Origins of Zen

Mo' Mo-Mo's, Mo' Problems

jericafromamerica — Wed, 9 Sep 2015 17:15:00 GMT

The saying 'my eyes were bigger than my stomach' takes on a whole new meaning when you land in Southeast Asia. While Thailand takes the cake in this category, the variety of ethnic cuisines available in Nepal isn't far behind. For the budget traveler, food can become your biggest downfall. When browsing the menus of restaurants along the chaotic streets of Kathmandu or the tourist town of Pokhara, I judge the relative expensivness based on the price of beer and Mo-Mo's- a Nepalese style of dumping brought from Tibet.
I thought after a stint at Dim Sum Heaven in Philadelphia that I'd retired from the dumpling game, having tried them steamed, fried, pan-seared, stuffed, puffed, and dipped from various regions of the world. Mo-mo's are pockets of dough neatly braided and traditionally filled with julienne veggies, such as carrots, cabbage, peppers, and onion, or with meats, such as chicken, beef, pork, yak, or water buffalo. The best mo-mo's are usually juicy, not oily, wet, or doughy, with the stuffing seasoned ever so lightly with herbs and spices such as garlic, ginger, or cilantro. Personally, what keeps me dipping away is the sauce. Oh- the sauce! You can find them served alongside creamy masalas, ketchup, chili sauce, soy sauce, or chutney.
My parents will read this now and laugh becuase I was the pickiest of the picky, not touching meat or vegetables voluntarily until college (only in America!). It was even so bad that as a child my mother had to take me to the doctors and report that I wouldn't eat anything but peanut butter sandwiches. His response? Let her- at least peanut butter would help me gain some weight. And so began my enabled pickiness. Mom and Dad, sorry to have been such a difficult child, but at least I found my way and saw that food is something to love not fear, for with cuisine is culture, is understanding. Sometimes it just takes people a minute to value what's in front of their faces. So while my problem used to be a narrow-minded stomach, now it's mo-mo's and the hankering to try every dish on a menu.

It's Not Wanderlust, It's a Vision Quest

jericafromamerica — Wed, 9 Sep 2015 17:06:00 GMT

A lover once exclaimed, in reference to my wanderlust, “You can’t live your life on vacation!” I’m not sure it occurred to him that my travels are more of a vision quest, and that my roughly calculated steps, which come in the form of countries and cultures, are propelled by whispers of my subconscious. When I feel inspired or provoked by a picture or a story, I surrender to the flow, aware that its energy is speaking to something deep inside me. As I enter this next phase of life, also called my mid-twenties, Earth spinning, constellations shifting, I embrace my confusion and choppy clarity as part of the process, as keys that unlock the secrets of my future, and maybe of my past.

I walk into a bookstore in Penang, Malaysia and find myself drawn to a book on palm reading that’s displayed on the shelf. If our palms, like a whale shark’s spots or humpback’s tail, are unique and divine designs designated to specific souls, do they have the power to reveal something more? I hold up the book and ask the bookstore owner if there was anyone in the area who knows about this sort of thing. “No, but there’s an Indian astrologer who has an office upstairs,” she says. What are the chances? I climb the stairs of the unmarked building and knock on an inconspicuous door. A short dark skinned Indian answers. He speaks little English, I arrange for the bookstore owner to translate, hand over my date and time of birth, and schedule to return in two days for our appointment.

We meet at the book store, so the shop keeper can translate while still tending to customers, and we crouch on boxes amidst stacks of books on the ground. The tiny man opens a small notebook, revealing a grid filled with characters and symbols. He uses his pinky to point from square to square, calculating to himself, wobbling his head before he speaks. “Have you a plan to start a business? Or open a shop?” Well, off to a good start, as a main goal of my trip was to decide if a business idea I had had any chance of success. The anthropologist in me, however, reads into the situation–knowing Indians are notorious for being entrepreneurs, his shot isn’t too far in the dark for most. He continues, touching on love, career, health, and family, moving his pinky and making more calculations before continuing from one topic to the next. Do I believe what he says? Is it a coincidence that his prophecies parallel what the medium told me months ago AND with what the tarot card reader, who I randomly met the day before, told me? I’m a young female far from home, so it’s safe to assume I hold certain characteristics to have put myself in that place, but all three detailed my recent past, patterns of love and money, specifics that had the hair on my arms sticking up and my eyes lightly wet from awe.

“You can go ahead with any plans you have, your fortune is good. Don’t fear any emotional or financial investment. The hard part is behind you,” he said, “Your star has now shifted and in the year ahead you will shine brighter than you ever have.” It was the Chinese New Year, the year the galliant and galloping horse comes in. Aside from calling on specifics of my past, and making predictions of my future, his advice was general, but advice worth heeding nonetheless. “Your past life was a difficult one, so in this life you will succeed at anything you take on,” he says. I move my attention from the translator to the astologer, who is still bobbling his head like, well, the popular dashboard figurine.

At the mention of past lives my memory begins to sift through strange experiences, of meeting people for the first time that I’d met before, of being in places I’d never been but been before, and of vivid dreams of scenes and meetings that’ve come to take on flesh. I recall the image of a woman whose picture I had seen hung up in Cambodia’s Tuol Sleng prison, a woman I shared many facial features with, maybe a body on consignment. I recount the medium’s accurate physical description of my grandparents, quoting things they’d said to me before passing. Then I looked at my fingers, the intricate swirls and waves of my fingerprints, a design I share with no one else, like a cheetah to its spots, a zebra to its stripes, a butterfly to its wings.

