Belly of the Whale

I stepped into the hostel Sunday night tired. I walked from the bus station north of town, down through the dark and narrow muddy streets as the venders closed their shops. I had bused all day. On Saturday I left Kathmandu for Pokhara, the next largest city in Nepal, about six hours to the west. I wanted to get out of town; I wanted a long bus ride through the mountains; I wanted to see the Himalaya.

Saturday Jiveen and I set out. There were no tourist buses running so we chose the adventure of the local bus, slow and over-brimmingly packed - an ethnic experience. The drive through the mountains is a rural version of the inner city driving: slow buses passing great dump trucks around narrow, steep turns. The school of fish theory, a sort of esp, is the only way I can figure these people's survival on the roads of Nepal. Somehow, they just know. Some people, clearly, are blocked spiritually because we passed the fresh corpses of head-on collisions, one serious; rear-endings, and other roadside maladies. I never found any spots where buses had tumbled off the road into the deep ravines below, but I looked.

The visual drama was rejuvenating. The mountains rose from such depths and then faded into the falling clouds. The terraces, as if penned by a delicate artist, were everywhere in the misty distance, valley floor, up the hills, to the landslide riddled heights above the windows of the bus. It was difficult not to wonder at the possible centuries that have passed, the seasons of crops yeilded by that terrace, the sagging one across the valley - has it fallen into disuse, or is it only poorly kept? The one in the valley, how old might it be?

Jiveen and I arrived to Pokhara after a few mini-adventures not worth mentioning, a long, expensive chairlift ride to nowhere worth mentioning being the main. That night in Pokhara, I did meet the man who will likely be my guide if I choose to use one for a trek in August. We shared tea together and talked about the hills that he enjoys particularly. He wore a fine smile and was outgoing in the way that has made the Nepali people famous. It is people like him that make me feel almost ashamed for the disinterest a tourist must show to the outgoing people who approach you in the street. Everyone is out for my money, everyone. It is not only the venders, but it is also the people who try to help you; they give more than you ask of them - and then they want your money. It is disheartening for me. I walk down the street like a New Yorker, eyes forward; I answer noone; I don't stop; I don't look. I may send back a "hello" or a "fine thanks" with out a break in stride. This is the way of things, the way it is and must be. In this way it is easy to forget what the Nepali is capable of, who they really may be. Last night the cook at my hostel, Dupak, took me out to a place he likes - he wanted to introduce me to the Momo (a fried sort of appetizer, beef in a blanket sort of thing). He is a freind so I was comfortable with him and wanted to buy him something - he cooks for me everyday. But before I knew it he had paid for dinner and we were leaving. It brought the humanity back to the world, the humanity I love and need. I remember a man in Central America, I do not know where, nowhere really, I was busing; the man seeing I was hungry and trying to buy a burrito - but I didn't have the right amount - he paid the vender and was gone before I understood what he had done. I didn't even thank him; he was on a bus that vanished in front of me. There went a man, innumerably poorer than myself, that bought me food. It pleased him to give to me, a stranger, a gringo, a foriegner altering his world. This pleased him. The latino world is like that; it is wonderful. And so is Nepal. Dupak reminded me; this guide reminded me.

That was a classic "Bakerian" digression. To the point. So meeting the guide was the point. Pokhara was quiet - good. We woke up, ate breakfast, and I left. Jiveen stayed to play around a bit. I had to be at the monastery the next day, so I caught the eleven o'clock local bus; I like the adventure.

There was a boy sitting next to me that I knew wanted to talk to me. But I just wanted to be quiet, alone. I have felt this way often recently, wanting to get away from people. I don't know why, maybe the noice, maybe the aggressive vending, I don't know. I was thinking about philosophy. I have had this idea for awhile, an idea that I am not going to get deep into here, about graphing the three dimensions of reality or existence. It is a sort of combination of the wave funtion I use to describe the ups and downs of energy or karma over time, and the circular nature of experience over time. It becomes a spiral, broadening and retracting. To me it is a very interesting idea, graphing reality with x, y, z - three dimentions, though the dimentions are not the point at all. Actually, the point is the bus ride. I was thinking about this philosophy the whole time as I scanned the hills for landslides and the gulches for carnage. I was quite tired when I got home.

I came in a little before dinner. Dupak was upstairs cooking. I went in and sat down with a deep long exhale. He laughed at me (or should have). As dinner was served, dahl vat as always, Johan came in. He lives here as well and teachs a large class at another monastery. What should I tell of our conversation? It was meaningful in different ways. What is proper to write in a public site? What of my heart, what of my soul should I share? What are the limits of a thing like this?

There are many questions in Johan that remind me of my younger self. Note the name simularity. He is questing, craving, nearly drowning himself seeking self-knowledge. I understand each word he says with a familiarity, with a kinship, as if they were my own dusty words. We talked long about his questions. I quietly offered answers, my answers, and he understood, or tried to; he was interested, craving answers. But he was wise enough not to accept them. He was chewing them, regurgitating them over and over until they were fully palitable and could be absorbed. Or so I hope. Still he and I are very different. He suffers in a way that I haven't. I would say he didn't have my mom is all. I hope to help him; I look forward to many such conversations. I feel as though I have a pupil; I feel as though it has been a long time since I have had the opportunity to teach someone something that is so important to me, most important. But this point brings up a sensitive deep question within myself: what doest this admit about my attitude? I will end this here, hanging.

I left the table, got my tobacco from the fridge and went out onto the dark veranda. I absorbed the horns and club music; it was the doors and ccr I think. I rolled a cigarette (NO, I am not a smoker in the general way, so don't even start. I have been smoking roughly one cigarette a week or month for years.) I sat in the relative darkness - darkness doesn't feel so dark when it is noisy - thinking about what would have followed from the end of the last paragraph. I thought about who I am, what I believe, and where I am going. Am I for real? Have I made a small mistake somewhere in the proof that tells me who I am? I thought about other things as well. Johan and I had discussed being comfortable with himself. We talked about destroying fears and the consequent building of self-understanding and self-esteem. On the veranda I remembered all the teachers and others who had given me, lessoned me, and brought me to higher levels: social confidence, courting confidence, physical confidence, scholastic confidence, a manly confidence, and sexual confidence. I remember so many transitions and eruptions, and I can see, or feel, the difference in myself. . . . . Perhaps I have passed the mark where I wished to censure myself. Indeed.

I will end. There is much on my mind, all curious and pleasurable to consider. I am happy where I am; I am happy again. I may or may not move to Bouda. I am being patient. I hope any who read this are well. Please think, remember, or pray for Lauren Smith, Lorie, Libby, Stu, Genny, Heathy, and Bob, and anyone else you love - for me.