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Saturday, June 11, 2016

Peace Corps Nepal - Chapter 3: Kathmandu Training

Chapter 3: Kathmandu Training


The path I was on was called the "Baglung Road" by the other teachers at the school.  It was actually more a dream of the possibility of a road, not a road as I understood the word.  At first, the roadway was a simple, slightly worn path down the center of a narrow, flat
field.  After a few hundred feet, it evolved into a dirt walkway nestled between walls of stone or the dirt retaining walls of terraced fields.  Often, the road was a simple, flat surface that interrupted the steep hillsides. The trail’s stony surface was firm and flat, crushed and compacted from years of travelers.  It was occasional marred where seasonal streams eroded shallow channels across it.  Trudging along the road between barren, stepped fields, I saw that the trail, following the natural contours of the hillside, gently winding its way upward through a grove of bamboos and into a forest of sparse trees and mountain laurel.  Within the woods ahead jutting out from among green foliage, was the thatched roof, whitewashed upper walls and porch of a lone house.  It perched on a small ledge interrupting the steeply plunging hillside.  Far below were the cliffs of the gorge and its raging river hundreds of feet below.
There was a more direct route northward from where I lived.  To go that way, I would cross the parade grounds in front of the school and take the main road up the hill to the alcove of the communal water supply. A partially hidden path just beyond and behind the watering station threaded itself through a grove of trees to the terraced fields beyond.  As soon as the path emerged from the trees, it became the top edge of a field’s retaining wall only as wide as a man’s shoulders. From there, the narrow pathway looped around a dozen small fields of all shapes sizes, dropping down two levels to a slightly wider footpath that skirted the edge of the dense jungle above.  From there, the trail followed the hill’s curvature, undulating in and out with the terrain.  The trail eventually led into
a densely wooded area, passing above where I first stayed. Inside that forest, the path twisted and turned through stands of trees, bamboo thickets and dense underbrush.  Along the way were a myriad of side roads and alternative pathways. 
A few hundred feet into the jungle, a path branching from the main
trail led out of the trees, across a surprisingly gentle pasture and into to a remote, secluded oasis of trees and bushes.  Within that copse was hidden a cool spring of water and the promise of some privacy.  One of the challenges I faced was keeping comparatively clean.  Soon after arriving at Balewa, I had established a daily routine of using lye soap and cold water from my earthen jug to wash my face, arms and feet.  I reserved the sterilized and filtered water for cooking, drinking and brushing my teeth.
Most weekends, I stripped naked and wrapped a large cloth around my waist and upper legs – pulling the end through my legs and tucking it in.  Then, grabbing my soap and towel, I headed for the local spring in hopes of getting clean.  I tried to bathe by imitating how the local men washed themselves in the afternoon.  They would strip down to their loincloth, crouch in front of the iron pipe and clean themselves, carefully washing each segment of the seven-stranded cord they never took off.  The cord was an important part of their daily life, positioned differently for different activities.  Once satisfied that each strand was clean, they finish their ritual by reaching under their loincloth to take care of the unseen.  Unfortunately, every time I tried to wash, a crowd of women gathered to stare at the tall, red-haired, white foreigner.  My embarrassment and self-consciousness kept me from spending the time or effort I needed to bathe effectively.  I also needed to wash my clothes without an audience.
When I shared my need for more privacy with one of the Nepali teachers, he told me about the wonderful oasis of privacy on the other side of the hill.  It was a long walk, and any time I sat down, I had to fend off legions of leaches from my feet, but it was worth the trip.  I found the privacy I need to get fully clean.  An added bonus was the opportunity to wash my one set of clothes, and wait for them to dry while sitting around wrapped in my cloth.  It was during one of my irregular visits there that I discovered lice in my hair, which I eventually treated with DDT.
At another junction, the side trail took me to a small enclave of buildings set within the jungle.  There, I encountered a large extended family struggled to operate their newly built teashop. 
Sitting on the shop’s steps was a forlorn woman holding a small, infant girl on her lap.  The listless child’s head lolled backward and flies crawled across her unseeing eyes and into her open mouth.  I could do nothing. My feeling of helplessness was overwhelming and the horrible scene indelibly etched itself into my memory, returning, unbidden, in my dreams.  There were many different ways to travel, and the jungle road offered many destinations – including a dismal path leading to the cold, silent clearing of a local witch doctor.
