Belly of the Whale

The final installment at last. I have been ready to finish this story as the air and energy went out of it days ago. Incrimental writing is difficult to maintain. There are other more pressing matters at hand. But do I share them? The dilemma still lingers: what is appropriate for online writing? Who if anyone is reading what I write? I have been quite comfortable writing physical descriptions of people and places, all the sensory experience I can muster. But I have grown accostumed to this place, its spiritual enertia and its Oriental color and appeal. What is left for me, and very present, is my own growth and spiritual journey. The ideas I am encountering and assimilating are foundainheads, resurrections of hibernated intuitions and passions, goals and dreams - either put off or newly awakened within myself. So much is being laid bare.

But who are you? Do I know you? If I do, do you deserve my soul? If you do, do you care; would you want to read my nakedness? Could it possibly be grasped or appreciated? I don't know. If this interests you, whoever you are, pay attension to my shadows, the things that lie quietly implicit or implied, the secrets between the conspicuously dry characters of the page. If you notice - email me questions of it - whether you know me or not, and I will answer you in more depth of meaning.

In some sense this is where I have been now for some time. I wish to be reserved until approached. If approached I will bare all, unabashed and fearless. But, on the other hand, I am tired of entertaining uninterested or apathetic ears.

Perhaps I should take this interval of prose to thank a new friend, a man that has taken me by the ears and stretched my brain. Or perhaps he has let flow so much rhetoric and wisdom into my ears that my mind has swelled with the tide. Now I am holding my breath, trying to assimilate, hoping to minimalize the outdraft and lose such influence. I hope that our short time here together remains propitious, and that the future does not separate our minds and spirits as distance inevitable will come between our forms. I hope experience proves our intuitions of each other more true than we would have wagered. There is a great joy in knowing you. You renew my faith that there are people like you in the world. You also remind me that I too am real. Thank you.


Now I think I shall bring me story, perhaps long disinteresting, back to its conclusion (as I said it would). . . .

Where are we. . . yes, near Pokhara...

The van winded up and around low valley mountains. The air was thick and heavy with humidity, warm in the afternoon. But the road was still damp for the rain. Indeed it was concrete now. I didn't notice the change, but it was likely some time ago that the dirt and gravel and dust had given way. The trees started to open and we felt we were making our desent into Pokhara. When we had stopped to stretch, we had had an argument with the driver as to the location we would be let off. A girl in the group felt that if we were paying all this money we should be dropped where ever we pleased. I was more of the mind that we were damned lucky to have a ride anywhere. There was clearly a problem with transportation. None of us knew what it was, but no one was driving into Pokhara. But we were. The driver could drop me where ever he liked and I would praise him as some demi-god from the Aegeon.

So when he pulled over, still 45 minutes outside of town and said that this was the spot, this was the end; there were a few sour looks, doubts, and questions. Most even dropped their price down because he didn't drive us "to" Pokhara but outside it. I was pleased as hell and gave him the full amount. It was a huge amount of money and didn't seem to care that his price had been metered. 300 rupees.

It was lunchtime and I knew just where I would eat. I had met this man, brilliant smile, always pleased, fair english; the last time I was in Pokhara I had corrected the plenitude of grammatical and spelling errors in his menus. Over a small pot of tea he had told me about his various and long carreer as a cook. He had a vast menu for Nepal;. His wife had recommented the Manchurian and it was fantastic - as good as I have eaten in Nepal. It reminded me of marinated, seasoned fallafel over rice and sauce. I wanted to go back. There were no tourists about so his restaraunt seemed always empty and his prices were rock bottom. This seemed to me a misjustice.

We all split up, hiked different paces into town. Most went straight to a hotel to swim in a cold shower for a while before lunch. I suspected the buses where on strike here as well. We didn't see one coming into town. I walked alone up the stairs to the varanda of the restaraunt. There was no one else there. As he went off to cook my Mancherian, the man's wife confirmed the strike. That was it. No further options. I wasn't walking back to Kathmandu. I would have to fly. It was only one o'clock. I was sure there were many flights to the capital still. I drank a fanta.

My food came. I ate; it was delicious; I prepared to go. I was becoming anxious with the time. I was ready to be home after such a run of luck and survival. I still wanted to meet two friends before leaving town. They were at another restaraunt down the road. There, I said goodbye and drank the best strawberry-yogart shake I have ever had in my life. I had trouble actually drinking for my own awe of the thing.

The last remaining obstical was just getting to the airport. No cabs. It was still a ways off, maybe an hour's walk. I was full and not in the mood. There were plenty of motorbikes about. I figured I just needed to ask around. As I walked down the street, a boy walked up to me asking for money. I told him if he could get me a bike, he could have a commision. He understood and we turned and walked the otherway back down the street, quiet as a grave. We turned up a street and he pointed to a bunch of bikes for rent. I let out a deep breath before re-explaining to him that I needed a ride to the airport, not a rent-a-bike for the day. I ask him to ask around. He understood and had a man shortly. 300 rupees. This was normally a 90 rupee ride. I had expected a little hiest, but this was a bit much. I just paid 300 to go the last two and a half hours. We argued a bit and he explained that there literally was no gas in the town.

He explained the strike. It had nothing to do with the Maoists at all. The government was proposing a new tax on gasoline, with would significantly cut into the profits of all transportation companies, already having difficulties. When they decided to strike, all gas delivery had also halted. At this point the strike had been going on for about a week. No school buses. Nothing. At last I understood.

As we struck a deal, a friend walked up, a trekking guide I had met weeks ago. We chatted and I ask him for a ride, knowing he would give me a little better deal. Unfortunately for me the guy was a friend of his so he didn't get involved. He did however call the airport for me to see when the next flight was leaving: 20 minutes.

Perfect. I enjoy a good race, and in Nepal this is perfectly doible. We raced along beautiful back roads of Pokhara, roads I had never seen. I enjoyed being back on a motorcycle again. He wasn't a particularly deft driver, but there wasn't much traffic; we almost hit a cow. They always have the right of way.

At the airport I had to explain to security that "no, I didn't have a ticket," but that I intended to buy one. I really hadn't understood why they wouldn't let anyone in the airport without a ticket. A security measure - very bold! They let me through. At the door I had to go through the process again. This time they walk me up to the counter and explain to the man there my request. I buy my ticket, go through security, and then sit for ten minutes before the flight actually departed.

My only remaining curiousity would be my arrival in Kathmandu. Would there be cabs? The thought of a strike in Kathmandu was unimaginable. I fell asleep on the flight, only awaking with the plane bouncing off the runway. Getting off the plane, I bipassed the airport all together and walked straignt out front. Cabs! At last, some vestige of normalcy. A good deep breath filled me lungs.

I told the cabby, "Bouda."
"Bouda, 250 rupees."
250! I couldn't believe it. I knew it was only a 150 rupees at the most. The next cabby quoted me the same price.
"Airport cabs, all the same," he said.
I thought airport cabs were supposed to help protect you from getting ripped off? Anyway, I got in the cab, paid the man, and went home.

That is the story of my trip to Anapurna. The hiking was probably the least eventful part of the story. I'm sorry it streamed on and on like that. It was a good trip; the adventure of it never seemed to end until I was in bed. The pictures came out nicely though.