Hasili Maya's Recipe for 2017 -- Pokhara, Nepal

I suppose most travelers visit Nepal for the adventure. Mountain climbing! Elephant riding! Paragliding! It's one of those bucket-list destinations wherein people get to explore the depths of hardcore. To discover how intrepid and gutsy they really are.

I visited Nepal and promptly settled into blissful domesticity.

Matt and I have started cooking breakfasts in the morning. We can buy eggs for 15 cents apiece and a whole bag o' veggies for less than a dollar. Fresh buffalo curd costs 50 cents and bananas are next to nothing. So eating in is going to do wonders for my dwindling checkings account. In this country, we can prepare glorious breakfasts for approximately 75 cents each.

More money for coffee. Mmmm... my cup of coffee costs more than two breakfasts. Mmm... priorities.

Not only is eating in cheap, it's immensely satisfying to cook again. To smell onions and garlic frying in a pan. To plop an omelette onto someone's plate and tell them, "I'll be sad if you don't eat it while it's hot," and then hurry to make my own.

However, cooking at Ganesh's homestay has some serious drawbacks. Namely, Ganesh. This goodhearted, meddlesome fellow can turn something as beautifully therapeutic as cooking into pure torment and vexation. Something I need therapy to recover from.

"No, the oil is not hot enough!" he exclaimed as I dumped onions into a what appeared to be the love child of a Wok and the cauldron from Macbeth.

"It's fine," I insisted and passed the spoon to Matt. "Can you stir?"

Ganesh had asked me to prepare dinner for his family one night, so I'd decided on the easiest, cheapest most flexible dish in my repertoire. Spanish Omelette accompanied by a simple sort of curry with aubergine, courgette, onion and tomato.

"I made pasta for them before you got here," Matt confided. "They hated it."

"That's encouraging."

I dislike cooking for people who hate food. Who hates food? I mean, I understand liking one food more than another, but to actively hate a food? 

Blurgh. 

Ganesh observed my fingers as I chopped the garlic, with all the focus of a bird of prey. 

"I watch everything. This will be a great meal. You chop very well." 

"But you said the same thing to me when I was cooking the pasta!" Matt protested.

Then Santa, who had come down from the village to visit her husband, blew into the kitchen. And promptly stood behind the propane stove (there's no oven), grabbed the spoon from Matt, started stirring the curry and asking whether or not I'd added salt.

Just... let me cook, dammit. 

Ganesh watched my chop the bell pepper. Santa lifted the plate off my Spanish Omelette and asked why it wouldn't be better to flip it.

"No, the oil is not hot enough!" Sandesh mimicked his father's concern when I poured eggs into a wannabe skillet and the oil only sizzled seductively instead of violently spat. "And if you had boiled the potatoes first, they would have cooked better."

AGH! Did they ask me to make dinner so that they could try my food or so that they could spend the whole evening hovering over my shoulder and telling me all the things I'm doing wrong? 

Never again. I will not cook for this family again. Lord. 

"Santa," Matt said firmly. As one says to Santa. "Please sit down. Would you want Aimee to teach you how to make dal baht? This is what Aimee makes. Dal baht is what you make."

After a torturous two and a half hours fighting off criticism, Santa's spoon and Ganesh's "Yammee, is your work done yet?" dinner was finally ready.

"Are you tired?" Ganesh asked as I collapsed into a plastic chair at the table.

"No," I tried to smile. "I'm not tired."

I'm just exhausted from all your meddling. It's hard enough to prepare a meal in a kitchen without an oven, no hot pads, wannabe skillets, no sponges for washing up, no towels, no forks, no spatulas, dull knives and none of the seasonings I'm used to working with. I don't need to be told on seven different occasions that the oil wasn't hot enough. 

I held my breath as Ganesh took his first bite.

"Hasili Maya," he grinned. "It's very good."

What a relief. 

So when Matt and I prepare our breakfasts, we try to wait until Ganesh has left to teach English and Sandesh is at university. Then we commandeer the kitchen, play some music, cook our eggs and take our breakfast to his balcony, where we celebrate our thriftiness as we watch people go about their days on their rooftops.

