Archive for the ‘Guests’ Category

Posted on March 18, 2010

One Last Namaste

By Monika Terfloth – Part 10 of 10 of the Mother in-law in Nepal and India series.

Hello Everyone,

One last time to write, one last chapter before I head for home. The thought of home is more appealing as that day draws nearer and we are rich with memories. We have managed a traditional thanksgiving dinner here in Tlell and Rex’s flat with a two burner hotplate and a toaster oven with the cooking squeezed between the scheduled power outages.

So, some thoughts before I go. Scattered bits that have been returning to mind over and again.

Despite the hectic traffic in Delhi, we were impressed with the lack of air pollution. Most of the busses and tuk-tuks (3-wheeled taxis) have converted to compressed natural gas for fuel. “CNG”is proudly painted on the sides of the vehicles that have been converted. The street gutters, however are clogged with garbage. Litter is simply thrown to the ground, and we are encouraged to do the same. “This is India” says Savron. Though everyone is impeccably groomed, they seem to ignore the ground and the fact that they must constantly step around squashed this or that, avoid a pee puddle, walk over mounds of gathered litter that never seem to be picked up, or to have those same bits blown back onto a freshly swept doorways. The organic waste is quickly consumed by the street animals, especially the pitiful dogs. What the dogs don’t eat, breaks down eventually, but what is inevitably left are heaps of plastic; bags, bottles, flip flops, wrappers, etc. Some homeless collect and bundle the better quality plastic and I presumed got a pittance for it somewhere. However, after Randy and I wandered into a destitute side street just off one of the bazaar areas of Delhi, it was apparent that some plastic is actually gathered for shelter.

On this side-street, beneath the raised patio of a small shopping area, larger pieces of plastic were used as walls and floors and blankets. It seemed a hundred people were gathered under the 4ft. high concrete patio, attempting to cook, sleep, tend to children, etc. Dogs wandered in and out, children cried, smudge fires burned. Everything seemed to be colored a muddy brownish-grey; the ground, the ragged clothing, the skin even. A hundred pairs of eyes stood out from the muddy backdrop as we passed. If I believed in hell, this would have been a small glimpse of it. These were some of the desperately poor. We had encountered many beggars on the streets and from a distance had seen many shanty-towns on the outskirts of villages, often as we drove by with Savron, protected from a more intimate look.

In any town or city,the streets and the side streets especially, are lined with tiny shops, some no bigger than the doorway itself, selling packets of mints, shampoo and chewing tobacco. Many are topped with worn hand-painted signs advertising such things as the Hanky Franky Restaurant, Cake Bank, Fanta Box, Hospital, Lux Cozi Panties, and Age-defying Shampoo (Randy bought some of that, we’re sharing!). The vendors often live inside the tiny shops, having a simple bed of rope woven between wooden side rails. This bed is pulled out onto the street during the day and often aged men are resting there. Life truly happens on the street. If one has a chair and a pair of scissors, a barbershop appears on the sidewalk, a bicycle powers a sharpening stone, a few tools becomes a mechanic shop, a leather repair, or a tailor, a bicycle and a piece of rope becomes a delivery vehicle. At times it seemed rather like a surreal movie.

We were up in the early hours of the morning for the flight back to Kathmandu from Delhi. Savron drove us through a quiet and darkened city. We saw, in the now idle tuk- tuks and pushcarts, each vendor still fully clothed and asleep on or inside the cart. Long brown arms and legs were slung, dangling over the side of the small carts, not blanket or pillow in sight. Everyone presumably trying to get a few moments rest off the ground after a full day’s work hustling for a few rupees. As we travelled along, homeless dark figures slept in virtually every doorway.

