The In Between Lands

November 26th, 2013

After a long break, I finally put some serious mileage on the bike during my ride form Kathmandu to Darjeeling. The 600km or so journey took three afternoons, with moderate time in the saddle each day. In retrospect I wish I had gone more slowly, and had taken more breaks. However, a mounting head-cold both hurried me along, and dampened my spirits. It was hard to muster sufficient motivation to take pause and reflect on the world around me.

More and more I'm coming to appreciate the places which seem unappreciable. In much of the developing world, the small cities which lie between major destinations are, more often than not, predominantly rubble and squalor. They are a nexus of modernity. Creation and destruction are simultaneously on display. Newly affordable motorbikes skirt by ox-carts and cycle-rickshaws on congested thoroughfares. Facades and large additions are added to existing structures in a slapdash manner. Nearby buildings - which don't appear all that old - are already starting to crumble.

To me, these places are demonstrative of the power and of the human spirit. The frenetic energy of a hive suffuses the streets, and people make raw and gritty attempt at progress. There is order in the chaos, too. Food markets go in one place, transportation hubs in another. Agglomerating the more modern stores seems to be the norm. Cell-phone outlets and electronic stores are found near motorbike vendors and so-called department stores, which sell "modern apparel". It looks exactly like Main Street, USA, provided someone detonated an atom bomb nearby. The people are well poised, and certainly kind to strangers. However, the incomprehensible level of inequity in world is plain to see.    

I would estimate that most of the people in such places are not living in severe poverty, defined by the WHO as subsisting on $1.25 or less per day - a terrifying fate that defines the reality of 1,000,000,000 people on this planet. Judging by the level of development - roads, clean water, electricity, education, and several small businesses - as well as the cost of one meal in an eatery (anywhere from 25 cents to $1, depending on the portion) I'm fairly certain that most of the residents in these "in-between-lands" have several dollars a day on which to get by. The difference may sound trifling, even comical, but empirically speaking that small difference enables a considerable increase in well-being and opportunity. Life is still hard, and knowledge of the world at large is breathtakingly constrained, but compared to the unlucky masses of people born into severe poverty, the daily agonies of life are considerably reduced.

Nevertheless, I couldn't help but acknowledge and despair at all the drudgery and ignorance I was witnessing. Looking back, I think the mounting cold was bringing forth my inner cynic. For days I could think of little else besides the endless toil, and a perpetually uncomfortable life I saw. All along the western section of Nepal's Mahindra-Highway, an never-ending stream of people plied the roadside. On bicycles, on foot, stuffed in or on-top of crowded busses, human-beings and their cargo traipsed along the road. Countless other labored in the adjacent fields. I've been witness to scenes like this on countless occasions. I don't know why I couldn't get away from thinking about the mind-boggling drudgery of it all. Perhaps it was cynicism; perhaps it is realism couched in cynical terms.    

However, there were bastions of hope. As always, peoples attitude towards me were the most encouraging. Regardless of circumstance, people are generally kind. I feel like an ass travelling on the bike I have. It's huge; unlike anything most people have ever seen. It's loaded to the hilt with luggage and accessories, which necessarily makes my arrival an ostentatious affair. I enjoy an irony of privilege, I suppose. I don't care about motorcycles at all, yet that's all people see when I come along, and I don't blame them. Rather than despise my excess, most seem to truly delight in the oversized motorcycle. They usually ask several questions about it, which invariably includes questions about what it cost. I'm asked what I paid for it several times a day, if not a dozen. I basically understand why they're curious about how much it cost, and so I'm candid. In Nepal, due to a sky-high import tax on vehicles, many people balk at how cheap the bike was.

"Six Lak's (approximately 6,000 USD)! In Nepal, a bike like this costs much more. The tax! Very high."

Needless to say, that has not been the normal reaction. In most countries, spending $6,000 on a motorcycle is bewildering - end of story. Concepts like value, depreciation, and utility simply don't exist.

Aside from being graciously - even ceremoniously - received, I consistently see cause for hope in the younger generations. With increasingly regularity, I see glimpses of what looks to be an emerging, better informed, set of global values. While I'm wary of cultural relativism, I do think a global set of morals and ethics - that is independent from culture - will become necessary in a globalized world. Unfortunately, moral and ethical values seem inextricably entwined with culture at the moment, but unknotting that issue is a whole other topic.

At any rate, during my first night on the road in an wholly forgettable city, I sat down for dinner at a shanty-style eatery. I was joined by the usual cadre of the curious. Two precocious teens on my right ran the standard questions by me - "which country you from?", "are you married?", "how many people in your family?", and so on. A sloppy drunk sat down to my left, and aggressively vied for attention. He repeated an incoherent stream of guttural noises, but always ending in an emphatic and happy cry of "Democracy!". After which he'd smile, and we'd enthusiastically shake hands, presumably to celebrate democracy.

The host offered to remove the drunk, with a bit of reluctance in his eyes. I appreciated the offer, but told him not to bother. Everywhere that lacks a long standing drinking culture, the decision of whether or not to drink has a binary outcome. You either drink like an alcoholic, or else you're a teetotaler. Eventually the drunk calmed down. He gained enough composure to sit quietly, and respectfully drool on himself. I was able to direct my attention to the inquisitive teens.