After breakfast, we pack our bags and stroll down to Easy Cafe. Where the servers have become so accustomed to our presence that they a) know exactly what we're going to order, b) have stopped charging a service fee, and c) have removed the napkins from our usual table, because they know I steal them for toilet paper.

Matt and I work on our writing for hours, headphones in, occasionally gazing off at Phewa lake and the Himalayas. Feeling a moment of gratitude for where we are. He takes the uncomfortable chair (it's the productive chair) and I sink into the armchair (because my ass misses cushion, and I will happily take cushion over productivity). I've begun submitting articles to various travel websites, in hopes that one day, I can actually make money off this thing I like to do.

That would be the ideal world, wouldn't it? 

Matt is an inspiration to me, because Matt is already supporting himself off of his writing.

So it's possible. 

When we're not writing or cooking, we take little adventures. Like walks up to the Peace Pagoda and boats onto Phewa Lake.

I find myself slowly falling in love with Pokhara. Leisurely walks along the tranquil lake, the odd boat making its way across the vast blue, rippling expanse. Looking up and having to take a moment to realize whether it's clouds I'm seeing, or the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas.

Matt introduced me to a bar with free movie nights and board games. So every Monday and Thursday evening around 7:30, we mosey down to OR2K and engage in a cutthroat game of scrabble, drink cocktails and watch whatever film happens to be on.

I could get used to this. 
 

Peace Pagoda

ANGRY BUDDHA!

Peace Pagoda

No Naked? But... but... I love the naked...

We spent New Years Eve rowing on Phewa lake. Bottle of wine, bar of chocolate, bag of crisps and journals in which to write our resolutions. 

"Do you take them seriously?" Matt asked.

"Nah. I treat resolutions like a recipe. When I cook, I like to find a recipe for a sense of direction. But then I fuck with it as much as I want. This is the recipe for my 2017."

Hasili Maya's Recipe for 2017

1. Practice yoga three times a week. Any kind of yoga. Could just be breath work. Whatever I need.
2. Read one poem every day. Actually have a favorite poet by the end of 2017.
3. Write a short play inspired by a quote once a day. Can be a monologue. Can be ten pages. Just write.
4. Submit two articles a week for potential publication. Travel articles, personal essays, poems, whatever I happen to be writing.
5. Read a book for pleasure every month. Books like Mindsight and Healing Trauma through Yoga are amazing, but I've kind of lost the joy of reading.
6. Read one play a month. Get back into your theatre habit, Girl.
7. Learn to prepare one local dish in every country I visit.
8. Study French three hours a week. Blurgh.
9. Learn to edit photos better. Find someone to teach me this. Or youtube the hell out of it. 
10. Spend two + hours painting every week. I love painting. I'm so much happier, more grounded, more in touch when I paint. I just don't do enough of it.

Watercolor of a sunset in Rovinj, Croatia

After briefly docking our boat against a much larger vessel teeming with unwashed hippies strumming guitars and passing around plastic bottles of raksi (nasty, nasty millet wine), we reluctantly returned our rowboat. 

The rest of the night was spent wandering through festive Lakeside and enjoying the sensation of strangers shouting, "Happy New Years!" without then asking us to buy something. 

This feels like the first time in ages wherein I've been greeted without ulterior motives. 

"Happy New Years!" I yelled back. 

 

We wrapped up the evening and 2016 by Phewa Lake, drinking wine, sharing stories and making recipes for a wonderful 2017.

Christmas at Santa's Village -- Pokhara, Nepal

I'm drinking at a cappuccino at Easy Cafe. Enjoying the sublime sensation of not being able to smell my own body odor and feeling much less offensive to anyone within smelling range.  I don't know how to start this blog. Where to start this blog. I'm still reeling from the events over the past few days to settle on any solid place to begin.

I went to Santa's village for Christmas this year. I guess I could start there and work my way back.

Santa's village is about a three hour bus ride outside of Pokhara, Nepal.

