Monday, October 11
This homestay was such a cool experience. Austin and I woke up around 5:45, put our warm clothes on and went outside to take some pictures. It's a simple house made of adobe, and there's a small yard encased by a stone wall. More khursanis (chillis) than I've ever seen were drying against the wall. The charpi is removed from the house and has a board missing from the very low ceiling, so when we went out before bed, I could stick my head out and see the stars as I peed. After a few minutes, our host came out to brush her teeth and gather firewood. Then she led us up to the kitchen room and had us sit down as her husband and then, one by one, her three kids tumbled in from bed in the next room. The bottom floor of the house stores apples and other foodstuffs, and a simple staircase takes you up to three small bedrooms and the small kitchen. Once we sere seated, our host Aamaa served us sweet black instant coffee, that was somehow delicious. The stove in the middle of the room reminded me slightly of a maple syrup evaporator in that firewood was pushed in from the front and end and the front burner was the hottest of the three. Lifting a lid on each burner exposed the flame of coals underneath accordingly. Once the dad and the 4-year-old and youngest son were seated, they put some corn in a bowl on the stove and covered it once the kernels started popping. We could barely finish the double portion they gave us. We were fairly successful in hearing a conversation with them, mostly about our homes, our families, what we were doing in Nepal, and how much we liked the food. Dan dhai, who teaches at a technical college in Jumla and works with an NGO that does sanitation work, among other things, stopped in for a few minutes of coffee and translating, but the rest of the time we were on our own, and when we explained we'd studied Nepali for two weeks in Kirtipur, they exclaimed at how perfect it was. Hah!
After returning to the campsite for breakfast, we dispersed with our research groups for the first of our our village interviews. Lulu, Steve, Tim, and I headed to the village with Manjeet to interview families about their agricultural practices. We talked to a woman distilling raksi, Nepal's home-brewed liquor, in the pathway, a few siblings on their family's rooftop, and two men on the respective rooves. Manjeet had translated all of our research questions for us and Lulu did a great job asking them in Nepali from what he'd written out, while I took pictures, Steve took notes, and all of us pitched in as new questions came up. We got to hold a young rabbit and were served apples and walnuts during our second interview. We learned a lot about what's grown, what's sold, who does what work when, what animals each family has, challenges present them, and more. It was amazing to be conducting this real-life research as we walked from house to house in this village. I mean—who does that? We've got it good, that's all I can say. The third interview we held was with an older man who, on top of everything else, kept bees in eight beautifully made hives outside of his house and many more up at his fields, and sells the honey for 2000 Nrps per kilogram.
After our research, we packed up, had a belated church service, ate lunch, got our fourth tikkas since arriving in Jumla, shouldered our packs, and headed out. We hiked for just a couple of hours along a river and through a beautiful forest, green with moss. Leaves covered the ground and it felt so much like fall. After the last break we took, the remaining uphill was pretty challenging, and once we saw a village up ahead, I hoped that's where we were staying, until we passed right bay. But one we rounded the corner uphill of the village, there was the rest of the group, sitting on a high wall enjoying the incredible view. Aaahhhh. After that, it was tea, relaxing, dinner, and bed.
Monday, October 25, 2010
First day of trekking
Sunday, October 10th. Happy Birthday Vincent!
Woke up at 4 this morning thanks to a front desk wake-up call. Left around 5, got in the bus with 11 French mountaineers and headed to the smallest airport I've been to. Got a 20-passenger plane (crew included) and flew for 35 minutes into the mountains before landing at the even smaller airport of Jumla. Welcomed by tikkas and marigold garlands, I was in heaven (I know, again) all through our long, meandering walk with Indra to a picnic tarp in a darling field outside of a beautiful stone school building with blue window frames. Upon offing our shoes and sitting down, we were served none other than hot Tang. Hallelujah. We're surrounded by fields of millet, buckweat, and barley as we wait here for our other half in the crisp cool air and warm sun of 2000 meters. I just had the best apple I've ever eaten, and now I revel in how good and beautiful life is.