I don’t know when this vision quest started, maybe across lifetimes, maybe when I gained spiritual awareness, or maybe when I stepped on that plane four months ago. What I do know? There have been far too many coincidences, too many parallels, too many word-for-word statements repeated by people with no relation, people, questionable spirit guides, whose words are accompanied by eye contact that lingers like they’re speaking to a deeper me.

Friends ask me, “Do you really believe in that kind of stuff? Fortune tellers?”

Maybe so, maybe not, but one thing is for sure– I share these fingerprints with no one else, and the stars guide whales, and the sun reaps harvests, and the moon, as far away as it is, makes waves. So maybe it isn’t such a far off thought. Will I know when the vision quest is over? No, but I know that relationship sure had to end.

Welcoming 2014

jericafromamerica — Wed, 1 Jan 2014 16:57:00 GMT

These are the last 12 hours of 2013. My mind sifts through memories of where I've come from and where I've been like a flip-book. I’m at Doi Suthep, a temple outside of Chiang Mai, and it's packed with people who are climbing like ants up the steep staircase. At the top they walk three times around, light candles, offer lotus flowers, burn incense, pour oil over statues of Buddha, and repeat their mantra. I rented a bike to get here and planned to meet Kendra at the top. It hadn't occurred to me that the temple would be teeming with people. I hadn't been on a motorbike since Bali, but the second I took off I remembered how it's one of the best feelings in the world. Free on two wheels to stop where I please, to have nothing between me and the landscape before me.

        Walking through the Wat, I had a knot in my throat. Maybe it was of joy, of overcoming obstacles of the past year to put myself physically and mentally in places that my soul was craving. Or maybe it was my nervousness for what’s to come, of writing my next chapter, trying not to miss a beat. Since speaking with the medium, I’ve invested more thought into horoscopes, contemplating reincarnation, luck, and the power of the stars. I try to channel my higher self, the one who began to breathe in July after deciding on a new path, one that scales walls by my fingertips and prays on mountain tops. I just turned 25 and tomorrow I wake up in 2014. In the next twelve months I hope for happiness, good health, the health and safety of my family, and the beginning of a career. In 2014 I aim to achieve balance, a task that is constantly a work in progress. Looking out over the masses I thought I'd channel Kendra, think of where she might go, which shrine I might find her in front of. And then boom. I see her in the crowd.
       On the way back to town I stopped at a lone Buddha statue that wasn't swarmed with pilgrims. I said my prayers in solitude, where I could think clearly about what I need in life. That night I set off a lantern, letting a wish or a worry go away with it. After helping a friend I looked back to see my lantern gone.
     The clock of the guesthouse was broken and stuck at ten to midnight, time standing still, the anticipation of the new year lingering on. In the morning someone had put a new battery in. It was time to begin again.

How I Almost Got Deported

jericafromamerica — Wed, 25 Dec 2013 16:54:00 GMT

We thought we were in the clear. We acted fast in the Kathamandu airport and paid for a flight to make our connection from Dhaka to Burma. We were then advised not to leave the airport, spent 22 hours in a box of malaria-waiting-to-happen, and eventually boarded our flight to Burma. While eating our unidentifiable boxed plane meals we joked that we had three obstacles before us 1) get our visa 2) have our baggage safely in hand and 3) get to our hotel. With our itinerary and hotel confirmations in hand, as advised by their immigration website, we were told at the visa desk that we were denied a visa on arrival and were going to have to get back on the plane to Bangladesh right then and there. Two officials showed up with our bags in their hand (1 out of 3 ain't bad!) and with stern faces told us we needed to go with them- back to that mosquito infested airport that we wouldn't be able to leave.
     There was a young woman who worked there as well who I felt would be more of a help than the erratic Biman official before us. Had we been on our original flight, Biman would have informed us that Burma was temporarily suspending visas on arrival. This meant that the Burmese government would hold Biman responsible for our illegal presence- hence his erratic behavior. Kendra and I refused to let any tears out, determined to find a solution. I explained that there was a 72 hour transit period for us to figure something out, to use the internet to book a flight elsewhere. "Impossible! Impossible!" the Biman official kept saying, with our bags slung over his shoulders, ready to put us back on the plane to a country that was having civil conflict. "There is no internet in transit section of airport, and you cannot cross immigration to get to booking desk! You MUST come with me. You here illegally! The flight leaves in ten minutes," he said. Ugh, the pains of nonsensical logistics, I thought.
     I put my back to the disgruntled official and asked the quiet young woman if she could do anything to help, if she could get us on a flight going anywhere. "Anywhere!" I repeated, money all of a sudden not an issue. She asked us to sit down and walked away with the man and his ever-so powerful walkie talkie. We sat in silence, too nervous to even look at one another. Then, by some grace of God, they returned, "You are going to Thailand and we must go NOW!" We were hurried up stairs and through gated off areas, asked to wait around corners while the man who seemed so against us was now chatting up various immigration desk officers. We ran through the airport and were put in the Air Asia office. They took our information and told us we were flying in to Bangkok for 110 USD. Eh! Not as bad of a loss as we thought it was going to be. Twenty minutes later we were boarding a flight to Thailand, a place I once called home. The disgruntled Biman official shook our hands, "I'm so sorry for all of this. My government is difficult and this happen everyday. I don't know why the government website lie. Good luck to you." In that moment I saw him for who he really was, just trying to do his job.
           Our horoscope (yes we're both Sagittarians!) said that this month we would be 'taking a financial hit', and boy was it right. While those 48 hours were chaotic, nerve racking, and unfortunately shaved a month off my travel plan, I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. Maybe I wasn't meant to be in Burma? Maybe not getting on that first flight was a warning? Maybe I'm supposed to be somewhere else for some reason I've yet to know? Spontaneity and travel go hand in hand, and every day I learn more about myself, seeing that my attitude and reaction is what defines a situation, not necessarily the situation itself. So what have I learned in the past 48 hours? That the good and the bad go hand in hand, because without bad we have no way to define good and vis versa. Free will and destiny are easily distinguished: when there is lack of choice, there is no need to get upset because it's out of my hands. All I can do is be flexible. So to Thailand it was. Home for the holidays.

