There are some days on the road where it feels like not a whole lot is happening. And then all of a sudden BAM. Ten thousand experiences in one fell swoop.
With absolutely no way of sharing them without boring you to tears.
Nobody wants to read a ten page long explanation of the journey from Pokhara, Nepal to Delhi, India to Colombo, Sri Lanka. It's boring...trains, buses, jeeps, more buses, airplanes.
Seriously.
Who cares?
And yet, the last four days have been so jam-packed with experiences...maybe you will care.
There's a lot of sights and smells and assaults on the senses that happen on a 48+ hour journey. The colours of the people all around you: dressed in everything from jeans and t-shirts to saris and lungis and hijabs, their skins gleaming chocolaty brown, golden yellow and charcoal black. The smells that waft in through an open window: sewage and piles of burning garbage, fields of flowers and wafts of incense drifting from road-side temples.
The sensations that clog your pores: sweat glistening on every face, dirt clinging to your skin and clothes, sea-salt spray kissing your cheeks, sun beaming down on your arm as it hangs out the side of a train.
The sounds that assault your ears: horns honking in warning, children laughing as they dance naked in the monsoon rains, soundtracks from popular movies blasting from shops and car stereos, cries of the hawkers selling their wares in every place imaginable (buses, trains, streets, rooftops...).
And the thoughts that accompany those experiences: why does everyone keep staring at me? how am i supposed to feel about the slumlife and absolute poverty that dots the landscape? why do even the poorest of the poor, with no running water, still have cell phones? what do you say to the guy who lost his father and two nieces in the tsunami, and whose brother was killed fighting the Tamil Tigers?
How do I ever begin to understand all these things I'm witnessing...and how do I even begin to share them with YOU?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Lost In Translation
Every time I think I'm starting to understand things here, another curve-ball gets thrown my way.
The other day I was over at my neighbour Sita's house having tea with her and her daughters, practicing my ten words of Nepali, when Sita came out with the most bizarre request I had ever heard.
After a delicious cup of Masala tea, we were sitting together discussing Sita's daughter Ganga's upcoming nursing school exams. During a slight lull in the conversation, Sita turned to me with a smile:
"I want to give you a bra," she said.
Uhh....what?
"A bra?" I asked, my confusion evident.
"Yes," she smiled lifting her sari to point to her own lacy black one for emphasis. "Bra."
you want...to give me...
a bra....?
Say yes to more things I thought to myself. It's not your culture... Don't insult them by saying no.
"Um...ok, thanks Sita, that would be great" I replied, trying to hide the hesitation in my voice.
"Because your country good quality. Nepal bad quality. I give you a bra" she leaned back, evidently satisfied with herself.
Aha! That was it. She wanted me to give her a bra. Good ol' pronoun confusion.
Happy to have solved this mystery, and relieved that I wouldn't be the recipient of a used undergarment, I sat back on the bench with a smile.
Then I thought about it again. Language barrier or no language barrier, that's still the wierdest request I've ever heard. I mean I clearly don't have extra brand-new bras just kickin around in my 50L backpack. So did she want a used bra?
It would appear so.
Wierd.
...I told her I'd see what I could do.
The other day I was over at my neighbour Sita's house having tea with her and her daughters, practicing my ten words of Nepali, when Sita came out with the most bizarre request I had ever heard.
After a delicious cup of Masala tea, we were sitting together discussing Sita's daughter Ganga's upcoming nursing school exams. During a slight lull in the conversation, Sita turned to me with a smile:
"I want to give you a bra," she said.
Uhh....what?
"A bra?" I asked, my confusion evident.
"Yes," she smiled lifting her sari to point to her own lacy black one for emphasis. "Bra."
you want...to give me...
a bra....?
Say yes to more things I thought to myself. It's not your culture... Don't insult them by saying no.
"Um...ok, thanks Sita, that would be great" I replied, trying to hide the hesitation in my voice.
"Because your country good quality. Nepal bad quality. I give you a bra" she leaned back, evidently satisfied with herself.
Aha! That was it. She wanted me to give her a bra. Good ol' pronoun confusion.
Happy to have solved this mystery, and relieved that I wouldn't be the recipient of a used undergarment, I sat back on the bench with a smile.
Then I thought about it again. Language barrier or no language barrier, that's still the wierdest request I've ever heard. I mean I clearly don't have extra brand-new bras just kickin around in my 50L backpack. So did she want a used bra?
It would appear so.
Wierd.
...I told her I'd see what I could do.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Monsoon rains
Monsoon.
It sounds so exotic when you read it. And yet it has taken me a month and a half to realize how exotic it is to actually live it.