When travelling alone, I preferred to take the longer route to Baglung.  There were more people along the way, more rest stops and the road was more open.  I also knew that there were fewer dangers along a well-traveled road and less chance of making a wrong turn.  Trudging along that convoluted, twisting road to the woods above, I continued mentally reviewing my first days in Nepal and our training in Kathmandu.
The first evening at the hotel in Kathmandu, we joined our in-country Peace Corps trainers for dinner.  We ate in a long, narrow room on the first floor.  A row of windows facing the courtyard gave us a wonderful view of the enclosing wall.  A massive, wooden table dominated the room. It was in the center of the room and stretched from wall to wall.  The table’s patina, intricately carved legs and style gave it both a sense of age and value.  Surrounding the grandeur of the table, marching arm-to-arm down both sides, were matching, straight-backed chairs.  The table and chairs completely filled the room with the backs of the seats only inches away from the walls.  Glistening white bone-china plates elegantly graced each place setting, complimented by white linen napkins, clear, cut-glass water goblets and heavy, silver flatware. Parading down the center of the table were a half-dozen large, silver serving dishes piled high with an unidentified entrée of raw, ground meat artistically garnishing with sprigs of fresh green spices.  Many, smaller dishes of white rice and unrecognizable sautéed vegetables encircled the massive plates of meat.  The hotel staff heard a rumor that Americans ate meat and had done their best to present a Western style meal.
We knew the meat could not have been beef since cows were sacred, but we never discovered what kind of meat it was.  Fearing all the terrible things that could happen from eating raw meats, most of us ate only the rice and the more familiar vegetables.  Our trainers recommended that we not drink the tepid, iceless water and stick to hot tea or bottled beverages.  No one complained. Few of us felt hungry, and our excitement at finally being in Nepal overshadowed any problems we had with our first meal.  We spent most of the evening sitting around that massive table talking, joking and laughing about our recent adventures in flying.  Even though a few Volunteers did taste the red, gooey meat, and drank the water, no one became ill.  It was apparent that someone may have spoken to the staff about our difficulties; after that first night, the meals served to us at the hotel were less formal, less extravagant, less daunting, fully cooked and more recognizable.
The next day, our training continued as we met together in the hotel’s lobby.  As a group, the trainers led us as we walked a short distance from our lodging to a nearby construction site.  The partially built structure we would use looked like a three story metal skeleton.  It was missing the outer walls and the floors were unfinished, pitted cement.  Rusting, bare steel beams and decaying surfaces suggested that the work on the building had stopped some time before.  Although I saw a number of openings that appeared to be for staircases, there were no stairs, only ladders stretching up to the second floor.
Each morning, we walked the few blocks to the construction site.  There, we stood around the gravel courtyard waiting for our trainer.  When they arrived and divided us into study groups, we climbed the rickety bamboo ladders to our assigned, open-to-the-air rooms on the second floor. Usually, we used three of the rooms for our classes.  Sitting on an old, folding metal chair positioned just a few feet from the missing outer wall, I struggled to keep up with our morning language classes. The trainers used large pads of white paper propped on a stand with the morning sun glaring off the dull surface.  Like our hotel, a cement wall surrounded the construction site and, although the trees and large bushes just inside deadened most of the street noises and gave us some sense of privacy, we still needed to speak very loudly for others to understand.  Our language classes met until noon and, much to my relief, we had an hour for lunch. Most of us took advantage of the food provided by our hotel, but a few, brave volunteers ate at a restaurant adjacent to where we were staying.
We usually returned to the “skeleton building” after lunch to continue our studies of Nepal’s history, culture, and traditions.  The curriculum included field trips to nearby points of interest and excursions to small communities outside the city. Our structured learning ended in the late afternoons and we had a few hours of free time.  I used mine to explore the bazaars looking for adventure in a city with cows wandering the streets, fruit bats hanging from
trees, marijuana plants towering over sidewalks and feral dogs roaming around for food.  At night, the dogs hunted in packs. The roads I wandered often led to round, domed-shaped temples topped with rectangular cupolas painted with huge eyes on all four sides.  No animal was to be put to work within sight of those eyes.  Above the eyes were tall, central spires with long strings radiating in all directions.  Attached to each were multitudes of rectangular prayer flags.  I fequently visited the eyed Buddhist Bhagwati temple.The largest and most ancient Hindu temple I discovered in my wanderings was the Swayambhunatha Stupa.  Encircling it was a wall sporting an array of different carvings splashed with bright colors of paint, banks of carved prayer wheels, gongs of different sizes and cups for burning incese or candles.  
