In da House
Tuesday, Oct 11 (or 10th, or 12th--who knows for sure!)
John and I arise between 5:30 and 6:00--something about the effects of an 11 hour time difference perhaps? We go outside our Guest House and hire a pedi-cab, the Nepal version of a bicycle-powered rickshaw. We instruct or driver, Gopall, to take us wherever he wishes for 100 rupees. But first we want coffee, so after a 5-minute ride, we stop in a one room hovel where he orders coffee for each of us. I can see the owner on this local version of a Seven-Eleven preparing the drink by mixing instant coffee with boiled milk. It turns out to be a remarkably complex process that results in a surprisingly delicious sweet drink, somewhat like a latte. Our Starbucks moment over (45 rupees, or 60 cents total tab for John, Gopall, and me) he then drives us to a Buddhist temple where we observe a dozen or so monks intently chanting prayers. After making a small donation, each of us receives a blessing by the local priest, which involves him saying a prayer with his holy book resting on our forehead, a finger bowl of water placed before us from which we cleanse ourselves by placing some on our heads, then the little red dot applied to our forehead.
We are then driven a few more blocks to a local market, which is simply a village turn-about ssquaare, filled with vendors selling beautiful flower arrangements, corn, other fresh produce. Gopall insists that we purchase (and wear) some necklaces made of marigolds and carry a small bouquet of flowers as we proceed. Thus attired we are feeling less than manly as he takes us to another temple, this one Hindu. The crowds around the market and the temples are huge, as this is the next to last day of the 9 day holiest of holidays of the year. Plus, both Hindus and Buddhists begin each day by offering a prayer. At this early hour, once again we are the only foreigners in sight.
Back to the Guest House in time for breakfast. Our official day begins at 9:00 when we are taken to Patan. Patan's central Durbar Square is absolutely packed with temples; it's an architectural feast with far greater concetratin of temples per sq. meter than anywhere in Kahtmandu. We stroll by the local bath, where men and boys are showering, bathing themselves and their shorst at the same time. Older men are scrubbing their feet, exfoliating them by fubbing them on the rough stone. Our group breaks into a private rendition of Y.M.C.A." Across the street, a group of women are doing laundry, scrubbing clothing on the stone floor.
After another Royal Palace and a few more temples (There seem to be a many temples here as Independent Baptist Churches in rural Georgia!) we are invited to our guides' house for coffee. Being a guest in a Nepales home--this should be interesting!
Samvu's house is above the private elementary school run by his wife. (Samvu teaches English and philosophy in a near-by university and guides as a form of moonlighting.) We remove our shoes and enter, bowing our greetings. His living room is about the size of a third bedroom of a typical Duluth home. It is immaculately clean, furnished with padded chairs in a row against two walls, an ancient TV set (No visible remote control, however--unimaginably primitive!). Two small pictures hang high on one wall, probably of Samvu's parents.
His 9-year-old son is all boy, energetic and alternating between shy and then disinterested, then engaging in conversation or sitting on the floor beside his dad, clearly impressed with his father's skills as a business person to host such an important group of guests. Samvu's wife is dressed traditionally in a brightly colored sari. She does not participate in any of the coffee and cookies preparation, as (whispered aside: this is her time of the month) she is forbidden to prepare any food to be eaten by anyone else for 6 days. (The women in our group opine that this is a great custome and should be imported to the U.S.!
His 17-year daughter is wearing designer jeans and a tee-shirt. As the group privately and unanimously agreed afterward, she is a world-class beauty whom we would expect to see on the cover of Seventeen. She would make Brittny Spears look hum-drum. As we have had an earlier discussion with Samvu about his responsibility for arranging the marriage of his daughter in the next 5-7 years, I open negotiations for an arrangement for her to marry my 17 year old Craig, who would be indebted to me forever. Sorry, Craig, but we left without closing the deal.
That evening we are invited to be the guest in the home of Mr. Pisang, the owner of the travel company who handled the arrangements for the trekking portion of our trip. Entering Mr. Pisang's home, we are clearly in the "gated community" economic level of Nepalese living. The gates to Mr. Pisang's home are guarded and opened by a young boy, and we are greeted by three show-quality dogs, though I cannot identify the breeds. His home is immaculately furnished, and relatively spacious, about the size of a three-bedroom ranch home in the U.S. We are offered copious amounts of liquor, which we sip sparingly. To my horror, my glass comes with ice--a commodity we have been absolutely forbidden to use anytime after leaving the airplane! I dare not offend Mr. Pisang, however, and simply trust that at his economic level he uses only bottled water. (No after effects, so I guess I was lucky.)
Our dinner is traditional Nepalese fare, meaning I have no idea what we ate: a vegetable something or other, a beef dish and a chicken dish over rice, accompanied by a red condiment (served on the side, fortunately) which added a not-so-suble flame affect, and kimchee.
By the time our after-dinner conversation is over, all of us are fighting sleep. In bed by 10:00, so tired I am asleep with one foot still on the floor.
