Monster in the Metro

Hayley looked at me through squinted eyes with a half smile that told me instantly she was trying to tell a lie. She is entirely incapable of such an act, so when she uttered the words, “do you have our tickets?” what she really said was, “we never bought any.” I adore her transparency, it is one of her greatest traits, but in this instance it exposed our delinquency and confirmed our guilt instantaneously. The brute standing behind her (a terrifying mutation of Cruella de Vil, Janet Reno, and my disciplinarian 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Gagnon) came forward and barked at me in Czech. I stared back at her with starry eyes, preparing to play dumb. She flipped to English and foiled that plan.

“Tickets, you must have tickets! Metro not free! Now you pay big fine!” She mentally fiddled with some numbers and then declared our crime was punishable by 700 krown a head—a sum that would cost our group over 220 US dollars, or as I saw it through a more palpable conversion, seven pans of roasted pork knee and duck breast. In any currency this was outrageous, and all five of us agreed. Her request for payment was met with a collective, “No way!” In a steady, sure-handed motion that revealed anticipation of our resistance, she reached for her cell phone and dialed 1-5-8, the three digit number for the Policie.

We found ourselves entrapped in a matter of moments. One second we were blissfully returning to the city center from a peaceful picnic on a cliff above the Vltava River, in the next we were being held captive by a formidable underground officer who took her job way too seriously. To be fair, we were without tickets. And to be entirely honest, we had discussed the topic of our ticketlessness, and acknowledged that the city’s services were certainly not gratis. But in our defense, there was nary a ticket machine in the underground, there were no regulating turnstiles to the escalators, and every other passenger around us seemed to be passing through with complete liberty. We had simply followed the crowd—until, of course, we were plucked from it by the money-hungry-metro-monster. In this moment of moderate desperation, as we stood in the grips of authority with a sizeable amount of money on the line and the Policie in pursuit, everyone’s true nature suddenly came to center stage.

Jeannie flew directly into protection mode. The officer bit and Jeannie bit back. In not so many flattering words she told the officer that her imposed fine was preposterous and that her position in the city’s law enforcement hierarchy was underwhelming. The relentless officer was a bitter and cruel woman and Jeannie did her best to mirror her personality. By contrast, Hayley put on a meek grin, shyly glanced down at her hands, innocently twirled her thumbs, and batted her eyes in a heart-melting look of remorse. She looked far too sweet to be penalized. The officer, impenetrable by Hayley’s girlish charms, continued to press us for money. This is when Joe, the doctor, appealed to her rational side with scientific demonstrations. “Look at this gentleman here,” he said pointing to a man walking freely through the subway. “I just watched him walk down these steps and on to a train without showing a ticket. Why aren’t you stopping him?” She was not wooed by Joe’s application of the Socratic Method. I stood by and watched these three thwarted attempts, amazed by the way each appeal was a perfect representation of their individual character.

And then it was my mom’s turn. She looked at me, wide-eyed and rearing to go, and silently mouthed the words, “Should we run?”

Here I was, staring in the face of authority, contemplating our next move, mentally weighing thoughts of defiance and obedience. My inner rebel was arguing with my conscience. It was a moment, like many others in my life, when I wished I could ask for my mother’s advice. And here she was, right in front of me, suggesting we turn and run. My own moral compass, live in the flesh, proposing we evade the law.

In a bizarre moment of eerie role reversal, I shook my head at my mom’s mutinous idea. The Policie arrived in the subway seconds later. When they deferred jurisdiction and all the power to the metro-monster, I knew we wouldn’t see daylight until some paper was produced. I discreetly reached for my wallet and produced 700 krown—a fine for one person seemed more reasonable than full penance for five. I extended the bills in my hand for a long time before she took them. She scribbled something in a notebook and then handed me a ticket in exchange for the cash. Before she was able to say another word we were swiveling on our heels and heading for the stairs. We never looked back.

We avoided the monster’s dungeon for the remainder of our time in Prague, favoring sunlit streets and our own feet for transportation. We vowed not to let the subway saga sour our experience in the Czech Republic. The capital city is one of staggering beauty. The wonder of its architecture seems endless; layers upon layers of rich hotels, restaurants, churches, castles, and clock towers. The food is some of the best we’ve eaten on this journey. But what made Prague the most enjoyable is clearly the people we were able to explore it beside. My mom is here now and I somehow feel at home, thousands of miles from California. She gives me a certain type of happiness that no one else can. Hayley and Joe are incredible. They have each enhanced the adventure with their easy and infectious laughs. It would be hard to find a more willing couple. Before I can finish the question, “would you guys like to…?” they have already answered affirmatively.

Still Bigger Than Us

“I’m going to the dining car to get some brek,” she said. She zipped my oversized jacket over her tank top, grabbed ten euro from my wallet, and pulled open the sliding door that partitioned our private seats. I shouted behind her for a cup of coffee as the door latched shut and she disappeared down the hallway of our second class car. Pausing for a moment to study the Czech countryside passing outside the window, I shifted back to my computer and returned to thoughts of Krakow. We had left the southern Polish town just two hours before, on the first Vienna-bound train of the day. The early departure had required an alarm at dawn, motivating Jeannie to pass the first third of the trip in a horizontal, three-seat nap. I had passed the time quietly; writing, following the horizon, and watching her sleep. Now that she was gone I became engrossed in my journal. I totally lost myself.

When I came to my senses I was startled to still be alone. I blinked hard at my watch, trying to make sense of the time. An hour had passed. Jeannie had not returned from the dining car. She must have decided to eat there. That would be out of character, but you act out of character in places like this. She wanted my coffee to be hot, so she waited to order it after she was done eating. The dining car was packed. The server was busy. They were out of coffee so she was waiting for tea. They wanted zloty and she only had euro. It took time to negotiate the currency. No. None of these stories were working in my head. Something was wrong.

With a consciously controlled sense of urgency I rose from my seat and opened the door to the hallway. The image of her walking away was vivid in my mind. I turned in the direction she had gone and walked toward the dining car at the back of the train. Approaching the end of our car, the rear windows came into view. I stared through the smudged oval panes in complete disbelief. My knees knocked. The windows at the end of the car gave way to open track. Where there should have been three connecting coaches and the dining car, there was nothing but railway and Czech farmland, rapidly disappearing into the distance as we sped to the south. Jeannie was gone.

I stood there looking through those windows for what felt like eternity. Each passing tree, a blur of green and brown, suddenly symbolized our widening gap. The train seemed to mock me with its rattling, its vibrations, the blowing of its horn. I was fleeing the scene, racing away from a solution, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was being held hostage by the train and by the unbelievable circumstances.