Why You Shouldn't Fly Biman Air

jericafromamerica — Fri, 20 Dec 2013 16:50:00 GMT

We needed proof of onward travel from Nepal so we booked our flight to Burma through OneTravel. I read reviews for Biman Air and, as usual, found mixed reviews. When we arrived to Kathmandu's small and run down airport we found that our booking window had closed early, leaving us without a boarding pass. With still an hour before boarding time we tried to locate a Biman official, even leaving the airport to knock on headquarter doors, but to no avail. As the clock ticked down we kept being told by people with badges and walkie talkies (seals of power in airports without computers) to 'just wait, just wait'. We were finally put on the phone with the head official of Biman in Kathmandu, who told us that the flight was full. But we had purchased our tickets over a month in advance? So surely it must have been a translation error. The clock ticked some more and we were told we would be helped shortly. Then our flight left. Then we were told no one was coming and the offices were closed. Then we were told to come back tomorrow in an unpromising manner. Great.
With a 22 hour layover in Dhaka, Bangladesh we knew we still had a chance of making our second leg and not eating our entire ticket if we hopped on another flight. United Bangladesh Air was helpful and gracious, but potentially in cahoots with Biram's Kathmandu branch, and got us on a flight to Dhaka for 180 USD, a blow to our budget. They had on sit away from the desk, approaching us to whisper, acting like they were doing us a serious favor. "We have one seat, but you both have to go right? I can talk to the Captain about getting one of you in the jump seat, but i'm not sure," the official said. Five minutes before the flight was to leave he hurried us along. We had seats. On the walk out to the plane we saw that man, the man we paid in cash. I put my hands together and bowed in thank you, then gave him a hug and told him how grateful I was that he went above and beyond to help us. He looked at the ground and flashed a fake smile. That was when I knew he hadn't done any favors, rather he was responsible for keeping our original boarding passes out of our hands, playing off of how desperate we were to pocket some under the table cash.
When we arrived to Dhaka we went straight to the Biman transit desk to file our complaints. They graciously offered us tea and a complimentary dinner while they 'figured things out'. On the flight manifesto it said that our seats were confirmed, that we were confirmed as having boarded the plane, aka there was some sketchy business going on. The officials were adamant that it was not them who we would need to discuss a refund with, but with OneTravel. We were upset about the dent in our budget and wanted to leave the stress behind, so we gathered our stuff and set out to take a taxi to my friend's mothers' house, who was anticipating our arrival with Bengali home cooking I'd been dreaming about (literally I woke up dreaming of prawn masala). Two days before our flight we contacted Biman to confirm that there were indeed free transit visas and that it was safe to travel amidst rising political tensions. They even told us we would have free transportation and hotel room because of the length of our layover. Now here we were, being told that there was no such thing as a free transit visa, complimentary hotel or transport, and that it wasn't safe for us to leave the airport, that there were car bombings and kidnappings. We would be spending the next 20 hours in the mosquito infested airport, but our meals would be free! While the gentleman were kind and tried to get more information as to why we were denied our seats, it seemed they would do little for us besides a complimentary dinner of cold chicken curry. I consider myself a savvy and rough traveler who can get through most difficult situations with my chin up, but the overwhelming swarms of mosquitoes and invalid Biman email contacts (yes plural) had me fired up. Would this situation have been avoidable if I showed up well in advance to my flight? Yes, but that doesn't change the lack of, or absent, customer service and sketchy business behind the scenes.

The bug zapper we were given by Biman Air

Our complimentary cold dinner

         While roaming the airport for a place to sleep where we wouldn't be starred at, we met two Bangladeshi business owners of a food stand that serves spices wrapped in a banana leaf, some sort of dessert with hints of mint and tamarind. They bought us beers, tried to pull some strings to get us into the upscale lounge, and slyly ordered a piece of cake for Kendra's birthday. We told them our story and they weren't surprised, referring to Biman as the worst of the worst. That night we tossed and turned, swatting away the mosquitoes that were biting us through our clothes and trying to avoid prolonged gazes from curious men. We were the only women in the airport and were a spectacle, men standing next to us as we tried to sleep, just to stare. I found it entertaining, but most would find it disturbing.
          What had me more upset than having to pay for that flight was not being able to eat the Bengali home cooking that my friend's mother had waiting for us. As much as I never want to see that airport again, I will return to Bangladesh to try the pantua, chutneys, kumro bhaja, prawn masala, and curries. For now i'll just have to keep dreaming of my first bites of prawn masala.
    Then, just when we thought we were out of the weeds, sitting on our connecting flight to Burma, it got worse.