 On another street, I found a frightening, multi-armed idol depicting a god adorned with a necklace of human skulls and girded by a belt from which hung bloody, detached, human arms.  It stood guard
over freshly presented, bright yellow and red offering. Some idols I found in partially hidden in alcoves along residential streets.  The trainers told me that they were probably private, family worship areas.  Often, the idol within a recess was of Ganesh, a chubby elephant-headed god that supposedly removes obstacles of life.
During some of my excursions, I encountered ragged bands of men playing strange, whining, atonal music on square, three-stringed, long-necked instruments. These men were often accompanied by others using highly dented, dull metal horns.  Frequently, a musician would be twirling a highly embossed metal can affixed to the end of a handle.  Inside was a prayer written on a piece of paper and each rotation sent it to god.  A
surprisingly rich and mellow sound emanated from these bands, and the donations given to them were generous.
As I aimlessly wandered the streets of Kathmandu, I discovered many immense, unused buildings.  Some of the smaller, modest structures were empty governmental buildings,but others belonged to the powerful political families that had been overthrown when the king regained power in a daring maneuver involving cars, planes and deception.  The elaborately ornate larger edifices had
massive, overhanging eaves braced with richly carved wooden supports depicting events in the Vedas or explicit and risqué scenes that leave nothing to the imagination.  A trainer told me that most of the carving on roof supports depicted scenes from the Kama Sutra.
While walking along many of the suburban streets I passed towering poppy plants and cows lying in the street chewing their cud. Garbage rotted in the gutters while beggars held out their hands for money while sleeping fruit bats hung from the trees next to them.  Everywhere there were emaciated mongrel dogs festooned with lumps, sores and dangling tumors.   I spotted them skulking down darkened alleyways or asleep on the streets. Fortunetellers, sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk at an intersection near our hotel, plied their mystical arts with enthusiasm and conviction.  With their astrological charts and tables strewn about them, they eagerly told people their futures – for a price.  
Each afternoon I ventured further away from the safety of our hotel discovering a variety of stores, temples and street vendors. On some days, I wandered the streets before our classes began.  It was during one of my early morning outings that I saw men selling fresh yogurt in unglazed clay bowls. They carried dozens of their red-brown bowls stacked inside rope cradles suspended at each end of wooden yoke carried across their shoulders.  Our trainers warned us not to eat any yogurt from street vendors because the many crunchy, black bits suspended throughout it were neither raisins nor nuts. When flies and other insects became stuck on the yogurt’s skin, the peddlers simply stirred the struggling insects back into the bowl content.
Other hawkers offered unusually colored drinks in strange, clear glass bottles.  The bottles had long necks with spherical bulges their mouths.  The carbonation within a bottle’s liquid pressed a ball in the bulge upward with enough force to seal the opening.  A customer opened their drink using a lever mechanism secured around the neck to force the ball down and out of the way.
There were many important places near our hotel including the Peace Corps Headquarters.  To get there I walked down the street from our hotel and a few blocks later turned left onto a wide, important boulevard.  On the way, I passed the King’s Palace.  It was an impressive, white mansion festooned with statues, fountains and a large, fabricated lake in front.  One trainer shared a story about a massive, million-dollar, clear crystal chandelier and the difficulties works had installing it.  Every time I saw the palace, I wondered about the size and location of such a huge fixture. Just past the mansion was another, smaller road leading to a poorly maintained back street.  A short way down that street was our headquarters.
The Peace Corps Headquarters consisted of two principle buildings inside a walled enclosure. At the entrance was an old, western style two-story house for volunteers to gather, relax and swap stories about their experiences at their station.   That house was a favorite place for those working in the city to socialize and help new volunteers adjust to living in a strange place.  One major problem that each of us needed help with was the very real reality of “Culture Shock.”