It all started as an ordinary day, albeit an extremely hot one. A day filled with the heat you can only understand through experience. The kind of heat that leaves a thin film of sweat over your entire body, no matter how little you move. The kind of heat that is so damp you can almost drink it, and so potent that you cannot escape it. The kind of heat that leaves you begging the sky to cloud over and rain down on you.
After a day of dragging our bodies from one shady corner to the next, my dear friend Hannah and I settled on the front porch to have an allegedly 'cold' beer and a chat. It was early evening, but the sun's rays were still beating down fiercely.
Around 6:30, clouds began to appear in the sky. Their appearance changed rapidly from innocent white fluff to black rain clouds looming ominously over us.
A storm was looming.
Thank God.
Within a few hours the wind had picked up significantly and people were rushing past our gate, trying to beat the storm to their front doors. As the trees waved and bowed in the wind, the clouds opened up and rain came pouring down on us.
It really can only be described as pouring. Something like a giant tap being turned on over your head - there are no raindrops, there are rivers falling from the sky.
In the span of a few minutes the streets had turned to lakes of ankle deep, murky brown water. The sewers raged as a slate-coloured stream of water from the hills flows through them. Even under a porch, a meter away from the rain, you were still getting drenched.
And then the thunder and lightning came. The sky lit up for a second, and in that time you glimpsed the outlines of a forest covered mountain, trees buckling under the pressure of wind and water, and a wall of rain blowing past you. Count to five....and then the thunder rolled over the mountains, echoing in a way that I could never hope to describe in words.
And as we sat witnessing Mother Nature's temper tantrum, all I could think was "I love my life."
It sounds so exotic when you read it. And yet it has taken me a month and a half to realize how exotic it is to actually live it.
It all started as an ordinary day, albeit an extremely hot one. A day filled with the heat you can only understand through experience. The kind of heat that leaves a thin film of sweat over your entire body, no matter how little you move. The kind of heat that is so damp you can almost drink it, and so potent that you cannot escape it. The kind of heat that leaves you begging the sky to cloud over and rain down on you.
After a day of dragging our bodies from one shady corner to the next, my dear friend Hannah and I settled on the front porch to have an allegedly 'cold' beer and a chat. It was early evening, but the sun's rays were still beating down fiercely.
Around 6:30, clouds began to appear in the sky. Their appearance changed rapidly from innocent white fluff to black rain clouds looming ominously over us.
A storm was looming.
Thank God.
Within a few hours the wind had picked up significantly and people were rushing past our gate, trying to beat the storm to their front doors. As the trees waved and bowed in the wind, the clouds opened up and rain came pouring down on us.
It really can only be described as pouring. Something like a giant tap being turned on over your head - there are no raindrops, there are rivers falling from the sky.
In the span of a few minutes the streets had turned to lakes of ankle deep, murky brown water. The sewers raged as a slate-coloured stream of water from the hills flows through them. Even under a porch, a meter away from the rain, you were still getting drenched.
And then the thunder and lightning came. The sky lit up for a second, and in that time you glimpsed the outlines of a forest covered mountain, trees buckling under the pressure of wind and water, and a wall of rain blowing past you. Count to five....and then the thunder rolled over the mountains, echoing in a way that I could never hope to describe in words.
And as we sat witnessing Mother Nature's temper tantrum, all I could think was "I love my life."
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Low Season
I've started staring at the tourists.
It's strange how after a few months in a single place you start to feel like you are a part of it. People recognize you on the street. You become a regular at certain restaurants and cafes. Families invite you over for dinner. Friends refuse to speak to you in English, forcing you to practice their native tongue instead.
You stop taking notice of the water buffalo on your doorstep each morning, or the fact that its curd here, not yogurt. Motorcycles replace cars as the preferred method of transportation. Paying $4 for a meal seems outrageously expensive. You become a part of the woodwork. You start to belong.
....Or at least you can fake it better.
And just when I'm starting to feel like I'm a part of it - meeting people, making work connections, realizing how much more TIME I need here - I'm off.
Sri Lanka at the end of the month baby.
Let's go.
It's strange how after a few months in a single place you start to feel like you are a part of it. People recognize you on the street. You become a regular at certain restaurants and cafes. Families invite you over for dinner. Friends refuse to speak to you in English, forcing you to practice their native tongue instead.
You stop taking notice of the water buffalo on your doorstep each morning, or the fact that its curd here, not yogurt. Motorcycles replace cars as the preferred method of transportation. Paying $4 for a meal seems outrageously expensive. You become a part of the woodwork. You start to belong.
....Or at least you can fake it better.
And just when I'm starting to feel like I'm a part of it - meeting people, making work connections, realizing how much more TIME I need here - I'm off.
Sri Lanka at the end of the month baby.
Let's go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)