I'm starting this post from the Dutch Square in Malacca, Malaysia. I'm waiting for Carl, a Kiwi from couchsurfing. Not to be confused with Matt (who is my Kiwi from couchsurfing) or Karl, the Swedish fellow I met in Kathmandu who finished his Vipassana meditation course and found his life's calling.
To make Korean burritos in Sweden.
I wonder if I would have discovered a new life calling if I'd gone to my Vipassana retreat. Maybe I would have decided that my calling was to make bourbon, bacon, peanut butter cups in France. Mmmm. No, I don't need a week of meditation to teach me that...
Kathmandu was an entirely different experience for me this time around. It's astonishing just how greatly a city is influenced by the quality of your company.
And as Ganesh would say, my Kiwi has "many qualifications."
We ran a few final errands on our last morning in Bhaktapur. Matt extended his Old Town visa so he could return after packing up his life in Pokhara and not have to dish out another 1500 rupees. I longingly fingered some of the stunning cashmere scarves and contemplated buying one as a souvenir of Bhaktapur.
My life needs to be light, though. I don't have space for material sentimentality. Regardless of how much I want this scarf and how many good memories I would feel while wrapped up in it... I do not need it. I can take photos, preserve moments through writing, but I cannot collect anything with weight. At this point, scarves just don't make sense. Not when all I have is Ellie and my shoulders. Not when the only money I make are sporadic donations from thoughtful friends or the unusual massage, yoga or writing gig.
Errands finished, we hopped on a bus for Ratna Park, Kathmandu. Squeezing into seats in the back so that poor, fat Ellie wouldn't be a colossal roadblock for the patient Nepalis to clamber over.
When in a foreign country with a foreign language, I often lapses into a false sense of security. I fall prey to the presumption that no one around you can understand what I'm saying, so I can carelessly chatter on about whatever I want wherever I like and it'll all be dandy.
Matt and I have grown to be very comfortable with each other over the last five weeks, and we talk about all the things. A frequent topic is, well, the toilet. Not because we're childish (believe it or not), but because toilets and their quality (or lack thereof) affect our lives considerably.
At Santa's village, I found myself with no other alternative than to squat over a hole in the ground in a shack with a ceiling so low that if I stood up suddenly, I'd brutally clobber my head. Not a single square of toilet paper. Ants everywhere. No light. No running water. Just a bucket of water and a hole in the ground.
Hence, whenever I happen upon a sit-down toilet avec toilet paper, a flush that works and dispenser soap, I emerge from the toilet, jubilant and glowing.
"That," I declare exuberantly, "was a glorious experience."
Talking about toilets in Nepal is akin to talking about bad weather in Ireland. It doesn't make you boring (or gross). It makes you relevant.
All that to say, Matt and I had happily settled into our false sense of security and were being remarkably relevant in the back of the bus to Kathmandu. And then the dignified Nepali man in front of me swiveled in his seat and asked in impeccable English, "Where are you from?"
"Err... the United States. "
"Which part?"
"Colorado."
"Denver?"
"No, I live in the west of Colorado."
"Oh, I lived in the US for forty years."
"Really? Where?"
And the fellow proceeded to rattle off 75 percent of my bloody country.
"I owned twenty cars. Bought four... or five houses. I'd have to count. But I wanted a change, so I came back to Nepal five years ago. This is my stop. Enjoy your time here."
Matt and I disembarked at Ratna Park and made our way to Hostel ONE96. We deposited our luggage (I'm always exceedingly grateful to deposit Fat Ellie) and then walked to Garden of Dreams.
We found ourselves a bench, chuckled at the chipmunks, and I read to Matt from the book he'd just purchased at a shop down the road.
The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann.
"Space,
like time, engenders forgetfulness, but it does so by setting us bodily
free from our surroundings and giving us back our primitive, unattached
state... Time, we say, is Lethe, but change of air is a similar
draught, and, if it works less thoroughly, does so more quickly.
Is
that why I can't seem to stop moving? Are there still things I'm trying
to forget? Bits and pieces of my story I haven't been able to
reconcile, to understand, so I just keep moving?
Matt led me to Kathmandu's Durbar Square. Each of the valley's cities -- Kathmandu, Patan, Bhaktapur -- has a Durbar Square. Because the cities were ruled by brothers, and if one brother built something super rad, the others had to follow suit.
We found ourselves a rooftop where we ordered apple ciders and lingered for the sunset.
My last night in Nepal.
We watched hawks circling, diving into the shadows of building in the dwindling light.
I still can't believe I'm leaving all this.
We woke at five the next morning. I donned all my sweaters (which is two), laced up my filthy boots and grabbed my camera. Then Matt and I set off into the dark, brisk morning in search of a taxi.
"How much to Boudhanath?" Matt asked the first taxi we happened upon.
"One thousand rupees."
"But I've taken this ride before, and it was only four hundred."
"No, it is set meter," the taxi driver tried to bullshit us. "One thousand."
"I live in Nepal," Matt replied in Nepali, which always seems to dispel the bullshit.
"Eight hundred," the driver conceded.
"Four hundred."
"The price is more in the early morning and at night," the driver clung to his ridiculous price.