Bet you didn't know that.

Bet you also didn't know that Santa is a lady. A lady who can and does chase away tigers by yelling at them when they start eyeballing her goats in a way Santa doesn't approve of.

Santa is Ganesh's wife. She lives with her elderly mother and milks the water buffalo, feeds the goats, plants yams and does a veritable menagerie of other things. Like chasing away tigers with the munchies.

Ganesh, Matt and I arrived at the bus stop a little late (communication isn't Ganesh's strong suit, I'm learning), so all the seats were already taken. Hence, we were left with two choices.

A) stand the whole journey in the cramped aisle, holding onto the bars for dear life and ducking our heads and hunching our shoulders because Nepali buses are made for tiny Nepali people.

B) sit on the roof. On hard metal bars that dig into your derriere regardless of how you arrange yourself.

Matt and I opted for the roof. Ganesh opted for the aisle, in hopes that a seat would open up and he'd be close enough to nab it.

Riding on the roof for the first part of the journey was pure delight. The road was bumpy, but bumpy in a novel way. In a way that lets you know you're not in Kansas anymore.

Then we went up a mountain. And the experience became less novel and more terrifying as the bumpy, flat road transmogrified into the road of obliteration.

Bus accidents are not an unusual phenomenon in Nepal. Partially because the roads are unbelievably unsafe, partially because the buses are jam-packed (Matt and I guess 3-4 times capacity. Plus goats and chickens) and partially because drivers are sometimes drunk.

So while I contemplated my imminent death every time the bus wobbled (and whilst perched on the top of the bus, you really feel the wobbles), the locals napped, chatted, and smiled at Matt and me as we gasped and groaned in pain.

How are they okay with this? That baby is NAPPING! On a father who is NAPPING! And the father is napping with his head on a bucket and his legs dangling off the bus. 

Is this real? 
 

When the bus reached its final destination, Ganesh, Matt and I agonizingly, thankfully clamored down to the safety of solid ground.

Everywhere hurts. My arms and shoulders ache from holding onto the railings for dear life. My knees are stiff from being crushed by other people sitting on them. My ass feels like it's mutated into one epic, colorful bruise from sitting on those hard metal bars. And I can't remember the last time I felt this much gratitude to just, you know, be alive. Maybe after I fell off the cliff in Mexico... yes. That was the last time I felt this much gratitude to still be alive.

But the journey was far from finished. We still had to hike for forty-five minutes in the dark up a hill through tiger infested jungle before we reached Santa's village.  

What a way to spend the holidays. Holy bananas. I won't be forgetting this experience anytime soon. 

"Yammee," Ganesh called to me. "Don't say "Namaste" to Ama. You must say, "Namaskar". And don't call her by name. When women are old in Nepal, it is rude to say their names. You call them "mother". Which is "Ama". So when you see Ama, you must say, "Ama, sanchai hunuhuncha." Can you repeat?"

"Ama... sanchai hunuhuncha," I obediently repeated, still wrapping my head around this very foreign concept of respect.

Stumbling through the jungle, illuminated only by Matt's flashlight, every single rustle in the brush sounded like a tiger.

"Is she scared?" Ganesh asked Matt in an altogether useless whisper.

"No, she's not scared."

Err... maybe a little scared. 

Upon finally arriving at the small, traditional house made out of what appeared to be mud and wood, Matt and I each handed Ama a package of cigarettes. When invited to someone's home in Nepal, I suppose it's customary to bring gifts.

Ama likes cigarettes, chocolate, sugar and sesame seeds.

As told, I respectfully asked the haggard woman, "Ama, sanchai hunuhuncha?

Ama's worn, crepe paper face crinkled into a smile, revealing a mouthful of half teeth.

"You made Ama happy," Ganesh gushed, grinning ear to ear. "Look how happy Ama is!"

Santa had prepared dal baht over a small fire for dinner. The kitchen was a cramped space with the fire pit in one corner and several small bits of wood which served as seats. So we sat on the bits of wood around the fire and hungrily dug into our dinner. Matt has told me that this dal baht is by far the most popular food in Nepal, so to expect to eat no small amount of it. This meal consists of an intimidating portion of rice (baht), various vegetables (takari), cooked lentil soup (dal) and pickle (achar).

