Dewy, dewy Paige

First of all, before I forget, I want all of you who grew up in the San Lorenzo Valley to know that Swensens, the ice cream parlour that used to reside where Chubby's in Scotts Valley is now, is alive and well and chilling in Bangkok. I finally did pull myself away from KTM and have joined the hippy masses in Thailand's capital. It was going winter-wards in Nepal, and Im feeling the heat here, so I think Ill shuffle off to some nice and toasty island shortly. I finally mailed home about a third of my pack which contained presents (no, Im not telling what I got for you) a fabulous umbrella purchased in Pokhara, Nepal and a coat that has been wondering as much as I why I keep him around at all. Since Ive been pissing around for the past three weeks, I have loads to do today, so can't talk long. Ill check in later when Im in a bathing suit and have a rainbow-colored cocktail in my tan, but most likely sunburnt, hand. Kisses to my babies in KTM.

Photo Installment

That is all.

Canyoning in Nepal

I went canyoning what my friend Gaultier just outside of KTM two days ago, and I must say, I think I have found my new love. Canyoning is basically abseiling (think reverse moutnain climbing) down waterfalls, and what can only be described as extreme walking. We donned wetsuits, helmets and thick canvas diapers, enabling us to slide down smoothed granite rocks like children invincibly wrapped in protective styrofoam. We James Bonded our way down 40 meter waterfalls, the pressure of the water pressing you down, left right, into deep pools. You drop trustfully out over the cliff, leaning out, feet at 90 degrees. I'm so accusotmed to stepping down, it tok a few pitches to trust my feet upon a vertical surface. All I wanted to do was leap out over the gushing falls, opushing hard against the slippery moss ocvered walls and float out romantically over the mist, only to slip and land violently, crashing deep into the powerful gush of the water. I laughed my way down the cliff side, and am now addicted. After three hours like this, we took off the wet clothes and bathed in the warming sun on a granite slab overlooking the KTM valley like lizards. Amazing experience. Ill post pictures so you can get a better idea of what we were up to.

Random Observations

The inhabitants of every city or town in Nepal that I have been to pronounces hello differently. Nagarkot-"NamastEE" Bandipur- "NAmaste" KTM- "NaMAste" I get to pick and chose my favorites. Pashmina and cashmere is very popular in the souvenir shops in KTM, and there are cryptic signs posted on them that say "Just feel me, dear human." I was in Bandipur eating at a restaurant where Mexican food was being served, including Takas D-Polo and Inchilatas. Pronounce 'em out loud, and you'll get it. Power in KTM is cut everyday for about two or three hours. You can literally hear the cheers when it comes back on if you are standing outside. The town, or South Asia continent rather is rife with temples, but my favorites are the Shiva (Both the destroyer and the creator in Hinduism) that look like raised cobblestones in the middle of the sidewalks and streets. You should never walk over personal things, like legs or whatnot, so you have to walk around these temples rather than over them, which is tricky since they kinda blend in, you know? Robel left his bike in front of our favorite bar, De La Soul, the other day, and when we went back to retrieve it, it was gone. This was not the first time his bike was stolen by the police, he says. If the police see a bike they don't recognize, they move it at night to a different part of the city. If the bike is not claimed in a certain period of time, they take it. We have spent hours looking for that damned thing. Always comes back, though. My Nepali friend Juni told me that it is a real law that if you run over a chicken, there is a 80 paisa (cents) penatly fee. But if you run over a duck, its 80 rupees. Can you guess why? Because chickens bounce about randomly and are thus more likely to get underfoot (or underwheel), where as ducks move slower, so if you hit one, you werent trying hard enough to avoid it. I love that. A new law just passed that motorbike drivers need to wear a helmet. However, passengers may not. Not that they have a choice, but tha its against the law! Its because lots of drive-by shootings take place from a passenger on the back of a motorbike, which make great getaway vehicles. If the shooter has a helmet on, you cant identify them. Robel has told me my favorite new expression. You know, "don't let it get to your head"? In Eritrea, where he is from, they say "remember to take your shoes off before you go to bed". Excellent. Leaving KTM on the 28th. The countdown begins.

More photos

check 'em out folks at flickr.com. sounds like an ad, right?

