Saturday, October 30, 2010
Stonewalled
Stonewalled
My stomach grumbled and I had to pee badly. The heat beat down in a mid morning haze. I felt discombobulated, a feeling that I sometimes get when I am traveling. Nevertheless, after Mom and I had finished our purchases at Fab India, I climbed onto my rental scooter to drive home. “Come with me, Mom,” I encouraged my mother. “Nope, I'd rather walk,” she replied. “Okay, I'll see you at home.”
Mom stood while I turned my scooter around and started the engine. Cautiously, I eyed the traffic on both sides. Driving on the opposite side of the road to home was still weird to me. The road was empty
except for motorcycle in the distance. I inched out and began to turn into the left hand lane on the other side of the road. To this day, I'll never know exactly what happened. I remember trying to turn the scooter, it not responding, giving it some gas, speeding up. The next thing I knew I was crashing into a cement wall. The crunch of plastic jolted me as I scraped along the side. My glasses flew off and something tore at my ear. I ground to a halt. Numb. Shaking. I heard my mother screaming in the distance, “Chris, Chris.” She nearly got hit trying to get across the road to me. Dazed, I hopped off my scooter and frantically began searching for my eight hundred dollar glasses. Men came running from all directions. I found my glasses intact, thank God, shoved them on my face and then touched my hand to my left ear. Blood. Flesh dangling where my gold earring used to be. Shit.
“Where's my earring? I must find my earring,” I said. One sweet man who works at the bank across the road scrounged the grass for five minutes as I stood there in shock. “Here, Mam,” he smiled as he handed it to me. “Thank you,” I whispered shakily. Another Indian man handed me two Kleenex for my bleeding ear. Mom was in hysterics, crying. “Stop Mom, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm okay.” I tried to console her even though my ear was lopped off. Meanwhile another man parked my scooter on the side of the road, handed me the key and pointed me in the direction of a government clinic.
Mom and I started off down the road with me clutching my ear with the Kleenex that Mom thought was for tears. We walked and walked. I felt a little faint. I promised my traumatized mother that I would never get back on the scooter. She is particularly paranoid after having had an accident herself in Goaa. “It's not worth it, Mom. I'll get rid of the bike. It's just not worth it.” Tearfully, my mother agreed.
At the clinic, there was a huge lineup at a curtained door. “You have to get a paper,” we are informed. Mom went off to get it while I waited. She asked at the office for a paper. The woman at the desk said, “the papers are finished.” “But we need a paper,” Mom said. “Go stand in line,” she was told. Mom came back but not without first sticking her head in the curtain door. “My daughter has had an accident.” The doctor inside told her to go to the Doctors Room. We saw a room that said 'Doctors Room' – some sort of room with a desk, a chair and a bed. We sat there for five minutes. A nurse came along and says, “This is the doctor's room. You are not to be sitting in here. Go over there,” she pointed to a bench in the hall.
We sat on the bench. I was still clutching my ear and feeling faint. More and more sick people were straggling in. An opaqued door opened across from us and we noticed a sign above it says EX room. Mom said again, “My daughter has had an accident. Her ear has been lopped off.” A cute Indian doctor replied, “Tell her to come in here,” and calmly slid the opaque door closed behind me. My mother sat and looked at the shadows behind the door. A few minutes later the opaque door opened again and Mom saw my feet on the end of a stretcher. The door closed again. Time passed as I received fourteen, I mean four stitches to my lopped off ear. My left collar bone had swollen up and become black and blue but nothing was broken. Mom continued to wait outside. Much later, when the cute doctor came out, Mom wished that her ear had been lopped off. She was even more impressed when he thought that she was my sister. Mom vowed to herself that when I go back to have my dressing changed, she will come along. She might even tint her eyebrows.
I walked out of the clinic with a bandaged ear. Mom thought it would bring me more sympathy but to me it was a reminder of the blow to my ego. Worried that I am about to collapse, my ashen face and stricken look distressing my mother, she called our friend Sukhminder who came in his jeep. He took one look at me and said, “Come on. Sturdy frame like you. What's your problem? Get back on the bike.”
Sukhi drove us home in his jeep. Before that, Mom stopped to pick up my penicillin and antiseptic cream. Fortunately I had recently had a tetanus shot because you never know what was on that cement wall where my ear was lopped off.
