Another Namaste

That word I can say: namaste. It means hello, welcome... stuff like that. And you put your hands together like you're praying when you say it. Yep, I can pull that off just fine. But I may be hopeless when it comes to learning any more Nepali. I learn one word, say it, get laughed at, say it again, and they laugh even harder. Apparently, the word for "butter" is very close to the word for "shit." So I guess I asked for the wrong thing on my toast.

ANYhoo... back to the deep, serious stuff.

As I sat in the front room, waiting for Ingo, I felt like I was about to meet a celebrity. A hero more like (although, I'm well-enough acquainted with him by now through emails and a documentary to know he would vehemently object to that description). I was excited. Jith Magar turned on the overhead fan and offered me a bottle of water.

"Where is Ingo?" I asked, and Jith motioned at a closed door with a smile. Did I detect a little "be careful what you wish for" in that smile?

It was early afternoon, but this had already been a long day. I'd gotten up with the sun again in Kathmandu, my stomach growling at the fact it hadn't been fed since the previous morning. To pass the time before breakfast, I'd gone for a short walk outside the guest house gate, then returned to sit in the courtyard to read the newspaper, filled with articles about the indefinite nationwide strike. Oh, and Sandra Bullock's impending divorce. I was very happy to see Sabina, which meant I wouldn't have to be hungry for much longer.

After I enjoyed a large apple pancake with jam and butter and a pot of masala tea with milk, Yolanda gave Sylvia and me our handwritten plane tickets for Pokhara. Sylvia was right; Things did work out. Then I settled my bill just in time for Karna and Dikpal's arrival at 8:30 sharp. Again, they seemed reluctant to enter the hotel.

Despite my insistence that I could carry (and wheel and drag) all my own things however far we had to go—I can be a bit over-confident about stuff like that—the young men took my duffel bag and large suitcase. They tried to relieve Sylvia of her burden, too, but she insisted a bit more than I had and hoisted her very heavy backpack, instead handing Karna a much smaller, lighter knapsack.

Then Karna and Dikpal led the two of us through the city on foot to the airport, past a Maoist demonstration and throngs of idle people out of work and school because of the strike, past street vendors apparently immune to that strike, past heaps of pungent garbage, past stupas, cows, chickens, and mangy-looking dogs. We dodged an occasional, fast-moving ambulance or truck full of police, which gave a hint of what it's like for pedestrians when regular traffic is moving through the streets. Yikes!

After about an hour and a half, we reached the airport, and I bid Karna and Dikpal farewell. For now. They refused my offer to pay for their help.

The plane ride to Pokhara was short and fun, though thick clouds blocked our view of the countryside except for a brief time after takeoff and shortly before landing. The stewardess—and I was surprised there was one on a flight this short and a plane this small—hunched over as she passed through the small cabin, offering a cup of water, a small candy, earplugs, and a newspaper in either English or Nepali. The movement of the little prop plane made me feel a tad iffy, especially after that warm walk with the sweet smells of rotting garbage and who knows what else.

As soon as I arrived in Pokhara, I knew I would feel much more relaxed here. Besides, I wanted to be where Ingo was. That's where I need to be, at least for now.

As arranged by Karna and Ingo, I soon found Jit, Ingo's HRDSN assistant of 19 years, waiting for me just outside the airport gate. Jit took my luggage and immediately hired a couple of bicycle porters, though I never actually saw any money change hands. Perhaps Ingo would pay them when my bags were delivered, I figured, then had an uh-oh moment as the cyclists disappeared with my stuff. (Which did end up in my room, intact, I must add.)

Jit and I and another man from the search and rescue squad, whose name I didn't catch (no Bobs or Marys here) began the long walk across town. In the humidity, I was dripping in no time, though my companions seemed unaffected.

********

Before coming to Nepal, I'd heard that it's one of the poorest countries on earth. Psshhh, I thought. Poor depends on who's talking. Just because they might not have big-screen HDTVs or brand-new SUVs or the latest in anything—just because they may live a simple, subsistence lifestyle—doesn't mean they're poor. Right?

Okay, I give: A lot of what I've seen here... THIS is POOR. This is extreme beauty mixed with extreme poverty. In some cases, I'd call it squalor. This is part of the spectrum of the human condition I'd never witnessed firsthand before, not even in areas of Mexico and Central America I'd thought were the poorest of poor. But I look at these people, sitting and walking amongst the garbage, cow manure, and dog poop, washing dishes and clothing in dirty water in roadside ditches, and it seems that most have no idea how destitute they are. Or don't let it get to them, maybe. I see smiles and laughter in spite of it all. I've already received hospitality and generosity I would not have expected from people who have so little... had I any expectations to begin with. I've tried really hard not to have any.

Here in Pokhara, conditions between the airport and Ingo's house (which is in the opposite direction of the touristy Lakeside area that I'll see tomorrow) are much like I'd seen in Kathmandu, and though it's clearly a smaller city, there's trash all over the place and that same sickly sweet smell. But then, at the outskirts of town, things began to change as the landscape became more rural. Small rice paddies and corn fields and what I think are big mounds of dried rice plants took the place of the piles of trash and decrepit hodgepodge of buildings. It's still what you might call a hodgepodge out here but in a more endearing sort of way. That doesn't mean all the trash is gone or that people aren't still washing in the milky-white roadside ditches, but it's a peaceful, pretty area that calls to the wanderer in me. I'm looking forward to some roaming.