Once the rest of the group gets here, we hike along a big, beautiful mountain river, stopping every half hour for a quick rest. When we get to the village, Kumar, one of the kitchen crew members, throws grapes down from a trellised rooftop where Brett is helping a storekeeper reach the high bunches. We walk through the rest of Urthu's small bazaar and some fields to find that our campsite is right on the bank of the river. We drop our packs and dip our feet in the icy water. The mules who carried our kitchen and much of our gear, freed of their saddles, roll around goofily on their backs, grateful to be free of the load, even after such a short hike of just 2 hours. A troupe of small children from the village come out to play. We skip rocks. They far out-do us. We're served tea.
Austin and I wander downstream to an awesome bridge made of the two halves of a huge tree trunk. We ascend a set of steps on the other side and run into Dan dhai, our trip leader, who had just been setting up our homestays, and took us back up into Urthu to show us the three different beautiful stone and adobe houses where the six of us who chose to will be sleeping tonight. All had wonderful Aamaas who welcomed us in—and one of which sat us down and handed us some of the abundant local apples.
Back at the campsite, we're blessed with our second tikka of the day and single marigolds by a local women's group. We sing “Country Roads,” part of our prepared cultural presentation, to their supposed enjoyment.
Later that afternoon, we wandered back into Urthu as a group and gather on a rooftop, where most if not all of the area's 95 households were sitting and standing on one side. We sat on the other, and took turns presenting songs. We sang “Country Roads,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and hymn 148 in a quartet. They presented two songs with dancers—one group of young girls and the other of older women—and then a light-hearted rendition of a traditional exorcism in which a young man flailed around crazily, made odd sounds, threw rice in the air, and danced around with a cowbell to the beat of a drum, in order to heal a victim (in this case, Brett, who giggled hilariously throughout) of a spirit. We all found it rather funny and so were glad when they all laughed too. We finished with a joint attempt at Resam Phiriri.
We eat dinner back by the river under a large dining tent, and then Austin, Lacey, Lulu, Amelia, Ana, and I follow Dan dhai back across the bridge to our homestays, where no one is there to greet us anymore, but we hope to see them in the morning. The sky is so dark, the stars are so bright, and the air is silent at 8:00 pm, except for the gentle rolling of the river and the incessant barking of a far off dog or two. This is trekking. We are trekking. Good night.
Woke up at 4 this morning thanks to a front desk wake-up call. Left around 5, got in the bus with 11 French mountaineers and headed to the smallest airport I've been to. Got a 20-passenger plane (crew included) and flew for 35 minutes into the mountains before landing at the even smaller airport of Jumla. Welcomed by tikkas and marigold garlands, I was in heaven (I know, again) all through our long, meandering walk with Indra to a picnic tarp in a darling field outside of a beautiful stone school building with blue window frames. Upon offing our shoes and sitting down, we were served none other than hot Tang. Hallelujah. We're surrounded by fields of millet, buckweat, and barley as we wait here for our other half in the crisp cool air and warm sun of 2000 meters. I just had the best apple I've ever eaten, and now I revel in how good and beautiful life is.
Once the rest of the group gets here, we hike along a big, beautiful mountain river, stopping every half hour for a quick rest. When we get to the village, Kumar, one of the kitchen crew members, throws grapes down from a trellised rooftop where Brett is helping a storekeeper reach the high bunches. We walk through the rest of Urthu's small bazaar and some fields to find that our campsite is right on the bank of the river. We drop our packs and dip our feet in the icy water. The mules who carried our kitchen and much of our gear, freed of their saddles, roll around goofily on their backs, grateful to be free of the load, even after such a short hike of just 2 hours. A troupe of small children from the village come out to play. We skip rocks. They far out-do us. We're served tea.