Ten dizzying minutes passed before we approached a station and came to a stop at the platform. I leapt from the opening doors in search of an English speaking conductor. My search ended abruptly when the only conductor on the platform waived his hands and shook his head at my questions. He cut me off in a guttural language I couldn’t make any sense of. He pointed down the track to a set of cars about a kilometer away and then ushered me back onto the train. I surmised from his hustled rant that the cars down the track would be reconnecting with our train. This was something I could hold on to. Surely Jeannie was sitting in that dining car a kilometer away, about to be reconnected to our coach. I stood at the rear windows for thirty minutes until finally the wheels in the distance started to turn. Moments later, an engineer was fastening the clamps between the coaches. I loomed over his shoulder while he finished and then nearly bowled him over as I ran past him on my way to the dining car.

A server, two Austrian men, and fifteen open tables. Impossible. How could this be? I jolted one of the men from his eggs and toast and rattled twenty questions off his forehead. Trying to ignore the bead of sweat rolling down my cheek, he informed me he had not seen a blonde woman, and had in fact boarded the train in Warsaw, not Krakow. Like me, he was headed to Vienna. The server, overhearing the anxiety in my voice, chimed in from behind the kitchen counter. “The dining car from Krakow is on its way to Prague,” she said. Finally someone had put into words what I already knew to be true. Jeannie was on her way to another country altogether.

I needed to be alone to think. Racing back to my seat, our seats, I took a quick inventory in my head. What did she have? My jacket, ten euro, maybe less, her rail pass, flip flops. That was it. I couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling. Where was she right now? When had she realized we were disconnected? I sat down and buried my head in my hands. I tried to be rational. Getting off the train would only complicate the situation. Backtracking would allow for more error. We both knew where the hotel was located in Vienna. I would go there and wait for her to arrive. Would it be tonight? Tomorrow? Where would she sleep? I asked these questions while the train pressed on, steaming its way to Austria.

I fought with myself to stay positive as my trail of hope sputtered behind the caboose. I barely noticed when we slowed to a stop. I lifted my head from my hands and looked out the window. There she was, standing on the platform, my jacket zipped all the way up to her quivering chin. Our eyes met and hers filled with tears. It was obvious that she was shocked to see me. I was physically consumed with relief. It started in my legs, passed through my stomach on its way to my shoulders, and left my body through a smile so big it hurt my face. We laughed and held each other. We spent the rest of the passage to Austria discussing every angle of our separation, and the aimless train hopping Jeannie had enacted to get herself to the platform where we reunited. We stayed joined at the hip for the remainder of the journey—not even a trip to the water closet was done without each other’s company.

Having traveled unscathed through Southeast Asia, China, and even India, I think Jeannie and I can both agree that we might have dropped our guard upon arrival to Europe. At dinner that night, having acquired the time to let the day’s events simmer, we found an odd pleasure in the notion that travel in the Western World does not come without challenges. The world hasn’t become too small after all.

80,000 Shoes

We had heard stories of the shoes from traveling acquaintances. We had seen images of them in the documentary aired on the bus ride to the camp. Our guide even warned us just moments before we entered the wing of the museum. But nothing can prepare you for the sight of 80,000 shoes. More than the massive rooms filled with pots and pans, more than the piles of twisted reading glasses, even more than the tons of human hair—there is something about the shoes that is completely shattering. I think it is the personality that is contained in a shoe. There is something even more human about a shoe than hair. The mountain of shoes is the story of 40,000 people—each pair the reflection of who they were in life, and in death. The size, the shape, the color, leather, or rubber, or cloth—each characteristic is a memory of the person who walked in that shoe. The thick boots of working men, the fashionable heels of urban women, the tiny booties of babies; thrown together in heaps of hatred.

We traveled from Krakow to the Auschwitz and Birkenau German Death Camps to bear witness to one of the greatest human tragedies in history. The camp itself has been converted to a museum, allowing the visitor to walk the same gravel roads as the one million people who died there. We entered the barracks, we stood in the suffocation cells, we touched the execution wall, we walked inside the gas chambers. The hours we spent at Auschwitz and Birkenau are some of the most solemn hours of our lives.

Jeannie and I were partnered with a brilliant guide. He provided all of the objective facts you expect in a historical tour: the timeline of the concentration camp, the names of political figures, the events that led to the Holocaust, the methods of industrialized death. But as a descendent of those persecuted in the Second World War, he told the story through the eyes of the victims. We were made to feel their plight. Through his words we were able to comprehend the madness of their fate. Somehow, for a moment, he was able to put us into a pair of the 80,000 shoes.

There is a quote inscribed on one of the brick walls as you enter the gate to the camp. It says, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” As our guide walked with us through the past, never once even hinting a smile, I held this quote in my mind and eagerly anticipated a close to the tour cloaked in hope for the future. I followed our guide, his hands clasped behind his back, thinking that surely the pain and the sadness he endures every day, the horror he relives for dozens of visitors every week, is made tolerable by a hopeful belief that mankind has learned from the atrocities of the Holocaust, that we are not condemned to repeat it. In his closing thoughts, through a thick Polish accent, he instead asked us to dwell on war in Africa, on the crimes against human rights in China. He then thanked us for coming, and left us staring out over the train track that transported one million innocent people to their end.

Home Field Advantage

It might be the perfect square. The sun seems to fall on its cobblestones in just the right way. At its center is a bewildering mermaid statue—bare-breasted, clutching a shield in one hand, an unsheathed sword in the other. She sits on a squat base, spurting water spontaneously at untamed children. Young parents hopelessly corral the juveniles, taking hidden delight in their recklessness, in their willingness to soak their clothes without care. A small flock of pigeons, wings iridescent in the afternoon light, hop and flutter around an old woman and her bread crumbs, always keeping one eye on swinging boots. A new couple strolls by with ice cream cones, working furiously to keep the melting treat off their fingers. A working artist has a dozen easels opened up, displaying years of dedication. His art reflects the square itself; rich oil on cloth canvas, so dense it looks three dimensional. He paints the tenements that form the public space, the buildings that surround the mermaid in imperfect ninety degree angles, massive structures of shared walls, shared lives. He paints the orange tiled roofs, oval balconies, undraped windows like eyes into private worlds. Outdoor cafes line the apartments, wood tables and chairs (nary a vacant one) under the shade of beer-branded umbrellas. They serve pork chops, pierogi, eggs in sour rye soup. They serve the dish of the day. Church bells chime a song in the distance. Then three thoughtful bongs.

I think I smell him before I see him. The smell isn’t offensive, or foul, just distinctive. He smells musky like the communal cologne on the bathroom counter of a country club. Looking up from my book, I see his shoes first, toed off directly with mine. They are tattered around the edge, cheap leather coming unglued from the sole. A bit of his wool sock peaks through untied laces. His pants reflect the same mileage. He is wearing a shirt with two dozen unnecessary buttons, most of them unclasped anyway. A bulge in his breast pocket reveals a pack of cigarettes. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirttails are tucked in, showing loops with no belt to hold. He is stooped in a posture that admits his age. His six-toothed smile is as big as the square.