On the first floor, diffuse sunlight filtering through a bay window on the street side provided sufficient lighting for most of the day to read.  It was a surprisingly cozy environment of miss-matched wooden chairs, overly worn lounge chairs and a dank smelling, faux leather couch in front of the window.   There, we often exchanged precious books that covered all genres of interests including science fiction, classic novels, philosophy and cooking.  At times, we would also play card games around a small, badly marred coffee table.  The house had a distinct, musty smell of mildew, aging wood and decaying books, occasionally overpowered by the aroma of rotten eggs emanating from an unfortunate victim.  When the common dysentery of Giardia, a protozoan parasite, afflicted a volunteer they would ostracize themselves for the duration of their suffering. Even with the smells and dim lighting, the house was a haven where we socialized, helped each other, shared our troubles and talked about home.  We could always find the comfort and support we needed.
The gravel driveway of the Peace Corps Headquarters curved around and behind our little house to the small parking area in front of the main building.  It was a much newer, well cared for three stories high cinderblock structure. On the first floor was a small clinic that provided for the medical needs of volunteers.  Past the reception area was an examination room, a small infirmary, and a modest lab staffed by a nurse and Doctor Small.  The doctor and I spent considerable time together playing chess, eating together at western restaurants, and talking about Physics, diseases and interpreting X-ray images.  One time he challenged me to examine an image and tell him what was significant.  Somehow, I did not notice an entire arm was missing.
Near the clinic’s reception desk was a stairway leading to the second floor landing and a short hallway leading to the various administrative offices.  Walking down that passage felt like a piece of America.  Its dimensions, design and décor provided a haven of Americana for the administrators and visitors. Large pictures of an illegal mountain climbing expedition embellished the walls directly outside the director’s office.  Earlier that year, a Peace Corps Volunteer had climbed Dhawalagiri Mountain, but had not obtained permission from the Nepali government to climb nor had paid them for the privilege of climbing. Although officially reprimanding him and requiring that he pay the National Mountain Climbing fees and the associated fines and penalties, the volunteer was openly praised for his heroics.  The pictures of his exploits adorned the hallway and were a shrine to his adventure.
There were other, smaller buildings inside compound for supplies, personal storage and the care of vehicles.  Parked under various shelters were single-speed bikes for the volunteers to use instead of walking or hiring a taxi.  Since the Headquarters was only a short walking distance to the American Embassy, King’s Palace, many westernized restaurants and a variety of hotels and shopping areas, very few of us used the bikes.
At night, the Peace Corps Headquarters was empty and silent.  The administrators and staff that worked there had permanent homes of their own. One afternoon I discovered a little oasis of western life and comfort while visiting the Director’s home. He had a small staff of hired help that maintained his lavish home and life style.  Some of them acted as servants, ready and eager to do the Director’s bidding while others were cooks and housekeepers.  It strongly reminded me of movies depicting white-clothed aristocrats maintaining their entitled lifestyles in the middle of third-world poverty.  At the time, I did not realize how significant his running water, indoor plumbing and electricity was even in Kathmandu.   
One favorite haunt within walking distance of the hotel was the bazaar area of Durbar Square. Every day, purveyors displayed colorful arrays of fresh produce, lumps of bloody meat, and other goods of all descriptions.  Peddlers spread their offerings on the ground or stacked them on temporary stands. They often waved choice items with their dirty hands to prospective buyers.  Around the perimeter of the square, tucked into cubbyholes and glass-fronted stores, were the more permanent shops. While walking around in the bedlam of sellers and buyers taking in the sights, I noticed many people had disturbingly black mouths and teeth. The black discoloration was the telltale sign of an addiction to chewing leaf-wrapped beetle nuts. 
A young woman and her daughter made and sold these addictive packages from a small recess along an alleyway leading away from the square. I easily identified most of the foods in the bazaar but some of the fruits and vegetables had odd shaped, weird coloring or the wrong size for what they appeared to be and I did not recognize them.  It was during my visits to the bazaar that I honed my bargaining skills by buying a more familiar item from one of the less aggressive sellers. Unfortunately, my haggling ability always seemed to suffer from my inexperience and poor language skills. Every time I made a purchase, I felt cheated and the seller was elated.