Finding Shangri-la in the Nepalese Hills

jericafromamerica — Sun, 15 Dec 2013 23:10:00 GMT

I asked for the date while filling out the storage invoice for our bags, "December 1st", the clerk replied. I'd been oblivious to time since arriving in Nepal and forgotten my upcoming birthday -December 2nd. So it was decided, I would be celebrating turning 25 while trekking outside the Pokhara valley.
Our guide Indra was a kind man with gentle eyes. It was his sign that caught our attention, one he recently hung up in hopes of giving a go at being a private guide rather than working for a company at an unfairly distributed wage. We were his first customers. Over breakfast he explained our route, the ups and downs, the 'easies' and 'not-so-easies', and where we would sleep. "We are lucky," he said, "Tomorrow is festival in Panchase. The villagers will be spreading seeds so they can have food in their next life, for a prosperous future." The stars were aligned.

After a thirty minute cab ride we were dropped at the bottom of stone stairs that went straight up and seemed to go on forever. Before taking the first step I said to myself- It will be hard, but you just start...that is the hardest part. I daydreamed during the grueling two hour ascent straight up about all the feet who touched those ancient steps, about a time when you had to walk to get anywhere and carry your goods to trade in far off lands, excited by the prosper of exotic silks and spices. Women in flip-flops secured woven baskets of rice on their back by a strap on their forehead. As I'd stop to catch my breath, they'd wiz by me laughing on their cell phones. Indra said that perseverance is in the hill people's blood. When the trail plateaued, the scene opened up to a sight that took my breath away- the grandeur of cascading jungle mountains set before mammoth snowy Himalaya peaks. The landscape inched toward me in a tunnel vision as if on hallucinogenics or in the opening scene of Jurassic Park. I envisioned my future self hiking in the Virunga Mountains of Rwanda to see the mountain gorillas, craving the rawness of Mama Africa once again. I could smell the ground water, hear the wings of a bird hush by, and the longevity of a minute. It's those moments that I passionately seek, moments drenched in a glory unattainable without perseverance. "Bistarai, Bistarai," Indra kept saying-"Slowly, slowly."

      We passed through small villages that still used the traditional method of building with stone, mud walls, and grass roofs, a delightful sight in contrast to the concrete litter that Nepal was sleeping under. We hiked straight up for another two hours before hearing the sounds of a loudspeaker, signaling that we were close to Panchase Bhanjang where we were spending the night.
    The men and children were fixated on the game of volleyball being played while the women    sliced up buffalo meat with kukris, curved machetes, for the following day. We were shown to our simple adobe room (3 USD) and then joined our host family in their kitchen for tea, where silver plates and cups were neatly lined against the wall and reflecting the stoves flames about the room. We sampled the black eye bean curry they would be serving for the festival and passed time laughing with the husband. He was a funny man with a hoarse voice, squinty eyes, and a throaty laugh. "We are from the USA," we said. "AMASTIC BOMBASTIC!" he exclaimed. He began rhyming in English with words that had no correlation whatsoever, doubling over in his own laughter, repeating, "You understand, no go to Pakistan." While we found his drunken humor entertaining his wife thought it quite the contrary. When she handed him rice doughnuts to place on the fire he dropped them in the soot and proceeded to laugh more. With a strained expression on her face she motioned him out of the way so she could cook, but he was strongly planted in his crouched position. "I lover she, but she no lover me," he chuckled. The product of an arranged marriage? I'm not sure.
    A man walked in and started ranting in Nepali, repeating himself to everyone in the room. A year ago Indra had been through the village and heard the man talk about how cold he was without a jacket. Indra remembered this and brought him one as a gift this time around. "He is a great, great man- a true man," he said, shaking Indra's hand over and over again. It later occurred to me that jacket was the only thing Indra carried in his pack besides a bottle of water.

I fell asleep reading Past Lives, Future Lives by Jenny Cockell and was taken aback by the final chapter when she describes the vision of her future life tending to a farm in Nepal. Maybe she was sowing the seeds we would spread tomorrow. That night I dreamt I had an intricate tattoo on my shoulder, a symbol that held some sort of power. I believe I'll see it again, if not in this life the next.
At four am, while the stars were still out, we began our frigid hike up Panchase mountain to see the sunrise and the Buddhist and Hindu temples. Shivering and layered up with every item of clothing I had, I took a moment to catch my breath and saw a shooting star. After the last rushed wish, I decided it'd be best to use my wishes for other people. So that's just what I did. The sun came up and painted the horizon orange and red, turning the snow capped mountains pink. The 360 degree views of the Himalaya had me in awe of how expansive the world is and how there is so much majesty I've yet to discover. Herds of villagers arrived with baskets strapped to their foreheads, setting up their food and getting blessed with tikka on their head. Indra laughed at the sight of people throwing money instead of seeds, "Some people, they just want so much, but the seeds will be more important than the money." We held our steaming coffee close to our face and ate the best vegetable pakoras I've had in Nepal- crispy, soft, and spicy- a memory that makes my mouth water even now.

Back in the village, as I ate my breakfast of eggs and chapatti, Indra came in with a necklace he made of marigolds for me for my birthday. My eyes welled with tears. The best presents come from the heart, and one could only be so lucky to have met one like Indra's. After eating, I set out to watch the volleyball game and soak up the landscape and village life, but was bombarded by masses of boys and men who wanted to know where I was from, if I had a boyfriend, how many people are in my family, and if we could take a picture together.

