Chapter 2: Getting
There
Carefully picking
my way down the steep hill, I was soon below the three narrow, stepped terraced
fields behind the school. Before
crossing the barren field I glanced around looking for any stray bulls roaming
around that might give chase to me. Only
seeing a few grazing cows near the perimeter, I boldly stepped out and headed
for the far side. While crossing, I
passed a remnant from yesterday’s mid-day rest period games: a pile of rocks. I never saw anyone playing soccer on the
school’s “soccer field,” but the boys would enthusiastically engage in a
strange game that seemed similar to my childhood game of “King on the
Mountain.”
The rules of the
game were simple. After choosing teams, one
side constructed a precarious stack of stones in the middle of the field and
then, surrounding the pile, picked up stones and prepared to defend their
cairn. Meanwhile, the other team fled to
the field’s perimeters and plotted their attack. Without warning, the attackers would race in
from all sides throwing rocks at the defenders and the defended pile of stones
trying to topple the flimsy structure.
The defending team countered the attack by throwing rocks at the
incoming boys, attempting to create such a discouraging barrage of fire that
the others would scurry out of range.
Often, defending students actually chased an attacker while throwing
rock after rock at them. Sometimes, a small
team of attackers targeted a specific defender and ignored the stone mound. Although it did not have the physical contact
of “Kuvity-Kuvity,” it was a very dangerous game usually resulted in minor
injuries and bloody wounds. The few
girls that attended the school disappeared during this time.
The cows, intent
on eating, were still oblivious of my crossing as I reached the far side. Pausing for a moment, I looked up toward the
school. Above it, the old teashop,
bamboo thickets, rhododendron and dense forests hid the terraced, cultivated
hillsides and steep rocky terrain beyond.
Before turning to the main road – just a wider, dirt walking path –
toward the neighboring village far below, I looked around for any evidence of
yesterday’s accident.
The mishap
happened during our noonday break. I had gone to the old teashop above the school
and was walking back down the main road when I saw a student hopping up the
hillside and turn into the small alcove protecting the town’s spring. Quickening
my pace and joined him in the niche protecting a communal spring. He was sitting at the far end where an iron pipe
protruded from the hillside. From it, water
continuously gushed, splashing onto a flat, stone-paved ground a few feet below
and then draining down a ditch. Surrounding the flat surface was a low wall of
stones that provided seating. Every
morning, after carrying water back to
Holding his right
foot in the stream of water, turning it red with his blood, the student looked
up at me in surprise. He was from one of
the more affluent families of the area and wore sandals, a luxury that many of
the students displayed. The sandal he had removed was sitting on the floor
nearby with a perfect hole through the center of its sole. He spoke excitedly making it difficult to
understand, but eventually I pieced together what had happened. While playing one of their more violent
games, he had stepped on a nail protruding from a piece of wood. After his initial surprise and pain, he had stoically
pulled the nail out and headed up the hill to wash. He took his foot out of the streaming water
and, taking a closer look, I saw an exit hole on the top of his dirty foot. The nail had gone completely through. Using
my “teacher” voice, I encouraged him to use soap to wash his foot and go to the
Nepali Nurses stationed in Baglung – a four-hour walk to the north. The only local help was from a long absent
Medicine Man licensed to dispense drugs and a nearby Witch Doctor practicing
spells and casting curses for the right price.
At the airport, I
joined the other twenty-three volunteers to begin our long trip to Nepal. Because
of a recent rash of hijackings, there were stringent security measures in
use. At the boarding gate, every
passenger had to pass through a metal detector.
Only after passing the detector without sounding an alarm was someone
allowed down the long ramp and into the plane. When it was my turn, the detector
beeped loudly. A security guard briefly detained me, asking me to step to one
side where he searched me for weapons and asked me to empty my pockets. The
only questionable item was my new penknife, a Christmas gift from my
parents. Both the guard and I thought
that was the problem, so they asked me to walk through the detector again. The cruel thing beeped again, and the guards
had me remove my belt and try once more.
After a third time of raucous beeps, I took off my shoes and
glasses. When the gate beeped a fourth
time, they patted me down again and used a “detection wand” over my entire
body. Although the gateway still beeped,
the hand-held device could not find anything on or in me. Eventually, the uniformed men around me gave
a collective shrug, let me collect all my belongings and motioned me to board
the plane. Because of the delay, I was
the last person to board the plane and had to sit in an aisle seat. The 727 jetliner was soon high above the
Pacific and we were on our way to our first stop - Hawaii.
