A Second Place of Belonging

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The damp, cool ground that I sit on slants forward ever so slightly - not enough to fall off, but enough to make me lean back and pull up my legs, turning my butt into a makeshift anchor. Somehow I think that this body position will save me, should I end up slipping down 3000m and become one with the dirt of Nepal. While constantly thinking about the likelihood of death by stupidity, I watch as the sky grows darker and the moon brighter. The valley opens up before us, with luscious dark green hills surrounding Pokhara city and its neighboring towns. Post-rain monsoon mist coats the hills and hovers under the moon above. With my pinky, I start to trace the winding highway that runs past our position into Pokhara, following the single twinkling light, perhaps a driver on their way back from work. My gaze turns to the moon again - or rather, her reflection on the wide range of well-groomed rice fields. She begins to hide in the clouds as she reaches farther and farther into the sky, but her reflection remains. The beauty makes me want to stay here forever, but then I am reminded of where I am and of the danger. Perhaps this is the haunting beauty of what men on ships once felt of sirens, or the nature of a rose and its thorns. No camera can capture this moment of allure. These words do not do this slice of time any justice.

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Nepal’s biggest selling point in tourism is it’s mountain range and trekking opportunities. Summer, which is monsoon season, is the slowest time of the year because the sky is constantly covered in clouds and the land is dangerously muddy to walk on. I have met many travelers that trekked despite being the low season. They all told me how beautiful the experience was. To be honest, I thought the act of trekking would be tiring, boring, mindless activity. The only appeal I saw to trekking was getting to the top. Still, I wanted to see what all the rage was about for myself. This past weekend I joined a couple other volunteers and their host brothers (Sudip and Prawesh) to climb to Australian Camp and then to the village where Sudip and Prawesh grew up in. I don’t think I realized how unfit I was until I found myself begging for a break 15 minutes up the hill. I kept cursing at myself, asking myself why I chose to do this, and all the while praying that I did not slip or fall off the mountain. Contrary to my previous impressions, trekking is challenging, not only physically but mentally. Every moment I was concentrated on where I was stepping (avoiding water, leeches, and cow waste whenever possible) and making sure I stayed hydrated and healthy. Some portions of the trail were safe to roam, but other times we would all be on the edge. One small step in the wrong direction could give us the option of death or life-long paralysis. Eventually, the terrain evened out and it felt like a leisurely romantic stroll in contrast to the steep hike up. We spent the night up in Australian Camp. The mountain range was not visible but it was beautiful nonetheless. At one point we sat on a flat rock that jutted out to the side of a steep hill (or mountain?). It was so cloudy that we could not see how far up we truly were. Sitting on this rock/cliff edge facing nothing but a thick white mist felt like we were nearly at the edge of the world. Sure, monsoon season may be nasty, wet and cloudy, but it was still an amazing experience.

The next day we headed towards the brothers’ village called Astam. The journey was leisurely weaving through different villages and strolling on nicely paved roads, with the exception of the last 45 minutes of steep, slippery, squishy goodness. On the way we passed by old women in their colorful skirts hard at work in their rice fields, an old man shouting for his bulls to move through the mud, and the occasional family of goats calling our attention. After what seemed like an eternity, we reach a small, thatched roof house. It took me a while to realize that this was our final destination, the brothers’ grandparents’ home, and not just a random place to rest in for a bit before climbing again. When night fell, everyone huddled into the kitchen, which was really just a handful of pots scattered on the floor, and firewood burning in the stove under a boiling pan of Dal Bhat. Somehow in this tiny, smokey, cozy place, the grandparents were able to feed a group of 8 people successfully. Watching them cook and sitting in on a lengthy conversation in Nepali was an extremely humbling experience. I always knew that as a Westerner I have certain privileges and luxuries that others do not have, but it is really one thing to know and another to understand. We were random foreigners that came under their roof for one night, offered no gifts or stories, and barely helped prepare the food. We gave almost nothing but received such a warm welcome. In addition to their quality hospitality, I found it remarkable that they were able to do so much with so little resources and that they were in such good health. Both grandparents are close to 80 years old, have lived their entire lives in this house and are still living independently. Grandmother still pushes herself to go to the fields and work despite everyone telling her she should relax. In this tiny 100-year-old house, they live a satisfying life, while I am attached to an array of unnecessary material objects and luxuries. Time and time again I am stripped away from being constantly skeptical and realize that there are in fact genuine, nice people out there. I am always convinced that there is someone out there with ill intentions, but Nepal seems to be slowly teaching me about kindness, trust, and patience. I really enjoyed Australian Camp but visiting the village was probably my favorite part about this mini trip away from volunteering.

I am starting to define Nepal with these kinds of moments. My every day life here consists of helping the children get ready for school in the morning, lazing around in Pokhara’s tourist district, helping our Auntie cook dinner and the children with their homework after school, and then occasionally going out to a bar with some friends. Being in the tourist district (Lakeside) all the time has led me to associate what I see in the tourist area with Pokhara and with Nepal in general. I know that Times Square is not New York City, but spending so much of my time in Lakeside has made me forget that there is a lot more to Nepal than overpriced international foods and aggressive taxi drivers that call out “TAXI!” every time a foreigner walks by. I am thankful that I have a good month and a half to allow for those lazy days in the tourist district as well as those adventure-packed excursions, both of which lend different aspects of Nepal and give me a closer understanding of what life is like here.

After my short trek, I came home to the child care center and was greeted with warm hugs from the children. They asked me where I had run off to and seemed somewhat relieved I had not disappeared forever. Home. Strange, but it seems this place is starting to feel like a community I belong to. It felt relieving to be in a familiar place again, a feeling I often have after I finish a long day of work and collapse into my bed. My volunteering ends in just three days, and although I am excited to be continuing my travels through this breathtakingly beautiful country, I'm not sure if I am ready to leave the children and this community I have grown accustomed to. Perhaps I haven’t made much of a difference in their lives, but their smiling faces have definitely made a lasting impression in my heart.

#travel #Nepal #Backpacking