"Brown eyes observe us as we pass. Confronted with the pain of Asia, one cannot look and one cannot turn away. In India, human misery seems so pervasive that one takes in only stray details; a warped leg or a dead eye, a sick pariah dog eating withered grass, an ancient woan lifting her sari to mvoe her shrunken bowels by the road. Yet, there is hope in life. Shiva dances in spicy food; the angry bus horns; the chattering of the temple monkeys; the vermillion tikka dot on the woman's forehead. The people smile-that is the greatest miracle of all." Peter Matthaison
I keep averting my own eyes from those of the young beggar with sad eyes and outstretched hand, looking down, ashamed for a reason I cannot explain, trying to put these thoughts and feelings down into my journal, glancing up, to see her still there, hand still outstretched, eyes still forlorn. Trying to decipher how this place makes me feel; how the extremeness in front of my eyes, dying lepers, cows lying in piles of festering trash, wide-eyed camera toting western tourists decked out in the latest North Face gear, spiritual pilgims draped in maroon robes, brown merchants with shiny white teeth trying to sell me things I have no need for, an entire spectrum of humanity packed into this space. I am in Boudhna, Kathmandu, a Tibetan enclave centered around the largest Buddhist stupa in the world, meandering into unpaved alleyways, countless doors and windows. A living relic of an ancient culture that has been wiped out in its homeland by an oppressive government; a living relic of the ancient trade and pilgrimage routes that have come through these very streets for thousands of years. Tibetan culture is deep and uneffected here, and swarms of saffron-cloaked monks circumnavigate the massive stupa in front of me. I sit in the relative comfort and sanctity of a small coffee shop, trying to deconstruct my own pilgrimage.
This place has such a strange sense of magic to it. It feels so exotic that your sense of exotic vanishes and the abnormal becomes commonplace. You become numb to the strange beauty, stopping long enough to exchange a smile with a stranger, and continue on your path. This place could overwhelm with its simple beauty, its strange beauty, if one was not numb to its effects. I feel a wonderful sense of peace here.
I am a pilgrim, on the start of my own long and strange journey, or maybe just on another leg of an even longer and stranger one. Regardless, I am in a place that is wonderful, a place that I will cherish. The monks horns ring in the background, the butterlamps are being lit by the old Tibetan ladies, and night falls on the stupa as I write.
I do need to buy a bunch a warm clothes tomorrow, I am freezing here in my island garb, which has left me woefully unprepared for the late October nip in the Kathmandu air. I will stay here for a few days. I am in no rush, a wonderful luxury and freedom that comes with traveling as opposed to vacationing. The next stop will be the Annapurnas, and a three week trek into the heart of the Himalayas, (the alaya, or abode, of hima, snow) which promises to be wonderful. Its great to be back in this crazy little country.
Currently re-reading Peter Matthaison's absolute masterpiece, The Snow Leopard, detailing his journey with famed naturalist George Schaller to the mountains of eastern Nepal in the late 1970's. Highly recommend this for anyone interested in the area, his words are true poetry.
I keep averting my own eyes from those of the young beggar with sad eyes and outstretched hand, looking down, ashamed for a reason I cannot explain, trying to put these thoughts and feelings down into my journal, glancing up, to see her still there, hand still outstretched, eyes still forlorn. Trying to decipher how this place makes me feel; how the extremeness in front of my eyes, dying lepers, cows lying in piles of festering trash, wide-eyed camera toting western tourists decked out in the latest North Face gear, spiritual pilgims draped in maroon robes, brown merchants with shiny white teeth trying to sell me things I have no need for, an entire spectrum of humanity packed into this space. I am in Boudhna, Kathmandu, a Tibetan enclave centered around the largest Buddhist stupa in the world, meandering into unpaved alleyways, countless doors and windows. A living relic of an ancient culture that has been wiped out in its homeland by an oppressive government; a living relic of the ancient trade and pilgrimage routes that have come through these very streets for thousands of years. Tibetan culture is deep and uneffected here, and swarms of saffron-cloaked monks circumnavigate the massive stupa in front of me. I sit in the relative comfort and sanctity of a small coffee shop, trying to deconstruct my own pilgrimage.
This place has such a strange sense of magic to it. It feels so exotic that your sense of exotic vanishes and the abnormal becomes commonplace. You become numb to the strange beauty, stopping long enough to exchange a smile with a stranger, and continue on your path. This place could overwhelm with its simple beauty, its strange beauty, if one was not numb to its effects. I feel a wonderful sense of peace here.
I am a pilgrim, on the start of my own long and strange journey, or maybe just on another leg of an even longer and stranger one. Regardless, I am in a place that is wonderful, a place that I will cherish. The monks horns ring in the background, the butterlamps are being lit by the old Tibetan ladies, and night falls on the stupa as I write.
I do need to buy a bunch a warm clothes tomorrow, I am freezing here in my island garb, which has left me woefully unprepared for the late October nip in the Kathmandu air. I will stay here for a few days. I am in no rush, a wonderful luxury and freedom that comes with traveling as opposed to vacationing. The next stop will be the Annapurnas, and a three week trek into the heart of the Himalayas, (the alaya, or abode, of hima, snow) which promises to be wonderful. Its great to be back in this crazy little country.
Currently re-reading Peter Matthaison's absolute masterpiece, The Snow Leopard, detailing his journey with famed naturalist George Schaller to the mountains of eastern Nepal in the late 1970's. Highly recommend this for anyone interested in the area, his words are true poetry.