“In-ter-na-shee-nal game,” he says to me in practiced syllabic cadence. He thrusts out his hand. Clutched in his arthritic fingers is what looks like a leather journal, bound shut with a braided latch. Stolen from what I’ve been reading, I am without words. He takes the moment of silence as an opportunity to nestle between Jeannie and I on the bench. Cautiously moving my bag to the side, he sets his journal on the bench, unlatches the braid, and opens the cover, revealing a black and white board and a collection of chipped checkers.

Jeannie and I exchange an amused glance as the old man begins to banter in Polish. He slowly sets the board, deeply concentrating to center each circle within each square, his fingers moving with the slightest perceptible tremble. When the board is finally set, and he has recited an entire Polish speech, he produces ten zloty from behind his pack of cigarettes and tucks the bill neatly beneath the corner of the board. Jeannie and I share a chuckle, and I reach into my pocket to produce the price of admission. I only have a twenty zloty note. Jeannie uses it to replace his ten. I pocket his ante, and the game is on.

Having not played checkers for a combined twenty years, Jeannie and I stumble into some elementary mistakes early in the match. The old man hops and skips over our pieces with childlike glee, laughing and smacking his bony knee at our expense. But as the match progresses, and tactics of the game are refreshed in our minds, the momentum slowly turns. He stops to contemplate his moves. He doesn’t laugh as freely. He rubs his chin and scratches his head. Suddenly his back row is all exposed. We descend fiercely on his end of the board. The worn purple corner of the zloty stares up at him from under the game. Now he is stammering, making excuses in Polish, waving his finger at our move. Without a tremble, he swiftly reverses our previous attack, and uses his last checker to creatively triple-hop over our final three pieces. In one hurried motion, the board is closed, the latch is shut, and the cash is in his pocket. He manages a mumbled thank you as he shuffles away, leaving us alone on the bench, ten zloty poorer.

Getting Extra Credit

His memory is easy to see in my mind. Freckled and red-haired, eager and quick with a proud smile, a cheerful kid prepared to submit the crowning achievement of his 7th grade body of work—his country report, complete with poster boards, essays, illustrations, and dioramas. He knows how many lakes are in the northern territory, he knows about the people’s culinary love of herring, he is familiar with their general obsession with reindeer. He learned the weather is frigid in the winter, but mild and surprisingly pleasant in the summer. He is ready to talk about aurora borealis, equipped with pictures of purple stripes in the night sky. He loves that the national sport is ice hockey. He is prepared with a few words in the native tongue, like hei and kiitos. He is even armed with the national flag—a snow white fabric decorated with a slightly off-centered blue cross.

For almost fifteen years, Chris Simmons has been filled with the dream of one day visiting this place he got to know so well. So when the itinerary of the Distant Adventure was finalized, and Finland was on the tour, Simmons did what had been waiting in the wings since he was thirteen—he bought a ticket to Helsinki. And using those fifteen years of wisdom, he brought along his better half, Sara. On second thought, maybe she brought him.

What Simmons probably left out of his report is that the bicycle should be the Finnish national icon, or at least the symbol of the capital city. Helsinki is built for bicycles. It is the only city I have ever visited with separate bicycle signals (red—yellow—green…go), and a bike lane as wide as the road itself. In our best effort to assimilate, we hired two bikes, borrowed two more from our hotel, and took to the streets for two days of exploration. (I learned quickly that Jeannie is as daunting for fellow road travelers behind handlebars as she is behind a steering wheel. She actually sent a Finn over the top of his front wheel when she made a sudden right turn—it was his fault.)

To know Simmons is to know wanderlust. Seeing Finland through his curious eyes was the instant remedy to even the slightest hint of traveler’s fatigue. His passion for the nuances of foreign life was energizing. He questioned everything, took delight in everything. Plus, I had someone to share in the oddities of Finnish cuisine—fried whole whitefish and reindeer sausage. (My travel mate wasn’t up for the latter—her love for Christmas runs too deep.) Simmons has an unmatched excitement for things that exist in only one place. He found the planet’s only pub tram—a city cable car converted to a bar, transporting cider drinking tourists from one end of Helsinki to the other. At our farewell dinner we ordered “snaps” from the appetizer menu, thinking we were getting some Finnish style peas. Moments later, our waiter produced a shot glass filled with a toxic potion. Simmons will try anything once. He hasn’t lost touch with his inner 7th grader. I love him for that.

Time Traveling

I think the very name of the track is what imparts so much mystery. The Trans-Siberian Railway; named after a place in the most remote reach of the world; a geographic location that seems never to be visited by people, but for those zooming one meter over the earth in a steel car; a place that seems only to exist in fables, foreign films, and Paul Theroux passages. A land that lives in dreams; images and pictures passing by in a blur of white and muted green outside double-paned glass; a nocturnal world of lunar reflections, a secret lake the looking glass of a crater-pocked moon.

The deep reverberation of steel on steel, the jarring click-clack of bindings, the creaking of the top-heavy hypnotic sway—these are the echoes of old days, frozen winters of clearing ice and laying track. The infiniteness of travel, the possibility of exploration and innovation, the curiosity of man is embedded in each crossbar of the railway. The spirit of expired adventurers, hopeful beginnings and painful endings, the souls of risk-takers and dreamers live on the Trans-Siberian. How many eyes have gazed upon these hills, these trees? How many bags have been toted over this stripe of rocks, how many farewells whispered through these windows?

Subterranean Tangle

We have an idea for an exciting new reality show. We are still working on the title, but the premise is something like this: A pair of American newlyweds is given a Moscow metro subway map. Two stations on opposite sides of the city are selected. They must navigate their way from one station to the next. Cameras will follow their ill-fated trail and capture their slow and gradual collapse. The show will be a voyeuristic exploration of the waning patience of a couple, the slow demise of good-nature and humor, and the ultimate implosion of the human resolve to succeed. I can smell the Emmy, and it smells like borscht.

The Moscow subway system has a network of over 100 stations—none of which are possible to find. They truly are camouflaged, hiding under cover of monuments, shops, restaurants, and totally unmarked buildings. I swear one metro entrance was actually under the counter of a nondescript bakery. When we accidently said the magic word—“sesame roll”—lights started flashing, bells began ringing, the baker congratulated us with a hug, and a trap door to the subway steps opened up behind the bread case. We weren’t planning on going anywhere, but when you happen upon a station you have to capitalize on your good fortune.

Things get even messier once underground. Nothing is in English. Nothing. To compound this challenge, the signs in Russian might as well be in Chinese—their letter system, known as Cyrillic, is what gave Campbell’s the inspiration for alphabet soup. Three stops on the “blue” line might look something like this: KPACH3NRCCИCMCOβ – ПОРДГЗКЛЛЭСТУ – PYRCMХШЪЮЯФХТТС. My brain shuts down at the sight of four consonants in a row. Realizing this might be a problem for non-Russian speaking visitors, the Muscovite metro designers thoughtfully color coded the six lines that crisscross the city. These gents apparently have a twisted sense of humor. The “magenta” line bleeds dangerously close in hue to the “brown” line which looks suspiciously like the “orange” line that is undeniably the same color as the “red” line. Oddly enough, the two colored lines which are the most distinguishable are the “blue” and the “slightly lighter blue” lines.