We started off toward Bhadure around noon, down stone steps and through grassy hills. School children ran down the stairs while we took gentle calculated strides. There wasn't a cloud in sight and I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. The smell of the marigolds wafted around me the entire walk and when Don't Worry Be Happy played from the mini speakers it was like hearing the song for the first time; I hadn't a care in the world, alive with every breath and step I took. We arrived to a small guesthouse situated on a cliff with superb views of the valley below and mountains above. We sat together in silence and let our smiles do the talking. I drank ginger tea, watched the stars, embraced the breeze, and fell asleep in a mildewy room still smiling. It was an unsurmountable birthday, unplanned and dripping in a transcendental moment to moment electricity.

Our hike back to Pokhara was strenuous and lasted six hours. "Bistarai, Bistarai." My calves were shaking as we descended the steep Sarangkot stairs, and I couldn't help but laugh. How funny of my calves to be playing tricks. We arrived to Indra's adobe home that he shared with his brothers family where lunch was waiting for us. His wife was gorgeous with gentle eyes that matched Indra's. The only thing more spectacular than her beautiful garden was her cooking, a meal that had me stopping to ask myself if this was real life. Her pickled radish, vegetable curry, daahl baht, and sag thali pate was something you'd choose as your final supper- crisp with salty and savory flavors balanced in perfection. I didn't want it to end and luckily, in Nepal, seconds and thirds are always ready. We had a laugh at their dog Rocky, who, with a spray painted 'R' on his forehead, chased a monkey up a tree. We flipped through photo albums of past treks, snapped some pictures together, and met the rest of his extended family. I decided I would come back to Nepal and hike to Jonsom with my new friend Indra.

We said our goodbyes and took a taxi back to Hotel Pana. Looking out the window at the placid lake and streets littered with garbage I couldn't have been happier, blessed to have existed in moments and scenes that I signed up for on a whim. I didn't come to Nepal to accomplish grueling hikes, I came for the villages and people, for hikes through time, to a simpler way of life. Our trek to Panchase and partaking, by chance, in a once a year celebration that coincided with my forgotten birthday was exactly that. Indra was one of the most genuine people I've met to date, who spoke with passion in such a simple yet loaded way- "I am not a religious man, but I know that if God is in my heart, that love will always be there, that good will always come my way."
I believe our souls were sent to one another. We saw his sign, proving his efforts as an independent guide can happen, and he reminded me that a little bit of effort can go a long way, offering to be my contact in Nepal for the trade development I was setting up. The trek was serendipitous, a reminder and affirmation that when you choose a path with your whole heart you will walk on soft ground without shoes and the wind will always be at your back.
In the taxi I began to cry. This is my life, I only get one chance, and I want it to overflow at the brim with moments like that. When I spoke with the medium she quoted my Grandfather, relaying his light laugh, an air of his confidence, "Just keep following your dreams kiddo and you'll get everything you ever wanted in life." After that trek I felt with every nerve in my body it was true. On my 25th birthday I found Shangri-la and I didn't even mean to.

Should you ever choose to go to Nepal you can contact Indra Thapa at indrasarkar7@gmail.com, 00977- 9813359182, or through Hotel Pana in Pokhara (a GREAT budget option in town).

Arriving in Kathmandu

jericafromamerica — Wed, 11 Dec 2013 19:45:00 GMT

      When I mentioned to a customer that I would begin my travels for the winter in Nepal they told me that Nepal emits a spiritual energy like nowhere else. "When you walk out of the airport, you can sense something mystical and consuming," he said. Unfortunately, my arrival was nothing like that. It would take me a few weeks to finally discover the feeling he was talking about.
We landed around eleven pm and got through customs with our visas by midnight. Our airport pickup was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the usual taxi tout. The election the day before marked the end of the Maoist dominated government that was responsible for the decade long civil war which ended in 2006. Businesses had yet to open after the polls closed and people stayed off the streets to avoid the heightened political tensions. Confused by the lack of people and taxis, we boarded the only bus (3 USD) and were dropped off on the eerily quiet streets of Thamel- the backpacker district of Kathmandu. There were no street signs, lit up business signs, or the usual men linger in dark corners and smoking cigarettes. After walking for an hour down littered alley knocking on friendly looking doors to borrow a cell phone, we eventually found our guesthouse and slept for what felt like the first time in 48 hours. In the morning those same streets were far from desolate and quiet. The narrow roads were noisy and polluted, swarmed with honking rickshaws, motorbikes, and cars, and teaming with merchants selling cashmere, silk, saris, and beads. The air was heavy with the smell of petrol and that energy I anticipated was nowhere to be found. We planned to escape the city and head to the Pokhara valley as soon as possible and booked our bus tickets through Nepal Air and Travel for 600 rupees (6 USD). It was there that we met Rijen who offered to show us around to some of the sites and get us around paying the tourist prices.
    We took the pilgrim stairs to the top of Swayambhunath, walked clockwise around the stupa, spun the prayer wheels, and looked out over the sprawling city set in front of snow-capped mountains. There was a stark contrast at the city limits, where the cement buildings stopped and the hills and mountains began. We would be there soon enough I thought. From there we took a taxi to Durbar Square, an area opposite the old royal palace that transports you back in time. I soaked up the sight of Sahdu's dressed in orange with tikka on their foreheads, thinking for a moment that I was somewhere in India. Around four o'clock we ducked into the temple walls to get a look at Kumari, the only living goddess. It's said that when she looks down on you from her balcony you are granted a wish. Rijen said the young girl had to go through a series of tests to prove her divinity, but later our trekking guide said that once she menstruates another girl is chosen as a replacement. When the small wooden doors of the window opened a somber looking Kumari appeared doting heavy black eyeliner and colorful jewels on her neck. It all happened so fast that I got lost in my thoughts of ego and desire, rushed to make a wish like when you see a shooting star or when the birthday candle starts to melt. But who makes the rules about wishes? Surely there is some kind of grace period.
    The bumpy seven hour bus ride took us through towns celebrating the election with dancing and food, the streets lined with cheering men and women in red saris. Pokhara is a valley town situated serenely along Phew Lake with views of the Annapurna mountain range in the distance. It was a breath of fresh air in comparison to Kathmandu, with wider streets and a slower pace. We took our time exploring the area, hiking to the World Peace Pagoda and the town of Sarangkot. After having our fair share of relaxing days filled with reading, writing, tea, mo-mo's, and mountain views we saw a sign for a trek that would take us through Gurung villages. The trek would be physically pressing, and give me a sense of accomplishment, but the sublime bonus would be having that 'Ahhhh' moment my customer was talking about. It was when I would recognize how warm my soul is when I feed it, how it can match the celestial bliss of a mid-day sun.

