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Static.

June 9^th 2014

I’m sitting in a café in Frankfurt, finally able to gain some perspective on a long trip which is nearing its end. I breakfasted at my hostel, and as I walked back into an empty dorm-room, a sense of absolute stillness suffused the atmosphere. The air was thick, warm, and pungent with the odors of a dozen people who had come and gone during the night. Beams of sunlight streamed in through the window, and the sounds of the city below were muffled. Only dust, and the jumbled memories inside my head, stirred within that empty, disheveled room.  

I took a seat on the lone chair situated in the corner. As I sat down, twenty months’ worth of memories flooded my consciousness. I pondered in the stillness for five minutes; then ten, and then I lost track of time. Recollections of the trip played at random – each a wordless clip of the various incidents of the past twenty five thousand kilometers.

I had already reviewed these memories several times, but in that moment I noticed that their texture had changed. What had once been a mere archive of historical information about my trip had become something dynamic; seemingly separate from me, yet tangible. I felt as if I was watching scenes from someone else’s life. It was there, in the stillness of that room, that I began to realize that my trip was finally over, and that I had enjoyed it immensely.

But, how did I get to Frankfurt? The last time I wrote, I was very much in India. That was nearly five months ago, and much has transpired since then. For better or worse, most of my travel since then has been inward. That story will have to wait. The bill for my cappuccino has arrived, and I must for hunt down a good mechanic in Frankfurt. I’m still with the motorbike, and she needs new tires.

I’m sitting in a beer-garden in Bruges. The bike is in tip-top shape, and it rode the 500Km from Frankfurt quite smoothly. The weather in Belgium is uncharacteristically perfect, with cool morning and evenings, and moderate, sunny afternoons. I’m sipping down a tall wit-beer, enjoying the shade of a tree, looking out over a gorgeous canal in the picturesque, tourist laden town of Bruges. I shipped the bike from Kathmandu to Frankfurt only a few days ago, and am only one day’s ride away from London. For the first time in seven years of travel, my perception of the world seems altered in a way which feels permanent. But, as travel has also taught me, so much can change in so little time.    

Poignant memories of the trip continue to roll in sporadically throughout each day. My mind is changing so rapidly that it is hard to put much faith in the thoughts it produces. Currently, I consider the trip to have been a tremendous experience, and well worth the effort. However, any assessment I made of the trip just a few short weeks ago was unambiguously negative. Several times I had declared the trip to be the worst decision I have ever made. I had become frustrated by all the time and resources I was wasting. I was frustrated that none of my most important plans were coming to fruition. I was frustrated that I was frustrated must of the time. Eventually, I fell apart. I became numb, and apathetic. I didn’t care what was happening with the trip, and I didn’t care that I didn’t care. Months ago, I lost the ability to enjoy things which I normally find enjoyable. This, in turn, forced me to retreat the only place I knew I could: inward.

Fortunately, I recognized my inability to enjoy things relatively quickly, and this gave me a much clearer idea of what was happening. I was becoming depressed again. About twelve years ago I was diagnosed with Dysthymia, which I understood at the time as a persistent, low-grade form of depression. I never put much stock in the diagnosis because it always felt like excuse making. Additionally, any such diagnosis came loaded with stigma – both public, and private. Was I really one of those weird, nutty individuals who has psychological problems?

As the years have carried on, I noticed that most people have psychological problems. Mild or moderate, clinical or anecdotal, named or unnamed, I have noticed the rarely discussed fact that all problems are, ultimately, psychological in nature. Even the supreme problem of death is a psychological problem inasmuch as people’s psyches do not often feel like being dead. To be upset, to feel discouraged, to be afraid, to be anxious, to be angry, to be resentful; these not all psychological problems, regardless of their proximate cause. However, some problems have pathologies and diagnoses, and some do not. While it is normal to become sad, or angry, or distracted from time to time, it is abnormal to be incapable of experiencing happiness, to be boiling with rage at the slightest infraction, to experience anxiety over trifles, to be unable to pay attention to even the most basic task, and so on.

