It's pitch black, not the slightest of contrast and you try to remember where you put your cloths. Sometimes does the light in your room work, but you don't count on that anymore.
You tumble down the stair in your flip-flops and after avoiding falling down in the passing stream or crashing in to a tree, a pile of wood, a house or even the latrine, you reach the meeting point at the sutra in the middle of the monastery. Usually you're not able to avoid all of this obstacles.
After a couple of minutes enough of the monks have gathered, so the line up and start a slow walk around the sutra, which looks somewhat like a very fancy and pointy birthday cake, while drowsy chanting in nepali. They do this 3 laps clockwise and then the line goes on the the next place, a house that supposedly have some very holy power. You really don't know, you just follow and try not to show how awkward this feels.
About now all the 80 monks have shown up an the line get's some trouble fitting around this small house in their clockwise circle motion, but you really don't see it, because it's still pitch black. You just feel it and continue to go by sonar as you had since you woke up. After 3 laps the line continues to the next house which is a quite bigger and have a statue in front. These you also round 3 times clockwise, while singing what you by now had translated to what ever was on your mind. In my case most often chocolate mousse.
As a final touch everyone start bowing to holy rocks along the way on the final lap, but since your back already started to hurt due to the bad sleep and now about 40 minutes of holding your hands together in front of you, it doesn't feel quite optimal. The line now goes in the one of the bigger houses where you take a seat in front of a big altar with a Buddha statue. Of course you don't get an actual seat, you just sit down on the hard cold floor.
The chanting continues, now led by one of the elder monks. Besides the excruciating pain in your back this feels kind of cozy, almost like you could fall asleep here. That's why some of the monks goes around slapping anyone who logs off for a second, and I'm not talking about a soft clap on the cheek. I'm talking full golf-swing across the face, so the burning pain will keep you awake for the next hour of praying.
The chanting continues, sometimes standing up, sometimes sitting down, often shifting in complex bow- and hand-movements. You struggle to keep up, while trying to stay in the shadow of the blinding one light-bulb in the ceiling. This is proven to be kind of hard since you are about a head higher then anyone in there.
One of the lucky kids gets to skip some of this to go to the altar and prepare for the final praying. I don't really know what he's doing, maybe clean some of the cups and take away the ashes, maybe repaint the Buddha, maybe take a leak in the corner while drawing an elephant.
The word you're listening for is Laso, because one of the times it's said the final prayer begins. Now everyone gather close to altar and sits down on all four legs and arms. Now two of the monks in front seems to have a dialog, maybe an oral examination of jingles, where everyone is supposed to clap their hands on the ground for each syllable of the answer. This is proven to be a very effective way to pray, because after this it's all over.
The time is now about 6 in the morning and it's an other hour until the sun rises. We do this everyday.
It's night and you are sleeping, not particularly good but you are sleeping. You've even moved down to the floor because it was a little bit softer then the bed, and longer then 1,50. You slowly start to realize that it's your alarm that is waking you up, which should mean that the time is close to 4 in the morning. It could also be something else if you are a clever person and wake up after 7.
You can't find the alarm so you try to open your eyes to ease the search. It doesn't work. So you try again to find out that you'd already opened your eyes and was now only lifting your eyebrows in a surprised manner. You take a deep breath and prepare to get up. It's pitch black, not the slightest of contrast and you try to remember where you put your cloths. Sometimes does the light in your room work, but you don't count on that anymore.
You tumble down the stair in your flip-flops and after avoiding falling down in the passing stream or crashing in to a tree, a pile of wood, a house or even the latrine, you reach the meeting point at the sutra in the middle of the monastery. Usually you're not able to avoid all of this obstacles.
After a couple of minutes enough of the monks have gathered, so the line up and start a slow walk around the sutra, which looks somewhat like a very fancy and pointy birthday cake, while drowsy chanting in nepali. They do this 3 laps clockwise and then the line goes on the the next place, a house that supposedly have some very holy power. You really don't know, you just follow and try not to show how awkward this feels.