To add fear to this wicked mix of anger and confusion that has now overtaken you, the Moscow subway system is the deepest in the world. Rapid escalators transport you to the core of the Earth, to hot liquid magma levels. Your eardrums pop during the subterranean descent. It is hard to concentrate when you are 1,000 leagues under the sea, and when you become lost you start to feel like a smoked-out ground mole that will never see daylight again. You might be miles from your destination, but the sight of a single sunray is enough to inspire relief.

Desperation, failure, resilience and triumph—who knew a mode of mass transport could provide all these things in one harrowing trip to pick up your laundry?

New Places, New Faces

Doing as the Muscovites do, we grabbed some Big Mac’s from ”McLenin's,” some beers from a subway station vendor, and retreated to the steps of the Red Square to watch the final light of the everlasting day disappear. It was 10pm, and there was still enough daylight to properly salt my fries. Our travel unit had doubled overnight with the exciting addition of Stacey and Mike, and we were all riding the high from the football match we had just attended. Our new travel partners, in a stroke of genius, had scored four tickets to the Russia v. Argentina international friendly. The atmosphere of the game was electric, and gave us all a charge that would last the whole week. With the foreboding brick towers of the Kremlin in the foreground, and the onion-shaped kaleidoscope domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral in the distance, we tore into our late night snack while patriotic chants from the match rang in our heads.

We weren’t two bites into our Russian burgers when we were startled by the boisterous salutations of a tipsy local. Almost in one motion, he introduced himself as Pasha, hurled himself onto the step beside me, and threw a signal to a bag-toting babushka that apparently meant we would be requiring some additional beers. The frumpy grandma-turned-vendor, a colorful scarf bound tightly over her silver hair, shuffled over to us and traded four bottles for 200 rubles. Pasha’s gesture cemented our friendship immediately. For the next three hours we occupied a corner of the Red Square and told tales of lives lived worlds apart. For each difference we discovered ten similarities—Pasha is a marketing manager for consumer products sold in grocery stores. We shared some secrets of the trade, learned some Russian toasts, and set a plan to meet the following night. We provided Pasha an opportunity to practice English, and in return received an after dark walking tour of Moscow that became the highlight of our week in Russia.

Jeannie and I were grateful to be able to share our post-India breath of fresh air (both figuratively and very literally) with Mike and Stacey. They were great travel partners and are the most loyal of friends. Mike, charging intensely down the road to be a medical doctor, was allocated two weeks of vacation this year. With his program director deciding when those two weeks would fall, Stacey and Mike committed to meet us on our trip, regardless of where in the world we happened to be. On the day they learned of their vacation dates, they raced home and tore through our itinerary to see whether they would be needing sweaters or saris in their luggage. True to their promise, they packed their bags for Russia (and managed to tie in a Turkish escapade on the side).

Sunset Sessions

I think what I enjoy most about a sunset beer is the opportunity it provides for a little quiet reflection. Sit down. Order the local favorite. Let the sights and sounds pass through. Sip down the day. This is the process that has become my favorite pastime. Did you see this? Remember that? I can’t believe… This is how most conversations begin when we find a seat and rehash the discoveries of the day. The liveliest of discussions usually take place over this opportune refreshment. This time and place becomes our sanctuary from the madness of the day, a chance to rest the feet along with the senses. We talk about home and how far we’ve come. We talk about our family and friends and decide who would have appreciated the day’s events most. We remember faces and names as we recall the people who have shaped our experience. The daily mysteries of the world, swallowed down one hoppy sip at a time.

It’s hard to pick a favorite. The Toohey’s in the shadow of the Opera House. The Chang in the hut at the Karen Village. The Tsing Tao at the base of the Great Wall. But if I had to pick only one, if I only had one beer left to drink, I’d have to have to choose the sunset session at the Shanti Lodge in Agra, India.

As our rickshaw pulled up to the Shanti Lodge, Jeannie and I commented on the three-legged dog guarding the doorway, and concluded the building looked more like a halfway house than a dining establishment. A week in India had given truth to the adage that no book can be judged by its cover, so we threw our inhibitions to the trash heap beside the entrance and ambled over the crippled doorman. An odd combination of curry, coriander, and dirty laundry hung in the air as we followed hand-written signs to a shadowy stairwell. A pair of wayward vagabonds from the West, dreadlocked and bearded, were on their way out. “Get to the roof,” one of them offered in a slurred voice. Daypacks over our shoulders, we marched five stories upwards, our noses following two separate trails of garlic and coconut. The stairwell was dark in the fleeing light of the day, but became progressively brighter as we climbed toward the sun. The last step gave way to the roof above the fourth floor. Walking across the top of the building was like falling into a dream. The Taj Mahal—glowing orange in the sunset like the last ember of an incent candle, hovering above the wafting haze of five centuries of worship, swallowing the purple horizon in overstated majesty—was close enough to run our hands over its silky marble dome. This called for a beer.

Only one problem: no such item on the menu. Not deterred by the “listed” offerings, I kindly asked the same fellow who had handed us our menus if it would be possible to have one. He offered me a sideways glance, looked over his shoulder, collected the menus, and muttered something about a tea pot through closed teeth. Before he disappeared down the stairs he gave me a loaded look. It was the kind of glance you share with your best friend when you promise to keep a guilty secret. For ten minutes he was gone. When he returned, carrying two tea cups and a porcelain pot, he was sweating and out of breath. With a wink and half smile, he placed the covered tea pot on the table in front of me. I watched him disappear again, then sat forward in my chair and lifted the cover of the pot. The frothy head of a fresh poured brew stared back from the curve of the spout. Looking out over the Taj, I sipped my tea like an English gentlemen, and savored the secret of the clandestine beverage.

The Bear's Last Dance

The image is indelible. A roadside bear, balanced on its hind legs, eye level with a man, holding a rope in one paw, the other paw postured in a forlorn waive, swaying to and fro in a freakish waltz-like two-step. The sight through the bus window haunts you as you pass by, yet somehow, unbelievably, the bear eventually becomes one more page in the India catalogue of splendid horrors. While in Jaipur this week, I referenced this catalogue of memories from my first India trip in 2003, and was affronted with the recollection of this captive animal. Without the capacity to comprehend the meaning of the dancing bear, I hadn’t asked any questions or pointed any fingers six years ago. On this visit, however, accompanied by the female Steve Irwin, I thought some investigation into these animals might provide enlightenment, and hopefully help to perish the shocking image that has clung to my mind for over half a decade.