I have observed myself over the years, and I have noticed that I really do get unreasonably depressed from time to time; in a very predictable manner. I’ve been through five major depressive episodes by my count, including this most recent one. Fortunately, during at least two occasions I felt as if my life was fine in an objective sense. Nevertheless, I was unable to feel good about life, or about anything at all, during my depressive episodes. Objectively, everything was fine, but my experience was anything but.

I should be clear that I’m not talking about feelings of sadness. In my experience, the most defining feature of depression is the inability to feel much of anything. Depression is continual apathy. Sadness, if it comes at all, comes later in the process. For most people, depression is often preceded by negative life events, and is experienced by most at some point in life. In my case, severe depression has twice descended upon me for no reason whatsoever. For this I am grateful because it removes the mystery of my situation. In two instances, I could plainly see that I was not depressed about anything in specific. I was doing things I wanted to do; doing positive, life affirming things that had once brought me considerable joy. However, whenever a bout of depression randomly descends upon me, nothing can bring me joy. Initially, nothing can really make me sad either. It is only after weeks, or months, that the gnawing inability to feel anything starts to resemble what might be called sadness.  

And this is how it went with this last episode, which lasted about five months. Looking back at my journal I can see the general rise in negativity leading up to depression. There was no singular cause that I can pin down, but evidence of its progression is unmistakable. When I left Calcutta in January, I was headed south towards Chennai, and a place called Auroville. I had made plans to spend a month volunteering in Sadnah Forest - a sustainable living community in India. At the time, I was suspicious that I might be falling into a depression yet again – my first in almost four years. I figured that a month of hard labor, early rising, healthy food, and community involvement would be just the medicine I needed. There is strong evidence to back up these claims, too. Involvement with other people, doing meaningful work, eating a healthy diet, and engaging the body in copious amounts of physical exercise all have very, very strong correlations to the experience of well-being. I had numerous reasons to look forward to a month at Sadnah Forest.  

From Calcutta I had to ride about 2200Km to reach Sadnah Forest. The road was very good by Indian standards, but that still meant I’d have to avoid a bevy of livestock, tuk-tuks, push carts, pot-holes, bicycles, motorbikes, and the omnipresent transport trucks which belch diesel fumes, and drive as whimsically as they please.

On the way down I spent a few days in the beach side town of Puri, and later Gopalpur. I made some friends, and technically I had a good time. But, due to the mounting depression I can’t say that I was able to enjoy much of it, no matter how wonderful I thought it was in an objective sense. The weather was good, the people were great, and India was as amazing as I could hope for it to be. I could acknowledge all of the good things in an objective, didactic, intellectual sense. But, I could not feel the goodness of the surroundings. I could not experience the lesson.

Back in Calcutta, I had taken up regular consumption of booze, and hashish. I can enjoy these substances in moderation, and will little ill-effect, when I’m not depressed. However, I rarely feel like drinking when I’m truly travelling; truly happy. Depression can be so numbing that it compels the experiencer to try and feel something, anything. I tend to drink far more when I’m depressed, and am also more inclined to smoke hash, or weed, as the case may be. This time I added a new vice, totally out of line with my character. I started regularly smoking cigarettes. This is not something I’ve done before, and I am, in fact, against it. But there is the rub of depression: you don’t feel much, and thus don’t care one way or the other about anything. Better to feel a transient a nicotine rush, and the regret of having started smoking at thirty, than to feel nothing at all.

Fortunately, I have started to care again. I quit my brief experiment as a half-pack-a-day smoker about two months ago. I have slowly sipped my delicious wit-beer here in Bruges, and have no desire to order another. I’m off to stroll in the beautiful backstreets of Bruges; to sit on park benches, and chat with anyone who is up for a chat. It may sounds cliché, but its true: with the depression recently gone, I feel like my old self again – the gregarious guy I know who loves to be travelling.