One last haunting image that I am certain will never leave me is the one of ‘the desert girl’. Our driver, guides and guide books had cautioned against giving to beggars. Sometimes we ignored their warnings and sometimes we heeded them. After a particularly bizarre afternoon (that’s another story) we hired a camel-cart and driver for an evening ride to the desert on the outskirts of Pushkar. It was blissfully quiet with a light breeze and the sand so golden it was near orange. Tony the camel padded softly through the sand bringing up a puff of dust as he planted each large foot. A small pond came into view at the base of a arc of large sand dunes. The driver stopped nearby and we hopped off the cart. Then on the breeze came faint strains of music…Frere Jacques?? Here??

Over the sand dune, in black silhouette against the golden evening sun, came a boy playing a small stringed instrument. Today, having been hounded by aggressive vendors and followed at length and having been bamboozled by an inept guide, we were feeling a rather jaded. Surely the camel driver had taken us here deliberately. Perhaps not. “Things are not always as they appear” Randy said again, as he said nearly every day. Then following the boy and his music came a group of smaller children, barefoot and dressed in tattered rags, all running toward us calling “rupee”, “chapati”. The camel driver urged us back onto the cart and shortly Tony the camel was loping through the desert sand. The children continued to call out, with the older boy running along and reaching the side of the cart first. I handed him the coins from my pocket then I heard Randy urging “give it to the girl, give it to the girl”. The smallest children had been left far behind, but keeping pace at the back of the cart was a small girl I had not seen. She clutched a baby on her hip as she ran. She was perhaps four years old. She ran steadily after the cart, breathlessly saying “please mam, please mam” as I struggled for my wallet. Her eyes riveted on mine as she continued to run begging for a few rupees. Finally we were able to pass a note to her and once in her hand she stopped running immediately, completely out of breath. As we continued to looking backward toward the sun, we could see her tiny dark silhouette becoming smaller against the golden sand as Tony drew us steadily further away. In my dreams I am emptying my wallet, the bills fluttering toward her against the backdrop of the Rajasthani desert.

There is so much more to tell, but I will save some of the stories for the times when we will see you in person. In a few short days we will be home, and we look forward to seeing everyone again.

Goodnight.

Posted on March 18, 2010

Holy Water!

By Monika Terfloth – Part 9 of 10 of the Mother in-law in Nepal and India series.

Hello Everyone, today we are again in Delhi.

We left Agra a few days ago to begin the drive through the Rajasthan countryside with our trusty driver Sovran at the wheel. "The monsoon have not been good this year" he says pointing at the dry landscape. "Many of the fields will not be planted". The last of the millet crop is being taken off, and only a few dried squash vines remain. Water is scarce. Men herd sheep and goats further to graze and women work in the fields gleaning the last of a meager crop.

Toiling in the heat, saris fluttering in the wind, the women are like tall and slender field flowers in saris of saffron, violet, rose, lavender, marigold and lime. The brilliant colors make the women easy to see even at a distance. They stoop again and again with such grace as though the breezes had bent them down. As the day’s heat builds they gather together in the shade of an acacia tree. The acacia is still green and is a valuable source of shade, feed for the animals and for firewood. The lower branches are cut and left on the ground as feed. Later the dry branches are bundled and carried home by the women for the cooking fire. Piled high on their heads as they walk along the roadsides. Women are gathering dung patties too. The patties are collected from the fields and roadsides and laid out to dry. Since cows wander freely everywhere there seems to be an abundance of patties. Once dry, the patties are stacked in a beehive shape about four feet high. The final patties are put on when fresh and plastered smooth to make an outer layer which also dries and sheds moisture to keep the inner patties dry. Some of the dung heaps have very decorative designs carved into this outer layer. When needed, a hole is cut in the side of the crust and the patties are taken, a few at a time, as fuel for the fire.

We have been doing our best to try to conserve water here as well and had packed our water bottles from home and so far had been able to use them, refilling with tap water and disinfecting with chlorine or iodine tablets and having the expected, but not horrible, resulting taste. However since arriving in Agra, we have tried adding iced tea mix to cover the taste of what we likened to used laundry water (not the rinse cycle either). Finally, despite our best intentions, we resorted to pre-filled water bottles. What a pleasure to taste pure clean water again. As Islam diplomatically pointed out on our first day here, visitors to India are not only known for our ’sensitive stomachs’ but also for our ’sensitive palates’ and our ’sensitive skin’.