One week later, we headed back to the clinic. We arrived at nine o'clock as instructed. It was series of lineups. First the paper. I paid twenty rupees for the treatment and got my paper, which is now my personal file that I am to keep just in case I end up in the hospital again in Goa. God forbid. Then we headed back to the curtained door to line up. On the way, my mother stuck her head in the opaque door again seeking the gorgeous doctor's sympathy. He looked up from reading his paper and said, “we're not open until nine thirty.” To which my mother said, “ My daughter is here. You know the one.” To which he replied. “Nine-thirty.” Now she was glad she didn't tint her eyebrows. We waited and waited, struggled to keep our place in line as others attempted to jump the queue. Finally I got in to see the first doctor who proclaimed me healed and sent me to the opaque door to get my stitches removed. The handsome doctor greeted me, scolding, “You did not come back to get your dressing changed.” Sheepishly I responded, “I know. I was able to do it myself.” “Protocol must be followed,” he chided me. Fifteen minutes later, not without some struggle, he finally took out the last of the stitches and instructed me not to wear earrings for next two months. Yah right.
Meanwhile, all week Mom and I discussed back and forth whether or not I should get back on the scooter. For five days it was in the shop getting repaired. It needed a new headlight, a new steering column and the handlebars were twisted. In the meantime, one day we saw a horrendous accident where a guy on a scooter was crushed between a stone wall and a local bus. Rumor had it that he did not survive as we watched the ambulance pull away. “That's it,” Sukhi, who was with us, said. “You're not getting back on the bike. It's too dangerous here.” I left the scooter at the repair shop and he and a friend picked it up for me. Part of me was a little disappointed to not get to ride it more but I realized that perhaps this was not the place for me to learn to drive a two-wheeler. I'll wait until I get back to Canada to do that.
My stomach grumbled and I had to pee badly. The heat beat down in a mid morning haze. I felt discombobulated, a feeling that I sometimes get when I am traveling. Nevertheless, after Mom and I had finished our purchases at Fab India, I climbed onto my rental scooter to drive home. “Come with me, Mom,” I encouraged my mother. “Nope, I'd rather walk,” she replied. “Okay, I'll see you at home.”
Mom stood while I turned my scooter around and started the engine. Cautiously, I eyed the traffic on both sides. Driving on the opposite side of the road to home was still weird to me. The road was empty
except for motorcycle in the distance. I inched out and began to turn into the left hand lane on the other side of the road. To this day, I'll never know exactly what happened. I remember trying to turn the scooter, it not responding, giving it some gas, speeding up. The next thing I knew I was crashing into a cement wall. The crunch of plastic jolted me as I scraped along the side. My glasses flew off and something tore at my ear. I ground to a halt. Numb. Shaking. I heard my mother screaming in the distance, “Chris, Chris.” She nearly got hit trying to get across the road to me. Dazed, I hopped off my scooter and frantically began searching for my eight hundred dollar glasses. Men came running from all directions. I found my glasses intact, thank God, shoved them on my face and then touched my hand to my left ear. Blood. Flesh dangling where my gold earring used to be. Shit.
“Where's my earring? I must find my earring,” I said. One sweet man who works at the bank across the road scrounged the grass for five minutes as I stood there in shock. “Here, Mam,” he smiled as he handed it to me. “Thank you,” I whispered shakily. Another Indian man handed me two Kleenex for my bleeding ear. Mom was in hysterics, crying. “Stop Mom, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm okay.” I tried to console her even though my ear was lopped off. Meanwhile another man parked my scooter on the side of the road, handed me the key and pointed me in the direction of a government clinic.
Mom and I started off down the road with me clutching my ear with the Kleenex that Mom thought was for tears. We walked and walked. I felt a little faint. I promised my traumatized mother that I would never get back on the scooter. She is particularly paranoid after having had an accident herself in Goaa. “It's not worth it, Mom. I'll get rid of the bike. It's just not worth it.” Tearfully, my mother agreed.