********

Suddenly, that closed door blew open, and into the room burst Ingo Schnabel. And that's the only word I can think of to describe his entrance. With a booming, "Well, hel-LO, Deb!" he pulled me in for a hearty cheek-to-cheek. I couldn't help but laugh and knew right away that the "strong personality" I'd heard about from others who've met this animated, passionate leader of Nepal's rescue squad is indeed very real. It hasn't taken long to feel certain that Ingo and I are going to get along just fine.

P.S. I should be getting my little internet "stick" and SIM card tomorrow, now that the strike is over, so I should be able to upload some pics. I'm snappin' away!

Namaste From Nepal

Hey, everybody, just a note before my post: I'm here in Pokhara now with Ingo. SO glad to be here, and I'll fill you on the trip here soon. But I have to tell you that the internet connection here is... SO... freaking... slow that I'm going to be limited to how many individual emails I'll be able to respond to. And uploading photos and certainly video may be near impossible. We'll see how it goes once they get a gadget that will allow me to log on with my own computer. Maybe that will help. In the meantime, please know that I'm reading every one of your messages and LOVE them! I'll answer when and if I can.

I hope to get caught up to the present soon, but, for now, here's what I wrote yesterday (which seems like ages ago) but was unable to send until now....

Sylvia, a solo traveler from Switzerland, gave me good advice yesterday. About Nepal she said, "Expect nothing ... except that things will work out." I realized in less than 24 hours that those are words I'll need to live by for the next three months.

Yesterday was like living 10 days within the space of one. And now it's 2:15 a.m. on the next. What will this day of surprises bring? The plan is that it will take me from Kathmandu to the much smaller city of Pokhara, also known as the city of lakes. Thankfully, Sylvia is going there, too. I'm glad to have such a confident travel companion who knows I'm unsure of myself and is gracious enough to help.

When I wondered aloud how we'd get a paper plane ticket—little is done electronically here, so it seems, and Yolanda had arranged for our travel by phone with an agency—Sylvia patted me on the arm and said not to worry, it would work out. I paid Yolanda (cash only, no credit cards accepted) for the ticket but received nothing tangible or digital in return as one would expect in the U.S., where we'd get at least a confirmation email or receipt.

At 8:30 a.m., give or take some Nepal time, which could be a while, Karna and his friend and cyber cafe partner, Dikpal, will return to the guest house to walk with me and Sylvia to the airport. They know a shortcut, they said.

But that's still hours away, so back to yesterday...

Like tonight, I couldn't sleep for long after I was dropped off in the middle of the night, showered, and rearranged my belongings. I was awake at 2 a.m., listening to dogs bark, which they did again at 4:30. Soon after, the sky began to lighten and a nearby rooster started to crow, so I climbed out my window onto the veranda again and watched my surroundings materialize and people begin to stir as the morning progressed. A man in a nearby open window began tap-tap-tapping, and the tapping continued for hours. What he was working on, I'll never know. Children played with a puppy in an adjacent courtyard, while their mother (I assume) was busy sweeping around them. A motorbike zipped by in the alley. Later, a man carrying a large load of newspapers announced his presence, or perhaps the headlines, as he passed outside the hotel gate.

At 6 a.m., I ventured downstairs. The guest house was quiet, but I found three of the staff—two brightly clothed women, one in vibrant blue, the other in fuchsia, and an orange-shirted man—sweeping and tidying in the courtyard. I sat at a table, just watching them and two resident dogs until Yolanda appeared and sat down with me.

"How do you know Ingo?" I asked her. And in her Swiss-accented English she explained, "A friend introduced us. I was looking for property in a remote area, and Ingo is trying to sell the resort at Shyauli Bazaar. So I went there in January. It is a beautiful place—you will love it—but it is too big for me alone. Maybe if I had partners. I believe Ingo told me about you then."

Yolanda went on to explain a bit about the Maoist rebels (I'm really trying to understand what's happening here in Nepal) and the current strike, now five days old. For those five days and who knows how many more, businesses have been forcibly closed and driving forbidden, with the exception of ambulances, the police, and some leniency for foreigners, of which there are relatively few right now in the city. People can't earn a living with this going on. ATMs are running out of money, and people are running out of food. Schools have been shut down for weeks, well before the general strike began.

"Why do they comply?" I wanted to know. The answer: because they risk certain punishment if they don't. As I also read in the newspaper, the Maoists will vandalize the shops and beat shopkeepers who ignore the rules of the strike. Same for those who defy the ban on driving.

Later, as I walked with Karna and Dikpal to their cyber cafe, I asked them how everyone knows these rules (and there are others). "They are announced," Dikpal replied. His English is quite good, easier for me to understand than Karna's. "They tell it on the streets, in the paper, and on the news."