In the spring time, the female Sloth Bear gives birth in the jungle to a litter of four cubs. As a nocturnal creature, the new mother waits for darkness and then clambers through the night in search of food for her young. With four mouths to feed, and an appetite of her own, she is forced to leave her cubs unattended while she looks for honey, termites, or anything that might provide a meal. But she is not the only one on the hunt. This is prime season for the Kalander people of northern India. Dispersed in bands, the Kalanders find the bear, ambush and kill her, and then follow the cries of the cubs. The discovery of the four young bears is a financial boon for the village. The cubs will provide a solid source of income for a new generation of Kalander men, and they will allow the villagers to uphold a 400 year tradition.

The fate of the cub is intolerable. A burning metal rod will be thrust through its nose. A rope is strung through the fresh wound and bound to a primitive muzzle. The head gear is attached to a leash and the bear is tethered to a stake. His life is now limited to the world within the radius of his four foot rope. His canine teeth and each claw will be pried out with rusty tools. For the rest of his existence he will be taunted with music, and forced to dance on the side of the road. Passersby will gawk and snap photos, and toss scraps of change to his captor, ensuring this cruel cycle will make yet another turn.

It is easy to make villains of the Kalander people. Yet this is not completely fair. The bears are a way of life to these villagers. In many ways the bears are all they know. This is a centuries old tradition, a practice that has been handed down from father to son for countless generations. To break the cycle would take years of effort, endless planning, and the initiative and foresight to introduce a new culture to an ancient group of people. This would be impossible. Yet after a week in India, having not seen a single roped bear, it seems to have been accomplished.

The name of the organization is Wildlife SOS. They have established four rehabilitation centers across India for traumatized Sloth Bears. Since 2002, they have managed to work with the Kalander people for the surrender of over 500 bears. Jeannie and I paid a visit to the center in Agra, and had an opportunity to meet some of the animals. Their enclosures are fantastic and the level of care is incredible. Their noses are allowed to heal, they are able to roam large areas, and they even become socialized with other bears. But even more impressive than the treatment of the rescued bears, is what the organization does for the villagers. Those who surrender a bear are provided with a check for 50,000 rupees. This money provides a Kalander man the capital to create a new source of income. The organization then trains the men and their families in textiles, jewelry making, and other crafts that can be sold. They even subsidize group weddings and help with large expenditures while the villagers get on their feet.

Wildlife SOS estimates that only 60 bears still remain captured in India. They believe by next summer the last bear will be surrendered and the practice of dancing bears will be completely eradicated. This is such an admirable organization and they certainly provided a better image of the bear to stow away in my catalogue of memories.

At the Train Station

The man struck the boy with so much force the child’s feet came unglued from the ground. He used the heel of his open palm and planted it squarely enough to send the boy into horizontal flight, his body like a dirty rag tossed to a garbage can. When the child hit the platform of the train station, it was his cheek that broke his fall. It skidded against the cement like an eraser on a chalkboard. Disoriented and starry-eyed, the child resiliently catapulted to his feet in an act powered by adrenaline. He simultaneously emitted a yelp that can only be described as animal-like. The scream was equal parts anger and fear. In a flash of fury the man was over the top of the boy again. He swung at him with his foot this time. The boy, more nimble now in his state of heightened awareness, dodged the kick and scurried out of the man’s reach. Having missed his target, the power of the kick was displaced, and the man nearly came out of his shoes. He spun around like a top. When he finally settled himself, he was looking directly at us. His aggression instantly disappeared. He had a devoted look on his face like he had just completed a duty for our benefit. The man had seen the child begging Jeannie for food, and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

Jeannie was horrified. “Just look at me,” I said, as the man walked by and tipped his brow in service. In his mind, he had done us a favor. And from the look in his eye, I surmised the man believed he had done his country a favor. He saw beggar children as rats, as pollutants. They were contaminating the train station. Their rags for clothes, their filthy hair, their bare and rotting feet—these were the qualities the man would not have us see. His fit was powered by embarrassment. The station was choked with people. This would become the venue for his statement.

Jeannie hated him immediately. How could someone do that to a child? She looked over my shoulder at the beaten boy and his mates, a group of six disheveled and starving kids. They lurked behind a pillar, stealing glances at Jeannie while trying to hide from the man. A complicated mixture of pain and determination came over Jeannie’s face. Despite my appeals, she spun off for the snack stand with a fistful of rupees.

Like trained soldiers, the boys darted from the cover of one pillar to the next, until they were huddled directly behind the snack stand. Sensing a meal was near, they started to claw at each other for key position. Their energy became primal. The children were overcome with desperation. As Jeannie paid for the food, they began to shout at each other, throwing elbows and knees in an effort to get their hands in front of Jeannie first. She walked over to them with a plastic sack full of potato chips, one bag for each child. She clutched the sack to her chest while the boys feverishly hurled around in a final attempt to be at the front of the line. She uttered some words to them about sharing. Even if they spoke English, the words were still just inaudible sounds. Nothing existed beyond the potato chips in her hands. Jeannie handed the sack to the child in front of her. Hell broke loose.

The sack of chips was swallowed by a dusty cloud of flying limbs, bared teeth, scratching claws. The boys tangled with hopeless ferocity, like the sack contained the last scrap of food they would ever see. The fight was horrifying. I could feel their hunger with each fist connecting with each jaw. I could feel their anxiety, the fear and the dread, strong enough to make a boy choke his own brother. Human nature had been stripped to its most naked form right before our eyes. The rawness of the moment was too much to take. It cut through me like a knife. And then, just as the chips seemed to be settled into the hands of the strongest boys, four grown men, two of them in uniform, descended like shouting giants on the subsiding scrap. They grappled the boys by their necks, they kicked them like dogs, they swung their arms like helicopter blades until the melee was dispersed. The boys scattered like cockroaches to the edges of the platform, leaving only one thing at the sight of the fight—a crumpled yellow bag of smashed potato chips.

Jeannie was shattered. She looked at me for just a flash before burying her head into my shoulder. In that moment, when our eyes met for only a flicker, there were so many emotions on her face—horror, disgust, fear, confusion, embarrassment, and finally, guilt. She had extended the tenderest part of herself, and it had been returned as a bloody stump. She had behaved in a manner that complied with her purest belief, helping a starving child to food. How could things have turned out this way? How could one good notion create so much evil? She cried in my arms and we asked ourselves these questions. The two hour train ride back to New Delhi would not give us the answer.

One Becomes the Other

At the center of every ancient Mughal palace is the Diwan-i-Am, or Hall of Public Audiences. This is where the emperor would accept petitions from the people and hear the grievances of the members of his society. This was a place where people came to air their laundry, expose their issues and beliefs. It was the physical heart of their civilization, and the epicenter of private affairs made public.