At the clinic, there was a huge lineup at a curtained door. “You have to get a paper,” we are informed. Mom went off to get it while I waited. She asked at the office for a paper. The woman at the desk said, “the papers are finished.” “But we need a paper,” Mom said. “Go stand in line,” she was told. Mom came back but not without first sticking her head in the curtain door. “My daughter has had an accident.” The doctor inside told her to go to the Doctors Room. We saw a room that said 'Doctors Room' – some sort of room with a desk, a chair and a bed. We sat there for five minutes. A nurse came along and says, “This is the doctor's room. You are not to be sitting in here. Go over there,” she pointed to a bench in the hall.
We sat on the bench. I was still clutching my ear and feeling faint. More and more sick people were straggling in. An opaqued door opened across from us and we noticed a sign above it says EX room. Mom said again, “My daughter has had an accident. Her ear has been lopped off.” A cute Indian doctor replied, “Tell her to come in here,” and calmly slid the opaque door closed behind me. My mother sat and looked at the shadows behind the door. A few minutes later the opaque door opened again and Mom saw my feet on the end of a stretcher. The door closed again. Time passed as I received fourteen, I mean four stitches to my lopped off ear. My left collar bone had swollen up and become black and blue but nothing was broken. Mom continued to wait outside. Much later, when the cute doctor came out, Mom wished that her ear had been lopped off. She was even more impressed when he thought that she was my sister. Mom vowed to herself that when I go back to have my dressing changed, she will come along. She might even tint her eyebrows.
I walked out of the clinic with a bandaged ear. Mom thought it would bring me more sympathy but to me it was a reminder of the blow to my ego. Worried that I am about to collapse, my ashen face and stricken look distressing my mother, she called our friend Sukhminder who came in his jeep. He took one look at me and said, “Come on. Sturdy frame like you. What's your problem? Get back on the bike.”
Sukhi drove us home in his jeep. Before that, Mom stopped to pick up my penicillin and antiseptic cream. Fortunately I had recently had a tetanus shot because you never know what was on that cement wall where my ear was lopped off.
One week later, we headed back to the clinic. We arrived at nine o'clock as instructed. It was series of lineups. First the paper. I paid twenty rupees for the treatment and got my paper, which is now my personal file that I am to keep just in case I end up in the hospital again in Goa. God forbid. Then we headed back to the curtained door to line up. On the way, my mother stuck her head in the opaque door again seeking the gorgeous doctor's sympathy. He looked up from reading his paper and said, “we're not open until nine thirty.” To which my mother said, “ My daughter is here. You know the one.” To which he replied. “Nine-thirty.” Now she was glad she didn't tint her eyebrows. We waited and waited, struggled to keep our place in line as others attempted to jump the queue. Finally I got in to see the first doctor who proclaimed me healed and sent me to the opaque door to get my stitches removed. The handsome doctor greeted me, scolding, “You did not come back to get your dressing changed.” Sheepishly I responded, “I know. I was able to do it myself.” “Protocol must be followed,” he chided me. Fifteen minutes later, not without some struggle, he finally took out the last of the stitches and instructed me not to wear earrings for next two months. Yah right.
Meanwhile, all week Mom and I discussed back and forth whether or not I should get back on the scooter. For five days it was in the shop getting repaired. It needed a new headlight, a new steering column and the handlebars were twisted. In the meantime, one day we saw a horrendous accident where a guy on a scooter was crushed between a stone wall and a local bus. Rumor had it that he did not survive as we watched the ambulance pull away. “That's it,” Sukhi, who was with us, said. “You're not getting back on the bike. It's too dangerous here.” I left the scooter at the repair shop and he and a friend picked it up for me. Part of me was a little disappointed to not get to ride it more but I realized that perhaps this was not the place for me to learn to drive a two-wheeler. I'll wait until I get back to Canada to do that.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Herbert the Rat
It all started with rat droppings. Not little droppings but big droppings. Turds in fact. Our fears were confirmed when one morning a whole banana was eaten down to the skin. My mother and I knew we had a big one on our hands. “We're going to have to do something about this,” Mom said. But what to do? We went to a hole in the wall shop that we thought had everything but it had no rat poison. Thinking in our Western way, we then thought we needed a hardware shop. But there are none. We tried an electrical store. Not to electrocute Herbert but thinking the shop might have rat poison. Are you ready for this? We were told to go to a pharmacy. Really? A pharmacy? For rat poison? Yes. So off we marched to a pharmacy- an open fronted store, lined up with people. One English woman was buying either a ten year supply of Viagra or maybe she was taking it home to all her friends. Some people, (should have been us) were buying pills for constipation. (We never thought that we would wish for diarrhea like we do now.) Finally our turn came. My mother stepped up proudly and said, “ We need rat poison.” Without a sideways glance, the chemist rummaged around in a drawer and brought out a box of rat poison the size of a half pound of butter. On the cover, it advertised that one feeding kills. (It makes one feel mean but what to do?)
