On another planet!
We spent today on another planet!! But first I must tell you briefly about last night. John and I had dinner two blocks from the Guest House, and on the walk back were offered hashish twice and once "naked woman dance?" (I told them we were headed back to our room, where John would dance naked--would they like to join us?? For some reason they left immediately!--I can't believe I'm writing this to people in the church. Go ahead and call the presbytery office of pastoral discipline!!)
Breakfast this morning with Buzz, our guide and Paula, the Condor Adventure rep during the trekking portion (and Buzz's main squeeze.) We each ordered the "set breakfast"--two eggs cooked to order, toast, hash browns with tomato, jam, and coffee--for 65 rupees each (approx. 95 cents). I tried to exchange $200 US dollars into rupees at the hotel when we arrived, but the teller insisted that he would only do $100. Now I understand--it would take forever to spend $200 here.
After breakfast we drove an hour + to Kittapatur, a mountain site of great reverence for Hindus. By pure chance the next three days are the final culmanation of their biggest annual holiday. Traffic on the one-lane mountain road was like something from Six Flags, without the safety harnesses. We passed busses filled with 6 to a 2-person seat, along with 40 or so people perched on top.
Arriving, we entered a scene like Times Square on New Years Eve, except with no drinking. This is a family event, parents with children in tow, but packed in like those awaiting for the big peach to drop at midnight. Many of the women dressed in sarongs, but just as many in designer jeans, with the cuffs rolled up in the latest fashion, and Nike accessaries. They are standing in line for hours to enter the temple area, where they have brought flowers and rice to toss onto the altar, but also chickens and goats to be sacrificed. As we perched on some rocks overlooking the ritual, they bring their animals to the center, the man of the family grabs the goat by the back legs while the "priest"--well, does the sacrificing with a very sharp knife. Fortunately the head is out of sight, hidden by a shelf of some sort; chickens did not get the same respect, with the nasty deed done in full view. Soon the floor is covered in blood. (I'm not thinking this will go over very well with the PHPC worship committee.) Meanwhile, 20 feet away, a young woman and an old monk are seated in the lotus position, quietly meditating, while hundreds of others are lighting incense and the clear peal of prayer bells rings out. The animals are then taken home by the families, where they are the entre for a great feast, as this is one of the few times of the year when they eat any meat at all. Does it sound barbaric and gruesome? Indeed it is! The major difference, however, between this and our own Thanksgiving turkey feast is that they know they are eating a real live animal, whereas we don't have to consider that our turkey made the ultimate sacrifice for our holiday festivities.
After awhile, we move on, jostled by the crush of the crowd, constantly losing sight of our guide, who somehow miraculously appears ahead of us every few minutes. In this countless throng, we are the only non-Nepalese in sight. The smell of incense, the crush of the people, the sound of bells, prayers, and crowd control instructions, the countless beggars--we are overwhelmed and breathless as we leave. Whatever scene might be shown in a future Indiana Jones movie will seem tame by comparison.
Yet, the people are in a festive mood, as they are on holiday. Venders along the side of the path sell everything form garlands of flowers, spices, to plastic ray-gun toys. If anyone notices us at all, there is no hostility whatsoever, no apparent resentment that we are intruding their holy ground. On the return trip, we stop in a little village to climb a hill where there is a small temple overlooking Kathmandu Valley. Again, we are the only non-natives in the entire village. The residents take interest in us, mostly smiling with a "Namaste!" word of greeting. Many are gathered along the side of the narrow streets, playing card games with their children. Children look out of their upper story windows, calling "Hello!", then playing hide-and-seek by ducking back in when we turn to look. One little boy is squatting by a large basin on the stoop in front of his house for his morning bath. His hair is completely lathered; when he looks up to see me approaching, he smiles and creates a foamy white beard to match mine. We share a giggle.
They are beautiful people, with cafe au lait skin, coal black hair, high cheek bones, and gorgeous, bottomless brown eyes that look intently into our faces, not a shred of hostility or suspicion in evidence. Somehow, this must be part of what God meant when we are taught to be neighbor to the stranger in our midst. The Nepalese men, however, cannot seem to resist long looks at the two blonde women in our group. This must be part of what is meant by "Blondes have more fun!"
Conversing with our guide, Samvu, during the drive, he realizes that we are far more interested in what his life is like than we are in the description of another temple we are seeing. So when we reach our hotel upon return, he invites us to his home for tea tomorrow. (He has a M.A. degree from the University of Vermont in English Lit, and teaches in a college here.) The one American custom he cannot understand--and disagrees with--is our custom of a guest bringing something as a hostess gift when invited for dinner--a bottle of wine or boquet of flowers. "If friends gather for a "pot luck", that's fine for everyone to bring something, but if I invite you to my home as my guest, you should not bring anything to give me."