I’m sitting in my friends’ apartment in London having arrived –  smelly, but smiling – late last night. The ride from Belgium was fantastic. The roads in Europe are as smooth as silk, and the countryside this time of year is charming, and lush. Crossing the English Channel was a cinch thanks to the Chunnel train. I was parked behind an amicable English couple who were returning from a week in France. Using the toolkit for the motorcycle, I was able to help them fix their malfunctioning bike-rack while we were in transit. I considered it a successful day.         

I left Kathmandu just over one week ago. I spent the last three months of the trip in an apartment in Bhaktapur, Nepal. I retreated there after my plans for southern India came undone. I had made it as far south as Chennai, the capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, a major port city on India’s east coast. The heat in Chennai was oppressive, even in early February. I was two hours north of my intended destination of Sadnah Forest, where I was set to volunteer for a month.

My plan was to stay in Chennai until I resolved a legal issue which had been plaguing me for months. I was riding a foreign motorcycle in India, and thus required special paperwork to temporarily exempt the bike from India’s hefty vehicle import taxes. Initially, the bike was granted 180 days of tax exemption, with the ability to apply for an additional 180 days of exemption at a later date. I was told that the extension process would be simple, and quick. But, knowing full well the depth, breadth, and incalculable inefficiency of the Indian bureaucracy, I began making inquiries several months ahead of time. From one office to the next, my inquires bounced. I was told to check with this office, then that office. I was assured that I would find firm answers in Calcutta, then the office in Mumbai, then Chennai, and then finally New Delhi.

In the end Girish – my faithful, hard-working, and exceedingly generous Indian friend – did most of the legwork. In New Delhi, Girish ferried my ever-expanding application from one office to the next, spending several afternoons riding across town in New Delhi traffic after work. Unfortunately, there was a slight problem with the time-table. If the motorcycle was not out of India by the time the extension was granted, then I would be liable for the import taxes. For two weeks I would wait in Chennai for a decision regarding the extension.  

A ceaseless chain of cigarettes, and coffee was my breakfast. A liquid meal, followed by the second barrage of cigarettes was my dinner. For lunch, I would a stroll just before sunset until something caught my eye. During these two weeks, I stayed mostly in my room, and spoke to as few people as possible. I slept at odd hours, and managed to keep busy doing a whole lot of nothing. After breakfast I would plunge into my books. In the late afternoon I would roam the streets for an hour or so. As I walked, unsullied cynicism coursed through my veins, and informed every passing thought I had in Chennai. In my notes I can see that I still found India exciting and intriguing, but more for its frequent displays of extravagant depravity than anything else. Negativity was all I could see.

Stuffed into the tiny tourist section of the tremendous city of Chennai were all the greedy touts, nefarious beggars, faithless charmers, and niggling importuners that travellers are bound to encounter everywhere in the world. In India, such performers are colorful, and gritty. These city-dwelling deceivers are found in their most concentrated form anywhere tourists congregate.

Initially, they may be hard to distinguish from the genuinely interested, and superbly trustworthy locals which outnumber them ten-thousand to one. But, regardless of how well one can detect such people, a traveller can never be free of them. All travellers in the developing world wear the same sign around their neck, a blight of privilege. It reads: “I am a walking wallet.”

On my daily lunch outing I kept my distance from people, and brushed off any unwanted encounter as best I could. On the surface, I was my normal convivial self, but inside I was hostile. I was still in love with India, yet I wanted to brawl. I wanted to unleash my growing indignation with the Indians who gave India a bad name. I walked the streets as a sentinel of rage. Fuel by self-directed anger over my own decisions, I was eager to unleash pent up feelings in display of tremendous violence. I recognized that my wavering brain chemistry was beginning to get the best of me, and so I took advantage of the one luxury I did have: the ability to insulate myself.  

