I Got Some Splaining to Do...

November 15, 2013

The recent black out on this blog has been due to several factors, some legitimate - others not so much. I have not been involved in any motorcycle accident, nor I have not been kidnapped as an infidel, and have I gone renegade - defecting in order to defend a fledgling peoples noble cause, although sometimes I wish I could do that. I was, however, on a covert mission. I returned home in secrecy to attend the wedding of two close friends. For five splendid autumn weeks I got to be with friends and family. It was a beautiful trip which I have written about elsewhere, but more on that later.

Ten days ago I returned to Nepal, opting again to stay in Bhaktapur rather than Kathmandu. I'm quite taken by the city of Bhaktapur. I imagine that when people dream of Kathmandu the images they conjure in their minds-eye are more in line with the reality of Bhaktapur than the chaos of Kathmandu.

Bhaktapur is a cloistered city. Multi-story tenements form a gridded maze of narrow alleyways and broad thoroughfares. The overall palette of the city has an ochre bias, especially in sunlight. The buildings and streets are brick, and have varying shades of red depending on their age. Woodwork on the buildings is extensive and ornate. All windows frames and shutters are stained some flavor of brown, and are fashioned in traditional Newari style. The aesthetic is both ancient and quaint, much the residents.

The primary draws for tourists are the cultural relics that surround Bhaktapur's Durbar - meaning 'Royal' or 'Palace' - Square. The various temples and kingly residences of the bygone regal era are well preserved and substantial. The main square provides ample space for the throngs of tourists on day trips from Kathmandu. Although tourism related businesses dominate these areas of interest, Bhaktapur remains a functioning Nepali city independent of tourism.

The temples are still revered by locals,  who are predominantly Hindu. They are visited by the faithful every day. The most devout make beguilingly noisy prostrations, which somehow involves discordant bell ringing and mantra chanting. This mysterious practice is reserved for the pre-dawn hours, usually just outside my window. The combination of jet-lag and these wonderful ceremonies had me up and out early each of my first few days in Bhaktapur. Locals begin to trickle out of their home early, and completely fill the streets by 5:30. A steady stream of tourists begins to arrive about four hours later.

The back alleys of Bhaktapur are as charming as they are confounding. Many of them lead to dead ends - often people's doorsteps, or public courtyards. On several occasions I've walked confidently past a group of chatting locals down a blind alley, returning seconds later with a sheepish grin, wearing the invisible yet universal sign that reads: 'Tourist'. Not that I can ever hide the obvious. White skin, curly hair, and a backpack pretty much tell the story. These hidden streets are considerably more ramshackle than the main squares, but no less appealing. They are bursting with life, authentic Nepali life.

Kathmandu, by contrast, is a teeming and rapidly modernizing metropolis. Traditional garb is on the way out. Broken concrete replaces the weathered brick roads one experiences in Bhaktapur. Although the structures in Kathmandu's Durbar Square are more massive, they're less special for it. The open areas are jam-packed with tourists, and the touts which harangue them non-stop.

In summation, Bhaktapur tends to make me wonder what Seven Years In Tibet would look like if set in an ancient Hindu mountain town. Kathmandu, by contrast, tends to make me wonder how the dystopian landscape in Blade Runner might have been portrayed if Stanley Kubrick had spent a year living in Thamel - Kathmandu's main backpacker haunt.

Needless to say, I'm happy to be back in Bhaktapur. However, there is no place like home, and after five weeks of comfort it was hard to leave. However, I flew there and back on the wings of goodness. I hadn't planned to return home until my trip was complete - which may have meant spending several consecutive years away from home. I think it is good for the soul to experience such a complete disconnect. Not to escape, but to gain a wider perspective on ones total journey through life. You can't find home until you've lost it; and you can't find surrender until you let go.

Once commonplace, such trips are almost impossible nowadays. A trip across America just 100 years ago required considerably more bravado and uncertainty than a trip to Inner Mongolia would today. I think the mass of humanity has benefited tremendously from the radical interconnectivity of nations and people, but we have lost something too. I get a sense that, particularly in the most developed nations, and particularly amongst the younger generations, there is too much psychological security. We have inured ourselves against facing an inherently insecure existence - the acknowledgement and acceptance of which makes each moment so precious.     

Nevertheless I did return home for a while. It was an act of kindness which brought me back. Back in July I officially declined an invitation to the wedding of two close friends. Thankfully two other good friends, who had heard that I would not be in attendance, collaborated to wake me up to the true purpose of my trip: happiness. In August I was able to Skype with one of them.