This ancient practice of full disclosure, this freeness with sharing the soft and vulnerable under-tissue of the self, must have fully permeated Indian society centuries ago. In today’s India, there are no blockades, no robes to cover and hide the truth. Every piece of beauty is yours to touch, just as every bit of pain is yours to feel. Beauty and pain: sometimes they are so tightly bound together they mesh into one, impossible to separate, impossible to discern. One becomes the other, like death and rebirth.

From the back of the rickshaw, I peered over our driver’s bony shoulder and spotted a herd of people in the middle of the road. Thirty, maybe forty men collectively shuffled their feet as if in a trance. As the three-wheeled vehicle sped closer to the men, and swerved to the right to avoid the caboose of the crowd, I realized their chanting was loud enough to rise above the pitchy whine of the rickshaw. Now beside the crowd, I could see they were all focused on the same thing. Their eyes were fixed to a gurney, hoisted high in the air by the biggest men in the group. Time suddenly moved in slow motion, the whizzing by of blurry objects became clear, and I saw the object of their attention—a deceased woman, dressed in a regal sari, and covered in heaps of pink flower petals. This was her final march to cremation.

A mother and child intercepted our path. The child was so young, so new to the Earth, that he had only looked upon the world he was born to that very day. He still bled from his navel. Pink and wrinkled, his skin was silently screaming at the undiscriminating sun. He clung to his mother—probably trying to find a way back inside—and she clung to him, with the instincts of an animal. She was magnificent. Her green eyes, dancing and sparkling, seemed to be colored from the same dye as her sari. Sun-kissed hair fell lightly across her perfect brow and down to the tip off her golden-pierced nose. Her scarlet lips, curled in a smile for her baby, revealed a charmingly crooked set of teeth. Ornately tattooed with henna cobwebs, her hand was a flyswatter for the infant’s head. When his hand is strong enough, he will take over as the swatter of his own flies. He will be swatting flies from his head for a lifetime. He is born to the street. Yet, as they teeter there together in the Diwan-i-Am, in the most public of audiences, they are the perfect embodiment of new life, an idyllic symbol of the wonder of recreation.

THIS IS INDIA

She looks like a black ghost, seamlessly floating across space. Cloth stretches from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her burqa reveals only one human feature to the world outside the garment: a pair of attentive eyes, darker than the garment itself, yet somehow tinged with golden brightness, like the sun reflecting off the desert mountains to the west. The eyes survey the scene and then they become locked with yours. Only a flash of contact feels like minutes. Time almost stops as you ponder the mystery of the moment. Then the third wheel of a motor rickshaw clips the edge of your shoe as it swerves around a stalled motorcycle. You vow not to break your concentration again. A holy cow, tall as you and wide as a water cart, safe in its sanctity, meditatively crosses the intersection of a thousand objects. He stops to graze over a heap of garbage and becomes an immovable obstacle in the stew of motor vehicles. A family of five (dad, mom, and three children—the youngest of whom is four months old and bound loosely in a shawl around mom’s neck) slowly maneuver a motor scooter around the cow’s backside. Not even air fills the spaces between their bodies. They brake hard, all thrusting forward in one motion, and so does every other small vehicle in the intersection, as they heed the deafening horn blast of the bus bouldering through. It looks like an antique, ten different colors as one chipped layer of paint gives way to the next. The front bumper, a massive piece of foreboding steel, clings to the frame of the bus by tangled wire. Sparks fly from the rear. As it lumbers by, you look through grease-smeared windows to the mob inside—nothing but bobbing heads, swaying in unison to the jar of each pothole. Bodies hang precariously from the opening that once was blocked by a door. A dozen men sit cross-legged on the roof. The bus passes from your vision and reveals the only larger object in the street. An elephant, bejeweled in stones and ornately painted in pink and green, carries a slight man wearing a matching turban. Bicycle wheels feverishly spin by the tree trunks that are the elephant’s legs. A street girl, of probably eight years, tugs at your shirt sleeve. She touches her mouth and her stomach. And then, like confetti in the wind, a group of women in saris catch the corner of your eye. The colors of their adornments are almost blinding. You think the orange sari might actually be on fire. They jump in a rickshaw and are swallowed by the bedlam. A group of monkeys walk the thin roofline of a nearby vaulted bazaar. A goat, bound by the neck with rope, sits and stands and sits again in the shadow of a parked car. A camel passes by, a wooden cart bound tightly over the hump on its back. The cart is carrying a life’s supply of an item you cannot identify. A fattened pig and a stray dog share the same roadside puddle, finding relief in the cooling properties of the mud. You are baffled by the presence of animals in a city of 2.6 million people, when you notice a wandering ascetic crossing the road in your direction. His beard is dreadlocked in crusty white tufts, offset greatly by his sundrenched and leathery skin. He has a strange glow that seems to rise above his outer layer of dirt. The glow exits mostly from his pale blue, cataract-riddled eyes. These eyes seem to look directly into your being, and you can’t help but wonder what he is seeing. You ready yourself for his remarks as he walks straight for you, and then he is gone, as if he visited you only in a dream.

Call it your spirit, call it your soul, call it your consciousness of self; whatever name you have for the inner most part of your being, the section of your gut that represents your existence, the private part that you share only with likeminded people, the deepest depth of the place where your mind and heart are intertwined—this is the place that is moved by the scene before you. It is a change you can feel, it is physical. First, this place within you is shaken awake. It springs to awareness as if a bucket of cold water has been thrown on its head. It opens itself to the violence, the mayhem and the tension, the woven chaos. It swallows the scene whole, and digests. Then, in the next breath, miraculously and inexplicably, this place within you is overcome with peace. At first, you reject the feeling. You don’t believe that this place within you could suggest serenity; the juxtaposition to the world outside is just too sharp. But then you realize, as you allow yourself to feel, this scene somehow touches the same inner chord as a silent view of the Swiss Alps. The madness before you evokes the spiritual effect of witnessing the day’s first ray of light. How this is possible, you may never know, but it is enough to move you to tears.

Symmetrical Sendoff

It wouldn’t have been proper to leave Nepal without an exciting tale to tell. Symmetry seems to be fundamental in the art and architecture of this place—therefore our bookend had to be as interesting as our opening. Our time in this destination has been characterized by surprise, and the beginning effort of our passage onward was no different—for the first time in our journey, Jeannie was actually on time for our taxi to the airport, a clear indication she wasn’t going to spend an extra minute in Kathmandu.

Upon arrival at the airport, we were prompted to send our bags through an archaic structure of rusted steel and corroded plastic. The local security force has disguised this heap of decomposing materials as an x-ray machine. Where it should light up, it has gone dark. When it should beep, it has fallen silent. Come to think of it, there isn’t even a monitor behind it for examining what passes through its tired bowels. Its place in the airport is solely symbolic. It serves no other purpose. And its cousin, the metal detector, is no more functional. I walked through it with my watch, my belt, and the metal carabineer from my hiking pack just to prove a point. Not a peep.