I have just read on the Major League Baseball web site about the Braves' loss to Houston. I must go to my room now, and cry.
Breakfast this morning with Buzz, our guide and Paula, the Condor Adventure rep during the trekking portion (and Buzz's main squeeze.) We each ordered the "set breakfast"--two eggs cooked to order, toast, hash browns with tomato, jam, and coffee--for 65 rupees each (approx. 95 cents). I tried to exchange $200 US dollars into rupees at the hotel when we arrived, but the teller insisted that he would only do $100. Now I understand--it would take forever to spend $200 here.
After breakfast we drove an hour + to Kittapatur, a mountain site of great reverence for Hindus. By pure chance the next three days are the final culmanation of their biggest annual holiday. Traffic on the one-lane mountain road was like something from Six Flags, without the safety harnesses. We passed busses filled with 6 to a 2-person seat, along with 40 or so people perched on top.
Arriving, we entered a scene like Times Square on New Years Eve, except with no drinking. This is a family event, parents with children in tow, but packed in like those awaiting for the big peach to drop at midnight. Many of the women dressed in sarongs, but just as many in designer jeans, with the cuffs rolled up in the latest fashion, and Nike accessaries. They are standing in line for hours to enter the temple area, where they have brought flowers and rice to toss onto the altar, but also chickens and goats to be sacrificed. As we perched on some rocks overlooking the ritual, they bring their animals to the center, the man of the family grabs the goat by the back legs while the "priest"--well, does the sacrificing with a very sharp knife. Fortunately the head is out of sight, hidden by a shelf of some sort; chickens did not get the same respect, with the nasty deed done in full view. Soon the floor is covered in blood. (I'm not thinking this will go over very well with the PHPC worship committee.) Meanwhile, 20 feet away, a young woman and an old monk are seated in the lotus position, quietly meditating, while hundreds of others are lighting incense and the clear peal of prayer bells rings out. The animals are then taken home by the families, where they are the entre for a great feast, as this is one of the few times of the year when they eat any meat at all. Does it sound barbaric and gruesome? Indeed it is! The major difference, however, between this and our own Thanksgiving turkey feast is that they know they are eating a real live animal, whereas we don't have to consider that our turkey made the ultimate sacrifice for our holiday festivities.
After awhile, we move on, jostled by the crush of the crowd, constantly losing sight of our guide, who somehow miraculously appears ahead of us every few minutes. In this countless throng, we are the only non-Nepalese in sight. The smell of incense, the crush of the people, the sound of bells, prayers, and crowd control instructions, the countless beggars--we are overwhelmed and breathless as we leave. Whatever scene might be shown in a future Indiana Jones movie will seem tame by comparison.
Yet, the people are in a festive mood, as they are on holiday. Venders along the side of the path sell everything form garlands of flowers, spices, to plastic ray-gun toys. If anyone notices us at all, there is no hostility whatsoever, no apparent resentment that we are intruding their holy ground. On the return trip, we stop in a little village to climb a hill where there is a small temple overlooking Kathmandu Valley. Again, we are the only non-natives in the entire village. The residents take interest in us, mostly smiling with a "Namaste!" word of greeting. Many are gathered along the side of the narrow streets, playing card games with their children. Children look out of their upper story windows, calling "Hello!", then playing hide-and-seek by ducking back in when we turn to look. One little boy is squatting by a large basin on the stoop in front of his house for his morning bath. His hair is completely lathered; when he looks up to see me approaching, he smiles and creates a foamy white beard to match mine. We share a giggle.
They are beautiful people, with cafe au lait skin, coal black hair, high cheek bones, and gorgeous, bottomless brown eyes that look intently into our faces, not a shred of hostility or suspicion in evidence. Somehow, this must be part of what God meant when we are taught to be neighbor to the stranger in our midst. The Nepalese men, however, cannot seem to resist long looks at the two blonde women in our group. This must be part of what is meant by "Blondes have more fun!"
Conversing with our guide, Samvu, during the drive, he realizes that we are far more interested in what his life is like than we are in the description of another temple we are seeing. So when we reach our hotel upon return, he invites us to his home for tea tomorrow. (He has a M.A. degree from the University of Vermont in English Lit, and teaches in a college here.) The one American custom he cannot understand--and disagrees with--is our custom of a guest bringing something as a hostess gift when invited for dinner--a bottle of wine or boquet of flowers. "If friends gather for a "pot luck", that's fine for everyone to bring something, but if I invite you to my home as my guest, you should not bring anything to give me."
I have just read on the Major League Baseball web site about the Braves' loss to Houston. I must go to my room now, and cry.
posted by Dave Fry | 4:26 AM
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