Needless to say, my mother didn't read the instructions and put out half the cake of poison the first night. We thought, this will do it. This will definitely do it. To be sure it would work, she put the poison in the fruit bowl. We didn't want to confuse the rat. We came into the kitchen the next morning and the whole piece had been carried away, leaving just a turd or two to tell us that he had been there. We thought, great, that has really done the trick. I imagined Herbert lying belly up somewhere, with all fours pointing heavenward. Little did we know. We went to sleep that night feeling secure. We even left out a bowl of fruit. But alas, the next morning, half a mango was gone. Oh my god, we didn't get Herbert yet. Back to the drawing board. My mother picked up the box of rat poison and this time read the instructions- only to discover that there are twenty squares in the box and only one square needed to be put out. Man, that is some rat.
Half the box was gone already, she had given ten squares on the first night. So we tried again. Carefully put the fruit bowl on the floor and placed five squares in the bowl for good measure. Slept on edge, listening. In the morning, same deal. No poison remained. Two to three turd offering left in return. And then, shockingly my mother yelled, “Chris, there are turds in my bed.” I replied, “that's because you have a double bed. I only have a single bed. There is no room for Herbert in my bed.” After much discussion on the subject, we decided that the turds most probably got there off her feet. Yuck.
Now before this story goes any further, I want you to know that we are not talking about a mouse. These turds are one inch long. The reason that we know it is a rat is because one night I saw something big and furry scramble out the door. Can you imagine how you'd feel like with that in your bed? Not to mention that Herbert sometimes comes in during the day when we had gone out, despite the fact that we close all the doors and windows and remember, our flat is three floors up. Mom and I have discussed at length whether Herbert is having a party with his roommates. Maybe he is sending his cousins? Or are we entertaining one individual guest? Going into the kitchen in the middle of the night is daunting. And we are now on our third package of poison. Mom says that if he doesn't leave soon, we are going to raise his rent. The saga continues.
Needless to say, my mother didn't read the instructions and put out half the cake of poison the first night. We thought, this will do it. This will definitely do it. To be sure it would work, she put the poison in the fruit bowl. We didn't want to confuse the rat. We came into the kitchen the next morning and the whole piece had been carried away, leaving just a turd or two to tell us that he had been there. We thought, great, that has really done the trick. I imagined Herbert lying belly up somewhere, with all fours pointing heavenward. Little did we know. We went to sleep that night feeling secure. We even left out a bowl of fruit. But alas, the next morning, half a mango was gone. Oh my god, we didn't get Herbert yet. Back to the drawing board. My mother picked up the box of rat poison and this time read the instructions- only to discover that there are twenty squares in the box and only one square needed to be put out. Man, that is some rat.
Half the box was gone already, she had given ten squares on the first night. So we tried again. Carefully put the fruit bowl on the floor and placed five squares in the bowl for good measure. Slept on edge, listening. In the morning, same deal. No poison remained. Two to three turd offering left in return. And then, shockingly my mother yelled, “Chris, there are turds in my bed.” I replied, “that's because you have a double bed. I only have a single bed. There is no room for Herbert in my bed.” After much discussion on the subject, we decided that the turds most probably got there off her feet. Yuck.
