I Fell in a Hole

It's true, I fell in a hole. Not just any hole....a sewer. It was one of those days where everything seems to go amiss, which for me means everything goes a little weird. After being frustrated that four taxis rejected me, I turned around to go to a fifth and bam! I was on the ground. I was really confused as to why I was suddenly squatting on my right leg looking up at a group of old Nepali men herding around me. I look for my left leg and it is gone, hidden in a foot by foot square hole of sewage. One man goes, "that's not good." Rather than yelling obscenities at him I pulled my leg out of the hole to check  for signs of injury (none weirdly enough) and tried to shake some of the nastiness off of my foot. I will spare a photo of this incident for the sake of propriety. Let's just say I doused my leg umpteen times in any and all available disinfectants. Basically, you or I or anyone else will never want to know what I actually stepped in. C'est  la vie in Kathmandu, a city where you can get everything you want and, well, more.

Such a Teej

Friday was Teej, also known as woman's day. Although ways of celebrating this holiday vary among Nepali women, technically this day celebrates the day before women worship Siva (the symbol of male potency) in order to ensure that they have a loving husband. Addionally, many women wear extravangant red saris and fast to symoblize feminine beauty and power as well as sacrifice.

I dressed up for this Teej day, slipped into a red kurta, and lined my eyes with black gajal, coal eyeliner. Walking into the office, my boss said, "you look like a real beautiful Nepali girl". I felt underdressed though, as all the other women were bespangled in all that glitters in red. After squeezing on my red glass bangles and sticking a glittery teeka in the middle of my head I went into one of the meeting rooms with the other ladies and, well, danced. In the middle of a work day I spent two whole hours dancing the day away, eating traditional food, gossiping, and dancing some more. At one point there may have even been a Bollywood versus Western dance off. The winner was undecided but I'm proud to say these ladies could certainly break it down.

Then on Saturday, thousands of women made the pilgrimage to Pashupati temple at the cremation grounds to do a pooja for the Lord of Destruction. Out of respect for the holiday, no cremations were going on during Teej. Although the kids did seem to enjoy a nice swim in the river. I imagine cremation water can be quite refreshing at times no? After watching the processions for a short while, I'm not sure if I'm ready to stand in line hungry and thirsty for 4 hours to dip my head in that river. But, the dancing, yes!, the singing, yes!, and, I guess I'll go ahead and hope that men will keep respecting me in the future. Teej away! I'm sold! 

Mud is Stupa

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of battling the elements to get to the wondrous Swayambhu or "Monkey" temple. Originally, the nickname conjured up images of a Hanuman temple, the Hindu monkey god. As it turns out, I was wrong. The name stems from nothing other than the fact that, well, monkeys live there. The temple also happens to be Buddhist. My bad.

Before I realized this nickname consfusion, however, I had an entirely different concept to work through. Namely, rice paddies. Somehow, on the way up to the reclusive mountain temple complex, I managed to lose the road. Perhaps I should have been staring at the ground rather than up at the temple, who knows? Nevertheless, I ended up on a lane that was made of six-inch deep mud cutting through a few inner-city rice paddies. Trudging along, I see rows of very large baton tubing lining the edge of the mud. I ignored them for awhile, trying to avoid the puddles of swimming ducks, until I saw some little kids traveling across them. Thus, intrigued by the concept of baton hopping I decided to follow suit. Thus, after slipping for awhile, succesfully tackling over a hundred tubes, and climbing up a set of sand bag stairs, I met back up with the road to Swayambhu.

At first, making it up the three hundred or so steps up to the stupa in the sky covered in mud seemed hilariously impossible. However, after successfully avoiding monkeys, fake Babas, and an asthma attack on the way up, the view was worth it. Even in foggy weather, as the highest point in Kathmandu, the temple gives you a priveleged citadel-like view of the city below. This stupa, one of the world's most critically acclaimed, is visited by hundreds if not thousands of visitors daily. There is nothing better than experiencing a working piece of extraodinary architecture. People believe that the mountain and its stupa simply appeared after an earthquake. Rightly so, this stupa's existence and location are of mythic proportions.

Thus, clamboring back down the elusive stupa in the sky, I couldn't help but smile. What I found so hard to tackle just once is merly a daily activity for many. I guess I've been one-upped yet again.

Shifty Weather

Looking out from my rooftop terrace, I am surprised and happy because finally, after a few weeks of grey rainy monsoon, I see blue sky! This morning I felt that the winds had shifted, the air seemed colder. I asked someone about this phenomenon and she said, "yes, the cold weather is here. Last weekend was a festival, Nagpooja, which marks the start of the cold weather". Nag is the snake in the Hindu tradition that typically serves as Shiva's vehicle. What he has to do with the cold weather I don't know. Cold blooded perhaps?

I never know where I stand on the hot versus cold scale. I do know that this shifting of the winds means mountain views, blue skies, better air, less muck, and no mosquiotos. I think I may have to join in on the festivities, embrace the snake, and swing my ballot to the cold side. I may retract this statement during the winter months, but then again, there are always yak sweaters to be thrown into the mix.

Dejavu

A few months ago, I left India. A few days ago, I arrived in Nepal. Or was it India?

Dejavu didn't hit me at first, as I was still basking in the glory of the landing. Soaring in the bright blue sky, through my peephole window all I could see were mountain tops peeking out of the clouds. Soon, I could no longer see anything accept a thick wall of grey for what seemed like forever. And yet, then I was floating over Switzerland, green rolling hills, a yodler. A city appeared, sprinkling Switzerland with South Asian architecture. I stepped onto the tarmac, letting the fog mist my skin.

Once I left the quaint little mountain aiport of Kathmandu and was hurried into a car, I quickly woke up from my dream. Swirling through the dusty traffic, dodging motorbikes, bicycles, and powerlines, I kept thinking to myself, "am I in Delhi again? But wait, I see prayer flags. And no, I don't see any cows. Puppies, yes. Indian food, yes. Hindu temples, yes. Salwar kamiz and saris, yes. Namaste, yes. I have already spoken more Hindi than I did all of last year... what does this mean???"

It means that I have arrived in a place overwhelmed with influence from its neighbor. Nepalis speak Hindi because of Bollywood, gods and godesses are worshipped with pooja, and foods are spiced the same.

Perhaps the differences between these two neighbors lie in the nuiances. I however, remain warily confused.