Austin and I wander downstream to an awesome bridge made of the two halves of a huge tree trunk. We ascend a set of steps on the other side and run into Dan dhai, our trip leader, who had just been setting up our homestays, and took us back up into Urthu to show us the three different beautiful stone and adobe houses where the six of us who chose to will be sleeping tonight. All had wonderful Aamaas who welcomed us in—and one of which sat us down and handed us some of the abundant local apples.
Back at the campsite, we're blessed with our second tikka of the day and single marigolds by a local women's group. We sing “Country Roads,” part of our prepared cultural presentation, to their supposed enjoyment.
Later that afternoon, we wandered back into Urthu as a group and gather on a rooftop, where most if not all of the area's 95 households were sitting and standing on one side. We sat on the other, and took turns presenting songs. We sang “Country Roads,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and hymn 148 in a quartet. They presented two songs with dancers—one group of young girls and the other of older women—and then a light-hearted rendition of a traditional exorcism in which a young man flailed around crazily, made odd sounds, threw rice in the air, and danced around with a cowbell to the beat of a drum, in order to heal a victim (in this case, Brett, who giggled hilariously throughout) of a spirit. We all found it rather funny and so were glad when they all laughed too. We finished with a joint attempt at Resam Phiriri.
We eat dinner back by the river under a large dining tent, and then Austin, Lacey, Lulu, Amelia, Ana, and I follow Dan dhai back across the bridge to our homestays, where no one is there to greet us anymore, but we hope to see them in the morning. The sky is so dark, the stars are so bright, and the air is silent at 8:00 pm, except for the gentle rolling of the river and the incessant barking of a far off dog or two. This is trekking. We are trekking. Good night.
Across Nepal via bus: when 200 miles takes 1O hours
Saturday, October 9th
Where did the mountains go? It's suddenly flat here in the Terai—Nepal's skinny southern strip of lowlands. Their dark outlines don't even shadow the horizon anymore. For once, the only roads don't wind narrowly through the hills, dropping off completely where elsewhere there might be a shoulder, or a guard rail at least. Now we drive on relatively straight stretches. But here, even the smoothest roads are bumpy as hell.
We drive past more animals than people: Dozens of water buffalo chillin' in a river, goats everywhere. And a flock of beautiful cranes take off at once. The houses are so cool. Most of them are adobe-like with sweet, rounded edges and thatched rooves. Instead of hewn lumber for support, they're built with straight-up branches. I wonder how they fare in storms.
Well, as usual, I missed the transition and here we are back in the mountains, back to the real meaning of bumpy. I don't know how that happened so fast. One minute it's flat, as far as the eye can see, and the next minute I look out on a canyon hundreds of feet below, and sheer slopes rising high on every side, carved by countless landslides, half forest, half rock. The houses are much fewer and farther between, but every once in a while we pass a cluster of them, all with thatched rooves and log walls, or no walls at all. As we come down onto flatter ground, most of the thatched rooves cover walls of beautiful orange-red or golden clay instead, and some houses are made of brick and have tin or other rooves.
Now we're in a big valley, and after crossing a huge river where women wash clothes on boulders and a group of mostly naked children plays on the bank, and then driving through a short urban stretch, we're in a more densely-populated area where shop walls hold advertisements for Shalimar paints, some houses have two stories and are painted, and thatched rooves are mostly confined to sheds and stalls. Instead of large expanses of rice fields and terraces, farms consist of many small patches of different crops.
After a couple more bathroom breaks in the roadside woods, some much-appreciated crackers, and my best attempt at napping, we arrive in Nepalgunj—what appears to be a typical Nepali city. Our hotel is apparently leagues above the “Hotel Aroma,” where Mike and Chris stayed last time they were here.
Had a Chinese lunch (delicious onion and crouton soup) and then a wonderful metaphysical meeting before an Indian dinner and an early bedtime.
Where did the mountains go? It's suddenly flat here in the Terai—Nepal's skinny southern strip of lowlands. Their dark outlines don't even shadow the horizon anymore. For once, the only roads don't wind narrowly through the hills, dropping off completely where elsewhere there might be a shoulder, or a guard rail at least. Now we drive on relatively straight stretches. But here, even the smoothest roads are bumpy as hell.