"But I've done this before."
"Six hundred."
"Look, you don't have to take us..." Matt and I began to walk away.
"Five hundred."
"Okay, five hundred."
We jumped out of the taxi and Matt led me to the temple. We then joined throngs of people, all walking clockwise as they prayed.
This is how I want to pray... walking around a gorgeous temple with a group of people in the early morning. Incense, candles, flags. Music, prayer wheels, chanting.
It's magical.
Meditative.
Centering.
Inspiring.
And all this walking is good for my chocolate habit.
We circled with the praying crowd until the sun rose and the pigeons descended.
We strolled through the peaceful surrounding neighborhood until a cafe opened.
"Remember when I told you that it is possible to find quiet in Kathmandu?" Matt asked. "This is what I was talking about."
When a cafe finally opened, we scampered up several flights of stairs and ordered breakfast and coffee.
"This is the first place I ate after landing in Nepal," Matt commented as we stared at the temple from our stools.
This is one of the last places I'll sit. But it will be one of the first places I return to when I get myself back to Nepal. Which will definitely happen. Sooner than later, I hope. And until then, I'll have to write Ganesh once a week.
We climbed on top of the temple and observed a group of outcast albino pigeons. We commented on what the procedure would be if someone were to vandalize the temple, and then take off in a direction the police weren't allowed to run.
Counterclockwise.
Hehe... it seems like something that would happen in Looney Tunes.
But it would be so much funnier here. With Buddha eyes watching the whole thing play out. Baha.
We took the bus back to Ratna Park, sticking to a less relevant conversation. Then we looked for a different guesthouse for Matt to check into for a couple of days after I left.
This... this hurts.
We'd planned to walk to the Monkey Temple in the afternoon, but I decided I'd rather take it easy. So we found a hole-in-the-wall Indian place for lunch. Where the food was delicious and cheap, and the menu kept me in stitches through the entire meal.
Please note that the french fries are called "Finger Chiefs".
We found another rooftop for drinks and wrote down memories of the month for each other. Then we returned to Matt's hostel and talked until it was time to walk to Ratna Park.
We arrived at the airport at 6:45 pm. My flight didn't leave until 9:25 pm and Matt wasn't even permitted to enter the terminal with me, so we ambled down to a restaurant and ordered dinner to pass the time.
Our last hour. Blurgh. Emotions. I didn't even know this person five weeks ago. And now I'm getting all choked up at the idea of saying goodbye.
But I did. Say goodbye. I hugged my Kiwi outside of the passengers only area at 7:45 pm on the 25th of January. And all that choked up turned into sad, lonely tears.
This. Is not going well. Pull yourself together, Bourget.
After walking through about five different security lines and getting patted down by all manner of ladies, I found my gate. I must have still looked awfully sad and lost, as a middle aged woman with a sympathetic face approached my seat and asked, "Are you with the highschool group? Because they just boarded."
"No," I smiled through my sad. "I'm not with that group."
"Oh, okay. You just seemed a little lost."
"I'm fine. But thanks for looking out for me."
Will I ever stop looking like a lost highschooler? I'm turning 28 this year, for pete's sake.
The flight was dirt cheap, so I assumed no meal would be provided. Which is why I'd consumed such a large dinner with Matt at the restaurant near the airport.
But I was wrong in this assumption. So very wrong. Malindo Air served a hefty meal to its passengers, and it is with zero self-loathing that I admit I happily ate the entire thing.
My flight landed at Kuala Lumpur airport at 4:30 am. I hurried through a rather lax passport control, fetched Ellie from the belt, found an ATM and booked a bus straight to Malacca. All whilst stumbling around like a sleep-deprived, lonely zombie.
Booking a bus from the airport is much more expensive than the buses from Kuala Lumpur's bus station. But I'm too tired to be bothered with Kuala Lumpur.
It had rained all night in Malacca. The ground was sopping wet and trees glistened with water droplets still clinging precariously to their leaves.
Heat.
Humidity.
Quiet.
No honking... where's the honking? Have I gone deaf? This is so unsettling.
When I'm tired, I prefer to walk rather than go about the hassle of finding a bus. So I simply lugged Ellie through Malacca for an hour until I reached my hostel. The journey was punctuated at regular intervals by fellows rushing up to me and asking if I needed help or offer advice.
"I saw you crossing the street on a crosswalk... And I just wanted to tell you... be careful. Drivers are very dangerous here."
I smiled, contemplating telling the worried man that I'd just survived 40 days in a country with hardly any crosswalks, but decided against it.
So... thirsty. And hungry. Dammit, Matt. I've been relying on you for water and chocolate. Now I'll have to relearn to be self-sufficient in both water carrying and chocolate stashing.
I checked into my hostel, washed my journey down the drain with a cold shower, and checked in with some friends to let them know I'd safely arrived in Malaysia.
And so begins, reluctantly, another chapter.
Now your challenge, Bourget, will be to allow this part of your journey to stand alone. To not spend all your moments pining for the peace of Pokhara, the thrill of Bhaktapur, the company of your Kiwi. To let all that go so you can enjoy where you are now.
Make space for another story.
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