KTM, City of Candles

I realize now that because of the amount of time I have spent so far in KTM, I am becoming lazy in my documenting my interpretations of life around me. Strange, its almost as though the closer we get to understanding or simply seeing a culture, the less we take note of our surroundings. If Ive been negligent in my writings, maybe it is because I have been living the blissfully dull life of an ex-pat living in KTM. Instead of sightseeing, I see Brianna for chai. Instead of souvenir shopping, I shop for groceries, Instead of being an anonymous faceless stranger, I am recognized in the small hectic streets of KTM. The narrow streets which positively vibrate with foot traffic, rickshaws, motorbikes and cars certainly take some getting used to for the majority of us who are too accustomed to our streets, cushy with sidewalks, stop signs and well, laws. You can tell how long someone has been in Asia by the way they navigate traffic. Some people, newbies, well call them, will wait until the coast is safe and clear. Those with experience know that this moment simply does not exist. I rest my hands on the top of taxis, push rickshaws, and narrowly escape broken toes countless times during a simple trip to the store. I always know exactly where I'm headed in Thamel, therefore I walk with conviction. This is acceptable, until I realize one day that I was becoming increasingly agitated with other foreigners whom expats sneeringly refer to as "package tourists", those camera toting, khaki wearing, loud talking tour sheep. But am I really so different? I am so instantly ready to set roots and become a member of a community that Ive climbed atop my high horse and am instantly prepared to judge those who have only spent a few days fewer in KTM than myself. In many ways, KTM was a peculiar choice for fate to drop my in for three additional weeks. It is a loud, hectic, dirty city pregnant with tourists and thus, touts and shopkeepers, fluorescent dollar signs shining in their eyes. On the other hand, KTM reminds me a bit of college. There are tight cliques that occupy certain bars whose reputation changes constantly, the constant turnover of people makes the possibility of meeting anywhere from ten to thirty people a night a certainly, and life revolves around the nighttime. The expat phenomenon has existed in KTM since the 70's, and Ive met old burnt- out dead heads, politically rabid UN employees and young adventure seekers in the bright, Vegas-like streets of Thamel, KTM's downtown tourist hub. All in all, it seems an unlikely city to be serendipitously stuck in. I listen to my fellow travellers tales of hiking in the KTM valley or rafting around Pokhara, and for one moment, I envy them, but only for one moment. I have officially been on the road now for fifteen weeks, and I have heard that the four month mark is decidedly the roughest hump to pass. Don't get me wrong, I want nothing more than to be another temporary citizen of KTM, wandering as an aimless tourist for two, three days, but I was certainly craving a sense of community that this city readily provides. I had a bbq with people I have not known more than one week, some no more than one hour, but I hug them like were best friends. And just like my torn feelings for KTM, the country itself seems to be consisting of its own dual nature. Take something as simple as baskets. Strong virile women carry long grasses and bamboo in cone shaped baskets that press upon their bent backs, held up by a thick strap which cradles low across the basket and loops up to their upper foreheads, causing them to keep their heads down low, strips of bamboo and long grass droop over the lip of the basket, striping their faces. The same baskets are inverted to become a home for loose chickens at night. Six year old girls in the city with painted eyes to match the kumari, a beautiful young "living goddess" who passes through childhood behind shut carved windows in the noisy din of Durbar Square, before losing her divinity by means of loss of blood or baby teeth. Only then is a new Kumari chosen at the age of two by successfully fulfilling a long list of requirements consisting of but not limited to having thighs like a young deer and showing fearlessness when placed in a room full of severed animal heads. Meanwhile, six year old in the countryside are transformed into young mothers, swaddled infants strapped to their backs, collecting fire woods in the pine forests away from the large city in KTM valley. Fine garments reserved for prestigious business men and women, when discarded, are turned to shreds by young children in villages down by the river side for both entertainment, and household rags. Small family dwelling open up during the day to feed hungry travellers, distinction between home and restaurant only indicated by a sheet hung over the doorway. Children are both our beloved youth, and you indispensable translators. Bicycles more people and are used to sell fruit, large circular baskets replace the seat, carrying papaya, bananas, and green mandarins, all arranged artistically, the handlebars looped with scales and bags of weights. Temple squares are a place of worship and a venue for the most amusing people watching. Ill be better about checking in in the future, folks. kiss kiss.