When security is an issue (in this decade, a plane of 180 people was held hostage at this airport), government funds are nil, and infrastructure is nonexistent, you have the recipe for a good old fashioned firm-hand frisk. My pat down was abusive. After being squeezed in places I don’t let Jeannie touch, I was incredibly relieved to see that she had been funneled behind me to a line for women only. She became familiar with an open-palmed officer who looked much gentler than the brute who ordered me to spread. From the body search, the segregated lines continued to a row of luggage check desks.

We had our carry-on bags in tow, and as is usually the case during our airport shuffles, I was carrying the heaviest bag of the bunch, which naturally belongs to Jeannie. It is a pink and white duffle bag, decorated with a hundred tiny hearts. It makes a great accessory to my beard. I hadn’t personally seen the contents of this bag in weeks, but I knew it served as her supplemental luggage—whatever doesn’t fit in “the crate” finds a home in this satchel. I knew she had been collecting “treasures” from backwater merchants for weeks, and I could only assume they had all been accumulated in this bag I was about to present to an armed and ominous guard. Had that necklace she bought in Thailand been made from smuggled ivory? Was that strange bag she bought in China really just tea leaves? While I knew she would never intentionally buy or pack anything illegal, had she picked up anything questionable in one of the thousand smoky markets we’ve tramped through in the last six weeks? Whatever belonged to her was now mine, and I owned all of it alone, as she was now being inspected in the female line, forty feet across the packed and chaotic passenger terminal.

With a wide smile, I placed the pink-hearted bag on the desk, and met the squinted eyes of the man I would bare my belongings to. Our relationship got off to an awkward start when he unzipped the top pocket and a fluffy purple elephant popped out onto the table. He looked at the plush pachyderm, now flopped over with all fours to the ceiling, and then stared through me with immense distrust, and I think a little discomfort. He spent a long while examining that stuffed animal. Surely it was packed and restitched with some powdery substance. He’d come back to it, there were more questionable things to investigate. He pulled out a blow dryer. I yanked on the hair on my chin and said, “For my beard,” trying to lighten the mood. My joke was a flop. He set it down and produced a jewelry bag. He unbuttoned it and pounds of gold and silver came flying out. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets and rings went crashing to the table in a heap of pearls and stones and gems. There was enough for me to open my own shop. He added “pickpocket” to “drug smuggler” as his list of my identities continued to grow.

I could now sense in him a rising unease. He started to swivel his head from side to side, looking for backup, or someone to validate what he was discovering. I did my best to explain the situation. I told him the bag belonged to my wife. I told him that the items were not mine. The words I chose only dug deeper at my sinking hole, and I appeared now to be blubbering. I should have just kept quiet. What was lost in translation now had the guard agitated. The elephant, the blow dryer, the jewelry, and a laundry list of other feminine items were spread widely across the table between us. He started asking questions I did not understand. His accent was coarse and his mustache was distracting. I couldn’t produce any suitable answers. He began to reach boiling point.

He was about to come across the table when I sensed a presence behind me. It was Jeannie. “Oh my god!” she exclaimed at the site of her jewelry splayed out in twisted knots. She was dismayed. She set out collecting it, repackaging all of her prized items in the bag. Her disregard for the security officer was so swift, and committed with such strength, I think the bully had no idea how to react. She threw the elephant in the bag with such intent he actually helped her to reclose the zipper. The tables had been turned. His menacing look had been replaced with what I think was remorse. It was almost as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Jeannie looked at him in disgust and he nodded as if to apologize. I stood by, trying to disguise my amazement. My backup was stronger than his, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Redemption

For the first time since leaving home, there is a sharp divide between Jeannie and I. Kathmandu has split us in two halves. It has that ability. On one side is an individual ecstatic at our departure, overwhelmed by the harshness of the city, underwhelmed by the reception of the locals. Kathmandu has a jagged edge. This edge scraped against my partner and nestled right under her skin. The chaos proved too dizzying, the smells a little too pungent. The wide smiles she has grown fond of in other places, the grins that help to offset the discomfort of underdevelopment, were just a little too lackluster in Kathmandu. When informed there will be a two hour power cut, Jeannie prefers it be told through smiling lips. So when the time came to bid farewell to our perpetually damp bed sheets and the yellowish brown water that sputtered from our showerhead, Jeannie was bursting with pent up enthusiasm.

I, on the other hand, found great redemption in the bitter qualities of this confusing place—the greatest of which was watching Jeannie. She provides me with an invaluable lens. The look in her eyes, the quick straightening of her spine, her carefully chosen footsteps—the way she responded to Kathmandu gave the liveliest of cities even more life. Seeing this world from her view makes it real for me in the way that is difficult to grasp on my own. Her reaction almost validates the reality of what would otherwise seem impossible or fake. I might not believe that a wild boar’s head, severed at the shoulder, skinned and pink all over, could be dribbling its last snort on a roadside table. Then I see Jeannie cover her eyes. I might not believe that a heap of trash, putrefying in a rancid bog, swarming with flies and maggots, could be piled so high on the bank of a river. Then I see Jeannie pinch her nostrils. I might not believe that a child, young and innocent, sweet-faced but hollow-eyed, could be sitting alone on a jostling street. Then I see Jeannie’s heart melt.

Once the shock and awe has subsided, and her blood pressure has returned to its normal state, I know Jeannie will appreciate where she has been. She has walked the streets that not many have, and she is better for it. In the meantime, however, I am relieved by the fact that we did partake in an experience in Nepal that provided some short term enjoyment for Jeannie.

We rose early on our third day and reported to the airport (where there is always an adventure waiting) to meet the Buddha Air Beecher 1900. We had two chairs reserved on this 18-seat, dual propeller aircraft. Twelve minutes after takeoff we were looking through oval windows at the largest mountain range in the world. In another four minutes we were crouched in the cockpit, staring through the windshield at Mt. Everest. We were flying through the atmosphere at 29,000 feet and I was eye level with the mountain peak. I was moved to shout something emphatic from the top of my lungs, but decided that startling the pilot at this juncture might not be in the best interest of my fellow passengers.

When I looked at Everest I was filled with this strange premonition that I will be back. I don’t know when, or how, or why, but I do know that I will look at Everest again—one more piece of redemption from this peculiar and striking place.

Apple Pie and Ice Cream

Kathmandu is indeed a very strange place. It brings about in me the need to confront my own mortality. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it is the crush of humanity. Maybe it is the squalor. Maybe it is the cycle of life that seems to be palpable in a way I have never known. Maybe it is the vulnerability of the human condition I have been forced to exist within. In an odd and ironic way, the difference in the form of life here has brought me face to face with my own existence. It is visceral—a questioning in my gut. It is intuitive—a new breaker has been flipped in my mind. It is spiritual—something fresh and uncertain is stirring in my soul. We arrived here on what would have been my dad’s 57th birthday. Maybe there is something in the cosmos, some karmic realization rising from the symphony of religions and faiths that exist here. I don’t know exactly what is at play, but I do understand that something new has been awakened within my self.