Near Durbar square with all its people and chaotic activity was Hanuman Dhoka, or “Monkey Gate,” I knew it as a large, very ornate building with a massive, carved doorway sometimes
protected by an armed guard.  When asked about the history or significance of the “Gate,” our trainers never gave me a satisfactory explanation. The Nepali men within the “Gate” gave even more confusing responses when I asked using my poorly mastered Nepali. Because of its size and central location, Hanuman Dhoka became a familiar landmark I used to keep myself orientated while exploring the maze of alleys and passages around the bazaar. One narrow alley across the square from Hanuman Dhoka led to a cheap and friendly hostel used by visiting Peace Corps Volunteers. Next to the hostel, an inexpensive teashop offered a variety of foods. I frequently encountered people from India, China, Germany and other countries there to help Nepal and its rush to develop or tourists seeking a new experience.  One night, while chatting with two engineers from China, I learned about some of China’s political interests in the area and sensed their enthusiasm to build roads.
Near the hostel was a narrow street dedicated to the needs of mountain climbers.  It bustled with Sherpa, aspiring foreign adventurers and tourists looking for souvenirs. Experienced
volunteers assured me that I would need a compact, climber’s kerosene stove, small cooing kit and wooden matches and this street was where to buy them.  Most volunteers were stationed in large villages where they lived in apartments located over stores, restaurants or other businesses and usually cooked their own meals or ate at a local restaurant.  Volunteers stationed in smaller towns lived with host families who provided a room and plenty to eat.  Even living with a host, having the ability to cook western-style meals was a blessing.  I knew I would be glad to have the stove and pots with me.
Every new turn and alley revealed something new to me.  Kathmandu was kaleidoscopic mixture of beliefs, practices, behavior and cultures.  Buddhist priests wearing orange robes mingled with Hindus, Muslims and the faiths of the tourists from many nations.  Hindu and Buddhist statues, shrines and temples populated every street, and religious demonstrations including processionals were a common event as were wandering sacred cows, feral dogs, Fortune Tellers, beggar, tradesmen and an occasional Holy Man.
Outer, low walls of stone and cement surrounded many of the round-shaped temples and some had wrought iron fencing encircling them.  Within the framework of the fencing were cups where devout worshipers lit candles or oil lamps and burned pieces of paper.  It was my understanding that the paper had prayers on them that the flames sent to the god they worshiped. 
At one temple, I watched a woman go down on her knees as if
genuflecting, but her decent continued until she was lying prone on the ground.  Then she stood up, taking a step forward in the process, and repeated the sequence.  I do not know how long it took for her to go completely around the temple nor how many times she made the trip.  I thought of this woman when I learned that Martin Luther, before he nailed his ninety-five theses to the chapel door, circled the church on his knees.  I saw religious icons, buildings and activities everywhere I roamed.  Some people spun prayer wheels, others hit cymbals or bells and many people offered sacrifices.  Everyone worshiping
seemed to chant.  Returning to the hotel, I wondered about how my own American culture and Christian beliefs filtered my observation and often felt guilty about letting my own Bible readings lapse while in training.  There were so many demands and distractions that every night I fell into bed exhausted.
 Part of our training was a total immersion experience, which I dreaded as soon as I heard about it.  On that feared day, three of us joined a trainer in one of the Headquarters’ cars and drove us up into the hills north of the city.  The first place he stopped appeared to be a typical farmhouse where a congenial man, clasping his hands together as if saying a prayer, greeted us with a hearty “Namaste.”  He then shook the trainer’s hand and, after introductions, greeted the volunteer we were leaving at his house.  As we drove away, I turned and watched the two of them chatting amiably as the host led his guest into his house.  The idea was that, after a brief stay with a host who did not know English, we were to find our way back to the hotel only using our Nepali language skills.  Our gracious hosts would give us directions in Nepali and we could seek additional help as we walked home. I thought, “If this was a ‘typical’ family, there was nothing to fear.”  Instead of feeling anxious, I began to look forward to meeting my host.
 After dropping off the other volunteer at a homestead very much like the first, the trainer and I continued up the hillside.  Seeing the farmer at the second farm greeted us the same way as the first man had, I stopped worrying about my return.  The trip from the second house was long, involved and confusing. Eventually, we stopped at a comparatively large estate protected by two large, ferocious dogs.  Wanting to return to the city immediately, the trainer assured me that someone would be there and left me.  I waited, but after a long time I realized that no one was home.  I was alone without food or water.  The only other living things were two large, snarling, snapping dogs tied up a few feet away from me.  Lost, I started walking back to Kathmandu by following the way the trainer had left.  I was greatly encouraged to keep going by the monstrous, terrifying dogs behind me.  A few hundred feet away from the farm, the beasts behind me were satisfied with my progress and happily lost interest.  I then slowed my pace and considered my situation.