That leg of our trip
went quickly. At first, we chatted about
Christmas, our flying experiences, the expectations of the flight to and
adventures in Nepal. After a while, the
chatter in the cabin quieted and we all settled into our own thoughts. I silently considered my future and my fears.
The pilot brought me out of my meditation sooner than I expected when he
announced that we would soon be landing and suggested that we look out the
right-side windows to see “The Island”. I
strained my neck to see past the person next to me and look out the small porthole. Although there were clouds, I caught glimpses
of greenery, flashes of white sand and dark blue water through the broken cloud
cover. Disappointed, I quickly gave up
on my futile attempts to see details and shorelines.
Everyone was
silent as the plane banked, turned and descended, making a smooth landing. As we taxied off the runway, our pilot
encouraged those of us continuing on to Guam to disembark and walk around in
the waiting area of the gate. Because we
were going on to a foreign country, we could not leave those confines. Glad for
a chance to stretch and walk the stiffness out of our legs, most of us left the
plane. There, standing in the isolation
of our boarding gate, we watched grass-skirted island women enthusiastically
greeting other passengers, draping garlands of fresh flowers around their necks
when they exited into the main terminal.
Our layover in
Hawaii was brief, less than an hour, and before we had fully stretched our legs
we were back on the plane. We soon took
off with considerably fewer passengers than before. This part of our trip was
much longer: a tiring, nighttime flight to Guam. The air in the cabin quickly became
stale, filling with the smell of people, perfumes and cigarette smoke. The pilot dimmed the cabin lights, and with the
constant roar of jets our senses deadened, time itself seemed to slow and stand
still. After many tedious, uncomfortable
hours of struggling, the flight attendants finally demonstrated how to remove the
armrests and turn a row of seats into a short, uncomfortable bed. I was soon curling up on a makeshift divan,
wrapped in a small airline blankets and my head resting on a tiny, soft,
passenger’s pillow.
I was very tired,
full of doubts, and both thirsty and hungry; but because it was an overnight
flight, reading lights were discouraged and there were no snacks or drinks
offered. I tried to sleep, but slumber
eluded me. I spent the night gazing out
the tiny portal at the blackness outside and listening to the sounds of sleep surrounding
me. My mind wandered from past memories
to mental scenarios of Nepal that my imagination created. In my musings, I pondered my relationship
with my God, the uncertainty of my future and the direction of my life. Just
when I become certain I was part of a “Twilight Zone” episode, we landed at a
very dark airport. There, the airport
authorities allowed us to get off the plane for a few minutes to stretch our
legs. We wandered around a limited area
on the hot tarmac. It was Guam’s summertime and, although the heat was
oppressive, the air felt fresh and was free from the smells of stale cigarettes,
people and plane. In a few minutes, I
was sweating and looking forward to climbing back into the plane’s nice, cool air-conditioning.
Less than an hour later, we again boarded for the next leg of our journey: Hong
Kong.
The plane landed at Hong
Kong after more than twenty hours of uneventful tedium. We needed fresh
air that did not reek of bodies and cigarettes, craved enough space to move about freely and some time away from each other.
As soon as the plane landed and the
doors opened, we fled the confines of the plane, dispersing ourselves
throughout the terminal. Some of us
visited the many nearby souvenir shops and liquor stores while others headed
toward restaurants and various food vendors. Briefly stopping to breath in the fresh air, I
set my sights on the venue of electronics.
During the long flight, I had an epiphany: I would need a radio wherever
they assigned me. With that in mind, I
set off down the corridors of the terminal determined to purchase a radio to
take to Nepal with me. Because our layover would once again be brief, I raced
off as quickly as possible, finding a “duty-free” electronics store deep within
the central concourse. Drawing on the
advice from some of the experienced Peace Corps Volunteers, I bought a
shortwave radio. It would keep me in
touch with the news and happenings of the world. The Panasonic®, three-band
transistor radio cost thirty dollars and came with a stiff leather case,
earphone, and external antennae jack. It
had always been a dream of mine. I had
coveted such a radio for years, and I was overjoyed to find one at so
low-priced. Similar radios in the United States cost over a hundred dollars. I raced back to the plane, clutching my prize tightly.
Quickly, I stowed it under my seat just minutes before the plane’s door closed
and we were soon on our way to Thailand.
