When the Spectacular Melts Away -- Pokhara, Nepal

It's challenging to find things about which to write when life settles into routine. Redundancy renders events unspectacular. When life becomes this comfortable, nothing feels remarkable.

I have all the time in the world to write... but now that I have time, I have nothing interesting to write. Nobody wants to read about an easy life. About my sunset strolls around Phewa Lake and my honey lattes at Easy Cafe. About the waitress who always smiles when Matt and I arrive, and the waitress who sullenly clears our coffee two hours later. No one wants to read about how I've convinced Matt that everyone from Colorado wears Chacos ALL THE TIME and that I'm reluctantly learning to live without toilet paper. 

It's easy to write when life is remarkable. I can spew stories about Santa and tigers (and Santa chasing tigers) and not have to delve into the details that make life real. The real that is revealed in routine. When the spectacular melts away. 

 

Writing during routine takes effort. The effort of not letting things blend together. Of not losing the original sense of wonder. Of observing a colorful, decrepit bus flying down a bumpy road, trumpeting like an elephant (horns are hilarious here), people packed in so tightly that some are hanging off the back or onto the roof and, you know, not dismiss the event as "normal."  

I'm sitting at Open Heart Cafe, one of the many cafes and restaurants that line the banks of Phewa Lake. Prayer flags are suspended from the porch, a shimmering "Happy New Year!" sign dangles from the ceiling and several Santa Clauses climb up a support beam. My vegetarian friend ordered a veggie burger and I ordered the day's first cup of masala tea. There are no comfortable chairs at this cafe, so I'm resentfully perched on what Matt calls a "productive chair", feeling the uncompromising metal dig into my back and wondering how anyone could be productive in a hideous chair such as this. However, the restroom contains a toilet on which one can sit (instead of a hole over which one can crouch) and toilet paper (instead of a spigot and a bucket). So I'll focus on my immense gratitude for toilet paper and not on this heinously productive chair. 

Matt and I plan to remain at Ganesh's homestay for another five days, cooking, writing, lazing away our mornings at Easy Cafe. Then we'll set off on an easy, four day trek around Phewa Lake. I haven't been able to find much information about the trek online and have absolutely no idea where we'll stay along the way, but Matt speaks enough Nepali to be able to ask the locals for help. 

So we'll be good. I think. I hope. 

The worst that can happen is we can't find a place to sleep and have to hop on a bus back to Lakeside. Which isn't all that awful. There are far more awful things than having to hop back on a bus to Lakeside. 

After the trek, Ganesh plans to take us to the base of Fishtail mountain for a night. Then Matt and I will adventure to Chitwan National Park, Bhaktapur, and finally, Kathmandu. 

Then I'll say goodbye to my Kiwi and board the plane that will whisk me away to Malaysia. Which I have so many mixed feelings about. It's always thrilling to visit new countries... but I have no one waiting for me in Malaysia. No one with whom to share the adventure. I would feel much better about leaving my idyllic life on the lake if I knew a Misho or a Matt would be waiting for me in Malacca. 

In other news, living with a Nepali teenage boy is driving me up the wall. It's incredibly rare that people get under my skin the way Sandesh does. It's even rarer (I'm always surprised that "rarer" is a real word) that I let my irritation flag fly so boldly. 

Because most of the time, I feel like I'm trapped in someone's debt. So if I'm irritated with something my host is doing, I grin and bear it. I bury that irritation flag, swallow my frustration and fly the, "I CAN BE SUPER POLITE FOR ALWAYS" flag. But here? I'm paying for my room. And I'm paying enough to be allowed access to the kitchen. So don't harass me while I cook, you little punk. 

Matt prepared a meal with peas and paneer the night before last. Sandesh wandered in while my friend was frying onions and fragrant Nepali spices. 

"I'm tired today. You can cook for four." 

"No," my irritation flag shot directly up to full mast. "We're only cooking for ourselves tonight, Sandesh." 

"We didn't buy enough ingredients for four people," Matt's flag flew on a much more diplomatic breeze. 

Sandesh slumped out of the kitchen. Only to wander back in a few minutes later to criticize our cooking. 