Now before this story goes any further, I want you to know that we are not talking about a mouse. These turds are one inch long. The reason that we know it is a rat is because one night I saw something big and furry scramble out the door. Can you imagine how you'd feel like with that in your bed? Not to mention that Herbert sometimes comes in during the day when we had gone out, despite the fact that we close all the doors and windows and remember, our flat is three floors up. Mom and I have discussed at length whether Herbert is having a party with his roommates. Maybe he is sending his cousins? Or are we entertaining one individual guest? Going into the kitchen in the middle of the night is daunting. And we are now on our third package of poison. Mom says that if he doesn't leave soon, we are going to raise his rent. The saga continues.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Plastic Bottle
Last week, my Mom and I noticed hundreds of cardboard cases being unloaded from big truck into our neighbors flat. Curious, we asked him what they were. “I'm selling bottles of water now,” the young entrepreneur explained. “Great. We'll take 12,” my Mom exclaimed. “But that's heavy, no?” she added. “No worries,” he said. “I'll deliver it.” Twelve bottles came up three flights of stairs. We handed him one hundred rupees for the 90 rupee case. As he fished around for the ten rupees change, Mom said, “Forget it, delivery charges.” And thus begins the cycle of many empty plastic bottles. But I will only tell you about one bottle in particular.
Within no time, I began to fret about the garbage that we were creating. Garbage pickup is virtually nonexistent here. However, when it comes to bottles, it is a different story. Yesterday, Mom threw one of our empties over the balcony. I cringed with guilt. “Don't worry, Chris,” she said. “Haven't you seen the women who come along in the morning with their huge nylon sacks to collect plastic and glass to sell to recycling? You watch.”
From three stories up the bottle gleamed on the asphalt road. It laid there all alone, abandoned. Suddenly I heard a noise. A boy was kicking the bottle down the road, running after it, kicking it again, running, kicking, running. At the end of the lane, he tired of the game and left it lying on the side of the road. It laid there, abandoned again, waiting.
A barefooted woman in a sari tied up like a dhoti came along and picked up the bottle. She immediately went to the tap in our compound and filled it up with water. Carrying it home to her reed hut, she began to chop some wood and light a fire with dried moss. She measured out half milk and half water from the bottle and added some tea leaves. Within minutes, she squatted with the man of the house, perhaps her husband, brother or son and together, they drank their hot chai in thick clear glasses.
Before long,the man of the house hurried down the road with the other half of the bottle of water, heading into the jungle for his daily bowel movement. Now I know why he needs the bottle, but in case you don't I will explain. He fastidiously wiped his bum with his left hand and then used the water to carefully wash his fingers, making sure that nothing had been caught under his nails. Hence why you only eat food with your right hand in India.
I hate to tell you but the fated bottle came back to the reed house, too valuable to be tossed. The woman in the worn sari rushed back to the water tap. The next day, however, that precious bottle was needed again. Their son had come down with a fever. She took the empty bottle to a local dukhan and sold it to the shopkeeper. With her one rupee, she bought a pill for her son.
Fortunately for the bottle, it was still undamaged. Its lid still intact. A worker from the dukhan took the bottle to the petrol station and filled it with gas. For half a day, the bottle proudly sat on a table by the road, glistening in the sun. A timely maneuver, because in the late afternoon, a woman with red hair pulled up on her scooter, low on gas. The bottle glugged its amber liquid into the tank. The woman paid for the precious bottle of gas and drove off in a hurry. Meanwhile, the bottle has been thrown onto the ground. Is this the end of the bottle's journey? I doubt it because it has still not been picked up by the woman with the nylon bag.
Within no time, I began to fret about the garbage that we were creating. Garbage pickup is virtually nonexistent here. However, when it comes to bottles, it is a different story. Yesterday, Mom threw one of our empties over the balcony. I cringed with guilt. “Don't worry, Chris,” she said. “Haven't you seen the women who come along in the morning with their huge nylon sacks to collect plastic and glass to sell to recycling? You watch.”
From three stories up the bottle gleamed on the asphalt road. It laid there all alone, abandoned. Suddenly I heard a noise. A boy was kicking the bottle down the road, running after it, kicking it again, running, kicking, running. At the end of the lane, he tired of the game and left it lying on the side of the road. It laid there, abandoned again, waiting.
A barefooted woman in a sari tied up like a dhoti came along and picked up the bottle. She immediately went to the tap in our compound and filled it up with water. Carrying it home to her reed hut, she began to chop some wood and light a fire with dried moss. She measured out half milk and half water from the bottle and added some tea leaves. Within minutes, she squatted with the man of the house, perhaps her husband, brother or son and together, they drank their hot chai in thick clear glasses.
Before long,the man of the house hurried down the road with the other half of the bottle of water, heading into the jungle for his daily bowel movement. Now I know why he needs the bottle, but in case you don't I will explain. He fastidiously wiped his bum with his left hand and then used the water to carefully wash his fingers, making sure that nothing had been caught under his nails. Hence why you only eat food with your right hand in India.
