Alas, the relatively luxury studded hiatus in the U.S. of A. is done, succeeded by a trip that would blow even the most experienced traveler’s mind. Right, Monsieur Verne? Around the world in eighty days? How about around half the world in two? Thank God for the 21st century and air travel. Consider this itinerary: Charlotte-Detroit (2 hours), change planes, Detroit-Tokyo (13+ hours), change planes, Tokyo-Bangkok (7 hours), change planes, Bangkok-Katmandu (4 hours), end of trip. But hardly the journey.
But let me backtrack to the last leg of our trip. As our plane continues on its gradual dip into the Kathmandu Valley, I virtually strain my neck to catch a glimpse of what will be my home for the next two years. The first thing I notice is the skyline of clouds, each one a different form, probably in direct proportion to the high mountain beneath it. There is a Dairy Queen-twirl cloud here (I resist putting my tongue to the window; nothing like risking an extradition from a country where you haven‘t even landed yet), a mushroom cloud there, and in the distance what resembles a Buddha temple. Even the strong turbulence can’t manage to detach me from my trance-like stupor. Once we pierce the thick, surreal layer of clouds, it’s the earth again with more distinct, man made structures.
There are a few colorful, tastefully constructed villas with curved roofs sitting in fields greener than those in the schmaltziest Irish Spring commercial. Rain is not necessarily something you associate with a third world country (for further reference, ask the rest of Southeast Asia). This is new to me. I have seen the vast deserts of the Middle East and Northern Africa, poor, poor regions which feature droughts that at times would make your kid's sandbox look like an oasis. And yet both of those regions are richer than this one, even with all of its superficial fertility.
For now, though, all I can detect is a cluster of some of the finest houses I have ever seen. Something seems amiss here. I am sure that the inhabitants will exit this house at any moment, twirl and somersault in the air, cut and slice the air with diamond studded swords, and finally tell me the secret of the universe. It only takes a minute more to prove what National Geographic, the United Nations, and Wikipedia, among others, have known all along: Amman looks like Aspen compared to this.
One building (usually not higher than four or five stories) follows another, each one a different shape, size and form. Not unlike the clouds above them, there’s no rhyme or reason to the grand engineering scheme here, if there ever was one. Only then do I realize that I probably won’t learn the secret of the universe - more likely the secret to sharing one room with ten other family members, from the looks of things. What a strange city! It’s strictly on a build-as-you-go basis. I can imagine the civil engineers at work here:
Engineer 1: A hundred people, we need a couple of buildings here.
Engineer 2: And a couple more buildings there.
Engineer 1: Hey, a street might actually be a good idea, why don’t we?
Engineer 3: Uh-oh, we’ll need another road here, paved if possible.
Engineer 2: Damn, where are all of these people coming from?
Meanwhile, my little son is less philosophical about this: he bawls his little eyeballs out. He is not a kid whose routine you want to mess with. Our trip halfway around the world manages to turn his routine upside down. It's like we're asking a bee to live in a spider web. And then there’s the cat. Crammed under airplane seats for three straight days has probably removed one of her nine lives. Liebi and I are cool about it. We are the veterans at this old game and shrug it all off, miraculously without coming to blows or tossing each other off the plane.
We are picked up at the airport. Located on the outskirts of town, we drive through fields with tall grass and wild oats, their slender white feathery tips waving at us as if on cue. Our driver then guides us through a dense throng of people who are inundating the street we are supposed to be driving on. Women, dark-haired, olive colored skinned women, the omnipresent red dot between their eyes, walk slowly on both sides of the road, their colorful long frocks elegantly trailing behind them. We in the west have long ago sworn off color (anybody really know why?), but that message has been lost in translation here before we even had languages. A silky long orange dress here, a glittering purple gown there. It seems that people here want to take revenge on mother nature for having been born stark naked, and in the most basic colors. As we weave through traffic, I catch another refreshing sight: bicycles! Anyone remember those? I guess not. We are too busy in the west trying to look refined. Boring, but refined.
Right away, I notice that there is no such thing as a typical Nepali. There seem to be Chinese specimens here, Indian stock there. Most of them are very short and small, belying the boundless energy beneath their dark skins.
