Nepal: Mountain temples, monkeys and funeral pyres burning bright

Birth then Life then Death

The wonderful symmetry

Death then Life then Birth

In a small, whitewashed restaurant up the steps of a back alley entrance just on the edge of the tourist district in Katmandu, Nepal there is a local band of young men who make music twice a week on Sundays and Tuesdays. Using traditional flute, drums and stringed instruments they lilt their notes and rhythms together with a rock guitar, acoustic guitar and saxophone. In their young enthusiasm and splay-legged boyishness, they remind me of any band of musicians at home, meeting at the local coffee house or bar to bond with their buddies and hopefully inspire groupie behavior from the local female population.

 

They make their music freely, men joining in, men dropping out. They play western tunes, re-orchestrating on the spot to match the sounds that have played across their lives in temple ceremonies or weddings or funerals. It is a lilting sound, with the flute playing lightly across the top, then dropping down deeply as if across mountain tops and down steep passes.

 

As one of their last numbers, they break into a breathtaking version of Celine Dion’s “My heart will go on” from Titanic. It is at once the cheesiest choice of music and the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in months. My dinner companion, close by my side, leans her head forward and whispers in my ear “Imagine… these are men who’ll never see the ocean.”

 

I arrived in Katmandu on July 10^th after a relaxing week in the bustling, commercial metropolis of Bangkok. With hotel booked and airport transport paid for I headed through customs and passport control and headed down to baggage to collect all my earthly possessions and wander out into the world. While waiting at the baggage carousel, I struck up a conversation with a Japanese girl, Mio.

 

After our short conversation, we decided to head into town together (which turned out to be great since my hotel transport was no where to be found). This saved me both a lying taxi driver telling me my hotel was closed and taking me to another hotel to get their commission and also provided an amazing new friend and travel companion for the next 2 days.

 

It turns out that Mio had lived in Katmandu for 2 years working for an NGO, spoke Nepalese, and was just back for a weeklong visit to bring some funds over from Japan.

 

Over the next few days, she took me under her wing and introduced me to her host family, her painting instructor and her local friends. The first stop we made was to visit her host grandmother, whom she calls mother, a small white-haired lady in a thin sari who lived near the center of town and cried when Mio came back to see her. We sat with her in her kitchen and she made us milk tea and chatted with Mio in Nepalese and Newalese (a local language of her cast) and I smiled intermittently at appropriate intervals.

 

After that we headed up to her painting teachers house at the top of a small hill near the center of town and close to the monkey temple, which was virtually over-run with monkeys.

 

Her painting teacher paints Buddhist mandalas (spiritual paintings which are thought to contain a soul of their own). The painstaking nature of the intricate work means that each small painting can take up to a month to complete, with each stroke of the tiny brush bringing you only one hair closer to a completed mandala painting.

 

We sat with the man and his children and he caught up and chatted with Mio as well, with me smiling and nodding intermittently again, content to soak up the amazing good fortune I had had to be shepherded in the good graces of my new friend.

 

One of the little girls running around the painter’s shop had been a little girl Mio had taken under her wing years before. Her mother, left behind by her husband with two daughters (worth much less in Nepalese and Indian culture than boys), could not afford to feed both of them and decided to give one of the girls to Mio. She told her daughter that she would be back to pick her up, and then left her with NGO orphanage workers that Mio had contacted. In the end, the woman ended up taking the girl back because the aid workers were unable to control her behavior, and her mother married Mio’s painting teacher, which solved the problem.

 

The little girl held my hand sweetly as we ascended the steep stone steps to the monkey temple, but Mio told me that it had been years before she was able to trust western looking people because the aid workers her mother had left her with were white.

 

After two days of spending time with Mio’s grandmother and host mother, Bimala, who even helped us to buy material so we could make saris, going out for great live music (“My heart will go on”), seeing intricate mandalas in progress, and visiting temples, it was time for us to part ways. Amid promises to keep in touch and my many thanks I headed off with my tour group (with whom I’m completing the rest of Nepal and India) and Mio headed off for a visit to the school she supports.

 

Meeting and spending time with Mio helped me remember all the people who have been so kind and helpful along my journey – first in New Zealand and Australia, then in Cambodia. Once again, I was struck with my inability to return their kindness directly, and instead the need to “pay it forward.”

 

Once with the tour group, we headed to more beautiful Buddhist monasteries and temples in and around Kathmandu, stopping along the river to see the Hindus worshipping and cremating their family members by the water. As I stood across the river from them and tried my best to snap some inconspicuous shots of this most intimate ceremony, I was amazed at how in your face death and life can be. 