We drive past more animals than people: Dozens of water buffalo chillin' in a river, goats everywhere. And a flock of beautiful cranes take off at once. The houses are so cool. Most of them are adobe-like with sweet, rounded edges and thatched rooves. Instead of hewn lumber for support, they're built with straight-up branches. I wonder how they fare in storms.
Well, as usual, I missed the transition and here we are back in the mountains, back to the real meaning of bumpy. I don't know how that happened so fast. One minute it's flat, as far as the eye can see, and the next minute I look out on a canyon hundreds of feet below, and sheer slopes rising high on every side, carved by countless landslides, half forest, half rock. The houses are much fewer and farther between, but every once in a while we pass a cluster of them, all with thatched rooves and log walls, or no walls at all. As we come down onto flatter ground, most of the thatched rooves cover walls of beautiful orange-red or golden clay instead, and some houses are made of brick and have tin or other rooves.
Now we're in a big valley, and after crossing a huge river where women wash clothes on boulders and a group of mostly naked children plays on the bank, and then driving through a short urban stretch, we're in a more densely-populated area where shop walls hold advertisements for Shalimar paints, some houses have two stories and are painted, and thatched rooves are mostly confined to sheds and stalls. Instead of large expanses of rice fields and terraces, farms consist of many small patches of different crops.
After a couple more bathroom breaks in the roadside woods, some much-appreciated crackers, and my best attempt at napping, we arrive in Nepalgunj—what appears to be a typical Nepali city. Our hotel is apparently leagues above the “Hotel Aroma,” where Mike and Chris stayed last time they were here.
Had a Chinese lunch (delicious onion and crouton soup) and then a wonderful metaphysical meeting before an Indian dinner and an early bedtime.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Inspiration from Siddhartha
So the abroad has proved to be an amazing setting for the swapping of all sorts of amazing and inspiring books, and one of the them, purchased by Amelia in the Delhi airport, is Herman Hesse's Siddhartha. Here's a quote from the end of the book, when Siddhartha shares some wisdom with his childhood friend Govinda:
“'When someone is seeking,' said Siddhartha, 'it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal. You, O worthy one, are perhaps indeed a seeker, for in striving towards your goal, you do not see many things that are under your nose.'”
I've been thinking about that a lot--how we don't actually progress without that receptive and freedom.
“'When someone is seeking,' said Siddhartha, 'it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal. You, O worthy one, are perhaps indeed a seeker, for in striving towards your goal, you do not see many things that are under your nose.'”
I've been thinking about that a lot--how we don't actually progress without that receptive and freedom.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
engaging
On Monday afternoon, Mike took us up the hill and around the corner and then sent us out to various spots on the hillside in our research groups. Tim, Steve, Lulu, and I couldn't find a way up to our loosely assigned spot, so we ended up wandering up a dried up river bed/ road (wondering all the while what they do when the river runs) and eventually found a nice, partly shaded spot from which to observe and sketch the natural surroundings. It was just a perfect spot, and I will never stop marveling at the terracing covering the hillsides. Farmers long, long ago, far before anything like modern farm equipment existed, molded their steep, unfarmable land into wide, perfect staircases, creating one flat surface after another on which to plant rice, millet, maize, and other crops. When it rains or when the mountain snow melts, water filters through from one level to the next and on through each terrace, all the way down the mountainside to the bottom of the valley, which is also covered in fields. Would you believe I had fun drawing all this?
When we were done with time to spare, Tim, Steve, and I hiked up the road further till we saw a young man leading an ox out to graze. We did our best to strike up a conversation with him, and it turned out he spoke a little bit of English, so between that and our "ali ali" Nepali, we managed to make a friend. His name is Krishna and he seemed to be a few years older than we. We weren't sure if the small children standing by were his. He brought us over near his house to where two cows and two goats stood in one large stall and the two oxen in the other. We didn't actually go into his house, but we could see it from where we stood, and it looked very nice, with an open front and stucco walls inside. We said goodbye after asking him about a few different trees in his yard (one of which, of course, was a banana tree!), and decided afterward that we'd do our best to go back and see him again when we come back after our trek.
