I awoke from a nightmare that Obama had been defeated in a landslide, led by Delaware. Coffeeless and in a groggy state of despair I started to gather my stuff for my river trip. At 6:30 Bhim arrived and transported me to the bus station — again, courtesy of Thakur — where we found the big bus full, so I was assigned to a van designed for something other than comfort or safety.
While waiting, an ascetic approached the Chinese guy I was talking to, smiling and offering him a teeny weeny orange flower, no doubt in exchange for a giant fee. The Chinese guy flipped out and scuttled off, telling me over his shoulder, I’m afraid of that religion.
It was an hour of screeching brakes, choking fumes and toodlie-oodlie-oodlie horns before we got out into the countryside. A while later we rounded a corner and my heart I think really skipped a beat when I got my first glimpse of the Himalaya: huge beyond imagining. Words and pictures won’t work here. Nor will they work for any of the other sights we passed. Rather than try, I’ll excerpt an e-mail I sent to my friend M this morning:
It’s everything you’d expect — thatched houses on tree-limb frames, emerald terraces of rice, live goats bouncing along on roofracks, brilliant tropical flowers, roosters pecking at trash in the streets, dusty people in bright clothes, and endless folds of mountains. What’s different is what happens when you step into that predictable picture. The tiny street kid in a dirty frilly party dress runs over over to where you’re sitting and leaps without warning into your lap, sliding down your legs like you’re playground equipment…
Passing by all this stuff that’s totally new makes me feel like a three-year-old, with little control over my fate and with endless “whys?” It’s good for me, I think, to have such a different perspective. I don’t understand much of what I see. Do people live in that building on stilts? Why are those boys holding a rope across the road so we can’t pass? Why do people hang dried ears of corn like curtains out their windows? What crop is that on that cliffside? What are those towering bamboo tripods for? Why are we stopping? Why are all those people running down the hill? What do those people who look like walking haystacks do with all those grasses they’re hauling? What are those bright orange lacey things drying on people’s roofs? Why is that crowd of forty men clustered around that car? Are Krazy Cheese Balls as good as the signs say?
As we careened along mountain roads with precipitous drop-offs, I decided it best not to look. Our driver continually passed even the biggest buses on blind corners at top speed, oogling his horn as though that made a difference. At one point my seatmate gasped and I made the mistake of looking up. We were racing down the the wrong side of the road directly at a speeding concrete truck adorned with colorful, glittering tinsel on its windshield. I read its brand — TATA — which might well have been the last word in my brain, had we not veered with millimeters to spare. For a while we got stuck in a traffic jam in the wake of a bad accident.
For part of the trip I sat next to a Dutch woman who, when she learned I was American, told me stories of her encounters with my people. “Yesterday I met another single American woman. She asked me to go with her to buy condoms.” “I’m not that single!” I interrupted. Apparently this American had such an appalling lack of dignity and respect that she asked the Nepali salesmen which brands were more pleasurable. I am so embarrassed. People often ask where I’m from and, with our reputation in the US as it is now, I cringe a little. Several Nepalis have tactfully commented, “Oh, very powerful country,” to which I once responded, “Yes, we do like to invade people.” Quite a few Brits have openly acknowledged the rudeness of Americans they’ve met in Nepal. I’m hoping I can change a few minds.
Finally, after eight hair-raising hours (the same as the number of legs I saw on the creatures suspended in air by the side of the road) we arrived in Pokhara where the usual cluster of aggressive cab drivers waited to whisk the unwary traveler to hotels of dubious quality. I looked around for someone holding a sign with my name. Nobody except a miniscule man clutching a miniscule creased slip of paper to his chest. When encouraged to unfold it, the tiny-lettered word “Jinna” was revealed.
I put my bag into the June-bug sized cab and aimed at the Hotel Raraa, which I can’t help but pronounce like “Siss Boom Bah,” which is not correct. It’s a couple blocks from the end of Lake Fewa at the quiet end of the hopelessly touristy Lakeside district.
My room is clean and has the basics — a bed and a pillow — but lacks certain desirables like soap and toilet paper. I’m glad I thought to bring my own. But the view of the Annapurna range out my window more than dwarfs any deficiencies.
As instructed yesterday by my rafting company, I called their office in Pokhara to find the meeting place for our 6:00 gathering tonight, and raced through dinner to arrive promptly. No one there, until eventually a Nepali man appeared, settled into the chair next to me, sighed, and asked, “So. How long do you plan to be in Pokhara?” Not a good question. He has delayed my trip by a day. That’s okay, I guess. I just wish he’d told me sooner.
At that point I think the jet lag really hit. I kept twisting my ankle in holes on the dark street on the way home. I craved chocolate so kept stopping along the rows of stalls to see what people were selling. They all asked exorbitant prices. “I don’t want to bargain. All I want is a piece of chocolate,” I whined to myself. After haggling I finally secured a nice bar of Toblerone (still for too much money). Minutes later it propelled itself out of my bag and into the gutter. Stupid tourists kept pushing me into traffic. I stepped in a fresh patch of sacred-cow shite. I was wearing sandals. I went to bed.