In the west, we try our best to sweep death under the rug, as if it is not a natural part of being born. According to our tour guide, in Nepal, Hindus believe that life is suffering (meaning that death is the alleviation of that suffering). By burning the bodies on the river’s edge and then putting them in the river, it is hoped that the cycle of life, death and re-birth can be broken so that the deceased will no longer suffer through another life. How different this view is from both the Buddhist belief in reaching enlightenment in this life, and also the our western attachment to this life… as well as Christianities ideas about heaven and hell…

I pondered these thoughts as we rode down through the mountains towards Royal Chitwan National Park and promises of elephant safaris, rhino sightings and even a tiger or two.

 

Chitwan was all it was cracked up to be, albeit with no tiger sightings, and also unbearably hot. Once again, I was sweating like it was my job.

 

One of the most interesting conversations I’ve had thus far was one I had in Chitwan with our guide, Gourav. We were chatting about what he was going to do after he dropped us off at the border of India to meet our next guide. He said that he was heading home to meet some girls his mom wanted him to marry. Apparently, at the ripe old age of 29 he was quite over the hill and his parents were getting sick so they’d decided it was time he married someone who could take care of them. His elder brothers had both married women who were more educated and did not want to move to their home away from Katmandu to take care of his parents. 

 

When we asked how he felt about this, he said it would be fine with him. He would be ok with marrying the girl, and then he would head back to Kathmandu (10 hours away) to lead westerners (and western women) on tours... and perhaps she could stay and take care of his parents. “Kind of like a maid?” I said. “Kind of.” He said, bobbling his head back and forth flirtatiously.

 

This was one if the many times I both thanked my lucky stars that I was born into the situation I was, especially as a woman, but also that I had to take a step back and realize how incredibly different western culture is from many other cultures. As we head into India – the next leg of the journey, I brace myself… and wait for the revelations to come.

 

Everyday I am amazed, humbled, questioned, and devastated. And yet, the cycle, although sometimes unpleasant, is unilaterally inspiring. 

Cambodia: Final Days, Sad Farewells, 4th of July and Tuol Sleng Prison

Everyday I know

I'm escaping with my life;

What a gift it is!

I believe that the moment of freedom is that between the stimulus and the response.

If there is one thing that traveling has taught me, it’s that very often the only control you have over your daily life is how you react to what is done to you and around you. Indeed, because you are an outsider, and therefore without internal cultural context, it is the way you look and your choices that define who you are, far more than your history, experience or abilities.

For example, my experiences in Japan, Ecuador, New Zealand, Cambodia and even Papua New Guinea all had much in common, in the fact that I always had a different name. In Japan I was a gaijin, in Ecuador a gringa, in New Zealand a yankee, in Cambodia a barang and Papua New Guinea a misis.  In Japan I was too direct, in Ecuador I was too punctual, in New Zealand I used too much water washing the soap off the dishes (they like to leave the soap on after washing) and in Papua New Guinea, well, I’m sure I would have probably carried my spear incorrectly, leading indubitably to mortal wounds in hand-to-hand combat with my enemies.

Without fail, each culture I’ve encountered has encountered me back. This is what is sometimes surprising about being an outsider – the lack of anonymity. It can be a blessing or a curse. If the people you encounter want something from you – your money or English conversation practice, for example, you can feel quite popular. Never-the-less, this is in essence a surface relationship. As I told the child counselor when I was 9 years old – if we weren’t paying you, you wouldn’t be here.

It is, however, a reasonably honest relationship. I gain an enhanced knowledge of the world, myself and the privileges I enjoy as a western woman, and they get five dollars for a tuk tuk ride. 

Of course, as you spend more time in a place, you make real friends, and that is where you learn the most. Indeed, these are the relationships that tide you over when you get tired of your newfound fame.

Again and again, on a daily basis, I am reminded of the moment of choice I have when I decide how to respond. When the ladies in the market tell me my size 10-12 frame is far too fat for any of their clothes, I can shoot off a nasty retort such as “Oh yeah? Well you’re more likely to die in childbirth!” OR, I can smile and say “Well thank you. I am quite fat aren’t I?” And we can all have a good laugh about that.

It’s the same as when I was in Japan and the people in my town would stand at the end of the aisle and whisper about the gaijin (outsider) at the end of the aisle buying her tofu. The higher ground is always to learn a funny phrase in their language… for example “Japanese tofu is the best, isn’t it?” (Nihon dofu ichiban ii desu ne?) Which would inevitably lead to laughter and potential friends, or you could say under your breath “Jeez, I wish you would shut up while I’m buying my tofu….” (urusai, ne?).