Perhaps it was because I'd just survived the most harrowing bus ride of my life. Perhaps it was because I'd just hiked through a tiger infested jungle. Perhaps it was because I was sitting on the floor with an elderly lady who kept speaking at me in Nepali and belligerently pushing my hair out of my face (in what often felt like a slap), staring at me with big eyes and flashing her half-tooth grin.

But everything cracked me up. I found myself chuckling and guffawing and chortling about the smallest thing. Just remembering that I was in Santa's Village drinking for Christmas Eve would set me off.

Ganesh looked at me in utter bemusement.

"Hasilymaya," he finally said. "That is your name in Nepali. Laughing woman."

After we finished our dinner, Ama and Santa went to bed (Ama is nearly eighty four and Santa was suffering from a nasty cold), and Ganesh, Matt and I stayed up and played word games around the fire.

"Is there any toilet paper?" Matt asked after we'd run out of words.

"No," Ganesh looked down at Matt as if he were a child, "I can teach you how. Take the water, take your hand," he gestured to his backside and motioned back and forth. "And then wash your hands right after."

I shuddered.

Is it being culturally insensitive of me to think that's nasty? 

In Nepal, using toilet paper is only for tourists. Locals pour water over their asses and then wipe with their hands. The left ones, I think. Then they use a communal bar of soap afterwards to clean up.

That's probably why Matt didn't want to use that bar of soap... I slowly put two and two together. And vowed to carry my own personal bar of soap at all times, from then on.

After a fitful night of listening to Ganesh snore, Santa moan in her sleep, Ama's extraordinary smoker's hack and several rodents scurrying about in the walls to my right, we all woke early enough to see the morning mist.   
 

 

 

We ate another intimidating bowl of rice for breakfast, drank some chia made with milk from Santa's water buffalo (which is a sentence I never thought I'd write) and then set off to meet Santa's neighbors.

"Matt!" Ganesh would call when it was time to move. "Come!"

"Okay," Matt replied. "Aimee too?"

"Yes, Yammee too."

Is he not saying my name because he still can't pronounce it, or does he just not think that it's important to say my name? Lord, Nepal is rife with sexism. Sexism and/or the inability to say "Aimee". 

Where the hand washing happens. Beware that bar of soap.  It does far more harm than good at this point.

Dogs are kept to chase off monkeys in the summer. Monkeys that don't bother the rice or the millet, but feast upon the corn. I wanted to pick this little fellow up and cuddle him senseless, but it was very clear that he was absolutely riddled with fleas. So I admired him from a distance.

Making millet wine. Matt tells me there are better things to drink than millet wine.

I'm discovering that I have a thing for banana trees.

Ganesh harvests some manner of unidentifiable root vegetable

Santa's neighbors

The water buffaloes always seem to give me a shocked, disgruntled look. This is Matt mimicking the water buffalo.

Weaving. It takes about two days to make one of these straw mats.

Pomelos!

Meet Santa. The woman who chases off tigers by yelling at them. I can't even chase off dogs by yelling at them. Or goats. Or rabbits. Or anything, really.

Meet Ama. The woman who playfully slapped Matt across the face when he stepped into the kitchen whilst wearing his flip flops (don't wear shoes inside in Nepal. Especially if Ama is around. You'll rue the day). And accidentally hit me with a bucket. And persisted in fondling my face and hair.

Ganesh and Matt harvesting yams.

Ganesh finds yams.

Throwing lentils onto the roof to dry.

On the eve of Christmas, Santa prepared dal baht in the kitchen and Matt and I moved outside to look at the stars. Fabulously vivid stars speckling, sparkling in a clear night sky. We did our best to remember Christmas Carols, but could only mange to get through about a third of each song before we trailed off into, "La, la-la-la-la-la..."

Then Ama came.