As the days passed it became increasingly clear that the Indian government would not render a decision regarding potential import taxes in time. Therefore, I would have to get the bike out of the country, which meant driving back to Nepal. In a haze of apathy, I glibly accepted this new fate and more-or-less appreciated it as it gave me a mission. The trip would take at least a week. I backtracked over the East Coast Highway all the way to the outskirts of Calcutta. From there I headed inland through Bihar, aiming to arrive at the border of Birganj on the last day the bike was legally entitled to stay in India.

The journey was exhausting, and dull. My mind was numb, and listless by that point. I overnighted in a half-dozen strange India cities – arriving at night, and departing in the morning without saying much more than “Hello, how are you? How much for the room. Thanks. See you later.” Travelling was terribly uninteresting to me at the time. In fact, travel was a burden comprised of broken dreams, and tiresome hassles that I wished to be rid of at the earliest possible convenience.

I fell ill just outside the city of Patna, Bihar. I spent three nights enclosed in the first air-conditioning, hot showers, and clean linens I had seen in months. I ordered bowl after bowl of overpriced chicken noodle soup, recovered many hours of much needed sleep, and finally had a chance to wrap my head around the situation. I was unraveling in a way I had seen many times before. Things were going wrong, but they didn’t upset me in the slightest. Or, did they? I had no clear idea. I did realize that I needed to take a higher-level look at the situation. I needed to eat healthier, I needed to stop being so damn angry all the time, and I needed get the bike to the border by the end of the following day.

I departed before the Sun was up, and was on pace to make the border by noon. In the fresh morning air, slicing through the empty streets of Patna, I was enthusiastic. I knew was on my way out of India, and whatever horrendous state I was in. I longed for Nepal because Nepal meant rest, and repose. If I smiled at all during these times it would have been the morning that I rode out of Patna. I seemed on the verge of something new. Some sort of positive change seemed to be just on the horizon.

Hours later, at the border of Birganj, I would take my last pictures of the entire trip. I have only just reviewed them. Without realizing it, I didn’t take a single picture during my three additional months in Nepal. I hardly went anywhere, took any notes, or did much of anything. I found a well-appointed apartment in charming town of Bhaktapur, and there I stayed. I have never been in such a neurotic funk before, but at least I was comfortable. Although I knew something was wrong, I was grateful that I had the means, and wherewithal to keep my head above water.

Each day I was stuck in a bizarre, and hopeless loop of attempting to read the entire Internet – in order understand everything that can be understood – before crossing off items on that days scant ‘To Do’ list: get out of bed, shower, eat food, etc. By baby steps I was able to climb out of depression, eventually employing all of the best known remedies. I have much, much more to say on that subject, but it will have to wait. Today is July 1^st, and my friend Girish has just messaged me concerning my whereabouts. I managed to land back in the Western world on a spectacularly high note almost one month ago, and have been feeling great ever since. I am currently touring the Scottish Highlands; the weather and riding are the spectacular.

I learned so much about myself during this trip; so much about subjectivity versus objectivity, reality versus perception, determinism versus free-will, acceptance and surrender, versus hard-headedness and ignore-ance. I don’t think it is possible to understand everything that can be understood. I am suspicious that the set of all things which can be understood is either infinite, incomplete, or most probably both. Fortunately, therefore, I need not fully understand what the previous sentence means, and thank goodness for that.

However our sense of awareness arises; wherever the boundary line between the inanimate, unconscious mater which comprises us, and the sense of being a thing which is alive is drawn, I am, and forever will be, glad that life happened. There are currently seven-thousand-million independent human selves scampering across the surface of the rocky sphere we call Earth. And though it may seem that we are organic automatons, stranded on a sphere, twirling around the nuclear furnace which drives all life on this planet, the experience of meaning does arise. Our incomprehensible insignificance in the grand scheme of things matters not. Locally, we each represent an entity which can feel.