"There's more electricity right now, " he added, "because businesses and factories are closed, so it's not shut down as much."

I said, "It must be difficult to run a cyber cafe when the power is shut off for hours twice a day."

Karna agreed. "Oh, yes. Very difficult. It makes it hard to pay the rent."  He meant both the rent on the shop—about 1000 rupees per month, which is equivalent to approximately US $150—and rent on the nearby 10x10-foot room he shares with several other young men.

I later saw that room when Karna and Dikpal invited me up for tea. (And I must say, I've never had tea as tasty as the Masala  I've had in Nepal.) When we arrived, I followed their example and took off my shoes before entering. My trail runners looked out of place among the pairs of flip-flops and quite a bit larger. I noticed the big window was covered with cloth, but there was no glass. Inside, I found others seated on two single beds, watching the news on a small TV.  A girl and boy got up, and Karna motioned for me to sit in their place. I felt odd about them giving up their spots for me as they left the room.

The reporter was speaking Nepali, but I didn't need to understand the language to understand what I was seeing. It was amazing what had been going on in the city just a short time before, some of it right outside the cyber cafe while I was tucked inside. The storefront was closed, but we'd entered through a side door from an unlit hallway. From inside the small, dim space where I found several computer cubicles but nothing that resembled a cafe, I occasionally heard commotion out on the street: sirens and shouting and chanting.  Karna and Dikpal would go out to look.

"Come see," they urged, but I shook my head and continued looking through my email, which was comforting. It was my connection to what I was familiar with.

While I waited for my video to upload—slow, slow going in Nepal—I asked the boys... well, they're 24 and 26 years of age, so despite their much younger appearances, I should call them men... I asked them about how they came to know Ingo.

Karna did some of the explaining, but, thankfully, Dikpal helped me understand what he said. I think he'd realized I was having trouble making out Karna's words.

"We are grateful to Ingo and respect him very much. If it were not for him, we would not have this education. Maybe 2nd year only. Ingo found us in our village not too far from Shyauli Bazaar and brought us to his school. It was wonderful there."

I wanted to ask the young men more details about their lives before Ingo came into them, but I admit I was shy about what felt to me like prying. I'll have to get over that, I suppose, if I'm to write the book that is the main purpose of my time here.

"When the Maoists came, when we were young boys," Dikpal explained, "we had to hide in the jungle, so they wouldn't take us."

I asked if the Maoists still do that—force children 12 and over to join them... or else—but Karna said no, not since the end of the war.

******

After a few hours, I gave up my cyber-connection to the world at large and, despite their offer of free service, paid Karna and Dikpal the going rate for their internet and a bit extra for their help, coming to get me from the airport and today from the hotel and walking with me through the city. We talked some about how far foreign currency goes here in Nepal, and I told them the equivalent in rupees how much we'd pay for certain things in the US. Of course, things are at least somewhat relative to income levels, but Karna and Dikpal looked quite surprised.

Karna and Dikpal wanted to take me to Boudha Stupa, a nearby Buddhist temple. Dikpal explained that he and Karna are a combination of Hindu and Buddhist (if I understood him correctly) and pointed out a Hindu god portrayed at the temple. We couldn't go inside, but large numbers of people walk clockwise around the outside as a form of religious observance, and some lie on the ground—"prostrate themselves," Dikpal said—especially in the morning and evening. Among the many awkward things I said throughout the day, I replied, "I guess people have to be careful not to step on them." Karna and Dikpal laughed.

We walked in the rain for a bit, then spent a couple of hours at Karna's room. While I was there, a taller young man came in, and I recognized him from Debra Kaufman's documentary, "A School of Their Own," about the Riverside School whee Karna and Dikpal also grew up. I'll have to find out his name, but I was shy to talk to him, and he seemed not to notice me. He was quiet, intent on watching the news of the strike. He smiled only when a little girl came in and danced in what little floor space there was in the room. Maybe I'll have the chance and courage to speak to him when I return to Kathmandu at the end of the trip.

Why does asking so many questions feel strange? How do I draw people out and encourage them to tell me details about their lives—lives that are so much different and difficult than my own.  Will they feel like I'm judging? What questions should I not ask? What's too personal? If they know I'm writing a book, will they be reluctant to share things with me? Will they tell me the bad with the good? And how do I get used to the idea of exposing people's lives like that? Yes, I have much to learn and get used to.

At 6 p.m., Karna and Dikpal deposited me back at Yolanda's guest house, seeming unsure about being there and hanging back when I went inside. After speaking with Yolanda and learning the few details about the flight to Pokhara, I made arrangements to meet the young men in the morning. They laughed when I suggested a time—far too early and too long in advance of the flight, I'm sure they were thinking—but they agreed with a smile to come fetch me and Sylvia too.

Well, I suppose I should try to sleep again for a while.  I'm anxious for the sun to come up and can't wait for breakfast. I realized too late yesterday that I'd not eaten anything but a little Nepali snack of dried rice and some kind of bland but appealing, crunchy, flour-based thing (thanks to Karna) since breakfast yesterday. Amazing how you can completely forget your hunger for a while when your other senses are close to being overwhelmed.