Belly of the Whale

I saw a small round car do a u-turn today. It was magnificent. I also saw my first stoplight. There was a certain amount of comfort in it, like finding a cairn when you least expected to be on a trail, but would have hoped to be. Well it is not really the same, but I smiled about the thing. The drive has become enjoyable. Everyone is casual in what seems to me to be a wild blizzard. Perhaps that is not the right word in such heat. I am always sweating, wet all the time. The moisture of the increasing rains never allows a man to be completely dry. This is likely only true when I am in doors or on the bus. The sun blazes and bakes. Walking the streets is hot business and I drink constantly.

I am enjoying the cafe's. Perhaps it is reading the Hemingway that has helped me to relax in them. Now I will walk in and order a drink without a thought. If it is early I go to the bakery and eat a pastery and have some Nepali tea. I made up my mind that I would enjoy it and I am starting too. Very milky, sweet. I have so much time I need to be able to enjoy the cafes and teas.

I sit and think about my class. What do they need? What can I give them? What would be fun? What do I need to learn to be effective? How can I thrive and be comfortable? It is dreadful speaking and teaching something, anything which is the least unfamiliar, anything less than real understanding. The more I understand something, even my questions become more crisp, guided, and insightful.

But Karma has come back to me today. I remain ambivelant as to what tomorrow might be, I must be ambivelant, but the last two days have been rather comfortable and propitious. A girl I met here named Jo left a bag of things, random things which she didn't want to carry with here to Johannesburg. In the bag, which she left in my possesion, was the very grammer book I have been looking for, with wavering intensity, for months. I am pleased.

Class was great. The kids were involved. We read Hemingway, which may or may not have been appropriate. The end of class may have been the most enjoyable. I had nothing left so I just started asking them questions, what ever I liked: What is the biggest monastery? How many monasteries are in Kathmandu (37)? What do y'all do on the weekends? We had a nice talk that spilled into their freetime.

As I was leaving the monastery, I met Satish coming down the street. Satish is my coordinator here in Kathmandu. He is a stubborn man, proud and self-rightous. He fancies himself a fine businessman. I spoke my mind about some of my concerns with i-to-i and his work in particular. He defended himself with his same self-rightous swagger. So naturally I had to show him that I have my own swagger; he did not get the last word. I have a strong Socratic-streak in me. I have a certain disdain for people who think they know more than they do. He didn't win much. We parted with a smile but mine was bigger, deeper. It was good fun really. I went to the cafe for lunch.

I like this place called View the Himalaya. It is a rooftop cafe overlooking the Stupa. I don't know what they are talking about; I haven't seen a mountain since I got off the airplane. Perhaps it is the smog. But it is nice being up high looking down on all the venders, shops, monks, tourists, beggers, motorbikes - most of which are traveling clockwise around the stupa as is proper. And there are never people up here. I have met only one man. The waiter I like very much. He is a young kid, curious. He is a horrible waiter. He and the cooks are always sitting behind the desk playing cards. As a customer I have to be very proactive. I find it so amusing. Today I couldn't even find them. They must have been in the back somewhere. The waiter likes my Nepali phrasebook and he helps me with pronunciation. I teach him some english. Mostly I am comfortable to crack jokes that I know he doesn't get and we both laugh. The food is good. I have had chopsuey, egg rolls, today it was a good chow-mein. I spent about two bucks.

As the clouds started to arrive and I finished another chapter I headed back down the stairs and out to met the buses. I sweeped away all the cabbies and venders and made a dash across the street. I caught the number 2. Eleven rupees, or about eight cents.

Thamel, the hoarse door-boy slurred, and I climbed out of the 23 bus and tried to catch my bearings. Nothing looked right but I knew it is. All the shops looked the same, are the same. I walked down hill gazing around. A barber shop. I wanted to shave my beard. How much, I asked? Fifty rupees. Fine. I have never had anyone give me a shave. When I noticed I was nerous I decided to relax and did. I was pleased by the meticulous lathering of my beard and face, the ease with which the straight-edge blade carved my beard from my face. Hadn't Cohn just gotten a shave in Pamplona in the last chapter I read? The barber, an Indian, shaved me twice. He used all kinds of lotions and oils on my face and neck. He massaged my head. It was quite exquisite really. He then asked me if I would like a massage, a back massage, everyone in Kathmandu gives massages. At this point I could hardly say no. I've never had a barber give me a massage either. I walked out a bit wobbly and altogether pleased with myself.