Thanksgiving in Nepal

jericafromamerica — Thu, 28 Nov 2013 17:16:00 GMT

Today my friends and family will be eating foods I can currently only dream of while I celebrate my gratefulness over daahl baht, chapati, and pristine views of the Himalaya with my good friend Kendra. I am constantly reminded on the road, as i pass families who live meagerly off an average of 250$ a year, that I have fistfuls to be thankful for. I am thankful to have been born into a privledged place in society, where college education, a home with running water and electricity, clothes, and cabinets full of food are the norm. I am truly blessed to have come from such a place, to have traveled the world, been born into a family full of love, and to know what the saying 'sky's the limit' means. Today I give no more thanks than any other day, as each is filled with an utter gratitude for existence, but I will give special thanks to the strangers I've thus far encountered on this journey who have gone out of their way to welcome me to their homes, feed me, and help me on my way, out of the sheer kindness of their hearts. If everyone could take on a 'pay it forward' approach in their daily lives the world would surely be a better place. Happy Thanksgiving everybody. Namaste.

Roadtripping the Big Sur Coast, California

jericafromamerica — Sat, 23 Nov 2013 19:28:00 GMT

"Have you ever thought about going California?" the medium asked. I told her I had thought about it, but never made any serious plans. "I see you will be going there as well, before your trip east," she said, "You will be going with a man."
Friends and I had been contemplating a road trip to the west coast, but come October it was just Kendra and I, who decided to plan a layover in California before Asia to visit some friends and drive the Big Sur coast. When we landed in San Francisco I thought the medium had been wrong, that I somehow selfprophesized and altered my direction slightly, but it was the same price to fly out from the west coast, so why not visit some friends? While standing in line for our car rental, after an eventful night in the Castro district, a guy with a bulky pack approached us. He had a warm and intriguing spirit and was heading down the coast to Los Angeles as well. When he asked if we wanted to ditch our rental and ride together it was pretty much a no brainer. And so it went...three days of camping and driving with a stranger turned friend- the man the medium saw.

After we got off the highway, the scenery started to open up and we caught a sunset over rolling blue hills, headed toward Big basin, which is part of the Redwood Forest. I began losing myself in the passing landscape of thick towering trees and came to when we stopped in Boulder Creek for some supplies. We arrived after nightfall at Santa Cruz's New Brighton State Park (30$) and found some trees to hang our hammocks between, but when the temperature plummeted we found ourselves cuddled up in our little Ford Compact. In the morning we began our journey down US-1 through Carmel River to Big Sur. The road hugged the cliffs with what could be unforgiving turns, and without a cloud in sight, the sky met the sea with a glowing white light. Besides then, the only other time I'd seen how round the Earth is was when I went skydiving in South Africa; a magnificent sight indeed. We played our beats and let our tongues hang out of our mouths, daydreaming about the infinance of the world and moving to the west coast.

     We stopped for coffee at a place called Lucia's that had outdoor seating with a view of the ocean. The waiter told us about this pie special, calling it 'mountains, rivers, canyons, forests, brooks, estuaries, and desert pie'. While the flamboyant waiter later admitted he made the name up, we were nonetheless intrigued and ordered it. Turns out it was one of the best pieces of pie I'd ever had.
  A little ways down the road, we pulled over to walk the elephant seal boardwalk and said goodbye to the Condors, sand dunes, and rolling waves.  Harmony Hills winery was recommended to us by a woman we met at Lucia's, and for 5$ we tasted six wines and probed the staff on where to find the best fish tacos. Unfortunately, Taco Temple fell short of our expectations, but the endless chips and salsa made up for it. We camped in Montana del Oro Park (25$) which had breath taking cliff-side views of the ocean and spent the night fireside scoping out the starscape.

We ended our trip at the Santa Monica pier, ironically right behind Danny's fish taco truck, which at 2 for 5$ was a steal, considering our location. Shortly thereafter I dropped 12$ on a glass of sangria at this hipster hangout called Bungalow, which looked more like the set of an Abercrombie ad than a bar. For dinner we mowed down on some appetizers at Primitivo in Venice, which had a great ambiance with intricate eats at a mediocre price. The next morning we grabbed breakfast at Flake'sbefore catching our flight to Japan, slowly making our way to Nepal.
The trip down the coast was warm in spirit and left me wanting more, solidifying the notion that I'm not quite done with Cali yet. Who can say no to fish tacos, lush mountains, picturesque beaches, kind souls, and wine?