Tuesday night, Amelia, Austin, Steve, and I went to the Bluebell restaurant across the street for dinner. What followed was one of the coolest experiences to date. We walked past a girl doing homework, through a narrow hallway past the small kitchen where the mom and son stood, to one of two tables overlooking the lake in the back. When the woman came out to take our order, we all sheepishly asked if she would make breakfast at that hour (we'd hadn't been able to get breakfast at the guest house the night before), and she agreed with a laugh, so we all ordered either eggs and hash browns (which, here, means deliciously spiced potatoes) or the most heavenly cinnamon french toast imaginable. Shortly thereafter she came out again with a chair for our bags and to apologize that the power went out and her daughter brought out a candle. Then the youngest daughter appeared along with the family cat. This little girl was so adorable, and we had a long conversation with her in Nepali. We agreed that it was much easier to use Nepali with non-judgmental children who don't care what you accidentally call them.
The food, as I implied, was absolutely delicious and as soon as it got dark we saw fireflies everywhere around us. The coffee chocolate banana shakes we ordered couldn't be made because of the power outage, but we had already decided to come back. The family was unbelievably sweet, and we all gave them more money than the cost of our meal had required. They were incredibly grateful for the service it seemed, and it we made sure to spread the word and give them more business.
Last night when we had a much too big cake for Theo's birthday, Austin and I brought two pieces of cake over to the restaurant, explaining that we had extra and that we'd be coming back in two weeks. She was very happy and gave me a hug and then offered us tea, which we had to decline with a "pherri betaulaa" (see you again.
There's a little more catching up to do, but it will have to wait until we get back, at which point I'll copy everything over from my journal. Jumla, here we come!
When we were done with time to spare, Tim, Steve, and I hiked up the road further till we saw a young man leading an ox out to graze. We did our best to strike up a conversation with him, and it turned out he spoke a little bit of English, so between that and our "ali ali" Nepali, we managed to make a friend. His name is Krishna and he seemed to be a few years older than we. We weren't sure if the small children standing by were his. He brought us over near his house to where two cows and two goats stood in one large stall and the two oxen in the other. We didn't actually go into his house, but we could see it from where we stood, and it looked very nice, with an open front and stucco walls inside. We said goodbye after asking him about a few different trees in his yard (one of which, of course, was a banana tree!), and decided afterward that we'd do our best to go back and see him again when we come back after our trek.
Tuesday night, Amelia, Austin, Steve, and I went to the Bluebell restaurant across the street for dinner. What followed was one of the coolest experiences to date. We walked past a girl doing homework, through a narrow hallway past the small kitchen where the mom and son stood, to one of two tables overlooking the lake in the back. When the woman came out to take our order, we all sheepishly asked if she would make breakfast at that hour (we'd hadn't been able to get breakfast at the guest house the night before), and she agreed with a laugh, so we all ordered either eggs and hash browns (which, here, means deliciously spiced potatoes) or the most heavenly cinnamon french toast imaginable. Shortly thereafter she came out again with a chair for our bags and to apologize that the power went out and her daughter brought out a candle. Then the youngest daughter appeared along with the family cat. This little girl was so adorable, and we had a long conversation with her in Nepali. We agreed that it was much easier to use Nepali with non-judgmental children who don't care what you accidentally call them.
The food, as I implied, was absolutely delicious and as soon as it got dark we saw fireflies everywhere around us. The coffee chocolate banana shakes we ordered couldn't be made because of the power outage, but we had already decided to come back. The family was unbelievably sweet, and we all gave them more money than the cost of our meal had required. They were incredibly grateful for the service it seemed, and it we made sure to spread the word and give them more business.
