Isaac Whatever

Journal entry May 13, 2007, after breakfast. Tulku-la's house, Tharlam Monastery, Boudhanath, Kathmandu, Nepal.

Flying was torture. It gets more and more uncomfortable until you want to go insane. We can't go on like this. Something has to be done.

The terminal in Bangkok was shiny and new. It reminded me very strongly of the long walks lined by stores and restaurants from Las Vegas. Even little bars in the middle of the path, shaped like river islands, everything inside shaped like river rocks, smooth, designed in a wind tunnel.

Arriving in Kathmandu airport, waiting in the visa line, I can feel the weight of the bureaucracy on my head. The full workings of a government, dried and cracked and aging, smelling of sweat and interesting spices.

They ask if it's our first visit, and I say "No, I've been here three times," and prepare to defend myself. I feel like a giant steel trap is closing on my neck. Then the little man asks, "This year?" and suddenly I know that he doesn't care, he's just checking to see if I need to pay a little more, line his pocket with a bribe... Then I walk away feeling welcomed by a country fueled by friendly forgetfulness.

I try to never tip the baggage guys. I like to be independent, but they actually helped us find two bags this time, so I have to. Their insistent calls of "Tip! Tip!" like the squawking of strange birds makes me want to bowl them over and run away.

I'm spectacularly ill-equipped for dealing with these guys, especially in the grip of jet lag and exhaustion.

The taxi ride is always interesting. Emerging from the airport into Kathmandu proper is like being dumped over the head with a bucket filled with warmth and life. There are people everywhere, living right in front of your eyes.

It couldn't be any more different from a city in the U.S.

The sacred cows wander about, the well-behaved Kathmandu dogs walk jauntily or bask in the shade or the sun, and the smell of a living city assaults you, sometimes good but often bad, and never familiar.

The taxi driver talks about a petrol shortage. He has all kinds of specifics - 54% decrease in petrol supply from India, 154 pumps in Kathmandu down to 9 - all except WHY, and for that he only knows that "it's a political problem."

Then we pass over the arch onto the monastery driveway. I open the gate and greet some familiar-looking monks, and then we're safe in my brother's house.

Ani Chimi greets us, happy to see us. She and I touch foreheads, the Tibetan Udoo, like the European cheek-kiss. She's frighteningly old, but so friendly and it warms my heart to see her again.

Tulku-La's not home, and the monks aren't really ready for us. Jamyang Kyndrup arrives and I breathe a little easier. He's an old monk, probably 30 or 35, one of the big four movers and shakers who keep the monastery together.

After many apologies and much hustle and bustle our rooms are ready, while the whole time we thank them and say we don't want to be any trouble, and my mom in her Tibetan Chuba, offers to clean it herself.

They are mortified at this (Tulku-La's MOM wants to clean!?!) and I hope they don't resent us.

Then finally we sleep, surrounded by the handmade sounds of a living city.

Labels: kathmandu tibet monastery tulku buddhism vacation travel nepal