The sun crested
over the eastern horizon as we finally landed at Bangkok. After deplaning and retrieving
our luggage, we gathered in the main area of the terminal with the Nepali
trainers who were accompanying us. There
they told us that the final flight of our journey to Kathmandu, Nepal was not
until late the next day. Because of the
delay, Pan American airlines had arranged for luxurious accommodations at a
lavish hotel in the heart of the city. After
the trainers distributed meal vouchers, we left the terminal, struggling with
our luggage and valuables, to the street outside where an ancient but well
maintained bus waited for us. The bus
was a welcome change in transportation, and the trip into Bangkok was a
comfortable relief. On the way to the
hotel, I was both tired and excited about the opportunity to get a good night’s
sleep and exploring the city the next day.
Finally, after
countless turns and maneuvers, the bus arrived at the hotel and we gratefully
entered the opulent main lobby. It was
an expansive, high-ceilinged edifice with a massive, central stairway covered
in red carpet that curved upward to the rooms above. Across from the entrance, a grand restaurant
offered expensive, western-style foods and greatly modified local cuisine
served on linen covered tables with glistening, gold tableware. After organizing us into small groups, keys
were distributed. There were four of us sharing
a single room, and soon we each had our key and together we climbing the
runner-covered marble stairs to the third floor. When we reached the third floor and opened
the door, the spacious suit pleasantly surprised us. A spacious, strikingly gaudy main room greeted
us with bedrooms off to the side. Deep red, fuzzy patterned textured wallpaper
covered all the walls and the ceiling was a dull, matte grey. Across from the
hallway entrance, glass-paned doors had decorative golden drapes festooned with
red embroidery. The drapes were partially drawn and then tied back at their
centers allowing the use of the doors that opened onto a small, wrought iron
balcony overlooking the bustling and congested street below.
Curious, I
stepped out onto the balcony and, from its vantage point, I watched a man three
stories below me enthusiastically swirl brown lumps of food in a broad, round
pan held over a portable fire pit. To finish
his strange meal, he suddenly added noodle to the dish, briskly mixed it
together and deftly dumped it all into a bowl. After serving it to his customer, he quickly began
working on another order. All around
him, the street was a chaotic bustling tangle.
I watched fascinated as lightly clad men steered rickety bikes through the
crowds of colorfully dressed men and women while animated shoppers loudly
haggled over a confusing array of fruits and vegetables. The air was heavy with the smell of cooking
combined with a sweet aroma of fruit and of hot spices that wafted up to
me. It was early morning and the streets
were awakening, becoming alive and exciting with the life of Bangkok.
After stowing our
luggage, the four of us, hungry from hours of tedious travel, went to the
hotel’s first floor restaurant with the airline vouchers in hand. Sitting around
a lavishly appointed table eating breakfast, we talked about our trip and planned
for the day. A mutual desire to explore
the strange city of Bangkok quickly emerged and we decided to spend the day
together as tourists visiting as many places as we could. We would catch up on our sleep that evening. As we stepped outside of the hotel keen to
start on our adventure, we encountered a taxi with a driver anxious for
customers and eager to show off his town.
He was a small, congenial man who spoke surprisingly excellent
English. We immediately hired him as our
private tour guide for the day. He was
our key to the city and surrounding countryside and was overjoyed to spend the
day showing it off while earning lots of money. Excitedly packing us into his
smelly little car, he started our tour with a very long drive into the flat,
fertile, farmland north of the city.
Although it was a narrow, dusty road, and we needed to roll all the
windows down because of the heat and humidity, our trip was reasonably
comfortable. Along the way, we enthusiastically
pointed out all the curious and unfamiliar things as our escort shouted
descriptions and information over the roaring, rumbling road noises.
After the long
drive with countless turns along a dusty, dirt road, our driver pulled into an
area in front of a round, plain looking stone temple and parked near a simple
doorway. It took a few moments for us to
realize how massive the structure really was.
After helping each of us climb out of his little car, our new friend solemnly
ushered us inside. When our eyes finally adjusted to the dull walls and dimly
lit shrine, we found ourselves in front of a monstrous, gold-covered, sixty-foot
long reclining Buddha. He was on his
right side, his feet toward the door and head supported by his arm. The holy place was immaculate, cool, dry and
very silent. The smallest noise
reverberated off the curved walls and echoed throughout the chamber. Awed by the sight, we spoke with hushed
voices and moved with deliberate caution.
When we left, our driver told us that few visitors to Bangkok ever came
to this temple, and that were truly blessed and lucky that he was our driver,
guide and friend.