I’m not saying that I’ve always taken the higher ground. In fact, some of my knee-jerk reactions have embarrassed both myself and others. But I’m learning, albeit slowly.

When I have nothing left in a situation that I can control, I can always control my own speech and actions. I can put my intentions in check and try to remain positive and open, forgiving them for they know not what they do. Or, I can revert to feeling like an 8 year-old under attack from the other girls in class and revert to self-preservation and self-defense.

In many countries in Southeast Asia – such as Cambodia – it’s the short same split-second of freedom when making moral and ethical decisions. A man with one eye, a missing limb and a sad face approaches you when you’re climbing into a tuk-tuk asking for money. Do you give it to him? This morning I didn’t, I politely declined and he wandered back off down the street muttering about the bitch barang who couldn’t even spare a dollar for his sorry ass self. 

Should I have given him some money… I dunno. Probably. How about the children who beg late into the night outside restaurants? How about the vendor who charges you double what you should pay for a mango? Where is the line? And how much does it really matter? When are you being taken advantage of, and when is the reality much more complicated, that perhaps by your mere presence, you are in some way taking advantage of them?

It’s not always possible to assume best intentions. Because, in the end, most people don’t have best intentions in mind for you. Their own moral and ethical code, perhaps their religion, the lessons their families taught them, or their own greater need guide their actions as surely as your own. That said, how much more negative energy is created in this world by distrust, anger and self-preservation. How shall we find a balance between acting like a fool and putting yourself in a self-defensive cage?

Additionally, I realize that in Asia I am treated better than some travelers because I am white and western. The only other thing better would be if I were a white, western male. A few weeks ago, I went to dinner with a friend in Siem Reap who is American, with parents from Nigeria and Jamaica. We were treated abhorrently. Gone were the kind smiles from the waitresses and the attentive questions of “you need something lady?” from the shop owners. We were quite literally glared at with a mistrust I had not yet overtly experienced in Cambodia. Granted the people we met did not grab their hair and say “Africa! Africa!” at us, the way they did to some visiting children a friend was guiding a few weeks ago, but the responses were chilly at best.

Now I am no idiot. I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio and therefore recognize the aspects of racial privilege at home as well, but here was a surprisingly overt show of racism that I had not seen since Japan. 

And what was I to do? When it came up in conversation later, I asked, “does it bother you, that you are treated differently here?” “I try not to think about it, he said, because it would drive me crazy.” In all honestly, it's probably no worse than at home, just more overt.

And so, here is an example of a choice as well. One I am privileged not to have to make, much like many of the choices my Asian female counterparts must make everyday. And yet, I have only the ability to bear witness, and to recognize my privilege.

I’m not sure I know the answers to these questions, but as my last day in Cambodia comes to a close, these are the thoughts that run through my mind.

The last few weeks were spent in Siem Reap finishing up classes with my Cambodian students, saying goodbye to friends, both Cambodian and Western, 4^th of July parties (held at a British friend’s house, with plenty of jokes about slinging tea:-), and, this morning, a visit to Tuol Sleng prison (S-21) in Phnom Penh before a late afternoon flight out to Bangkok en route to Nepal, the next leg of the journey.

My hostel here is Phnom Penh is right across the road from the infamous Tuol Sleng prison, a former school turned gory torture chamber during the Khmer Rouge regime from 1975 to 1979. Yesterday I sat beneath the leafy canopy of the flower garden at the hostel restaurant sipping my coffee and gazing across the road at the gate to the infamous school/prison. And, this morning, after a continental breakfast amid the bougainvillea, I took a deep breath, donned my dark glasses and crossed the road to wander through the classrooms and gaze into the eyes of the photographs of the 20,000 men, women and children killed there, so many of whom reminded me of my Cambodian students and friends.

The school looks much like any school in Cambodia, with high ceilings and open porches that lead along the edge of the buildings connecting the classrooms. And yet, what is seen there is so different than what should be found in a school. Photos of those killed peer out at you pleadingly. “Please, let me be spared” they say. In the end, almost none were spared. Of the 17,000 imprisoned, only 12 survivors are recorded.

The beds that the final tortured and bloated bodies were found on when the Vietnamese troops arrived remain intact, with gruesome photos of the scene upon arrival hanging at their head. Nothing is left to the imagination. All is documented painstakingly.

I’ve been to Auschwitz and the Anne Frank house and Hiroshima… and yet, somehow, I do not remember crying. But I did cry today, for those who died and for those that killed so many and stunted the growth of a nation.

All this is not to overshadow the knowledge that as an American I am not without blame in some of this situation. Many of the Cambodians that fled towards Phnom Penh and were perhaps captured were fleeing not only the brutal Khmer Rouge regime, but also the bombing in the east of the country closer to Vietnam by American troops.