"You're part of our group. Everyone is going to be at the wedding, and it wouldn't be the same without you. We'd be more than happy to fly you out."

I was, and still am, moved by that offer, which I gratefully accepted.

"I'll figure out a way to make it work" I said almost immediately, more as a reaction to the emotional sentiment surrounding the offer than a calculated decision of trip logistics. However, my friend was prescient.

"Take some time to think about it first. I respect what you're doing, and I know that you're in to your travels. But, the offer is there."

That statement gave me pause; a reason to reflect on what I was doing. The days after the offer to return home was laid on the table were filled with inner conflict. There is such a thing as being "in" a trip. Events glide smoothly along unobstructed rails of total freedom. Everything is novel. There are no problems. Things just happen. Did I really want to leave that behind?

In the end, the magnanimity of the situation won out. Financial considerations aside, that someone would even think to pluck me from the Himalayan hilltops, let alone take action to ensure that it happens, overwhelmed me. I happily capitulated, and was homeward bound the following month. To have a bit of fun we kept it a secret, which is why I didn't blog about it. I've no clue why I didn't write while I was home. It was a highlight of the year. The prevailing attitude during my five weeks stateside was unbridled positivity; not such much from me but from everyone that surrounded me. Note: surround yourself with positive people.

Even the weather cooperated. The skies were often sunny and clear, the conditions seasonal and temperate, and the foliage stunning. I haven't glimpsed a New England style fall in years. The motorcycle which I left in storage - an aesthetically pleasing Triumph Bonneville - started up with no complaints. For five weeks it provided a zippy and convenient way to get around town. 

The wedding itself was spectacular. I was reminded of power of ceremony; how it heightens an experience. So also was I reminded of the power of symbolism; how it makes things more than real. And, I was reminded by the power of unity; of two people becoming one relationship, two families becoming a continuous unit, and entire communities of friends and family coming together to sanctify the whole ordeal. Generally speaking, I'm a curmudgeonly cynic when it comes to weddings. I get worried that the intention of a wedding gets lost amidst the fanfare of having a wedding. They're too perfect, and it drives me nuts. That said, I reversed of more than a few of my opinions concerning weddings during my trip home.   

I haven't posted anything sooner because, during the return trip to Nepal, I mindlessly left a newly purchased laptop somewhere in Dubai International Airport. It's gone; stuck somewhere in the past. So it goes. Of course, there were the normal frustrations that come from making such mistakes, but it provided me an opportunity to put some theory into practice. It's easy to follow the logic of maintaining a calm temperament when things "go wrong". Does anything ever go wrong besides in one's own head? Meditation has taught me some handy tricks to tidy up my inner world. But, as with most things under the purview of emotional self-regulation, it's easier said than done.

One week later and I have acquired a suitable replacement here in Nepal - no small feat if you've ever travelled in the developing world. Writing this entry has dealt frustration its final blow. Perspective is everything. Catharsis is always helpful.  

 

Although I had a tough time leaving home, I'm glad to be travelling again. For now, it is where I belong. I've got some adventures planned. I'll be riding around Kathmandu valley all week as I await an Indian visa. I've got plans to link back up with my friend Girish, with whom I did some adventuring through Ladakh, Leh, and Kashmir. If all goes as planned, we'll be journeying into the less explored regions of NE India in December. After that, I'll head to Calcutta, and then southern India.

Unfortunately, as far as logistics go, things are getting complicated. Bangladesh is now out because of new restrictions on bringing in your own vehicle. India's legendary bureaucracy is tripping me up with rules, regulations, exceptions, and loads of paperwork. Currently, I plan to exit India into Pakistan in April, and continue through Central Asian countries towards Europe. I'll be mindful of the security situation there, which I fear may be changing for the worse. That said, I've heard nothing but glowing reviews from people who've recently ridden through Pakistan. This tends to confound people who watch the news, but that's a whole other story about the inaccuracies and biases which are necessary to run a profitable news outlet. The only data available to me suggests that riding a motorcycle in general is on the order of 100-1000 times more risky than travel in Pakistan, so my main priority remains safer riding. Unfortunately, the last few people I've talked to spoke of difficulties in obtaining the all important Pakistani visa. If I don't get that, then I'll be stuck, and I'm not sure what I'll do. So it goes.

Glad to be writing and travelling again!