Bouncing and jostling
our way back to the city with all the vehicle’s windows wide open, we
speculated about what our guide would show us next. The cars jarring
up-and-down combined with constantly accelerating, decelerating and swerving
made it difficult for me to look at the other volunteers, so I stared out the
window at all the wonders around us. While
in the country, we passed dozens of barren, rectangular fields separated by low
earthen wall. When we neared the city
and buildings became numerous, we seemed to follow a busy waterway filled with
long, narrow boats. At one point, I saw
a spacious, colorfully ornate temple populated with austere monks walking
around in bright red robes. Soon we were
amid a jumble of stone buildings, wood shacks and a chaotic menagerie of street
vendors and roaming animals. It was in
this cacophony of life that our new friend took us to a very small temple
recess tucked below a nondescript building. Inside a deep alcove and behind a
set of massive iron bars was a small, solid gold Sitting Buddha. Gazed in wonder
at the glistening figure, we listened as our guide launched into a story of how,
during the Second World War, the local monks saved the Gold Buddha from
plundering Nazi invaders. They hid the figure by painting it to look like stone
and then left it in full view. The
Germans, thinking it was just another stone idol, left it in place. It was a true-life story like the “Purloined
Letter” of Poe.
The rest of the afternoon
was a blur of colors, crowded streets and smells ranging from marvelously seductive
and pungent to nauseating sewer odors. Returning us to our hotel in the early evening, our new friend suggested that we continue
our explorations after freshening up and getting something to eat. He seemed
willing, even eager, to wait for us. It
only took moments for us to look at each other and nod agreements. In less than
an hour, we were riding off to sample Bangkok’s nightlife. The city was a surprisingly dark, punctuated here-and-there
with islands of bright, colorful lights.
Many of those lights came from questionable nightclubs that offered
music, drink and anything else a person could desire. Looking at the unsavory clientele
standing around the entrances of the more raucous nightclubs convinced us to
stay safely in our little cab and continue our tour. Exhausting the venue of larger clubs, the
driver took us to an even seedier part of the town where everything imaginable
was for sale.
We drove past an
assortment of places and finally stopped at one brightly lit building far from
the safety of our hotel. Inside a large display window were a dozen scantily
clad young women sitting on a variety of mismatched chairs, stools and sofas. A blazing sign above them, written in
multiple languages, offered both full and specialized massages provided by your choice of server. Intrigued, we and quizzed the driver about expectations,
safety and costs. He earnestly assured
us that the business specialized in pleasing Westerners, whom they called
“monkey men” because of the extensive body hair compared to most Asians and
local men who usually did not have chest hair. After a brief discussion, we decided to
investigate further.
Once again, the
driver had to help us out of his taxi and promised that he would wait. Because I had spent most of what little money
I had on my shortwave radio, I told my companions that I wanted to be last to
select. Each of the other men selected a
“professional masseur” and the type of massage they wanted. The list of services the masseurs offered
included a variety of legitimate, and what I considered morally and ethically,
acceptable choices. Realizing that the
others had selected the affordable, standard service of simple backrubs, I
randomly pointed at one of the remaining women and selected the cheapest
service. After making payments, the
selected women led each of us into the labyrinth of corridors and rooms behind
the lobby.
I found myself in
a small, white room with a massage table, bathtub, sink and small table covered
with an abundance of colored bottles and strange devices. The woman with me did not speak any English
and made her questions and directions well known through gestures and
pointing. After watching her repeat a
series of gesticulations, I realized that she was offering additional
“services” for cash. Once she understood
I was not interested, she looked at me with distain and then, pulling a curtain
partway across the room, handed me a towel.
The session continued with her finishing the experience by walking on my
back. The privacy curtain was again
pulled in place and I got dressed, my tired, aching muscles refreshed. For the first time since leaving the United
States, I felt relaxed. The woman then
led me back to the lobby.
When the others
had all returned to the lobby, we went outside where our driver had, keeping
his promise, waited. We carefully climbed back into his taxi and headed back to
the hotel talking about our encounters. The
women had each offered additional service, once they were in the privacy of the
massage rooms, for cash only. Officially, the establishment denied that such
extras existed, but demanded a share. According to our driver, these businesses were
legal and that there was fierce competition among them throughout Bangkok. Once
we got back to the hotel and paid the driver, we quickly climbed the stairs and
retired to our suite for a good night’s sleep before continuing our flight the
next day.