John and I arise between 5:30 and 6:00--something about the effects of an 11 hour time difference perhaps? We go outside our Guest House and hire a pedi-cab, the Nepal version of a bicycle-powered rickshaw. We instruct or driver, Gopall, to take us wherever he wishes for 100 rupees. But first we want coffee, so after a 5-minute ride, we stop in a one room hovel where he orders coffee for each of us. I can see the owner on this local version of a Seven-Eleven preparing the drink by mixing instant coffee with boiled milk. It turns out to be a remarkably complex process that results in a surprisingly delicious sweet drink, somewhat like a latte. Our Starbucks moment over (45 rupees, or 60 cents total tab for John, Gopall, and me) he then drives us to a Buddhist temple where we observe a dozen or so monks intently chanting prayers. After making a small donation, each of us receives a blessing by the local priest, which involves him saying a prayer with his holy book resting on our forehead, a finger bowl of water placed before us from which we cleanse ourselves by placing some on our heads, then the little red dot applied to our forehead.
We are then driven a few more blocks to a local market, which is simply a village turn-about ssquaare, filled with vendors selling beautiful flower arrangements, corn, other fresh produce. Gopall insists that we purchase (and wear) some necklaces made of marigolds and carry a small bouquet of flowers as we proceed. Thus attired we are feeling less than manly as he takes us to another temple, this one Hindu. The crowds around the market and the temples are huge, as this is the next to last day of the 9 day holiest of holidays of the year. Plus, both Hindus and Buddhists begin each day by offering a prayer. At this early hour, once again we are the only foreigners in sight.
Back to the Guest House in time for breakfast. Our official day begins at 9:00 when we are taken to Patan. Patan's central Durbar Square is absolutely packed with temples; it's an architectural feast with far greater concetratin of temples per sq. meter than anywhere in Kahtmandu. We stroll by the local bath, where men and boys are showering, bathing themselves and their shorst at the same time. Older men are scrubbing their feet, exfoliating them by fubbing them on the rough stone. Our group breaks into a private rendition of Y.M.C.A." Across the street, a group of women are doing laundry, scrubbing clothing on the stone floor.
After another Royal Palace and a few more temples (There seem to be a many temples here as Independent Baptist Churches in rural Georgia!) we are invited to our guides' house for coffee. Being a guest in a Nepales home--this should be interesting!
Samvu's house is above the private elementary school run by his wife. (Samvu teaches English and philosophy in a near-by university and guides as a form of moonlighting.) We remove our shoes and enter, bowing our greetings. His living room is about the size of a third bedroom of a typical Duluth home. It is immaculately clean, furnished with padded chairs in a row against two walls, an ancient TV set (No visible remote control, however--unimaginably primitive!). Two small pictures hang high on one wall, probably of Samvu's parents.
His 9-year-old son is all boy, energetic and alternating between shy and then disinterested, then engaging in conversation or sitting on the floor beside his dad, clearly impressed with his father's skills as a business person to host such an important group of guests. Samvu's wife is dressed traditionally in a brightly colored sari. She does not participate in any of the coffee and cookies preparation, as (whispered aside: this is her time of the month) she is forbidden to prepare any food to be eaten by anyone else for 6 days. (The women in our group opine that this is a great custome and should be imported to the U.S.!
His 17-year daughter is wearing designer jeans and a tee-shirt. As the group privately and unanimously agreed afterward, she is a world-class beauty whom we would expect to see on the cover of Seventeen. She would make Brittny Spears look hum-drum. As we have had an earlier discussion with Samvu about his responsibility for arranging the marriage of his daughter in the next 5-7 years, I open negotiations for an arrangement for her to marry my 17 year old Craig, who would be indebted to me forever. Sorry, Craig, but we left without closing the deal.
That evening we are invited to be the guest in the home of Mr. Pisang, the owner of the travel company who handled the arrangements for the trekking portion of our trip. Entering Mr. Pisang's home, we are clearly in the "gated community" economic level of Nepalese living. The gates to Mr. Pisang's home are guarded and opened by a young boy, and we are greeted by three show-quality dogs, though I cannot identify the breeds. His home is immaculately furnished, and relatively spacious, about the size of a three-bedroom ranch home in the U.S. We are offered copious amounts of liquor, which we sip sparingly. To my horror, my glass comes with ice--a commodity we have been absolutely forbidden to use anytime after leaving the airplane! I dare not offend Mr. Pisang, however, and simply trust that at his economic level he uses only bottled water. (No after effects, so I guess I was lucky.)
Our dinner is traditional Nepalese fare, meaning I have no idea what we ate: a vegetable something or other, a beef dish and a chicken dish over rice, accompanied by a red condiment (served on the side, fortunately) which added a not-so-suble flame affect, and kimchee.
By the time our after-dinner conversation is over, all of us are fighting sleep. In bed by 10:00, so tired I am asleep with one foot still on the floor.
posted by Dave Fry | 1:17 AM
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