Finding my Travel Companion

jericafromamerica — Fri, 22 Nov 2013 03:12:00 GMT

Sitting on the the plane to California it suddenly occurred to me that the moment had already happened. Five months ago I made the move from Key West, FL to Nantucket, MA to work as a waitress for the sumer and stop scrapping by month to month. I found myself more confused than ever in life, lacking clarity, purpose, and direction. As a last ditch effort I decided to consult a medium. Should I plan and execute the extensive trip abroad I'd been daydreaming about? Should I end my two year long relationship? Was I putting myself in the right places and situations? Before telling the medium about my situation she chimed in about my aura of overwhelming and consuming confusion. She told me that she saw me taking a trip and began naming places that weren't on my current trip's agenda. I said I'd been thinking of Nepal and the surrounding area. "Yes, yes, you will definitely be going. I see Indian faces and beads, and I hear meditation chimes....this will be a spiritual journey for you," she said, "It will be very beneficial for your soul. You will be going to other places as well, just maybe not on this trip." When I asked if I would be going on this trip alone she took a moment and replied, "No...I see another woman on the plane with you." At the time, several people were interested, but with long term travel you can't just talk the talk, you have to walk the walk.

Here I am five months after that conversation on that plane next to the woman whose presence the medium saw me joining paths with. So this is Kendra, my Saggitarian travel companion. She's an old friend from high school who called me when I was living in Key West and urged me to spend a season on Nantucket getting myself out of debt. She has one of the warmest hearts I've ever met with eyes and a smile to match. Together we will hike mountains, dive oceans, visit monastaries, pray in temples, eat foreign cuisines, and adventure our way through Southeast Asia for an undetermined amount of time. It's almost like we were here before.

Sharing Stories - A Glimpse into Another's Life - Fanta and Onions in South Africa

jericafromamerica — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 14:07:03 GMT

Her face remained soft and unbothered by the audible calamity of her assault. As she cuts the wood, I ask her what the sign on the wall says. With her eyes still like ponds in tawny enclaves, she cracks down the ax and says, "Bawo Ndiphe Amandla Ndinyamezele Ndakhe Lomzi."

Xhosa used her tongue and lips relentlessly, exposing a rich pigment rare in the scorched landscape.

I pound the maize on a leaden slab on the floor of the kitchen rondavel with a rock that takes both hands to hold. Slivers of ivory bleed onto the slate with every thrust of my directionless arms, lines of silver, pearl, and coffee. I try to hear the tempo of her swing in my chest. Throwing my whole body forward with each grinding motion, balancing on the rough earth with my knees, I watch as my hands go over the edge of the pedestal and the stone slips off the edge. I put the scrape to my mouth and let the taste of iron and chalk mix.
She clicks something, swings her long thin braids behind her shoulders, and motions me out of the way.
"It means Lord give me the strength to build this house."
With my hand still in my mouth I look out at two boys making a small livestock pen made of twigs. Their legs were wobbly, and their heads the shape of dark melons, melons you want to put in the palm of your hand just to see how big it is.

She puts a large bowl of something mashed and diluted, with recognizable onions, on the mat on the floor.

“My broda lives heya until he can get de money to build his own. You must pay de chief in lots of pop, Fanta!,” she laughs, “Twelve cases! He is a funny chief I say."

With thick pieces of crumbling Xhosa bread we scoop up the mash. I tell her I love Fanta as morsels fall down my face onto the floor.

“It tis hard work. But our neighbors in de village will help," the Xhosa beating on her mouth with every 'd' and 'p'.

The burnt sienna highlighting her brow gave a false impression of hardness, the mud drying against her skin starkly.

“Do you help your neighbors build deya houses?”

I had so much bread in my mouth I inhaled it and began to cough. It looked as if i was nodding yes.

How to Swim with a Whale Shark

jericafromamerica — Tue, 2 Apr 2013 11:18:00 GMT

Ideally when you encounter the mammoth and famously docile whale shark you'll be taken by surprise and have this Jacques Cousteau-esque moment at sea. You'll free dive the underbelly of the biggest fish in the world, thinking for a moment, engulfed in blissful anxiety, that you took a breath underwater. Then you surface with a tear in your eye and a still frame image etched in your memory. As Jacques said, “The Sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”

Good news and bad news. The bad news is that unless you're on a private vessel and free of time constraints, this coveted venturesome moment will not be a chance intimate one, rather shared with countless others on a tour. The good news? Someone will be there to take a picture for you!

While the price tag of a whale shark tour can be hard to chew, traveling to countries with an exchange rate in your favor makes it a viable option. When booking, keep in mind season, tour size, and, most importantly, ethical practices. Because the very presence of the tour boats is arguably disturbing the creatures and their environment, it's crucial that you do your part in seeking out an eco-friendly tour company. Inquire about company procedures for swimming with the sharks and make sure that your guide is operating in compliance with local authorities and regulations.

Also ask how many people are in the water at once. How long does the encounter last? Are you guaranteed a sighting? Is there a videographer offering photos or video? Getting the answers to these questions before you book will ensure that you get the experience you want.

Let your larger than life experience remind you how small we are but how big of an impact we have on animals like the whale shark. And remember, every dollar you spend is a vote, so vote for a company thats mission is education based and steeped in conservation efforts.

Whale sharks can be found in tropical and warm-temperate seas ranging from Belize to Australia to the Philippines. Because whale sharks are predominantly solitary creatures, a run in can be hit or miss. Tip? Book in Isla Mujeres, Mexico where they socialize in groups upwards of twenty and you'll be assured a check off your bucket-list.