Water is truly the master. We have come to realize this with such clarity, here in a part of the world where simple, clean water is a luxury. A few days of drinking iced-tea, iodine-flavoured laundry water was all it took.

Good night for now.

Posted on December 5, 2009

Holy Cow!

By Monika Terfloth – Part 8 of 10 of the Mother in-law in Nepal and India series.

Hello All!

Seriously, I don’t know where to begin. So much of what I have seen defies description! We landed in New Delhi a day later than expected, so we will have a brief stay in Delhi before we return to Kathmandu. We were met at the airport by our driver Savran (from Savion Travel), a tall, very thin, middle-aged man. A man so very quiet and of few words, but so very capable. We quickly came to trust him implicitly! He chauffeured us through the Delhi rush-hour in the late afternoon traffic, thick with vehicles of every description… small three-wheeled tuk-tuks in bright yellow and green all packed with people, busses jammed with extra people hanging off the side and loaded on top, motor scooters with entire families aboard (six is the record so far), and into the mix add cows, donkeys, camels, ambulances, bicycles, pushcarts, and any other thing you can think of and that is still not enough…all this packed together on the roadway. Those of you who have been here will truly know how it is. Motor cycle helmets seem to be optional for passengers, though most drivers do wear them. Not an unusual sight at 90km/hr to see a gorgeous young woman wearing a pink sari, perched side-saddle on the back of a motorcycle, legs crossed, wearing heels while relaxing, laughing and chatting in the driver’s ear.

“Drivers talk with their horns” Savron says. Yes indeed they do, in fact the trucks have painted notices on the rear ‘Blow Horn’, ‘Horn Please’. A special kind of honk to pass, another to say ‘move along’, another to say thank you, get out of the way, you’re going too fast/slow, I need to turn, where is your mother, follow me I am going right by there…. The racket is incredible! We drove through the evening and until after dark to reach the city of Agra, a drive which took about 6 hours. Not a break in the action while all the while alongside the roadway people still cooked, sold their wares, took baths, nursed children, slept, herded their animals etc. etc.  Positively dizzying.

The city of Agra is the site of the Taj Mahal. A love-story is behind it’s construction and it is a truly beautiful monument to a woman much-loved. I will spare you the details as the description would be endless. I didn’t think it mattered whether I saw the Taj or not, but now that I have, it has become a very special memory. Our guide for the day, Islam, has a great sense of humor and is a very kind man. After I diagnosed his plantar fasciitis (sp)  he also became my loyal friend and has decided to buy himself some decent shoes. One of my fondest memories of the day is when he stopped at a vegetable vendor’s wagon to buy fresh water chestnuts for us. After also purchasing a bottle of water, he carefully rinsed them to be sure that they would be tolerated by our ’sensitive stomachs’. Bright green and heart shaped, the outer casing is cracked open to reveal a creamy, white, crunchy heart in the centre. They were delicious and thirst quenching. It was 40 degrees, everyone dripping with sweat and no one bothers about it. Mop your brow, air your armpits, lay down against a wall, whatever it takes.

We drove through the side streets of Agra and again each moment filled the senses. Stunning images of poverty, contentment, ritual, history and startling contrasts at every turn… but more on that later.

Good night.

Posted on November 25, 2009

Holy Chicken Byriani

By Monika Terfloth – Part 7 of 10 of the Mother in-law in Nepal and India series.