Early the next
morning we gathered in the hotel lobby, boarded the bus and headed to the
airport. The first leg of this part of
our trip was to Calcutta where we transferred from a 747 jetliner to an old DC
10. I felt that I had been plunged into
the past by the look and feel of the comparatively small, propeller driven plane
from long ago, but it safely flew us to Kathmandu, Nepal that afternoon. Inside, sitting near the front of the plane and
staring out a dirty little window, I watched as we flew above the changing
terrain and circled to make our final approach to the cement landing strip
below. Ahead of us, blanketed by thick green fields, was the large and broad
valley of Kathmandu. Within the city, a
network of meandering roads and pathways interconnected the many jumbled clumps
of brown-red buildings. On a majestically prominent hill just outside the city,
a large, circular temple festooned with tall spires overlooking all the lands
with grandeur. The hills surrounding the valley were forbidding guardians,
cradling its sun-soaked beauty in silence.
Northward, the hills quickly soared into the massive, snow-covered block-mountains
of the Himalayas. Their white peaks,
parading east and west, disappeared into the misty distance. Beyond the icy
peaks was the fabled land of Tibet, hidden from view by the mountains and a
thick ocean of clouds. Squinting at the mountaintops, I wondered which rocky
sentinel was Mount Everest, known in Nepal as Sagamartha, “Earth’s Mother.”
Staring out the
little window as the plane descended, I watched the city become a maze of dark,
twisting streets and sprawling, dirt-colored buildings of every description
ranging from small hovels of commoners to the monstrous edifices of powerful
and wealthy families. I realized that many of the structures were like poorly
designed townhouses. Two to four
storied adjoining buildings lining the larger roads, along with a confusing array of signs and pictures. At many roadway intersections, brightly
colored temples acted as traffic circles. What I glimpsed as we neared
touchdown, idols, small temples, and altars were scattered throughout the city.
One place I spied near a very congested intersection was a huge, white mansion
encircled by a high wall. Within,
wandering about a manicured yard filled with lush foliage, were strutting
peacocks displaying their colorful plumage. Tucked between the squalor of the
busy town were other mansions, each in startling contrast to the poverty
outside. As the plane finally touched
down, I realized that just outside the little airport’s fence dozens of vendors
were selling food, clothing, and everything else from tools to musical
instruments. Around and engulfing them was a large, colorful crowd of men and
women with slow moving trucks, cars, and bicycles passing by. Sacred cows were
plodding through the dusty streets, and a brief glance down one narrow alley gave
me my first sighting of the wild, mongrel dogs that roamed the city in search
of food.
I felt pangs of
doubt and fear well up within me as the plane finally bounced to a stop. It was
an entirely alien world outside where the culture, traditions, and beliefs
still baffled me. The bedlam I saw while landing made me wonder about our
reception, but then I remembered a trainer telling us that, after years of
internal stress and conflict, Nepal was welcoming outsiders into their country. I quietly prayed that he was right. Even after weeks of training and the total immersion
experiences, Nepal was a great unknown. A part of me questioned if my own
understandings, beliefs and faith would be strong enough to endure, and I
wondered if I would meet the physical demands of this country and my job. Naively, I did not consider what health risks
I was facing. The World Health
Organization’s maps of this area identified the entire country of Nepal as a
hotbed of dysentery, disease, and death.
I should have been concerned.
Passing through
customs and collecting my luggage, I joined some of the other volunteers in the
back of one of a number of large, open-sided trucks. That old, green vehicle had
obviously seen much better days, but it was well cared for and was reasonably
comfortable. We were strangely silent and acutely aware of the new and strange
sounds, sights and smells of the city during the jostling, bumpy trip to our
temporary housing. The route we took was
circuitous, winding its way through a labyrinth of narrow, busy streets filled
with cars, bikes and people. Eventually,
we arrived at a spacious old mansion only a few blocks north of what I later
learned was the King’s Palace. The other
trucks soon arrived and we were ushered into hotel.
Other travelers
sitting down near me interrupted my reminiscing. Standing up, I put my hands together and
greeted them with “Namaste” before hefting my backpack into place, picking up
my walking stick and continuing my journey.
The road was reasonably level for a few hundred feet, but quickly slanted
upwards following the natural contours of the hillside. Terraced plots of land formed a mosaic
pattern of steps up the hillside from the cliffs of the Kali Gandaki Gorge to
the summits, and the wide walking road narrowed to a well-worn footpath along
the edges of the barren fields.
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