Here and Now

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I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself when I first found out that I wouldn’t be able to return to India until I had completed the two-month suspension period. My only thought was to do another Vipassana course, but the next one didn’t start for another two weeks. What to do? I decided to give CS another try, although my experience in Nepal had thus far been a letdown. I wanted someone to talk to.

The first person I got in contact with had no references, but there was once a point when I was in the same position and someone still gave me a chance. It was time to pay the kindness forward. I met him downtown and we walked to his apartment. It was early morning, the time of the daily slaughter. On the side of the road, an old man bent over a headless goat, the blood still spurting bright red from its arteries. He passed a rusty knife over its hide to remove the hair, while a young boy scooped up viscera with his bare hands, plopping them into a blue plastic bucket. Hunks of oozing meat lay in piles on the countertop, safe for the moment from the sun and the files. In a nearby pile of refuse, a dog had gotten a hold of a freshly decapitated pig head, the still soft flesh jiggling where he pushed his snout into it. The smell of death hung heavy in the air.

Sidestepping the rivulets of blood, we arrived at his building. It was one of those cinderblock monstrosities seen all over the East – incongruities of garish colors, Corinthian columns and small triangular roofs over every window. The first floor was occupied by a sweatshop of sorts. Three guys pedaled away at sewing machines from well before the sun rose to well after it set, fashioning tents, parachutes, sleeping bags and all other manner of outdoor gear from hundreds of yards of polyester and nylon.

My host rented a room on the second floor for a little over $30/month. It was little more than a cement square with just enough space for a twin bed and a camp stove. I slept on the only space of unoccupied floor. He was young, and definitely of the opinion that my presence was the perfect opportunity to expand his sexual repertoire. But he was too shy to actually make any moves. He’d occasionally lay an awkward arm across my shoulders and whisper, “This is nice.” He was harmless, but I didn’t have much patience for it, so I found a small hotel room nearby, where I found that the rest of the men in Kathmandu were not so bashful. They had no problem approaching women and directly asking, “You want to f**k?” After three days, I decided to go live in a monastery.

My bags were packed and I was ready to go when I got a message from Mira. She was on her way to Kathmandu from Pokhara. I didn’t want to hang around the overtly male city a second longer than necessary, but the thought of getting a dose of estrogen at the end of the day was a prize worth the price. More than the much needed female company, Mira also had a plan. She knew of a flat that rented out rooms in nearby Boudhanath. I was still attracted to the idea of the monastery, but I couldn’t pass up the luxury of having my own kitchen, even if I would only use it to make Ramen noodles (here called Maggi and popular amongst more than just broke college students). So to Boudhanath we went.

Commonly referred to as Boudha, Boudhanath is hailed amongst the holiest Buddhist sites in the Kathmandu Valley. Its skyline is dominated by the dome and spire of one of the world’s largest stupas, for which it has been honored as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Built in the 5^th century, (supposedly on relics of the previous Buddha), the stupa is a symbolic representation of the Buddha’s pure wisdom mind. Everyday, hundreds of people, from monks draped in maroon robes to tourists in high heels, circumambulate the stupa’s base, gaining merit along the way. The more devout perform prostrations, laying their body flat out on the filthy sidewalk to pay their respects. The essential power of the stupa is so strong that even those ignorant to it still obtain its advantages. A story in the Vinaya (a Buddhist text) tells of a dog that chased a pig around a stupa, which generated enough merit to plant the seed of enlightenment in the both of them.

Day and night, the air around the stupa is thick with the smoke of incense and the resonation of the mantra om mane padme hum. The average mantra reciter is an elderly Tibetan refugee, old men with stooped backs and grey-haired women with colorful threads woven into braided pigtails that hang down past their waists. Curiously enough, these old women also wear the type of hats you’d find outside of a Baptist church in the American South on any Sunday. The big bows and netting make an odd match with the traditional Tibetan wrap-dresses and the rosary-like malas that count the number of mantras they’ve recited.

Encircling the stupa are buildings of striking brickwork and unique woodcarvings distinctive to Newari architecture, the largest and oldest ethnic group in Nepal. Faces peer out from the intricately carved window frames – some with the bright, innocent eyes of youth, others with the wrinkles of time etched deeply into their faces – to watch the endless stream of people circling below them. Narrow alleys radiate out from the stupa, filled with vendors of silks, prayers flags, incense and vegetables. A walk down these streets is an auditory experience similar to that of being in an arcade of pinball machines, as countless craftsmen ceaselessly hammer breathtakingly detailed designs into prayer wheels and offering bowls. At night, the neighborhood dogs keep up a steady chorus of howling, with the roosters adding the harmony in the early morning hours.

Boudha is the first place I’ve been where the majority of the population is Buddhist. I loved it upon arrival. For one thing, cars aren’t allowed to pass within its inner circle. But, more than that, I loved how trusting everyone was, even with strangers. If a merchant didn’t have change for a big bill, he’d tell you to pay tomorrow, without knowing anything about you. I’ve always found that happiness lies in the ability to trust strangers. And people seem truly happy here, always smiling and laughing. I don’t mean to say that they don’t have hardships, only that they handle them better.

I loved my temporary home in Boudha, as well. It was spacious and full of natural light. But, even though I was happy, my mind wasn’t at peace. It was still rebelling against the fact that I wasn’t in India and causing me all sorts of anxiety and suffering. To calm my troubled mind, I decided to walk around the stupa 108 times (a sacred number in Buddhism representing the ultimate reality of the universe as being simultaneously one (1), empty (0), and infinite (8)). I was motivated more by a sense of stubbornness than spirituality, but after eight hours of circumambulations it’s impossible not to experience something called spirituality, which has nothing to do with what you believe in and everything to do with your state of consciousness. It took me about 40 revolutions to bring my consciousness back to the moment. I was conscious of the pain in my hips, the raindrops falling fat and heavy on my brow, the same pairs of eyes following me around and around. It took another 20 or so to give up trying to control it all. And it was then that I finally accepted that I was in Nepal. I accepted that although I have no control over the events that unfold in my life, I can control my reactions to them, and that’s what really matters.

After that, my situation improved exponentially. Every day I was more blown away by all the blessings in my life. A love for Nepal grew deep inside my heart. It’s a love for roof-top gardens, and grassland roofs (old Newari houses sprout all sorts of vegetation that grows unchecked); love for restaurants with names such as Get Together Food Land; love for women openly breast-feeding in public, and a special love for micro-buses (the type where 25 people and a few chickens are stuffed into a minivan meant for eight).

With their clearly defined boundaries of personal space, most Westerners normally go out of their way to avoid riding in micro-buses, but I can’t get enough of them. I’ve loved them ever since my first uncomfortable ride from Claremont to Rondebosch in Cape Town over five years ago. I love the instant sense of community created when strangers are suddenly put into extremely close contact. The space is always filled with easy chatter, heartfelt laughter, and strong body odor. I love that for the few brief moments riding squashed between two strangers, I’m not an outsider – I’m just another person going from Point A to Point B. People put their babies in my lap, throw their bags at my feet, and grab at my shoulders and knees for balance. I cherish those moments when I’m the just same as everybody else. Thank you, Nepal, for these, and so many other gifts.

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