Here are a few popular places running tours or offering impromptu snorkel sessions between scuba dives:

Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico- June to September

Utila, Honduras and Gladden Spit, Belize- April to June

Ningaloo Reef, Australia- Mid-March to August

Donsol and Palawan, Philippines- April to September

Why You Should Plan a Layover in Singapore

jericafromamerica — Tue, 2 Apr 2013 06:41:00 GMT

One thing every budget traveler knows is that a layover is the perfect way to indulge in a country you may have otherwise flown right over. While visa rules can put a hinderance on stepping foot off airport soil, some countries, like Singapore, encourage those in transit to explore the architecturally rich city by offering a free visa. With the airport located at the heart of Singapore's commercial centre, it's a quick and easy hop from a taxi to the popular waterfront area or to the local eateries. The airport even offers free tours of the city with stops in Little India or Chinatown via tour bus for those with over a five hour layover. Yes, I said FREE! You'll have to walk around in a cattle herd temporarily, but the payoff of trying non-airport chicken and rice under a towering skyline and getting a taste of the future with the city's many touch screens is worth it.

For those with less time to spare, the airport still boasts of some of the most impressive amenities in the world, including a 24-hour movie theater playing the latest box office hits and a two story butterfly sanctuary where you can photograph the colorful creatures amongst native flora. After you've fogged up your camera lens, head downstairs to the koi ponds or take a seat in one of the many conveniently located leg massage chairs. Then it's on to the roof, where a swim suit in your carry-on will come in handy! Yes folks...an airport with a rooftop pool! A real treat for anyone whose next stop is winter!

From the moving walkways to the prim stewardess' in transit, a layover in Singapore promises to be a high-style experience. After hearing about the the country's quality of life and lack of crime, it may even have you contemplating relocating! So whether it's two hours or eight hours, plan your next trip to have a layover at Changi airport for a memorable trip that you didn't even mean to have.

(The only thing better than the airport.....Singapore Airlines.)

Stepping into Tampak Siring

jericafromamerica — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 03:13:00 GMT

On the quest to find my white whale I've fallen a few times. I clumsily get up though, to see the sun rise over fertile South African valleys and set behind majestic Adirondack mountains, to feel the sand of the Indian Ocean or the wrath of hurricane winds. I've been a prisoner and i've been a pirate. Now I can tell The Story, the one where I run and find and hope and conquer. Stories where my shoes are too big or too small, or tapped together, or i'm wearing none at all. My feet aren't as calloused as my soul, yet both have journeyed far and wide. I've had moments I thought I would burst into specs of silver and gold, raining onto grass like an angry wind storm, grass that was so green you'd have to put it on the skin of your face just to know it was real.

On this day I set off to find a cure for my soul's discontent. What I found was Tampak Siring, a water temple set in the Ubud hills, where children and grandparents alike bow their heads under spewing spouts of water, repeating their mantra, grasping their faith. Everyone is praying for something different, but ultimately the same. Everyone wants to achieve happiness and inner peace, to see the world be just and those in it to act justly so. Among the graceful orange and ivory koi, atop soft rounded stones, from one spout to the next, each pilgrim walks, sipping the water, then spitting it out. It was here that I asked to begin again. I asked for the nightmares to cease, to no longer be chased up never ending stairs or through labyrinth homes. With eyes heavy to fall on fair skin, I clasped my hands and closed my eyes, imagining all that could wash away. Feel it as it leaves you. Raising my foot from the soft stones to the algae slicked stairs I felt graceful, like sap, in a slow golden drip, showcasing how elegant the tiniest bits of light can be.

Photos: Bali

jericafromamerica — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 07:34:00 GMT

Photos: Views from the Road

jericafromamerica — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:41:00 GMT

Photos: Southeast Asia

jericafromamerica — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 10:15:00 GMT

My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

jericafromamerica — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 12:52:00 GMT

After the bliss of a saffron morning, on a plum night, I saw the yolk of an egg cook to a deep red between the mountains. I saw how it boiled over and spilt the horizon. I plucked a dragon fruit from under an ancestral filled sky and slurped on its sweet pulp while listening to the grasshoppers dandified symphony. Then, when I thought I couldn't breathe in any more of the world's glittering miracles, I did. I learned how to float.

As the full moon grew thick on the night of Loi Krathong, the jovial masses began to drip from the trees surrounding the Chiang Mai field. On the streets women were working the woks, flipping the rice once, twice, three times and into containers later crunched under the stampede. Men were meddling about their tuk-tuks, smoking cigarettes and selling lanterns by the dozens. With a ring of charcoal attached by wire, the paper lanterns would fill with smoke and float with grace into the sky, away with it a wish or worry.

People sat meditating in silence, shoulder to shoulder, spirit to spirit, surrounding the stage of ornately draped monks. “Envision the center of your being, burning bright like the sun or moon, a powerful light, ” the speakers echoed over the thick sea of us.

A man with small hands pulls at my arm. He motions me down, “Sit and join.” He smiled like he knew something more, and his thick brows smiled with him.

I felt a presence ride up my arms and around my neck, down my chest and over my folded legs. A spirit perhaps. The countdown ended and I opened my eyes to find myself floating on a billowing orange wave, a feeling as intangible and indescribable as the hues of sky and water. All at once, thousands of paper lanterns were released by hopeful hands in a slow and swift dash toward the castles in the sky. It was a vision of unsurpassable beauty.

The fireworks pounded and illuminated the Thai man's tears. “Do you feel it?” he said, “How light we are?”