The Adventures of Laura Drumm

Dear Friends and Family,

On the last day of my Tibetan overland tour, I was abruptly – very abruptly – ejected at the border. Somehow I hadn’t realized that my Tibetan guide and driver would remain on the Tibet-side of the border and consequently, I was shocked to find myself bidding them farewell. I pushed my sunglasses against my nose and hoped that no one would notice the occasional tears that slipped down my cheeks. I slung my getting-lighter-but-still-heavy backpack onto my back, slung my purse across my chest and walked myself across the Friendship Bridge into Nepal.

The scenery had changed during the night: from dusty, near-arid mountains where Tibetans bent over their fields raking golden hay in for winter and yak could barely keep their balance into green: the thick, verdant green of the sort that grows bananas and coconuts. I imagined the landscape would change in a similar manner if one could drive 40 miles from North Dakota to Hawaii.

Wanting a moment to collect myself, as my sense of safety had vanished leaving the same unpleasant feeling that a pin causes an over-inflated balloon, I pulled my camera out to photograph a green and white foamy waterfall but was quickly sighted and reprimanded by a blue-fatigue clad Nepali soldier. My unhappy mindset deepened.

Chaos bombarded me. In crossing that river, in crossing that bridge, I was immediately in a new country where the men looked like Indian Indies: slightly shorter, high cheekbones and prominent noses while the women where covered in flaming saris. The houses were built of orange brick with hills to their backs or precariously supported, leaning over cliffs. Chickens minced across the street. Smallish freighting trucks lined the narrow border-bound road, colorfully painted in a myriad of patterns. Women squatted and scrubbed near pipes of streaming water; men and women alike carried enormous wicker baskets lashed to their backs and across their foreheads. Teen-aged boys crowded suitcases on the roofs of buses.

I felt only shock.

While still in Tibet, a man had approached our SUV and through an open window enquired, “One? American?”

My guide said, “Yes.” I barely had time to blink and hand them both tips before I was hurried to the line that would stamp my passport and exit me from China. The strange man said nothing to me, disappeared as I got into line on one side of the border but popped up on the other side of the border, urging me to sit in a café to await my driver and guide. My mind spun. Who was he? Would I need to pay the next driver and guide? Who had hired this driver and guide? Could I trust what was happening to me? I was confused, scared, buffeted by chaos and with effort, forced myself into resignation. What would happen would happen. I’d deal with whatever came my way. Happily, I had made friends with a pair of Australians the day before and they too had been ushered into the same café. We sat and stewed until a guide appeared in the doorway to call for them, followed by a guide that sat behind me, gave me a smarmy smile and ushered me into the passenger seat of another Toyota Land Cruiser SUV. From that vantage point, I could clearly see the road and was able to appreciate the good-bye wave of my friend’s arm protruding from an open passenger window.

The mountain roads in Nepal were no improvement over the ones in Tibet. My new Nepali guide, sent by the Nepali organization that organized my entire Tibetan overland tour, tried to engage me in affable conversation but I couldn’t maintain a friendly façade. My shock hadn’t faded – in fact, it never even abated that entire day. I had a difficult time placing myself into my habitual curious observer mode. Tears occasionally slipped to my chin. And the road didn’t help. It was a series of twists with parts that plunged into a white-tipped river below, waterfalls crossed the road and had to be slowly forged through, and of course, there were exponentially more rocks than pavement.

We stopped for lunch but I moodily stared at the river and, motion-sick, only ordered water. Our drive continued and wended us through shadow-casting terraced hills of rice, through single road villages with houses that averaged four stories in height. Not long after lunch, we stopped in one village under the guise of another “rest.” My guide disappeared but eventually reappeared with his entire family: a forthright son, a pretty daughter, a lined wife and someone else. They crowded – all – into the passenger seat of the SUV and were kind but not kindred. I was quiet.

Kathmandu was apparent from a distance: a carpet of many brick houses blanketed by smog. The city roads did not boast increased organization and city traffic was chaotic. Disinterestedly, I watched motorcycles cut across our path and was amused to realize that crazy city traffic doesn’t bother me within the least – while mountains with the potential for the car to go down, down terrify me. I was painfully polite when I said good-bye to my day’s driver and guide as they dropped me off at the hotel that I bid them to. I checked into the hotel and was grateful to shut the door on the world. What I had seen of Kathmandu strongly reminded me of another city that I had not particularly appreciated, Medan (Sumatra), and upon throwing myself in bed, I attempted to raise my enthusiasm for Nepal by belatedly perusing my Lonely Planet. I began a list of things to do with laundry, followed by thorough shower. After dark, I had to scramble for my flashlight after the power cut and when I carried my laundry to the hotel lobby, I was told that a single light bulb in my room was run on a generator. Most electricity cuts in Kathmandu are scheduled and accommodated.