Last night when we had a much too big cake for Theo's birthday, Austin and I brought two pieces of cake over to the restaurant, explaining that we had extra and that we'd be coming back in two weeks. She was very happy and gave me a hug and then offered us tea, which we had to decline with a "pherri betaulaa" (see you again.
There's a little more catching up to do, but it will have to wait until we get back, at which point I'll copy everything over from my journal. Jumla, here we come!
Monday, October 4, 2010
the adventure continues
Once again, we've arrived in heaven. This time it's called Pokhara. We left Kirtipur early yesterday morning in a flurry of dhanyabads, namastes, and "pherri auunus," and 100 miles (or about 45 as the crow flies) and eight and a half hours later, complete with two mountain traffic jams, a broken drive shaft 20 minutes out, pushing the bus off the road and loading into a new one, we arrived at the Three Sisters Guest House, far too late and yet just in time for dal bhat and mango nectar and a walk along Fewa Lake and through town. After dinner on our own, we had a late church service up on the roof of the office/childrens' school a couple doors down. Town is at the same time quaint and touristy (filled with restaurants and outdoor gear shops), and the setting is so beautiful. The sky was amazing, and hang-gliders tickled the horizon.
We're surrounded by farmed and forested mountains right now, but this morning we were rowed across the lake and hiked up to a mountain-top stupa, from where we could see the Holy and thus unclimbed Fishtail (I forget the Nepali name right now), with the Daulagiri to the left and the Annapurna to the right. Like I said: heaven.
On our walk yesterday, we spoke some Nepali with a darling family of mother (aamaa) and three kids, took in the water, the mountains, the clean air, and walked through the town where it seemed every other shop offered a different price for hang-gliding (which, it turns out, will have to wait for a future adventure). But the sky. The sky was just incredible. The bright white clouds populated the sky in tall, billowy tower of heavenly perfection, and the sun's rays broke free and shone shamelessly through as if the great star just couldn't keep from glorifying all things good.
We're surrounded by farmed and forested mountains right now, but this morning we were rowed across the lake and hiked up to a mountain-top stupa, from where we could see the Holy and thus unclimbed Fishtail (I forget the Nepali name right now), with the Daulagiri to the left and the Annapurna to the right. Like I said: heaven.
On our walk yesterday, we spoke some Nepali with a darling family of mother (aamaa) and three kids, took in the water, the mountains, the clean air, and walked through the town where it seemed every other shop offered a different price for hang-gliding (which, it turns out, will have to wait for a future adventure). But the sky. The sky was just incredible. The bright white clouds populated the sky in tall, billowy tower of heavenly perfection, and the sun's rays broke free and shone shamelessly through as if the great star just couldn't keep from glorifying all things good.
Friday, October 1, 2010
some context
Tomorrow ends our second week here at Cornell's Nepal Study Program (CNSP), which is part of the University here in Kirtipur. We have our last language class today, and we leave early in the morning on Sunday for Pokhara, where we'll be recouping and preparing for our conservation research. After a few days, we leave for rural Jumla and the great Himalayas! From there we'll be trekking from village to village and holding interviews will the help of research assistants. We don't know what our research topics will be, but I couldn't be more excited to begin the project. Who gets to go from interview to interview via foot trail?
During that time we won't be on the internet at all, so once we leave Pokhara, it will be a couple of weeks until you hear from me again.
Everyone here, where we're already captivated by the amazing views, says that Pokhara is absolutely beautiful, so I await it expectantly. I bartered down to 1100 nrs for a second memory card in Thamel yesterday, so I'll have plenty of space for pictures.
Namaste, pheri beThauula (see you again)!
During that time we won't be on the internet at all, so once we leave Pokhara, it will be a couple of weeks until you hear from me again.
Everyone here, where we're already captivated by the amazing views, says that Pokhara is absolutely beautiful, so I await it expectantly. I bartered down to 1100 nrs for a second memory card in Thamel yesterday, so I'll have plenty of space for pictures.
Namaste, pheri beThauula (see you again)!
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