Trudging along the dirt road, I vaguely remembered some of the turns and twists we had taken on our drive up.   I reasoned that, when in doubt I would always choose to take larger roads leading downward.   Plodding along, I rehearsed in my mind how I would ask directions in Nepali, and reviewed the possible answers.  After a few hours, I easily found my own way back to the outskirts of the city.  Unfortunately, the labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets ahead totally confused me.  I had to depend on my language skills to get home.
When I finally reached the paved roads of Kathmandu, I started asking strangers for directions to the hotel.  After a few disastrous attempts at communication, I realized that very few people even knew of the hotel and those who had heard of it did not know where it was.  After one confusing exchange, I decided to ask how to get to the King’s Palace.  Once I was near the Palace, I knew I could find my way.   There was another obstacle to my success – most of the people I asked talked so fast and used so many unfamiliar words that I did not understand what they were saying.  Often, I only understood the directions through mutual pointing and gestures. By late afternoon I finally meandered into familiar territory and, after recognizing a familiar recessed idol of Shiva, I knew my way home.  It was evening and becoming dark when I finally walked up to my room.  The other volunteers had returned hours before.
It was not long after my ordeal that the Kathmandu part of our training was finished.  Before the deployment to our stations, we still needed specific teaching experiences using our language skills.  For the final phase of our preparation for service, we would practice different teaching methods in supervised classroom at a school close to our final destinations, which would remain unknown until all training aspects were completed.  During this final part of training, each of us would live with a host family and fully experience Nepali life. Half the remaining volunteers would serve in the eastern part of the country while the rest would be west of Kathmandu.  A few days before we were to leave, I sought advice from experienced volunteers.  They warned me that the Nepali were highly suspicious of We
sterners and thought anyone from America with a radio and camera was a CIA operative. 
On their advice, I left my radio, camera and most of my clothes in a locker at the Peace Corps Headquarters.  I took only my basic needs packed into an aluminum-framed backpack: the medical kit assigned to me, a sleeping bag, a few clothes, toiletries, my Bible, language books, flashlight, iodine tablets, candles, matches, camp stove, compact cooking kit and canteen. I left behind my precious new radio, camera equipment, and most of my clothes.
Eight other volunteers and I flew out of Kathmandu in an old, well cared for DC10 heading westward to Pokhara.  Although I knew the others in the group, my closest friends from training were on another flight going east.  Taking to the air, the others on the plane grouped together with their friends leaving me alone.  I listened as they shared anecdotes about our training, excitedly talked about their possible assignments and keeping in touch with each other.  Sitting next to a small, round portal alone and frightened, I stared out at the range of blocky, snow-covered mountains to the north.  Looking northeast toward Sagarmatha, all the peaks appeared to be the same height and I realized that I still did not know which of the white lumps Mount Everest was. During the next hour or so, I studied the jagged, forbidding shapes of the Himalayan range and watched as their rugged foothills unfolding beneath me.
Scarring the undulating terrain below were hundreds of small, terraced fields that paraded up the hillsides in rounded, irregular steps.  Traces of well-worn dirt paths wound between the fields as it intersected clumps of trees, little brown houses, and other, dusty walkways. Some of the terraces had blankets of new green growth while others were flooded with water. Most of the fields were dirty brown plots dry and devoid of life. Thin, black streams of water flowed down between the terraces twisting around rocky crevasses and merging into each other in their rapid decent.  Although out of sight, I knew the flows would quickly grow into rivers cascading to the valleys far below.

My thoughts suddenly snapped back to the present when I walked around one of the hill’s sharp curves and entered the edge of the forest.   A few steps in and spindly trees, thick mountain laurel and scattered clumps of bamboo surrounded me.  The pathway was dry, compacted and barren as it wound itself around outcroppings and larger rocks.  Nearby, I heard loud chirping of startled birds and rustling in the underbrush.  I knew I would soon be at an ancient rest area on top of a knoll with its large “Peepal Tree” providing shade and protection to weary travelers.  On the other side, the roadway broadened into an easier to walk pathway bordered with low walls of stone bordered it.

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