"If you had fried the cheese before, it wouldn't fall apart," he skulked over Matt's shoulder. 

"Why are you cooking frozen peas? You should --" he started over my shoulder. 

"Sandesh," I lost my bananas. All of them. Girl had zero remaining bananas. Not a one. "It is so irritating when you tell us how to cook. Stop it." 

Then Sandesh sat down at the table and sulked. I tried to smooth things over by asking him questions about where he would like to travel to and why, laughing when he said the UK because his favorite football team is Chelsea. Then Matt and I escaped with our meal to his balcony, where I vented my frustration through mouthfuls of peas that tasted just fine to me. 

I prepared breakfast this morning. Sandesh followed me into the kitchen and watched me fry up a pot of onions, potatoes, bell pepper and mushrooms. I tried to keep my flag under control and my bristling as invisible as possible. 

I LOVE cooking. But I do not love cooking here. I don't know how much longer this will be worth it. Preparing meals under the critical eye of Sandesh is giving me indigestion. The eye of Sauron would be more manageable. Yes. I would prefer to prepare my potatoes under the eye of Sauron with zillions of Orcs hunting me down than under the condemning eye of Sandesh. 

"How long until you are finished?" the teenage boy wearily inquired. 

"Less than ten minutes?" I replied. 

Sandesh continued to watch me. 

"Do boys date girls here?" I asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Ganesh told me that the first time he saw Santa was on their wedding day." 

"They are starting to date, but their parents don't like this. They do not date like you in the US, though. Be with someone for a while and then just break up. Many parents still arrange the marriages here. They find someone who is same age, with good qualifications, good family. The boy and girl add each other on facebook. Then, if they like each other, they marry." 

Wow. 

Sandesh left the room for a couple of minutes, then returned and stood above the stove, observing my eggs fry. 

"Are you finished?" 

"Give me two minutes, Sandesh," my irritation flag flew up again. Then I took a deep breath. "Why are you in a hurry? Do you need to lock up the kitchen? Do you need the stove?" 

"I need the stove. Sandhya is late for school and I need to cook breakfast." 

"Okay. That's fine. So when do you usually need the stove? When can I cook breakfast and not be in your way?" 

"Before eight or after nine thirty." 

"Okay. I will only cook before eight or after nine thirty from now on. Thanks for letting me know." 

This would be such a deal breaker for me. I would not be able to live with a family like this longterm. Happy kitchens are a must for this lady. Such a must. I want to share Misho's kitchen. That would be a happy kitchen. 

Matt and I have discussed this family's kitchen behavior at length, and we've hypothesized that it might be abnormal for Nepali people to cook for pleasure. That memorable evening we prepared dinner for the entire family, Santa and Ganesh laughed when I started singing along with Jack Johnson. Like it was novel to sing and cook. Maybe they're so liberal with their criticism because they don't recognize the cooking experience as something that should be enjoyable. The only important thing to them might be that the meal is delicious. So in order to ensure a delicious meal, they compromise the cooking experience.

Could be that cooking loses its sense of fun when one prepares dal baht three meals a day, seven days a week. Could be that cooking is just a necessary part of life here. Nothing else. 

Another of the reasons my reactions to Sandesh are so intense is because I know he wouldn't treat Matt with the same condescension. He might criticize Matt's cooking technique, but he wouldn't watch Matt's eggs fry and ask "Are you finished?" when it was abundantly clear that no, the eggs were still, in fact, in the middle of frying. 

Older men seem to get respect from teenage Nepali boys. Older girls and women? 

Not so much. 

"You should brush your hair before you go outside," Sandesh told me on my second day at the homestay. 

"I like crazy hair," I stonily replied. 

And I dislike a teenage boy feeling like he can tell me I ought to brush my hair. SO much disliking. 

I'm going to make a concerted effort to avoid Sandesh during the next five days. I'll also try to let Matt fly his Diplomatic Flag and let my Irritable Fucking Pirate flag take backseat. Or backwind. Whatever it is. I'll cook breakfast before eight and Matt and I may or may not continue cooking dinner. When it costs a mere two or three dollars to eat a lovely meal out, cooking under the Eye of Sandesh doesn't seem very worthwhile.