So, what is one to do with all this?

I went back to my hostel, cried a bit more, packed the rest of my bags and headed off to the market to wander around before taking off to the airport and flying away from Cambodia, a choice egregiously unavailable to most Cambodians.

And so, in the end, the most I have been able to do here is to bear witness. Cambodia is a country of great strength, of great corruption, of humor, vigor, pain, suffering and also hope.

I leave hoping that as I process what I have learned here it will make me a better friend, daughter, sister, lover, mother, teacher and student.

Because I am still learning how to make momentary choices.

Below is a poem I wrote when I was 20 and living in Ecuador. I return to it sometimes to remind myself of the journey. So exciting and yet so arduous.

Quito, Ecuador. Spring 2000

I passed an indigenous woman in the street today

And I did not know her name, but I named her indigenous

And her soul flew out from behind her eyes to curse me.

 

I did not give her the quarter and three cents I had in my pocket,

Because I knew she would hate me,

Whether or not I gave her the money.

(And I knew I would hate myself, whether or not I gave her the money.)

 

She did not know me, but she named me gringa.

(A woman who walks with her legs wide open and her purse sowed up.)

What’s more, she named me American,

And I could feel the hot syllables of hate

Scribbled across my back as I

Walked and walked and

Pretended and pretended

To feel nothing.

 

And the change in my pocket whispered angrily

Against my thigh.

Cambodia: Blown-up temples, motorcycle cargo and fashion shoots

Having come to the two-and-a-half month mark in Cambodia, I find it’s time to reflect on my experiences here. Some things in Cambodia were as I expected them to be. The heat, the great food, the politeness and sense of adventure. Some things were not as I expected them to be, but such is life.

 

The most shocking food I decided not to try: this has to be a tie between crickets, roasted chicken fetus and puppy

The most startling site: motorcycle shipments of pigs, chickens and people

The most startling experience: dodging the Darwinian traffic on route 6, trying to hold my skirt down over my knees as I pass the cheeky tuk-tuk drivers at the end of my street, coming out of the dance club at 2 a.m. to have the orphans clamber onto my bicycle with me and hang off of my arms, telling me in perfect English “You give me money NOW!”

The craziest story I’ve heard and believe: how the last security guard at the NGO where I work accidentally ate their puppy, how a friend’s roommate saw a man shot in broad daylight (by government officials), how my co-worker had a rocket blown through his roof when he was 6 by Khmer Rouge (he explained this story by saying, and I quote: "Fifty cent got shot 9 time, but I had a rocket through my roof. Fifty cent is big! I was only 6.")

The most endearing behavior exhibited by a local: my students, hands-down, who smile, ask me questions, try very hard and don’t worry about looking like little dorks… I’m spoiled

The biggest accomplishment: juggling a 45-hour a week volunteer position with a 15-20 hour a week paid teaching gig for Cambodians and a few hours planning and teaching wild little French-Cambodian children of expats

Most trying experience while teaching: the day cute little French-Cambodian Leah stood on top of the table in the middle of the table, started screaming at the top of her lungs and refused to get down

Second most trying experience while teaching: the day cute little Sophe joined cute little Leah atop the table screaming in the middle of class

The most embarrassing moment: close tie between running my bicycle into the back of a parked tuk-tuk and having my skirt blow up over my face in front of the tuk-tuk drivers at the end of my street… the latter of which I will never EVER live down I am the Marilyn Monroe of my commune

And so, with three and a half weeks to go and counting, it’s time to look ahead to a visa run to Thailand, final exams for my 35 Cambodian students, 4^th of July in Phnom Penh (hopefully finagling my friend Emily and I into the U.S. Embassy party), and saying goodbye to some great people. 

Over the next 3 months there is more Thailand for visa stuff, then Nepal, India, Italy and settling in to Istanbul, Turkey to make my home for a year in August. 

One of the most intriguing experiences I’ve had in the last few weeks was wandering around in Bengmelea temple, a temple a bit farther out from town that was closed off to tourists due to landmines for many years. The temple itself is being eaten by nature. The ruins of the temple, which lie strewn about due to bombs exploded during the reign of the Khmer Rouge, are becoming more and more overgrown with vines, roots and soft moss. Amazing site. A study in buddhist impermanence.

The other most intriguing experience happened this weekend, when 4 of my girlfriends and I headed into a photo/hair/costume studio to have our portraits taken Cambodian style! SO MUCH FUN! We just keep laughing and laughing at ourselves in the photographs, but our Cambodian friends think that we look lovely. 

Cultural filters. Darwinian traffic. Sweating buckets. I sign out for now.