I'm starting
this post from Hotel Ice View, in Pokhara, Nepal. Calling this place a
hotel is a gross overstatement of the word. It would be somewhat similar
to calling a Motel 6 a resort. The mattress is perhaps two inches of
very well used foam, there are two other beds in the tiny teal and
purple room, and there's only one filthy bathroom on the bottom floor
for everyone to share.
But it costs about five dollars a night. So... there's that.
My
last day in Kathmandu was a little lazy and introverted. I think the
uncomfortable interaction with Manish had drained my energy and left me
feeling cynical and reserved. All I wanted on Sunday was to curl up with
a book, some chai and Winnie the cat.
These
are the days I yearn to have my own space. To be able to lock the door
and shut out the world. To light a candle, to turn on my melancholy
music, to write without fear of anyone popping in and telling me about
their day or introducing themselves.
I love people telling me about their days.
But
not now. Not when I need space. Not when I need to sort out all the
gunk in my head and toss out the garbage that makes me feel so damn
cynical.
As I've written before in reference to Marrakesh and Istanbul, chaotic, touristic cities tend to ignite my inner asshole. I begin to look at people and think, "What are you trying to sell me and how can I avoid you?"
As someone who is in fact, fiercely introverted, all the street vendors calling out to me feels like an invasion of my space. Like someone is barging into my inner world, hijacking my train of thought and sending it scurrying off in a direction I never intended to go.
Interrupting my silence is just as maddening as interrupting a conversation. For me... for a person who processes internally...
"Hello, lady?"
I feel like each person calling to me is...
"Would you like to buy?"
...disconnecting me from my process.
"I have shawls."
My internal world is precious to me.
"Handmade."
And in places like this, this world feels somewhat under assault.
"Traditional."
By no means is this malicious, but I feel like every time I step outside my hostel, my hackles are up.
"Lady?"
I feel like I have to defend myself.
"Hello?"
Defend myself or just...
"Where are you going?"
...or just realize that in places like this, I need to set aside more time for myself to write, to read, to draw. To get my introvert fix. So that when I go out for a walk, I've already processed what I need to process and all the --
"Namaste, hello!"
-- doesn't feel like an attack. I'm ready to engage the vendors with a polite --
"Nah, not today. Thanks, though."
-- and not feel angry at them for interrupting or invading my space.
"Okay, maybe later? I make for you good deal. Special price."
Kathmandu.
You're a bit much for me still. Perhaps I'll come to love you (I hope this will be the case), but as of now, you just make me feel depressed.
I'm drawn to your vibrant temples and your rich culture --
- but I can't walk down your streets without wearing a dust mask, because your air is so full of sludge. Walking through you is the closest I've ever come to experiencing the "Pea Soup Fog" of my favorite childhood book, "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs."
Walking through you is a challenge that forever keeps me on my toes (for fear of losing them). In three short, long days, I have become adept at the fine art of dodging cars, motorcycles, bicycles, dog shit and all the muddy puddles people make when going overboard with dust control.
 |
| So many sidewalks in Kathmandu like this. I'm guessing it's earthquake aftermath. |
 |
| Cow does what cow wants. |
I love your river, but I feel like someone's knocked the wind out of me when I see the trash congesting it, poisoning it, destroying it. I can't breathe. My stomach hurts. I struggle to make sense of it all.
Maybe I'll stop noticing. Maybe the trash will just blend into the scenery. Instead of seeing discarded tires, plastic bags, take away containers, manky cardboard, dead and dying dogs, I'll just see... a street. A river. A field. Instead of smelling car exhaust, burnt plastic and rubber, chimney smoke, I'll just smell... air. Instead of hearing incessant honking, "you want to buy?", screeching brakes, I'll just hear... city.
Do I want to stop noticing, though? Do I want to become desensitized to this?
My last night at Hostel One96 was therapeutic for me. Ally (New Zealand Lady) prepared a hearty pumpkin soup with epic amounts of ginger and I sat around and chatted with a Swedish fellow about religion, healthcare, travel, politics... all the things.