Sometimes the going is rough, and the capacity to feel is a burden. At other times, the configuration of the Universe is such that being able to feel is the greatest of joys. For now, I seem to have found a solution to a passing phase of stasis. The dynamo in my head and soul is active once again, and it compels me to travel ever onward. This particular trip is nearing its end. I will soon sell the bike, and return home. As always, the larger journey continues, and I am already dreaming about the next phase.    

My apologies for not getting back to the people who messaged me in the past few months. Such messages were a source of the few smiles I did have during my random bout of depression. Of course, I intended to formulate a reply to these messages, but that task was on the ‘to-do’ list which was preceded by the infinite loop – the aforementioned hopeless, obsessively driven task of attempting to read the entire Internet.

Thanks to all who have read this blog. I hope to add at least one more post regarding my thoughts on depression in general, with the hope that it may be helpful, or interesting, to anyone who wishes to read it. All humans go through a wide range of experience based on causes external, and internal. My last depressive episode was instructive to me in that it had a ratio causes which allowed me to maintain objectivity throughout the experience. I was continually aware that my subjective experience (that of being depressed) was at odds with my objective circumstance (that of doing exactly what I wanted with my life; doing things that I supposedly enjoyed). Because of this, I never lost touch with an appreciation for the bigger picture. I felt lousy – and recognized that I may feel lousy again for no particular reason – but I never lost sight of the ceaseless march of time, and the change it always brings. Everything is temporary.  

Outsiders?

January 8^th 2014.

Travel has kept me in a fairly continuous state of motion since I left Kathmandu in late November. I’ve been through the less touristed regions of Northeast India. This glob of Indian states is pinched off from the mainland, the majority of which is nestled in between Myanmar and Bangladesh. Connecting this ball of states to the mainland is a narrow stretch of Indian territory which extends from Sikkim like an outstretched arm. This sliver of land skirts the southern border of Bhutan, and stays north of Bangladesh.

These states are culturally, ethnically, economically, and ideologically distinct form the mainland. Even most Indian’s don’t know what to make of these states. The disparity between reality and popular opinion is exactly as one would expect given such a wide gap in understanding. From West Bengal onwards, I saw the evolution of the “we vs. they” mentality which sets the northeast states apart from the mainland.

For the umpteenth time in my travels, I resumed the search for the elusive “they”, “them”, “those-other-people” of the world. As per usual, I was told to expect danger, hostility; to beware the savage tendencies of localities. Like ghosts stories, tales about “they” can be found in cultures around the world. As all travellers eventually discover “they” do not exist. In-group/ out-group mentalities are merely phantoms in the mind.

I was told to expect bizarre and undignified customs. I was told that I’d be looked upon with suspicion for being an outsider. And, once again, I found only hospitality and mutual wonderment instead. I’m beginning to understand that humans are neither inherently good nor inherently bad. We have natural inclinations towards both polarities. Throughout our life we learn the consequences of expressing either side.

However, it seems to me that humans have an innate disinclination to understand other groups of people. We have a natural impulse to form separate groups, and this creates a need to erect psychological barriers towards understanding. Historically, these come barriers come in the form of myths which are based on a hyperbolized picture of reality. In order to dissolve these barriers it is important to be discerning. One must try to see the both what is false about certain stereotypes, and also which parts are based on truth. What was the likely origin of the stereotype, and how did confusion arise? What functions does the stereotype serve?

In truth, both Girish and I detected an air of aggression in the far-flung Naga village of Lungwa, which sits astride the Indo-Myanmar border. Arriving mid-day on a preposterously sized motorcycle, we made an unexpected, and unsightly landing. The village sees only a few tourists a month in peak season, and almost none arrive by surprise. We came on Christmas day, armed only with smiles and a vague sense of what we were doing.