About now all the 80 monks have shown up an the line get's some trouble fitting around this small house in their clockwise circle motion, but you really don't see it, because it's still pitch black. You just feel it and continue to go by sonar as you had since you woke up. After 3 laps the line continues to the next house which is a quite bigger and have a statue in front. These you also round 3 times clockwise, while singing what you by now had translated to what ever was on your mind. In my case most often chocolate mousse.
As a final touch everyone start bowing to holy rocks along the way on the final lap, but since your back already started to hurt due to the bad sleep and now about 40 minutes of holding your hands together in front of you, it doesn't feel quite optimal. The line now goes in the one of the bigger houses where you take a seat in front of a big altar with a Buddha statue. Of course you don't get an actual seat, you just sit down on the hard cold floor.
The chanting continues, now led by one of the elder monks. Besides the excruciating pain in your back this feels kind of cozy, almost like you could fall asleep here. That's why some of the monks goes around slapping anyone who logs off for a second, and I'm not talking about a soft clap on the cheek. I'm talking full golf-swing across the face, so the burning pain will keep you awake for the next hour of praying.
The chanting continues, sometimes standing up, sometimes sitting down, often shifting in complex bow- and hand-movements. You struggle to keep up, while trying to stay in the shadow of the blinding one light-bulb in the ceiling. This is proven to be kind of hard since you are about a head higher then anyone in there.
One of the lucky kids gets to skip some of this to go to the altar and prepare for the final praying. I don't really know what he's doing, maybe clean some of the cups and take away the ashes, maybe repaint the Buddha, maybe take a leak in the corner while drawing an elephant.
The word you're listening for is Laso, because one of the times it's said the final prayer begins. Now everyone gather close to altar and sits down on all four legs and arms. Now two of the monks in front seems to have a dialog, maybe an oral examination of jingles, where everyone is supposed to clap their hands on the ground for each syllable of the answer. This is proven to be a very effective way to pray, because after this it's all over.
The time is now about 6 in the morning and it's an other hour until the sun rises. We do this everyday.
Isolation
23rd of September
I've had a couple of reality shocks. Everything is so different, but even thou I don't mind different I find it really hard to withstand this life, even for my short period. How do I usually go by when no one needs me at the moment when I'm back at home? I usually contact a friend, watch a movie or some series, maybe play a game. What do I do when no one understands me? I might do some work, watch a movie or some series, maybe play a game. What do I do here? Nothing.
Sure I participate in all the ceremonies during the day, but after all those hours of chanting and praying I still got some hours left. With no one to talk to, nothing they need from me, nothing I understand. I've read my books, I might do it again. Trying to learn nepali will only help me when I can speak it, and I'm not sure I've got what it takes to learn it before I go insane.
Everything is so different, but I usually don't mind that. It's just the isolation that boosts that feeling of different, of not belonging. I thought I was better on my own, guess i was wrong.
There is a man from America coming to the monastery some day, I just don't know when. I'll try to talk to the manager of this place to get some info, but i will ask for a replacement as well, somewhere I don't have to take a 3 hour drive to get to a computer.
I feel awful that I'm this obsessed with staying in contact with people. I feel so spoiled. It just feels awful not being understood.
I've had a couple of reality shocks. Everything is so different, but even thou I don't mind different I find it really hard to withstand this life, even for my short period. How do I usually go by when no one needs me at the moment when I'm back at home? I usually contact a friend, watch a movie or some series, maybe play a game. What do I do when no one understands me? I might do some work, watch a movie or some series, maybe play a game. What do I do here? Nothing.
Sure I participate in all the ceremonies during the day, but after all those hours of chanting and praying I still got some hours left. With no one to talk to, nothing they need from me, nothing I understand. I've read my books, I might do it again. Trying to learn nepali will only help me when I can speak it, and I'm not sure I've got what it takes to learn it before I go insane.
Everything is so different, but I usually don't mind that. It's just the isolation that boosts that feeling of different, of not belonging. I thought I was better on my own, guess i was wrong.
There is a man from America coming to the monastery some day, I just don't know when. I'll try to talk to the manager of this place to get some info, but i will ask for a replacement as well, somewhere I don't have to take a 3 hour drive to get to a computer.
I feel awful that I'm this obsessed with staying in contact with people. I feel so spoiled. It just feels awful not being understood.
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