Day 5 – Ghandruk to Naya Pul

Ghandruk is as beautiful this morning as it was last night. However, we wake up complaining, stiff and sore. It is our final day of the trek and despite the whining, we are all feeling sad that today is the end. After two hours of steep decline at the beginning, the way will be broad, and thankfully, rather flat. We can walk in pairs more easily now and we take turns walking and talking with one another. This is the last opportunity for Maina and Indra, our two porters, to practice their English. Randy is thinking that perhaps he won’t go to India and remain in Nepal to explore on his own. From the beginning, he was never really excited about that part of our adventure. None of us minds if doesn’t come, so we shall see. We depart after a traditional breakfast, but this time offered with a cup of marsala tea made with water buffalo milk. It’s not my favourite having a distinctly barnyard flavour…perhaps an acquired taste?

As we make our way downhill, a constant procession of people are walking in the opposite direction. Many are dressed in fine clothes and small children are dressed festively as well. Some people are carried uphill in a basket-chair on the backs of men. Since the chair faces rear-ward, we look back once they have passed to see who is in the basket. Invariably it is an aged Nepali man or woman, the odd one contentedly smoking or holding an umbrella for shade from the hot sun, others looking quite frail. They too want to be back with families in the villages for the climax of the Desain celebration which begins tomorrow. Women from the city in make-up with strings of beads over brightly colored saris wend their way up the pathway too. Many wear strappy heeled sandals, or plastic shoes to walk for many hours to their home village. They do not seem to find this a problem, rather skipping up the hills at times. I find this amazing as I look down at our own feet to see the heavy hiking boots that we all depend upon to keep us upright and to keep our ankles from wrenching. We pass through the middle of a village where clearly a sacrificial goat has just been slaughtered. Many people have gathered and there is a feeling of celebration in the air. A woman in the group smiling broadly, places a bright-eyed, adorable, but crying, child in my arms. I am rather taken aback as everyone gathers around giggling and coaching the little one to clasp together his wee hands and say ‘namaste’. He does and this brings more smiles and cheers from everyone. Donkey trains make their way steadily uphill as well. As they pass at a narrow stretch a few of us take a body blow from the side of a donkey laden with sacks. We step aside for a man with a Samsung refrigerator on his back followed by another with a bed and pillows.

We arrive in Naya Pul in great spirits. High-fives all around, as we congratulate each other and express our gratitude for the caring and assistance of the three women who have worked so steadily and without complaint. Renuka is looking forward to going back to her home village for Desain. She plans to leave later today, along with her only sister. They will take a two-hour bus trip to Baglung, the nearest stop. There they will wait overnight before setting out on the two-day walk up and down and around the mountains to their family’s home. She is eager to be home to help with the preparations for the festival. We let her know that we have a son just a few years older than she and that we would be pleased if she would agree to an arranged marriage. She would love to meet Alfred, and will make her decision then : ) She, like so many more Nepali women, has work and her own income and is now in charge of her own destiny.

We board the bus at Naya Pul and bump along back to Pokhara. On the way we see that in some villages the goat slaughter has begun. Groups of people have gathered along the roadside to divide the meat. In one place a blue plastic checked tablecloth lies along the roadside and heaped on it are nine piles of fresh red meat. The activity in the street heightens as we pass through Old Pokhara. Hundreds of people have gathered to barter and buy a goat for their own sacrifice. We arrive in Pokhara in the early afternoon and after a brief rest, head into the village for a hearty meal. As we walk, we see goats in every possible place… in the front seat of a car with horns tied to the door handle, tied onto the back of a motorcycle, tethered to a small patch of grass outside a doorway. We drop off a bag of clothes to be laundered and a small cheerful man comes out from a narrow passageway to greet us, his hand dripping with blood. Unphased he says “Line dried, pick up tomorrow between 12 and 2 o’clock” then offers to sell us a cold beer or anything else he might have in his small sidewalk stall. His goat has been slaughtered and he will have meat on the table for his family for the celebration.

After a hearty supper of dal bhat (lentil curry with rice) and a mug of thumba (a fermented millet drink) that is mildly intoxicating and leaves us giggling, we walk back to our guesthouse along the lakes now shining deep purple, in the dark past the rice padis flashing with blue fireflies. It has been a truly wonderful experience. Thank you for sharing it with me so far. I will have photos when I get back.