I hate to tell you but the fated bottle came back to the reed house, too valuable to be tossed. The woman in the worn sari rushed back to the water tap. The next day, however, that precious bottle was needed again. Their son had come down with a fever. She took the empty bottle to a local dukhan and sold it to the shopkeeper. With her one rupee, she bought a pill for her son.
Fortunately for the bottle, it was still undamaged. Its lid still intact. A worker from the dukhan took the bottle to the petrol station and filled it with gas. For half a day, the bottle proudly sat on a table by the road, glistening in the sun. A timely maneuver, because in the late afternoon, a woman with red hair pulled up on her scooter, low on gas. The bottle glugged its amber liquid into the tank. The woman paid for the precious bottle of gas and drove off in a hurry. Meanwhile, the bottle has been thrown onto the ground. Is this the end of the bottle's journey? I doubt it because it has still not been picked up by the woman with the nylon bag.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Bangladesh
After ten days in Kathmandu, we repacked our bags and headed for yet another airport to fly to Bangladesh. I had some work to complete there for both my social justice work and also the book that I am currently working on. Arriving at the airport entrance and before we could enter, our luggage had to be screened at an x ray machine. The next step was check in, sending off our x-rayed luggage. All our hand luggage was tagged. The next stage...more x-rays. But thank God, there was a woman’s line as the man's stretched way back. The technician rifled through my bag, then waved me on. Just when we thought we were finished, we had to go to a long table and in front of some women guards, every single item in our carry on bags had to be taken out. With great curiosity, the women looked at our belongings and asked to what various things were for. One Nepali woman opened up the fold-able wooden frame of my mosquito net and tried to figure out how it would work. Mom's surgical tape was taken away from her. Remember the tags we had to put on in the beginning. They all got stamped.
Next, we were herded into a nondescript room. There were many gates but non the less, we were all herded towards the same gate, irregardless of the flight destination. We watched people straggling in late for their Delhi flight. We knew why, the horrendously long inspection line. Mom and I sat and wondered how we would know when our flight was boarding. There was no loud speaker. Suddenly hundreds of young men, possibly migrant workers, rushed for the boarding gate door. As we found out, it was our flight and so we joined the crowd. I've never seen so many people try to squeeze through a doorway. Unbelievable pushing and shoving. A frustrated airport worker yelled at the boys to get into line, but it continued to be pandemonium.
Eventually we made it through the door. Going up the airplane steps, the same boys pushed and shoved, instead of going two by two. I clung to my mother to make sure that she was not tripped. Finally we got to our seats and sat down with a huge sigh. Our flight was only an hour but the whole process took much longer. Mom decided to go to the bathroom only to discover that the doors on both toilets of this big Airbus 310 did not shut and were hanging on one hinge. She came back to her seat holding her pee. Meanwhile one of the young boys went in, and my mother imagined him standing there holding the door with one hand and his penis in the other. The migrant workers did not care that the door did not shut and were soon lining up to use the toilet. Mom and I wondered if they had ever been on a plane before. One of them bravely tried sitting down in first class but was shooed out. Perhaps he thought that it was like getting on a bus.
And hour later, we arrived in Bangladesh. It was incredibly hot. Thirty-three degrees at nine at night. Luckily, we were picked up at the airport by our air conditioned hotel taxi and headed into the city. The highway was ultra modern, with six lanes. But the traffic jam was unbelievable. Bumper to bumper. “It is always like this,” our young driver informed us.
Finally we arrived at our hotel exhausted. Mom and I yearned for a drink. Couldn't wait to have a black Russian. Would even settle for a gin and tonic without ice. At reception, Mom immediately asked the guy "Where is the bar?" She was given a grave look. "No bar here, Madame." "Okay, where is one?" I replied. "Not possible," they said. "Well, how about the restaurant, they must serve alcohol?" "Not possible Madame." We checked into our room. Mom nose dived for the mini bar. She opened it expecting little bottles of booze, but alas it was clean as a whistle. Ask me how much we wished we had brought something from Nepal.