Our temporary house (our permanent digs are not going to be done for at least a week) offers us a nice view of a valley with more green fields and exotic trees I have yet to learn the names for. In the distance is a chain of mountains, the natural frontiers of Kathmandu Valley, and the entry point to the mighty Himalayas. For now I drink this all in, along with a glass of cheap Australian red wine, blissful to have landed at last. I am reading the clouds wandering overhead, beneath them are people working in the fields. This is only the cover of a book I have no intention of laying down anytime soon.
But let me backtrack to the last leg of our trip. As our plane continues on its gradual dip into the Kathmandu Valley, I virtually strain my neck to catch a glimpse of what will be my home for the next two years. The first thing I notice is the skyline of clouds, each one a different form, probably in direct proportion to the high mountain beneath it. There is a Dairy Queen-twirl cloud here (I resist putting my tongue to the window; nothing like risking an extradition from a country where you haven‘t even landed yet), a mushroom cloud there, and in the distance what resembles a Buddha temple. Even the strong turbulence can’t manage to detach me from my trance-like stupor. Once we pierce the thick, surreal layer of clouds, it’s the earth again with more distinct, man made structures.
There are a few colorful, tastefully constructed villas with curved roofs sitting in fields greener than those in the schmaltziest Irish Spring commercial. Rain is not necessarily something you associate with a third world country (for further reference, ask the rest of Southeast Asia). This is new to me. I have seen the vast deserts of the Middle East and Northern Africa, poor, poor regions which feature droughts that at times would make your kid's sandbox look like an oasis. And yet both of those regions are richer than this one, even with all of its superficial fertility.
For now, though, all I can detect is a cluster of some of the finest houses I have ever seen. Something seems amiss here. I am sure that the inhabitants will exit this house at any moment, twirl and somersault in the air, cut and slice the air with diamond studded swords, and finally tell me the secret of the universe. It only takes a minute more to prove what National Geographic, the United Nations, and Wikipedia, among others, have known all along: Amman looks like Aspen compared to this.
One building (usually not higher than four or five stories) follows another, each one a different shape, size and form. Not unlike the clouds above them, there’s no rhyme or reason to the grand engineering scheme here, if there ever was one. Only then do I realize that I probably won’t learn the secret of the universe - more likely the secret to sharing one room with ten other family members, from the looks of things. What a strange city! It’s strictly on a build-as-you-go basis. I can imagine the civil engineers at work here:
Engineer 1: A hundred people, we need a couple of buildings here.
Engineer 2: And a couple more buildings there.
Engineer 1: Hey, a street might actually be a good idea, why don’t we?
Engineer 3: Uh-oh, we’ll need another road here, paved if possible.
Engineer 2: Damn, where are all of these people coming from?
Meanwhile, my little son is less philosophical about this: he bawls his little eyeballs out. He is not a kid whose routine you want to mess with. Our trip halfway around the world manages to turn his routine upside down. It's like we're asking a bee to live in a spider web. And then there’s the cat. Crammed under airplane seats for three straight days has probably removed one of her nine lives. Liebi and I are cool about it. We are the veterans at this old game and shrug it all off, miraculously without coming to blows or tossing each other off the plane.
We are picked up at the airport. Located on the outskirts of town, we drive through fields with tall grass and wild oats, their slender white feathery tips waving at us as if on cue. Our driver then guides us through a dense throng of people who are inundating the street we are supposed to be driving on. Women, dark-haired, olive colored skinned women, the omnipresent red dot between their eyes, walk slowly on both sides of the road, their colorful long frocks elegantly trailing behind them. We in the west have long ago sworn off color (anybody really know why?), but that message has been lost in translation here before we even had languages. A silky long orange dress here, a glittering purple gown there. It seems that people here want to take revenge on mother nature for having been born stark naked, and in the most basic colors. As we weave through traffic, I catch another refreshing sight: bicycles! Anyone remember those? I guess not. We are too busy in the west trying to look refined. Boring, but refined.
Right away, I notice that there is no such thing as a typical Nepali. There seem to be Chinese specimens here, Indian stock there. Most of them are very short and small, belying the boundless energy beneath their dark skins.
Our temporary house (our permanent digs are not going to be done for at least a week) offers us a nice view of a valley with more green fields and exotic trees I have yet to learn the names for. In the distance is a chain of mountains, the natural frontiers of Kathmandu Valley, and the entry point to the mighty Himalayas. For now I drink this all in, along with a glass of cheap Australian red wine, blissful to have landed at last. I am reading the clouds wandering overhead, beneath them are people working in the fields. This is only the cover of a book I have no intention of laying down anytime soon.
0 comments