I hope that when I no longer walk the earth, and have been reunited with my dad, I will remember moments like these with perfect clarity. I believe that fifty or more years will separate where I am now and my demise. So much will transpire in that time. Jeannie and I will have a family. My own children will travel the world. Reality states that no matter how hard I try, the days of now will be hazy and vague when my sunset comes. All I want is for these experiences to be vivid in the conversations I have with him upon our reunion. I want his impressions, his thoughts. I want to know his opinion. I have so many questions for him. In that space and time when we are together again, I hope we can fill eternity with conversations of how I spent my life. I suppose that if in death my memories are not returned to me in complete detail, I will be able to rely on my dad to tell them back to me in their entirety, for I know, and have proof, that he sees everything I do. Perhaps this would be even better than total recall—he was certainly the best storyteller I have ever known.

I would love for him to retell the story of the night Jeannie and I celebrated his 57th birthday in Nepal, laughing and eating his favorite dessert. Apple pie and ice cream.

When the Bell Rings

You can almost time it on your watch. Suddenly the afternoon sun loses its killer instinct, pigeons flutter their dusty wings to a perch under an eve, Tibetan prayer flags undulate softly at the arrival of a new breeze, the chaotic squeal of the street comes down a decibel, and a tattered coat is systematically unfurled over a sidewalk table of brass ornaments and wood carvings. Then a new shadow creeps over the earth. One singular drop, weighing three ounces in volume, lands squarely on the center of your head, and has enough momentum to trickle all the way down your cheek. A rapturous pitter-patter deafens the blasts of horns and quenches the thirst of the road. The hovering dust of the day, stirred up from rickshaws and the stomps of incessant footsteps, is beaten down and becomes one with the drops in a milky, splashing mud. And then, as if a retainer is pulled out from the heavens, as if the tarp of the gods is snatched from the sky, a reservoir of water is dumped over the Kathmandu Valley. The monsoon has arrived.

And suddenly it is gone with the same passion it employed to arrive. The sun returns and casts flickers of light over the mild destruction of the rain. Potholes have been transformed to filthy mirrors, reflecting from above the dancing image of cobwebbed telephone wires, barred windows, and crumbling balconies. A quiet dissipation grabs hold of the city. The saturated prayer flags are now still in the air, but for a slow motion drip drop as they dry out. The birds return from the overhangs and make baths from the alleyway puddles. The sun conjures a mystical steam from the road as it sets back to its baking ways, and sucks the moisture right back into the sky, where it will dwell and stew until the bell rings tomorrow afternoon.

Sucker Punched

Kathmandu is a humbling place. Jeannie’s initial description was poignant. As we glided over the city in our approach to the runway, she spied the town below and said, “It looks like its falling apart.” She has this unique ability. So often she utters the most simple of comments that strike me as so profound. I looked over her shoulder at the city below and instantly related to what she saw. From the air, Kathmandu looks like an unraveling patch. The valley metropolis is formed by layer upon layer of tireless humanity. It is alive. If you look closely you can see it breathing, its chest rising, its heart pumping. Action flows through its narrow streets like blood through veins. Bandaids cover old wounds. Splints support moldy buildings. Sutures mend cracked roads. Where the skin is broken, and it does bleed, the colors are blinding—yellow, green, red. And brown, even brown is brilliant in this place.

It is an assault we did not anticipate. Kathmandu is a sucker punch in the belly. For me, Nepal has always been cloaked in mystery. I can’t speak the name and not immediately think of the unknown. And it remained this way for me until my heels were on the ground. I’ve been overcome by preparation for the other destinations on this journey—so much so that this three day jaunt in Nepal has arrived entirely unplanned and unresearched. Had I opened a guidebook, or even glanced at a website, I’m quite sure our first two hours in this shrouded and distant land would have transpired much differently. It’s a good thing for me that my travel companion is determined, resourceful, and enchantingly persuasive. Were she to lack these qualities, I might still be spinning wheels in customs.

As fate would have it, the Nepalese government requires the purchase of visa documents upon arrival at Tribhuvan International Airport. They are happy to accept your payment of 25 US dollars per visa in the form of American, Australian, or Canadian currency. I dipped a nervous hand into my pocket and produced a fistful of Thai baht, three Chinese notes, one Hong Kong dollar, and a cache of Malaysian ringgit, totaling out to a sloppy and meager 13 US dollars. We were 37 short. I scanned the foyer for an ATM machine. No luck. A dusty currency exchange counter was the closest substitute, and we had already determined that would be of no service to us.

Jeannie held our place in line while I pleaded with the customs agent to allow me five minutes of sovereignty, just enough time to run downstairs to the only existing cash machine in the airport. After gaining his reluctant approval, I snaked my way through the musky crowd and took to the stairwell, two steps at a time. Once outside, the sun greeted me with a smack on the forehead, and illuminated the presence of fresh meat to the mob of cab drivers on the curb. I waded through them to the shattered sign that marked the ATM. A stoic guard filled the doorway to the machine. “Broken,” he said. And nearly was my resolve. I took a look, just to be sure. There is no way that cash machine has produced a bill in ten years time.

Five opportunistic merchants, perceiving my situation, jumped to my side. As they would tell me, there was no shortage of solutions. One had a car waiting. The other would loan me cash. A third would sell me the visas direct. My trouble bone began to itch.

I retreated inside the airport, and out of their clutches, to convey the direness of our situation to Jeannie. She had moved two steps forward in line since our last contact, and had a new bead of sweat on her furrowed brow. I contritely reported the series of calamitous events that had emerged since my departure. Jeannie swallowed the circumstances. We were between a rock and an immigration officer’s baton. My mind was hot, and void of anything resembling a resolution. And then a flash of hope glanced off Jeannie’s lip. She grabbed her daypack and spun off in the direction of the murky money exchange counter.

From my place in line, I could see she was getting animated with the bearded man behind the desk. She was waiving in her hand what could only be one thing—an American Express Gift Cheque we had received as a wedding gift from her Aunt Joy. We have been carrying these cheques for weeks, attempting to exchange them for cash at every bank across Asia. We even spent the better part of an hour haggling with the Hong Kong branch manager of HSBC—the largest bank on the continent. No amount of conversation was able to produce cash in return for these cheques. We had established that. Yet there she stood, giving the bearded man a demonstrative earful. Even from thirty feet away, I could see she was methodically breaking him down. He fought and resisted. Jeannie cajoled and coaxed. Hands flew in ten directions at once. He stuttered and spit. Steam billowed from behind his beard. His eyes glazed over. And then finally, he collapsed. I will never forget the sight of those crispy green bills being pulled from his register. And I will always remember the look of expected victory in Jeannie’s eyes. All this on my dad’s birthday. Sometimes, I swear they share a soul.