We went downhill from here. In this hotel, it was all men, very patronizing, very uncomfortable. Being women of action, Mom and I decided immediately to change hotels the next morning. We read about another hotel in Lonely Planet in another section of town and after breakfast, off we went.
After much looking, we found the place. The man at reception immediately shoved us into a dingy room on second floor without so much as a "what would you like?" We queried, “Do you have a room available?” "We will get you a room after some time,” he replied. Meanwhile we looked around the dingy room where they had parked us. Can you imagine what this room looked like? Mold everywhere, all over the walls, the toilet didn't flush, oppressive. As if that was not bad enough, the reception guy kept coming up with the card in his hand for us to sign. "No, we will sign only when we get a room," we insisted, not wanting to commit. At one point, Mom went downstairs to check the progress of the room and reception said," Go back to your room.” Back in the room, Mom and I looked at each other and said “Let's get the hell out of here.” But we did not know where to go, so we bravely left our bags locked in the room, got a rickshaw and after some hunting, found a lovely safe hotel for only ten dollars more per night. Frantically, we rushed back for our bags. Back up to the room, past now three men at reception. We carried down our heavy backpacks and ran out the door. The men all followed us out to the rickshaw, demanding to know where we are going. But without a word, we fled the scene.
But that is not all. Later the same day, we went by cab, then rickshaw down to Old Dhaka to see the waterfront. Still no women in sight. It was horrendous. Every time we stopped there were crowds of men around us. Mom tried to take some photos by the water for her work. I kept a watchful eye on the men watching her. We were constantly yelled at, harassed and bullied. The second rickshaw ride turned out to be disaster as he wanted more money than was due. We went into a shop. He followed us in, (we are only women after all). The rickshaw walla told a man in there that he wanted more money from us. Mom was standing about five feet away from this man who looked her in the eye and said "You come here." Mom looked him in the eye and said "Why would I go there? If you want to talk to me, you come here." Meanwhile, I was observing the stand off. “Come on, Mom, let's get out of here.” We ducked into another shop, desperately trying to melt into the crowd. No luck. The rickshaw walla followed us in there too. Much to Mom's chagrin, I gave him the money to get rid of him. The absolute glee in that man's face astounded us. He had yet again pushed a woman around and a foreigner at that.
With the assistance of a kind old man, we were quickly walked to a taxi stand and got out of there. Back in our hotel, we immediately decided to leave this male dominated country. The contacts that I was supposed to meet with had fallen through and there was no reason to stay. Within ten hours we were on a flight to Goa. I'll never forget the feeling of animosity towards us, and the incredible feeling of being a non-being that I encountered there and how two seasoned world travelers were brought to their knees.
Next, we were herded into a nondescript room. There were many gates but non the less, we were all herded towards the same gate, irregardless of the flight destination. We watched people straggling in late for their Delhi flight. We knew why, the horrendously long inspection line. Mom and I sat and wondered how we would know when our flight was boarding. There was no loud speaker. Suddenly hundreds of young men, possibly migrant workers, rushed for the boarding gate door. As we found out, it was our flight and so we joined the crowd. I've never seen so many people try to squeeze through a doorway. Unbelievable pushing and shoving. A frustrated airport worker yelled at the boys to get into line, but it continued to be pandemonium.
Eventually we made it through the door. Going up the airplane steps, the same boys pushed and shoved, instead of going two by two. I clung to my mother to make sure that she was not tripped. Finally we got to our seats and sat down with a huge sigh. Our flight was only an hour but the whole process took much longer. Mom decided to go to the bathroom only to discover that the doors on both toilets of this big Airbus 310 did not shut and were hanging on one hinge. She came back to her seat holding her pee. Meanwhile one of the young boys went in, and my mother imagined him standing there holding the door with one hand and his penis in the other. The migrant workers did not care that the door did not shut and were soon lining up to use the toilet. Mom and I wondered if they had ever been on a plane before. One of them bravely tried sitting down in first class but was shooed out. Perhaps he thought that it was like getting on a bus.
And hour later, we arrived in Bangladesh. It was incredibly hot. Thirty-three degrees at nine at night. Luckily, we were picked up at the airport by our air conditioned hotel taxi and headed into the city. The highway was ultra modern, with six lanes. But the traffic jam was unbelievable. Bumper to bumper. “It is always like this,” our young driver informed us.