Pumpkin soup and good conversation. Life is better now.
Why is it better?
Because for the moment, I don't see the river.
Should that make it better?
Winnie the cat curled up on my legs in bed that night. Purring quietly and warming my feet with her soft body.
I drifted off shortly after.
My eyes suddenly snapped open. Bright light blazed into my face, blinding me. A shape. A frenetic shape moved closer to me.
Glasses... where are my glasses... shit, shit, shit...
I felt an old fear... deep, dormant, repressed. I felt it stir, sending waves of panic coursing through my body. A body that was slowly freezing. Turning from "my body" to "the body".
That time was so hard. So, so hard. Waking up from the nightmares that tormented me and seeing a huge figure lurking, looming above me. Unable to make out features because I can't see a fucking thing without my glasses... only the black of that leather jacket he always wore and the dark of his hair.
The effect he had on me... just a few weeks of stalking produced years of fear. Just a few weeks of glancing up at the window and seeing him watching me from outside. Or coming home to a vandalized room with "Fuck you" written all over my journal and "you're a despicable human being" scrawled over the affirmation notes I'd posted to my mirror. Of waking up to his... form... just sitting at my desk. Observing me as I slept.
Will this fear ever fully vanish?
I don't think so. We all have ghosts. This is one of mine, and we'll live together the rest of my life. Perhaps my ghost doesn't come out in the daylight anymore, but at night... when I'm vulnerable... when I can't control my reactions...
It scares me that I have no control. And it makes me feel so small.
I've spent years trying to totally eradicate the ghost from my house and from my life, but I think that effort was misguided. I think I need to learn how to live with these ghosts. I need to come to terms with them always being here. Maybe, when I'm ninety five and super cool and staying in a hostel in Estonia somewhere... maybe it'll happen again. And it won't feel like the actual event happened seventy five years before.
It'll feel like it's happening at that exact moment.
Just like it did on Sunday night.
I wanted to feel strong. I wanted... I wanted to feel in control and I didn't want to let that shit live with me when there are so many other beautiful things I could put inside my house.
"IT'S MY FUCKING HOUSE!" I want to scream in frustration. "You have no right to be in here."
But no matter how many times I throw the ghosts out the door, they slink back in through the window, the vents, the cracks in the floor.
My house feels rotten. Infested. And there doesn't seem to be anything I can do with it except learn how to live in a rotten house.
Turns out the intruder was a drunk Nepalese guy who was just trying to make sure a girl he had shared a significant amount of alcohol with that night had gotten home safely.
It took ages to fall back asleep, but I managed to eventually slow my heart and relax my limbs. Then, at five thirty on Monday morning, I cautiously extricated my feet from underneath Winnie the cat, stuffed my belongings into Ellie as quietly as possible and scurried out the door to the tourist bus station.
The streets were dark and mostly abandoned. If I were back home in Colorado, this kind of emptiness would frighten me.
Would anyone hear if I screamed? Would anyone come to help?
But for better or for worse, I nearly lose my sensitivity to danger while traveling.
I guess... I guess I feel like my life is so dangerous anyway that I can't be bothered to feel afraid of Kathmandu's dark, narrow, abandoned streets. Because when would the fear stop? I'm staying in the homes of total strangers, carrying almost all my possessions on my back through countries where I don't speak the language or understand transportation or even have a working phone. So why worry about a dark alley?
I walked past several empty taxis with drivers leaning against the doors.
"Taxi?"
"No."
"Where you going?"
...
"Excuse me, taxi?"
"No."
I want to wear a shirt with "I don't want any!" written in giant letters on the front. With a "Thanks anyway :)" on the back. To be polite.
The tourist bus station in Kathmandu is just a wide part of a random road where lots of buses line up every morning to take tourists to popular destinations. Vendors flock to the buses to try to convince bleary eyed travelers to buy their oranges, bananas and candy bars.
My stomach grumbled.
It's going to be a long journey... maybe I should...
My gaze lingered too long on the oranges and bananas.
"You want?" Fruit Man asked.