Posted on November 15, 2009

Holy Machhapuchhare!

By Monika Terfloth – Part 6 of 10 of the Mother in-law in Nepal and India Series.

Day 4 Tadapani to Ghandruk

We are up early again this morning still smiling and remembering the music and dancing from yesterday evening and beautiful Machhapuchhare (Fishtail Mountain) is clearly in view. It is about 6:30 when we pull on our smelly, damp, cold clothes that have not dried overnight. Actually, it doesn’t take long to dry them while wearing them but the smell lingers on. I am told that I smell particularly bad, and I think they mean it. I haven’t brought much clothing and no raincoat, opting instead for a black garbage bag. It’s done fine so far. Atop Poon Hill it became a shawl around my shoulders and kept out the cold wind. Slit up one side it became a cape that adequately covered my head and day pack to keep out the showers yesterday afternoon. Again this morning we look forward to the promise of warmth in the dining room; to once again slip our legs under the benches and gather the heavy, woolen blankets draped from the table’s edge, around us.

Still smiling, each of us have placed in front of us a toasty Tibetan Bread, warm deep-fried and the size of a dinner plate; local honey that tastes of flowers, a boiled egg and a cup of steaming spiced milk tea. Each day has been a feast for the eyes as well as well as the mouth; the lush green of jungle and rice padis, flowers of every color, amazing mountains, hand-laid stone beneath our feet forming an endless stretch of pathways and stairs. It seems I have gone on and on about that. However, Tlell tells me I have not said enough about the people. I will try.

The preparations of Deshain are continuing. Everything in the house must be scrubbed clean. Today, it seems that everyone is doing this. As we pass through the villages, the communal water tap is invariably busy as women and children gather to talk and share the task of washing up. Huge copper and brass pots blackened with deposits from the wood fires are brought to the washing area along with a bowl of ash from the cooking fire. The ash is scooped by hand and used to scour the pots inside and out. A young woman squats alongside the path on one side a stack of blackened pots and on her other side are those that have been made shiny again, all sparkling in the morning sunshine. There is plenty of water from the mountains at this time of year, running clear and cold across and along the pathways and bubbling from gaps in stone walls, down through the rice padis and to the river valley far below. Children play at the edge of steep bluffs and peek out of doorways offering a shy smile and ‘namaste’ as we pass by. Occasionally they ask for sweets (“mithai”?) We answer “chhaina “ (sorry, none to give) but they don’t seem to care. Thick brightly colored blankets are hung out to air on the stone walls and we look down on grey slate rooftops decorated with all sorts of laundry.

We reach the Gurung village of Ghandruk early. It has only been a four-hour trek today. Again it has been mostly downhill which has proven to be just as challenging as the uphill. Randy’s knee is okay, but the stones are wet, and we all slip and fall at least once today. Maina, Indra and Renuka?…not even a near miss. We meet many people laden with baskets of goods, and heavy sacks. They seem to float both up and down the stairs, no matter their age.

We have time in Ghandruk to walk through the village and to visit the small museum and the monastery. We share laughs with workman who are repairing the pathways by hand. Rex is wearing his new bangra and this seems to be quite amusing. He looks even more Nepali now with this large bag of woven nettle-fibre slung over both shoulders. He also speaks Nepali which at first confusing and then also amusing. These pathways are the lifeline. We observe a very sick man being carried downhill. He is tied into chair-like basket with a sling for the man’s feet and padded support for his head.

The basket-chair is carried on another man’s back. A dozen other people follow behind. “It is the only way” Renuka says, “Everything must be carried in and out”. She expects they will have to carry the sick man out to Naya Pul since the health centre in Ghandruk is closed. We walk out to the community health centre later in the afternoon. A small whitewashed brick building perched on the edge of a bottomless gorge. Next to it is a helipad with the ‘H’ clearly marked in white, flat, square stones. None could afford the helicopter trip out for this man. I entertain thoughts of returning to work in this village one day.

Perhaps?