In the dark, my curtains added a small layer of security; nonetheless, I curled in the middle of the bed, trying to escape Kathmandu via a paperback mystery, and desperately wished to be… well, anywhere. My gumption had deserted me and in that dark, I hoped that it would return with the following day.

* * * *

Awaking in Kathmandu is a bit like responding to a slow action alarm clock.

“Riiiiiiiing ring.”

Quiet.

“Ring. Ring. Ring.”

Quiet.

Quiet.

“Ring riiing.”

It took me a few mornings to realize that the early morning bells that began as light just stained the sky were the result of a Hindi tradition called puja. According to LP,

Every morning Hindu women all over Nepal can be seen walking through the streets
carrying a plate, usually copper, filled with an assortment of goodies. These
women are not delivering breakfast but are taking part in an important daily
ritual called puja. The plate might contain flower petals, rice, yogurt, fruit
or sweets, and it is an offering to the gods made at the local temple. Each of
the items is sprinkled onto a temple deity in a set order and a bell is rung to
let the gods know an offering is being made. Once an offering is made it is
transformed into a sacred object and a small portion is returned to the giver as
a blessing from the deity. Upon returning home from her morning trip, the woman
will give a small portion of the blessed offerings to each member of the
household.

In the days following my arrival in Kathmandu, I plotted an escape from a faultlessly polite but sexually predatory hotel manager, stumbled upon a beautiful garden where I could catch up on my reading, and discovered my Australian friends’ hotel. Before they departed, we took ourselves to a place that strongly echoes Tibet named the Bodhnath stupa. All 3 of us had lost a bit of our hearts to Tibet and were not quick to develop a fondness for the dust and Hindus, so we found the Buddhist stupa with its famous third eye, and the Tibetan-style buildings surrounding it, appealing. Later, after my new friends departed for Hong Kong, I walked a daunting flight of concrete stairs and into another Kathmandu holy place, known as Swayambhuynath temple (popularly known as the monkey temple). The temple also had a famous third eye painted upon its stupa… but the swooping dome that lifts its eyes towards the sky had monkeys scrambling across it while Kathmandu city sprawled beneath. The monkeys had reddened behinds, traveled in small families and adroitly picked through mounds of garbage. Their babies had tiny skulls; the monkeys seemed wild, like animals.

My plan to rest in Kthamandu for 5 days was destroyed by the realization that I needed to submit to the Indian embassy for a tourist visa. Both a travel agent and LP concurred that I needed to wait outside the gates of the embassy to obtain a visa: so in the days following, I made 4 trips. First I went on foot on Sunday to locate the embassy. I skipped breakfast on Monday to arrive at 7:30 am and stand in a queue that I calculated was about 35 people. At 8:30, we were allowed through the embassy gates, run through metal detectors, allowed to take a number and ushered into metal seats. I filled out a “telex” form that rumor suggested I needed so that the embassy could query the USA (rumor was correct). When my number rang at 11:30 am, it took minutes to submit the form to a man behind glass and pay 300 Nepali rupees ($4) for the privilege of visiting. Abruptly, I was instructed to return 4 days later (money apparently doesn’t speed Indian bureaucracy) and duly arrived on Thursday at 7:15 am only to learn at 11:30 am that the US apparently hadn’t responded to the Indian query. I was dismayed and less than pleased to picture myself fruitlessly returning the following morning but the visa man quieted my dismay.

“How long you need visa?”

“Uh? (4 weeks of yoga plus some traveling…) 6 weeks, I think?”

“I give you 2 months visa now. Ok?”

“Yeah, ok.” Not like I had a lot of room for negotiation. I paid the 6-month visa fee and was instructed to leave my passport and return at 4:30 pm. It was dark and 6:00 pm when I exited the embassy. But I had my visa.

Early the next morning, I bought a bus ticket to Lumbini – the apparent birthplace of Buddha. The following morning, I gathered my gumption and departed Kathmandu.

Laura