Finally we arrived at our hotel exhausted. Mom and I yearned for a drink. Couldn't wait to have a black Russian. Would even settle for a gin and tonic without ice. At reception, Mom immediately asked the guy "Where is the bar?" She was given a grave look. "No bar here, Madame." "Okay, where is one?" I replied. "Not possible," they said. "Well, how about the restaurant, they must serve alcohol?" "Not possible Madame." We checked into our room. Mom nose dived for the mini bar. She opened it expecting little bottles of booze, but alas it was clean as a whistle. Ask me how much we wished we had brought something from Nepal.
We went downhill from here. In this hotel, it was all men, very patronizing, very uncomfortable. Being women of action, Mom and I decided immediately to change hotels the next morning. We read about another hotel in Lonely Planet in another section of town and after breakfast, off we went.
After much looking, we found the place. The man at reception immediately shoved us into a dingy room on second floor without so much as a "what would you like?" We queried, “Do you have a room available?” "We will get you a room after some time,” he replied. Meanwhile we looked around the dingy room where they had parked us. Can you imagine what this room looked like? Mold everywhere, all over the walls, the toilet didn't flush, oppressive. As if that was not bad enough, the reception guy kept coming up with the card in his hand for us to sign. "No, we will sign only when we get a room," we insisted, not wanting to commit. At one point, Mom went downstairs to check the progress of the room and reception said," Go back to your room.” Back in the room, Mom and I looked at each other and said “Let's get the hell out of here.” But we did not know where to go, so we bravely left our bags locked in the room, got a rickshaw and after some hunting, found a lovely safe hotel for only ten dollars more per night. Frantically, we rushed back for our bags. Back up to the room, past now three men at reception. We carried down our heavy backpacks and ran out the door. The men all followed us out to the rickshaw, demanding to know where we are going. But without a word, we fled the scene.
But that is not all. Later the same day, we went by cab, then rickshaw down to Old Dhaka to see the waterfront. Still no women in sight. It was horrendous. Every time we stopped there were crowds of men around us. Mom tried to take some photos by the water for her work. I kept a watchful eye on the men watching her. We were constantly yelled at, harassed and bullied. The second rickshaw ride turned out to be disaster as he wanted more money than was due. We went into a shop. He followed us in, (we are only women after all). The rickshaw walla told a man in there that he wanted more money from us. Mom was standing about five feet away from this man who looked her in the eye and said "You come here." Mom looked him in the eye and said "Why would I go there? If you want to talk to me, you come here." Meanwhile, I was observing the stand off. “Come on, Mom, let's get out of here.” We ducked into another shop, desperately trying to melt into the crowd. No luck. The rickshaw walla followed us in there too. Much to Mom's chagrin, I gave him the money to get rid of him. The absolute glee in that man's face astounded us. He had yet again pushed a woman around and a foreigner at that.
With the assistance of a kind old man, we were quickly walked to a taxi stand and got out of there. Back in our hotel, we immediately decided to leave this male dominated country. The contacts that I was supposed to meet with had fallen through and there was no reason to stay. Within ten hours we were on a flight to Goa. I'll never forget the feeling of animosity towards us, and the incredible feeling of being a non-being that I encountered there and how two seasoned world travelers were brought to their knees.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Nepal
After a grueling trip from Istanbul (I was incredibly ill with the worst migraine of my life), we arrived around ten o'clock in the morning, sans luggage. Our connection in Doha was too short and the baggage exchange unsuccessful. Nevertheless, we check into the Kantipur Temple House- a former temple turned hotel. I have always loved mogul architecture and chose this hotel for it's ornate work. Four stories high with a roof top balcony, it has many beautiful gardens to sit in. Little lamps with oil line the edges of the walls. In the entrance courtyard a large temple bell awaits clanging, perhaps for a call for dinner? A Buddha statue sits in a raised enclosed balcony. A variety of trees, all meticulously labeled grow despite the dust that falls daily in this grimy city. And the staff are very friendly.
We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.
After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.
For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.
As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.
After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.
One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.
After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.
An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.
After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.
Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.
But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.
After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.
We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.
At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.
We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.
After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.
For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.
As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.
After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.
One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.
After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.
An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.
After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.
Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.
But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.
After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.
We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.
At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.
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