Most of the village was gathered outside the large, central Church. Mission work has been a primary source of development in much of Nagaland, and Lungwa was no different. Although our presence created quite a stir, nobody approached us. People’s faces were both mocking and glad. Most kept their distance, and everyone seemed shifty and uneasy. This caused Girish and I to be standoffish too; to act shiftily, and uneasily.

With some effort Girish was able to inquire about the possibility of accommodation. We were told to ride uphill towards the chiefs house. Adjacent to the chiefs comparatively large abode was the only guesthouse in town – a lonesome, dilapidated building which spent most of its time locked-up and in a state of accelerated decay. There was a single mainland Indian stationed in Lungwa, and he was charged with managing the government run guesthouse. The chiefs son located him for us, and asked him to unlock the guesthouse. Giving us the keys, he wrapped up his brief explanation of Lungwa:

“This side is India, that side is Burma. Please don’t go into Burma.” And then he left.

Later that night Girish and I went into Burma to have dinner at a locals house. It was only when we were finishing up our sumptuous meal did we find out that we were technically in Burma. It was an accident; a mere technicality. I don’t think anyone would have minded. But, that is how I spent my 30^th Christmas. 

The following day we saw what little there was to see in Lungwa. For the most part, the people maintained their scoffing, sour demeanor. In a radical departure from the norms of India, nobody tried to talk to us. We were treated as outsiders. Girish was seen as a foreigner, too. The woman who had kindly cooked us dinner the night before asked Girish several times where he was from. After several lengthy conversations in good Hindi, she was astounded at Girishs’ insistence that he was indeed an Indian.

I found the general idea of where I was and what I was doing to be the most appealing aspect of Lungwa. It was a grand experience. We had talks with the chief, who still has sway over the villagers.

“Whatever the chief says, we do.” Quipped one of his contented subjects.

I asked the chief what he thought about the presence of the church, and what it has brought to Lungwa.

“Nothing but good.” The Chief said.

There isn’t much that needs doing in Lungwa, so the chiefs powers are not far reaching. Our meeting with him quickly turned into a high pressure sales situation. He sat uninterested and passive as a seemingly endless amount of tribal jewelry was laid out before us. The prices started high but fell quickly, and Girish and I picked up some good travel treasure. I joked with the chief that I would like to buy his cowboy hat – a flashy leopard print number, made of polyester. He laughed jovially but eventually declined, returning to his headphones.

“Eminem. Very good.” He said, pointing to his music player.

We left Lungwa shortly after breakfast, and pressed onward towards our next stop. Only in Lungwa did I see a substantive kernel of truth regarding the behavioral stereotypes of Naga people. As usual, the most likely explanations are socio-economic, developmental, or geo-political. Lungwa is a seriously out of the way place, and the conditions there have either fermented or maintained a distinct Naga culture. The people in Lungwa have about as much in common with India as they do with the Zimbabwe, and perhaps that was once true for all of Nagaland. As Girish and I toured the rest of the state, we met with nothing other than overwhelming hospitality, and supremely positive engagement.

Mud covered and travel weary, we approached a hopeful porch in the never-once-touristed town of Wakching. We were graciously received, provided a much needed hot meal, a place to stay, and breakfast the following day. Payment was out of the question. A few days later we happened upon the “50^th Year Jubilee” of a local student union. We were invited to join in, and were treated like visiting dignitaries.

The stereotypes regarding the potentially unsavory customs of the Nagamese were, as far as I could tell, mostly based on what they customarily ate. The people in Nagaland are unabashed meat eaters in a country were vegetarianism is a way of life for many. The Nagamese are true gamesmen, and they don’t make arbitrary distinctions about which animals to eat. Some still eat dog, and I would guess that this is the nexus for the prodigious myth making surrounding what and how the Nagamese eat. In neighboring Assam and West Bengal, people were eager to tell me about the dog-eaters of Nagaland. On several occasions it was the first thing people mentioned about Nagaland. When I asked them whether they ate either cow or pig meat, most said yes. However, nobody saw any contradiction in their stance. This is precisely how an in-group/ out-group mentalities begin to form.

