I took the bike to fix a puncture the other day, and enjoyed
seeing the mechanic put the tire in water to look for air bubbles to tell where
the hold was. His patience in rotating the tire to put each section in the
shallow bucket, pressing gently and looking intently was quite impressive.
I
keep getting these lessons on patience in the most obscure ways. I tried to
deal with the gas burner that exploded on me this weekend (story to come), and
the guy at the store simply screwed it on and said “it works fine, you must
have patience, you cant push it quickly, you must listen to is and have
patience”, and on and on.
So, perhaps I did not have enough patience with the
gas, but I’m happy to say I did have enough to walk six hours in the sun and
enough to sleep outside like I;ve always wanted and not be afraid.
Tom-Lev, Ben, Yoel and I went on a bus to Dulikhel, around 2
hours away, bought a kilo of litchi for the road, and from there began walking.
First up the endless steps to the Kali Mandir, then down through the winding
roads of peoples lives. From that peak on we could feel the relief of being on
the outskirts of the bustle of the city and start soaking in the calm of the
green around us. It was quickly clear, however, that we were not on the path
less traveled- as we deciphered that the group of adorable children following
us were repeating the often heard mantra “one pen, one rupee, chocolate, one
photo” rather than fuzzy words in Nepali. It was funny when Tom said “Ain Li
Klum” (meaning I have nothing in Hebrew) and one of the little girls started
repeating her. Every child we say would without a thought scream out one of all
the requests as we passed- one even threw a potato at tom when she didn’t respond!
On either side of us were endless patches of bright green
rice paddies and brown sections of potatoes. We watched as the women worked in
the boiling sun and the men sat in the shade, and I felt my insides become the
temperature of rage. How is it possible to think of women as weaker when they
are doing all the work in the fiel and at home? How do these women even have
the capacity to work that hard and long- how do they bodies physically endure
the weight of the baskets of bricks or fodder that they carry on their heads
and their backs slouch and they height simply shrinks over time? Well, I guess
the colors are pleasing to the passing tourists eyes- but again, it made me
think of what the university student told me on top of the bus the first
weekend- “our poverty looks beautiful in toher country eyes, yes?”
And so it was, we continued on through the village of Sankhu
with its different colored houses and thatched roofs looking out on the open
spaces that sustain us all, over bridges connecting people and goods until we reached
Panaouti and the end of our litchi.
For the last stretch of the walk we had a nice man named Ram
Prashad (I met around 5 others once we entered the village) walk with us and
ward off the swarms of chanting children. As we passed orange and apple trees,
he asked if we also had them in Israel. If he only knew the delicousness of the
nectars of the Holy Land! Then he tried to ask what we do with dead bodies in
our culture, which was understood only after many hand motions and unpleasant
noises to symbolize dying. Eventually I figured out the word for grave was
similar to house- as in, in our culture we build houses underground, in his a
fire above. I was able to confirm this was what we were talking about when we
reached the site of a temple on the filthy water and a fire, which was actually
a body burning. Although I saw this same site from a distance last week when we
went to Pashupati (very important site in Kathmandu where they burn all the
bodies), it was still striking to see two dark feet sticking out amongst the
white of his clothing and the oranges of the flames. Now we understood why he
said this was the bad river, and further along theres a better one…
It was around 6 pm when we began a mad search for Dal Bhat
(rice and lentils, the national food) before dark so we could still be able to
find a patch of earth to sleep. 6pm is apparently the wrong time to search for
Dal Bhat, as the eating schedule is more like 6 am a light snack, 10 am Dal
Bhat, 2pm snack, and 7pm Dal Bhat again. So they settled for meat moms and I for
some mixed beans. I also bought some carrots and zucchini and borrowed oil from
the restaurant – now totally prepared to play survivor in the woods. We gave
one last look at the sky for confirmation it wouldn’t rain and set out to find
a semi-hidden spot on the banks of the narrow river. We settled for what turned
out to be the neighborhood shower area and waited out the last man rinsing off
to get comfortable. I tired to set up the gas but as I swered it on I heard
leaking sounds. Tom tried a few times and then suddently threw the little tank
f butane as a fire erupted. Perhaps erupted is a strong word to use, but it was
substantially big considering the tank could explode and the was plenty of
flammable stuff around it. We dispersed to a safe distance and watched the flames
illuminate the one pitch black night. After a few minutes the flamed went out
and we kicked the gas into the water to be safe. Raw carrots for dinner it was.
After all the excitement, we settled down to watch the
marriage of the fireflies and stars until it felt like the lights of a concert
just for us. I woke with the morning dew and rushing water and began to understand
how poetry was born. And, oh the poems I could write on the genuine niceness of
the nepali people! Because the gas broke (or at least there was no way I would
touch it again) I asked a Didi (term for any woman figure) if I could use her
stove to make the oatmeal I’d bought. Even though she let me make it in her
kitchen and through broken nepali I managed to explain it was from wheat and
very good for you, and I made enough for her too- she insisted we sit while she
serves us and looked on in utter glee as our bellies filled up. She insisted on
waiting until we were done and had scooped out seconds without touching our
cups (a cultural taboo, and a feat considering the stickiness of oatmeal). She didn’t
try it with us- saying she would only eat after we did- but I think she didn’t want
to ruin her appetite for her 10am Dal Bhat. We walked by the narrow path, down
the worn foot path to our grassy abode, and I thought how other tourists would
look at the trail from the highway and think how nice it was, but to us we
already feel part of it all enough to become a scene in the picture. It probably
doesn’t really look that way, and certainly doesn’t always feel so- but for
that moment…
We spent the day reading until the rains came and we hid
with the cows and their stench and watched the rice paddies overflow with water
and joy…