Happily Stuck in Nepal

Well, it doesnt appear that I will be leaving Nepal anytime soon. Travel agents here say that the only way you can get into Tibet is with a tour group, and you must pay for a driver and guide and whatnot. This is crap. But as I sadi previously, Ive met a nice little community of expats here, and I fill my days doing normal non-tourist things like having a coffee with Brianna the Californian or going to the supermarket or something. Ive posted more pictures on Flickr, so again, punch in my full name, Paige Rexrode, under the people category when you are searching for me. I have people to meet soon, so Ill let you go. Oh, and congratulations to Mariah. She has officially quit her job and is leaving the country to explore how the other half lives. Love you, sweetie.

A slight hitch in my giddy-up

Well, we all knew that I would never escape a year long trip around the world unscathed, right? I should have known by the skeptical looks I recieved when I told people I was travelling to Lhasa, Tibet that it would be a little harder than simply showing up at the airport and actually making the journey. To make a boring story interesting, Im still in Kathmandu. I should have left on Saterday. Dude at the airport broke me the increasingly hilarious news- I need a visa to get into Tibet, which my friend Robel tries to convince me is damn near impossible, but, but , in order to get one, I need to go to the Chinese consulate, no? Well, the consulate, poor dumb tourist, is closed today, even though its a saterday because, of course, its a Chinese bleeping holiday. I stayed with my Robel on Saterday, and then again on Sunday, and today, being Monday, a working day, I waltzed over to the consulate with my best "I am an American tourist damnit, not a terrorist" expression, only to be harshly turned down. The holiday lasts for seven days. Sigh. Returning back to Robel, he shakes his head in gentle disgust. He works for the UN, and understands these governmental bureaucratic trivialities more than I do. So, all in all, Im still in Nepal for god knows how long. I have a flight from Lhasa to Kathmandu continuing on toBangkok in about two and a half weeks, so if all else fails, I may have to stay in Nepal until that flight. Good news is that if I do get a visa and am able to fly, I dont have to pay more for a changed flight. So, dont worry about me folks. Ive found some cool peeps to pass the time, and laugh at the irony of this situation, being stuck where you kinda want to be anyways. Keep you posted.

Proof that sometimes you should just ignore famous monuments and take some time out to pay the little things (and people) some of your valuable time.

I was on my way up to Kathmandu's famous monkey temple, Swayambhunath, when I saw a teenage boy flying a kite. I followed his eyes and only then did I realize that perhaps the birds I had been seeing flying above the frantic city were not in fact birds at all but kites. Focusing on his kite, I saw ten or fifteen others, mere specks that moved like birds, taking advantage of the winds. He had a giant spool of thread resting loosely on a short wooden stick, which he tugged on sharply when the kite began to sag and let reel out when it caught a nice current. The line was very thin, which is typical, essential even, for kite fighting. For those of you who have not read The Kite Runner, you understand this competitive game. Two kites will fight in the air, its flyers trying to cut their opponents line. In the past, lines would be armed, covered in crushed light bulbs or broken glass. When the kite is cut, the flyer has lost, and the kite continues to float on the breeze. I saw attached kites and cut kites, and then noticed that this flyer has a veritable army of kites in case his was cut. Later that day, with my search of kite flying heightened, I saw a tough group of fourteen year old boys, cigarettes hanging from the side of their mouths, eyes intent, participating in an activity we only associate with small children. This is not a childish game, though, make o mistake about that. I remember flying giants birds, aerodynamically designed to stay up for as long as possible. Kites in Nepal cost three rupees ( about four cents) are made of very thin paper (perfect for making small holes to change the flight pattern) and bamboo, and they are damn near impossible to fly, I found. With my eyes now searching the skies, I now discovered evidence of the immense affinity for flying. There are shops which only sell different kinds of lines, and trees are a graveyard of kite corpses. When I finally did make it up to the temple, I payed a little more attention to the kids I saw. More games that are not really games at all. Monks in training, no more than six, shaved heads, deep crimson robes, playing charum. I may have mentioned earlier that charum is like table pool, and the flick of the finger serves as the cue. The board has four pockets on the corners, and the pucks slide over white powder.Under the flying prayer flags, these boys had collected a group of older men who watched them dominate the board as silently as spectators at Wimbeldon. The two looked up briefly at me, and I saw that the front of their robes and small spots on their face were dusted with the powder. Other boys still were playing soccer barefoot in a small square surrounded by temples dedicated to a long list of both Hindu and Buddhist deities. A dangerous game, considering the long drop over the edge of their "field" to the city far below. The ball bounced off the prayer wheels carved with Tibetan mantras and occasionally sounded the large bronze bells at the entrance of the shrines. In Nagarkot, a magnificently slow moving town that reminded me of a hilly, Nepalese Lake Tahoe ( for those of you who know it), I was constantly being bombarded, attacked even, if being attacked was wonderfully pleasant by huge groups of schoolchildren. I have loads of pictures, which I will be posting later, but I am short on time, seeing as I leave the day after tomorrow for the enigmatic Tibet. See you then!