We talked about the elections which had just taken place. The Democratic party had won in a landslide, gaining a majority of seats in the Nepali congress, all while reducing the former Communist supermajority to a minority party. The fourteen year-old seemed keen on the implications of this election. It was his hope that democratic management would increase the rate of development in every district.

"With development comes education, and with education comes freedom." He said.

Unfortunately, that's not a direct quote. What he said was far more eloquent and profound. Whatever he said truly rung my bell, and I wish I had written it down.

"Wow, and you think democracy can bring individual freedom to Nepal?" I asked, still flabbergasted.

"I hope so." He replied.

"Uh, Democracy!" Jabbered the drunk.

The following day I set out for the border town of Mechinagar. Following a full night of sustained attacks from mosquitoes and allergens, I was running on almost no sleep. A sore throat and other symptoms of an impending cold began to appear. I stopped for lunch in a random town; the motorcycle drawing in the usual crowd. I placed an order for food, and soon after I sat down a woman began to chat me up.

Given the context, I was quite taken aback. She looked vaguely modern, opting to wear practical, western-style attire which made her look frumpish. She was not old by any means, but certainly past the typical marrying age. Although coy, I wasn't under any impression that she was being flirtatious. Such an idea is patently absurd given the culture. The fact that she initiated conversation with me was astounding enough - a first, in fact. Compared to the men, who are bold and questioning - almost invasive - the women are completely standoffish towards initiating interactions with western men, especially in the more provincial regions. 

I got the mind that she was simply curious and unafraid. Her English was a bit broken, but I gathered that she had a degree in agriculture, and did some work for a company that sold mushrooms. She had two sons, but noted:

"We are also trying the women who work thing." She said, vaguely proud.

I asked her about the elections, and she seemed very pleased with the outcome.

"I'm also on a committee. Part of the community. We try to... ugh, my English... We try to help. Development."  She finally said, losing neither composure, nor an unassuming nature.

After that, she took off. It was a short exchange, the most profound aspects of which were revealed only in the subtleties.

As I pressed onward, the cold began to wear on me. I did what I could to keep the calorie and water intake high, which seemed to work. I decided to spend the night in Mechinagar, as opposed to passing through customs, and pressing onward to Darjeeling. I got going late the following day, and with a head full of decongestants made my way into the mountains around Darjeeling just before nightfall.

It was far colder than I expected, and the sun set a full hour earlier than it had in Kathmandu. I was worn out when I arrived, and slipped into the first decent hotel I could find. They offered me a great rate, and so I took the room. For $15 a night, it's not a world-class hotel, but everything is new, and nice-looking. The room is spacious, the shower is hot, the room-service is prompt and cheap, and the bed is large and relatively dust free. When I arrived I was cold to the bone, and feeling lousy. All I wanted was a great place to warm up, grab a good meal, and recoup for a few days.

All the way from Kathmandu to Darjeeling my subconscious was subtly pushing thoughts into my awareness. Everywhere I looked I kept thinking "My God, this all looks so... uncomfortable!"

Cynical. Realist. Ought. Is. Guilt. Fate. Pessimist. Optimist.

I do not yet know what to make of what I've seen in my life. For the time being, I'm simply grateful to be able to pick and choose where to lay my head for the night.

I'm currently parked inside the hotel lobby. Only in India.

Finally Moving

November 21st, 2013

Since arriving in Nepal I feel like I've spent an unconscionable amount of time piddling around - reading in cafe's, writing in my journal, staring at blank pages, and, worst of all, getting mindlessly lost in the depths of the Internet with all its intriguing distractions. To be honest, the majority of my "lost time" was sucked into that bottomless pit of shiny data.

That is why I'm happy to be travelling tomorrow. My Indian visa now in hand, and my onward route draws itself. On December 13th I'm scheduled to meet my friend Girish approximately 1100km due east of where I now sit. Girish will be flying into Guwahati, Assam, India for two weeks of vacation, and adventure. I leave Kathmandu tomorrow morning and head for the eastern border town of Mechinagar, which may take a couple days to reach. From there it's a short trip to Darjeeling, a famous and splendid hill-station in West Bengal, India. I imagine I'll drink some tea, read my book, and be off to Gangtok, capital of Sikkim, in short order.

I'm especially excited to see Gangtok. Similar to Kathmandu, Gangtok lies at the foothills of the Himalayas, only further east. To the north is Tibet, to the east, Bhutan. Though ethnically Sino-Tibetan, the people in Gangtok have their own indigenous culture, and language. From what I hear, the surrounds are very similar to neighboring Bhutan - a country still largely walled off to western tourists. Indian and Nepali residents may tour the Bhutan to their liking, but westerners must be in an organized tour group, and must pay for the $200 per-day for the visa. What I'm hoping for, and what my research indicates, is that the scenery and people surrounding Gangtok are nearly the same as one would find in Bhutan; pricey bragging rights excepted.

Afterwards I ride to Assam, and pick up Girish. He's got it pretty much figured out from there. I pursued the itinerary he sent me, and recall something about Nagaland, Megalaya, disputed territory, necessary permits, reformed cannibals, and so on. It sounds like it's going to be a fantastic trip.       

I've been in the dreaded Thamel awaiting my visa far too long now. Three whole nights! Tomorrow I'm free.

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!