In the end, I found the people of Nagaland to be about as normal as anyone I’ve ever met. Sure, some of them ate dog meat, hunted game, tattooed themselves with tribal makings, and drew literal beliefs from unverifiable ancient myths and legends. To me, this is precisely what makes them so normal.

On one of the last days in Nagaland, Girish and I found ourselves riding along an isolated and uncertain track. We were taking one of our famous ‘shortcuts’. Hungry for lunch, we stopped at the first sign of civilization we had seen morning. It was a small bamboo hut which had a few large transport trucks parked outside. Hoping for food, tea, or both we decided to have a look. We entered upon a few truckers playing cards and drinking whiskey in the diminishing heat of late-afternoon. There was some basic food available, which was keeping warm over a small coal-fired chimney.

The youngest guy there, in his mid-twenties or so, spoke excellent English and helped us get as much food as we needed. Girish and I were famished, and he loaded up two plates with rice, vegetables, lard, adding a large hunk of dry-smoked beef from his own prized cache.

He explained that the structure was a hunting lodge, and trucker hang out. It was cramped, but provided access to a large are of game filled jungle. He sat proudly with his single-shot rifle, sipping whiskey and eagerly anticipating the weekend ahead.

“I’m going hunting in there all weekend. I’m going to sleep in the jungle for two nights, under a full moon!” He exclaimed.

His face beamed with excitement, and showed clear reverence for the wild; for Nature. He spoke enthusiastically about what they hunt.

“Just about everything. The best food is out there.”

“Do you eat everything you kill?” I asked.

“We use ev-a-ry part of the animal.” He said with exactitude, clearly proud of his efficiency. “We eat all the organs: the stomach, the liver, the kidneys. Everything. It’s all delicious.” He smiled.

I asked him about it rifle, and he gladly explained how it worked.

“You want to shoot it?” He said, pressing it towards me with no trace of hesitation.

“Um? Fuck-yeah I do!” I replied.

We stepped outside onto an elevated porch, and I fired a single shot at the most menacing tree-truck I could spot. The rifle was an old design. A flint lock ignited some gunpowder, which in turn expanded to accelerate a cadre of lead-shot to great velocity. It went off with a satisfying ‘BANG’, leaving a haze of smoke, covering my forehead in soot.

I exhaled a customary "Wooooeeeee!", and felt surprisingly at home.

We returned indoors, and talked about game. Noticing that we had finished out heaping plates of rice, he asked if we might like another piece of the dried beef. I was so hungry when we first arrived that I had scarcely noticed that what he had given us was essentially beef-jerky. It was, in fact, the best beef jerky I’ve ever had. I told him this and he quickly gave us some more from his personal store. He had made it himself by smoking large hunks of prime beef for hours. The hunks were huge, very crispy on the outer edges, but tender and rouge on the inside. Salted – of course – to perfection.

“Each piece can last for weeks, or months even. It’s all natural too. We don’t use any preservatives.” His face cringed at the thought of modern additives.

After chatting for some time, Girish and I hit the road. Girish exchanged phone numbers with our Naga friend, and he called us several times doing our trip just to make sure we were getting on alright. Throughout our initial meeting I couldn’t help but think I was talking to one of my own countrymen, and a southerner at that. His hospitality, demeanor, and hobbies all bespoke of a true Southern-Boy, from the Good Ol US-of-A. He reveled in hunting, preparing meat, trucking, mudding, whiskey, and good times with friends.

Although he held a college degree, he was currently employed as a laborer in his hometown coal mines.

“Because, right now, I don’t have a choice.” He said in an acid tone, although he chuckled about it.

“West Virginia.” I thought. “This man could be from West Virginia. He could be flown there tomorrow, and he’d fit right in.”

I continue to wonder what that would be like.  

  

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.