The Story of the Monkeys and the Cap-Seller, an old Indian tale, told by Vikram Singh, remembered crudely by Paige Rexrode

The cap seller was walking home after a long-unsuccessful day in the village. He was tired, and lay down beneath a tree to rest his weary bones and soon fell asleep. When he awoke, he found all his caps had disappeared. He heard chatter above him and saw that the tree was filled with monkeys wearing his caps. Exhausted and frustrated, he threw his own cap to the ground. The monkeys, seeing him to this, threw their own caps down to the ground at his feet. He collected his returned caps and continued home where he told his son what had happened with his caps and the monkeys.

Many years later, the cap sellers son was walking home with his own collection of caps. He layed down to rest beneath a tree and again, fell asleep. When he woke, his caps were gone, and he knowlingly looked up into a tree full of cap-wearing monkeys. Ah, he said to himself, I remember when my father lost his caps to the monkeys, who were stupid enough to copy him when he threw his cap down in exhaustion and frustration. Quite pleased with himself, he threw his own cap to the ground. But the monkeys too had learned, and one monkey who refused to fall for the wise ploy that had tricked his own father so many years ago ran down the tree and stole the last cap.

KTM to some random village

I woke up to a chick on my chest. Its father was greeting the sun noisily. It wasn't quite six-thirty am, but I felt fantastic. Greg and I had headed out from Kathmandu the night before to a town called Chisapani (well, that was our destination) hiking through the Shivapuri NP. The walk up was very pleasant, the green, green foliage, hunting at the high frequency of monsoon rains, parting only long enough to show corners of terraced hillsides and small, quiet dare I say peaceful army bases. the Napali army is said to be the best in the world ( they dont have a word for retreat in Nepali apparently). Yet other studies tell us that they are the happiest people on earth. Many a costumed soldier with a big friendlyt smile would bring us a stool if we we spotted sitting the on the muddy ground. The trails were also armed with leeches, which are now my least favorite creature on earth, beating out the baboons that guard cape point in SA. Even the way to remove them is unpleasant. They get a good storng grip on you, so many people use salt, which causes them to drop off of your skin, and explode. Gross. Greg patiently peeled of a number of them off of my legs and feet after many panicked shrieks while I turned away, making sounds of disgust and then needed a good hands-hung-limply-wrist-shake-dance before continuing on. We had yak cheese and Isreali chocoalte and watched poor sweet goats being led to the slaughter for the upcoming Dasain festival in KTM (side note, have you ever heard a goat sneeze? It has to power to make you all vegetarians. ) We soon discovered why Nepali innocence and generosity has its rare but quite detrimental downfalls. Everyone with whom we spoke verified our position in relation to our destination agree unaimously that yes, Chisapani is that way. What we could never get them to see eye to eye on was how long such a journey would take us. Five kilometers jumped to fifteen as easily as one and a half hours fell to twenty minutes. We walked for an eternity, and as night began to darken our path, we realized that we had not seen another person in over two hours. Not a good sign. The Nepali also dont seem too fond of roadside signs. However, I could not pile the blame exclusively on the eager-to-please Nepali for finding ourselves lost in the pitch black in the pouring rain with the leeches without a roof. Chisapani was not to be located on our brand-spanking new Kathmandu Falley trial map, but we, curiously, bought it anyways. Greg saw some dim lights in the distance, and after leaving me to watch the bags, flashlights focused out into the darkness waiting for dangerous, what, butterflies? he had located our heros for the evening. A small Nepalese family made up of a mother, son and grandfather, set out a rattan basically oversized door mat as our mattress, pillows hard as sacks of millet (entirely possible) and blankets we had used in Jaisalmer during our camel safari, but I passed out in seconds and slept like a baby on their rainy porch. I could hardly be angry with the rooster when I saw the sun rising up over the great snowy Himalayas, clouds settled between each mountain.