Emerging from the dimly lit mud house, Ama haltingly made her way down the stairs, clinging to the railing for support. She deliberately shuffled over to us, slapped me in the face with her withered hand, slapped Matt in the face, and began spouting Nepali at us.

I looked at Matt.

Matt looked at me.

We both looked at Ama and shrugged our shoulders.

Ama retreated into the house, only to materialize in the doorway again, bearing hats and shawls. She threw the shawl over my head and pulled the hat over Matt's ears and then started asking Matt why his shirt sleeves were rolled up.

Hearing the chatter, Ganesh appeared.

"See how much Ama cares for you?" he said to Matt. "She loves you like her own son!"

I could do with a little less care from Ama, I thought as I tried to enjoy the stars even as Ama beamed a flashlight straight into my face. Maybe if I turn on some music, Ama will get the point. 

I reached for my iPhone and clicked on a song by Sigur Ros, admonishing myself for the dearth of Christmas music.

Music did not deter Ama. She still lectured us in Nepali about being outside in the cold and the dark and wondered why my yoga pants weren't long enough to cover my hairy legs. All whilst shining the flashlight in our faces.  

What a character. My god. If my Christmas Eve had to be commandeered, I'm glad it's a story-worthy takeover. 

Ganesh had told us the bus to Pokhara wouldn't leave until one o'clock, so Matt and I went for a stroll around the village. But upon returning to Santa's house, Ganesh frantically inquired, "Where were you? Didn't you hear me call in a loud voice, "MAAAAAAATTTTT?""

"No, we didn't hear you."

"The bus leaves at twelve o'clock, not one."

"Wow, that's soon. Shouldn't we leave now if we want to make it?"

"No, we still have time to eat. Santa says to relax. She knows people at the bus. She can call them."

So we ate. Ganesh packed oranges and yam and a giant pomelo to take back to his children. We waited.

"Ganesh, the bus leaves in twenty five minutes. If it's on time, we won't make it."

"No, Santa says we'll be fine."

Gah... I hate cutting it close like this. It feels so unnecessary. There's only one bus. If we miss it, we'll have to either spend another night here or walk back to Pokhara or... I dunno. None of those options would kill me -- I mean, I could die on the bus or get eaten by a tiger -- but I would like to get home and take a hot shower and change my clothes and have access to toilet paper. 

I miss toilet paper. I miss it so much. 

We bid Santa and Ama goodbye, thanking them for their hospitality and promising to try to visit again. Then we flew down the mountain towards the road the bus traversed.
 

The bus was running late, so Matt and I climbed a tree and waited in the boughs and Ganesh waited in the shade underneath.

Lesson learned. Everyone in Nepal is late all the time. It's just part of life. So just don't worry about being on time. You'll just stress yourself out for nothing. 

Matt and I managed to nab seats in the very back of the bus, so even though the road was exactly the same, the journey felt less deadly. Because we weren't sitting on the top, feeling every single wobble.

After a) surviving the bus, b) an absolutely luxurious shower and c) changing into clothes that didn't smell like goat and water buffalo, I met Matt to hunt down ingredients for mulled wine. 

Even if I'm not home for Christmas, I can still enjoy the smell of Christmas. Cloves... cardamom... cinnamon... alcohol...

We had to use the kitchen upstairs to heat up the wine. And experienced another part of Nepali culture I hadn't quite expected.

Bewilderment and judgement for alcohol.

Ganesh looked at us sternly as we poured the wine into a pot, added orange and spices.

"It's a traditional Christmas drink," Matt explained, trying to make our celebratory beverage sound a little more innocuous.

"Come smell it!" I invited. "It smells like Christmas."

"What is the wine made out of?" Ganesh asked.

"Grapes," Matt replied. "It's a grape wine."

"Oh," Ganesh replied. "So people from the upper castes can drink it."

Ganesh ended up trying one sip of wine, then wished us a Merry Christmas and Matt and I took the wine down to my room and finished up our Christmas drinking mulled wine, eating chocolate and watching Howl's Moving Castle.

If I have to be away from home and loved ones for Christmas... this was the way to do it.