"Is there anything else we need to do before we leave?" I ask Matt with what must be frustrating regularity. "We've tried those chocolate banana crepes, we've been boating, we've had cocktails at Busy Bee, we've gone to all the movie nights at OR2K... anything else?"
"That's about it," Matt replies. "People don't really come to Pokhara to do things."
Which is one thing I love about it. Pokhara is just a place to be. A place to settle. To feel at home. To unpack a rucksack and buy toilet paper. 'Cos you'll be in one place long enough to justify an entire roll.
I'm getting ready to leave, but Matt still has a few more months in Nepal before he absconds to god knows where. Even though I'm thrilled to pieces for my upcoming solo adventures in Malaysia, my time with Andrej in the Philippines and potentially meeting Jack in Thailand, a part of me wishes I could just linger in Pokhara. Wishes I could keep up my routine of writing, studying French and reading poetry at Easy Cafe on the weekdays and trekking around Phewa Lake on the weekends. Eating mountains of paneer curry and feeling fucking amazing about it.
Yes.
I could make a life here.
But probably only if I could find a happy kitchen and a mattress that doesn't bruise my hips and ribs. From, you know, the mere act of reclining upon it.
I find myself savoring lasts, in an all too familiar way. Sinking into sensations. Carrying my camera more often, because I might not have another chance to take that perfect picture I've glimpsed time and time again, but have always told myself, "meh, don't worry, you can take it later."
I notice the kids who perpetually play an animated, improvised game of football in the dusty alley that leads to Ganesh' home stay (with the unhappy kitchen). Every time I leave the apartment, I feel like I'm forced to sprint through an obstacle course to avoid being hit by their "football", which is occasionally a small rubber ball and occasionally a small rocky rock.
Because I was feeling romantically melancholy and was making an effort to overcome inertia and photograph my "lasts", I pivoted to face the boys after surviving their hazardous, haphazard football field.
"Wait a sec," I told Matt. "I have to get this."
I lifted my camera and tried to snap a photo of the little fellows kicking around in the evening light.
"Hello!" they yelled, stopping the game I'd wished to capture.
"Namaste!" I replied.
"Photo?" they asked.
"You want me to take your photo?" Matt had told me that Nepali children love to be photographed, but I hadn't experienced this phenomenon yet.
"Yes!" they exclaimed, posing enthusiastically and then pouncing on my Kiwi friend.
When I adopt the attitude of "last", I become much more generous with my goodwill. I don't feel quite as irritated at the taxi drivers who honk at Matt and me and call out, "taxi?" when it seems abundantly clear that we are not at all in need of a taxi.
Meh... it's not much longer. I can take it.
I have all the patience in the world for the women who patrol the banks of Phewa Lake with baskets brimming with oranges, pomegranates and grapes. Women who interrupt me while I'm reading Mark Twain or Victor Hugo and say, "Oranges, pomegranates, grapes!"
"No, thank-you," I smile.
"Very fresh, very sweet."
"No, thank-you," my smile takes more effort, but stays in place.
I notice the Himalayas whenever the clouds clear. Their snowy, majestic faces which make me feel a little homesick for my beloved Rockies. Even though my Rockies might feel a bit awkward and overshadowed next to peaks such as these. Like kid me always felt next to my super cool big brother.
I notice the birds fluttering in over the lake every evening. Landing on boats where women do the washing. Landing on boats where men do the fishing. Soaring above me because I haven't got a boat, and am thus utterly unappealing.
I dodge the menagerie of dogs who line the sidewalks and gaze up at passersby with woebegone, hungry eyes.
You haven't the right to look that woebegone when you appear to be so well fed, you bloody charlatans, you.
I notice the chickens.
Chickens, chickens, chickens.
Everywhere, chickens.
Pecking, bobbing, clucking all over town.
I notice the colors. Vibrant hues of reds, yellows, oranges, blues.
I find the colors in flags, scarves, shawls, butterflies.
Matt and I rented a boat for our last excursion onto Phewa Lake.
We brought two bottles of cheap, shitty Nepali wine.
We let a lively breeze carry our blue rowboat to the other side of the lake, wondering how long it would take us to row the darn thing back. To distract ourselves from the dreary, foreboding"rowing back" part, we demolished chocolate, cookies (Matt calls them biscuits even though I've told Matt that a Biscuit Monster makes no sense at all), crisps and grimaced through the shitty wine whilst pining for Italy and all its boozy beverages.
Then we decided to take drunk texting to the next level.
And wrote drunk postcards.
(apologies in advance to my friends on the receiving end)
We start our trek to Panchase tomorrow. We'll hike up to the Peace Pagoda, then try to find our way to Bumdi. Where we have reasons (I'm not altogether sure why or how we procured them) to believe there might be a guesthouse. After Bumdi, we'll head to Panchase, then Baudaure, then Australian Camp.
Then we'll catch a perilous mountain bus back to Pokhara for a final couple of days before I leave for good.
For good, for now.
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