"Two bananas (they were small, don't judge) and an orange... how much are they?"
Fruit Man didn't answer, just stuffed fruit into a bag.
"No, not that orange," I protested as he plopped an ugly, unripe specimen into my bag.
Look at me being assertive. I will have NONE of your unripe fruit, Mister Fruit Man.
"How much?"
"Eighty rupees."
"What?" I exclaimed in indignation. "No, that's too much. Take it back, I don't want your fruit." I thrust the bag at Fruit Man and walked away, listening for the inevitable, "Wait, lady!"
"Wait, lady! It is the price. Eighty rupees."
"I don't care. It's too much. I don't want it."
"How much will you pay?"
I ignored the man.
"I give you for sixty rupees, Nepali price."
"Fine," I sighed and handed over the money. Then slowly ate my little bananas, celebrating my small bargaining victory.
Other travelers wandered over to Fruit Man, and I wondered whether or not they would bother to bargain.
In the end, I only saved twenty cents. But it felt nice to save twenty cents.
I boarded the bus and clicked on a podcast by Sam Harris. The bus jostled and jolted along at about the speed of a Slow Loris, passing dilapidated houses, mountains of rubbish, slums where the Nepalese survive in makeshift tents.
I hated and loved the bus for being so damn slow.
This is part of the world I've seen on TV and read about in the news, but it's a world I always hoped wasn't actually real. That the TV was presenting its heartbreaking, horrific images for sensationalism.
But this. Is real. And my Slow Loris bus is forcing me to see so much of it. It's what I need to see, but it isn't easy to accept.
Out the bus window, I saw chickens, water buffalo, rice patties, and people napping. Everywhere. I have never seen so many napping people in my life. Men, women, children snoozing on pieces of cardboard or colorful blankets.
Mmm... people here know how to nap. That's a good sign.
Nine hours, three stops, one accident and about seventeen million chickens later, we arrived in Pokhara. During the tedious journey, I discovered that another passenger, a Californian named Matt, was staying at the same hostel. So I invited him to walk with me.
"Is it close enough to walk to?"Matt asked, a little taken aback.
"Sure, it's only five or ten minutes from here."
"But do you know the way?"
"Sure do," I flashed him the map of Pokhara on my phone.
"Wow, that's amazing!" Matt beamed. "You're so organized!
You have no idea...
"I'm starving," I lowered Ellie to the dirty carpet of the stark room Matt and I were to share for two days. "Wanna go find some food?"
Over bowls of rice and momo, we shared stories. Matt (who will heretofore be referred to as Jesus Matt) recently spent three years traveling the world as a healer.
But somehow doesn't know about google maps...
"What kind of healing?" I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know.
There's something a little odd about this fellow.
"Channeling," Matt replied, eyes shining with eagerness and sincerity.
"Channeling?" I choked.
"Yes, I channel God's healing energy."
"Oh."
"But I've let that go. I lost sight of who Matt was. I was so tired of being used, you know? Of feeling like I wasn't me anymore. A Muslim woman prayed for me in Israel, and I realized that it wasn't God inside of me. It was Satan! I had Satan inside of me. So I decided to stop everything -- just stop it -- and start all over. I am going to read and I am going to believe the Bible word for word. Jesus is easy to believe, but Paul is so hard. I don't want to believe Paul."
"Yeah, well, you don't have to."
"But then I would be interpreting! And I don't want to interpret," Jesus Matt protested.
"The Bible is an interpretation parfait, Matt. It was written by men in Hebrew. Then translated to Greek. Then translated to Latin. Then translated to German. All these translators brought their biases to the table when determining which meaning to choose for words with multiple meanings. I mean, men even decided which books are allowed in the Bible during the Council of Nicea in 325 AD. The whole thing is one big interpretation."
"Wow, I really see what you're saying there..." Jesus Matt replied, a little deflated. "I'll have to think about that."
I messaged Matt from Couchsurfing when we returned to the hostel, and we decided to meet up later for a second dinner.
Misho would be proud of me. I'm feeling very Bulgarian indeed. All this food all the time.
I'd been looking forward to meeting Matt for ages. Ever since his first couchsurfing message nearly a month prior. A sweet, thoughtful message that served as such a stark, refreshing contrast to the incessant stream of "You are sexy ladies wel come to my palace I am always ready." A message that made me want to meet right now, please, and have him be my happy memory of Nepal. Like Leonita is my happy memory of Pristina and Misho and Yana are my happy memories of Sofia.
Relationships like those are what make traveling sustainable.
It's always funny and a little awkward to meet someone with whom I've been communicating via writing. I fumble around a bit, trying to discover the voice that isn't in my hands. Hoping that me in person is somewhat consistent with the me that comes across in my blog or in my emails.
We met in front of Busy Bee cafe in Lakeside, Pokhara. The conversation started easily and it never seemed to lull. It was an immediate connection. An effortless connection. One of those incredibly happy moments when you realize you've just met another human being you will make conscious effort to keep in your life.
I needed Matt. I don't believe in any sort of deity who gives me what I need and I don't believe in any of that destiny malarkey... but I know that at this point in my life, I needed Matt. And I feel so damn lucky and thankful that I got him.
"What do you want to do tomorrow?" Matt asked over the live music of the restaurant we'd settled into.
"What is there to do?"
"Well, we could catch a sunrise from Sarangkot," Matt suggested. "We'd have to leave at four thirty, though. You want to do it?"
"Yes!" I responded with a hundred percent enthusiasm. "Let's do it."
All the good things happen at four in the morning.
Matt walked me back to my hostel and promised to set multiple alarms so that he could wake up the next day.
I went to sleep around eleven and told myself, Okay, Bourget. You have to wake up at four. It's eleven now. That means you have five hours to sleep. Five hours. Do that.
And I woke up at three fifty-five. Because even my subconscious likes to be early for things.
Quickly, quietly, I packed my daybag and tiptoed towards the door, careful to not awaken Jesus Matt from his peaceful slumber.
Freaking Jesus Matt. I would like to be your friend... but I think I'm still too sensitive about all this Jesus stuff. Especially when it comes to fundamentalism. I hope you figure out a way to find peace with your faith in a way that doesn't hurt others the way fundamentalism hurt me.
Then I rushed down the dirt road to meet Matt and the taxi he'd ordered.
Up, up, up we went.
The taxi dropped us off where the path began. A twenty minute path straight up, up up to Sarangkot and a view of Phewa Lake.
We had the very top of the mountain to ourselves for about half an hour.
The quiet was refreshing. I heard nary a horn, a "Namaste, hello?" or the repugnant sound of someone hocking. Which everyone and their water buffalo seems to do in this country. I shudder uncontrollably every time. I walk down a street, skillfully avoid being hit by a motorcycle and then hear the guttural, visceral sound of someone forcing phlegm up their throat. I look over to spot the culprit, and see a little old lady selling trinkets. Or a school girl in uniform. Or a business man.
Everyone hocks. All the time. And I just... I just can't. Can't handle it. Even a little.
No one hocking here, thank goodness.
But then all the tourists clamored up the mountain, comandeered the view with their devil selfie sticks and began to hock.
Matt and I stayed for the sunrise --
-- and then began the long walk down the mountain, stopping for breakfast at a small cafe on the way.
We ate second breakfast (second meals are becoming a thing for Matt and me), made plans for the rest of the afternoon, and then parted ways to take recovery naps.
We rented a boat that evening and set out onto Phewa Lake.
Matt produced a bag of wine, cheese, chocolate, crackers and olives.
The idyllic was almost too much to handle.
 |
| I promised to row next time. Because there will be a next time. |
Gosh, I want to cancel my Vipassana meditation course in Kathmandu and just stay here... I could live by the lake for a month, have second breakfasts with Matt and go out onto Phewa Lake for sunsets.
I want to be here. But I think I need the meditation.
I still have time to decide.
But Pokhara. You make a very good argument against leaving. With your lake and your Matt and your good food and your mountains.
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