Pokhara Picnic

In stark contrast to Kathmandu’s hustle and bustle, Pokhara is a relatively peaceful city. Situated alongside Nepal’s third largest lake and known primarily as the starting point for the Annapurna treks, Pokhara made for a quiet place to simply relax.

Even for those of us not heading out to conquer any portion of the Himalaya mountain range, the city boasted several days’ worth of leisurely sights and activities. That is, once you got away from the tourist-aimed shops, trekking guides, and touts.

High above the lake, the Japanese-built Buddhist World Peace pagoda offered breathtaking views, after a hike that made it hard enough to breathe in the first place. (This was our first encounter with what was considered a “leisurely stroll” in the Nepal Lonely Planet.)

Unfortunately, we largely missed out on Pokhara’s famed views across the nearby mountain peaks, as it rained every morning and evening during our visit, leaving the views hazy the rest of the time.

The city buses made it a simple task to visit nearby waterfalls and cave temples. The Old City’s brick buildings and slow pace offered a glimpse into Pokhara’s past. And Nepali snacks of momos (dumplings), sekuwa (water buffalo jerkey), choyla (dried water buffalo with chili and garlic), and more momos were readily available.

Not a bad way to spend a couple of days. 

Simple, Serene

Working evenings and Saturdays, our travel opportunities while in Rwanda have been quite limited. We managed to escape from Kigali’s hustle and bustle (if its road traffic and churches blaring hymns can be considered as such) for roughly an 18-hour getaway to the country’s beautiful Lake Kivu. So, we headed to Kibuye, the cheaper of the two destination options on the shores of the lake, to soak up some R&R.

Not being ones to pass up some exploration outside of Kibuye’s tiny tourist sector, we did amble through the town. We passed those at work and play, local eateries and shops, all as they languished in the mid-morning heat. Children repeatedly approached us, wondering who we were and where we were going. They were heading to markets and churches, uncertain why in the world we were just walking without destination.  

Unintended though it was, we eventually came to a destination of sorts, stumbling upon Kivu's more open, and less scenic, shore.  From this vantage point we were able to catch a glimpse of neighboring Congo (DRC) across the water, hazy and distant. 

We checked out the large lakeside Catholic church and its adjoining genocide memorial. The church itself was so full of a Sunday morning that worshipers were perched along the church walls in an attempt to catch the service, and more seemed to be pouring in by the minute.

But, the town offered little to compete with the tranquility of the town’s smaller stretch of lake. Laced between towering hills, topped with an array of hotels, this sliver of Kivu is a paradise unto itself, and the reason tourists venture to this area.

If Colorado were home to a vast array of tropical plants, it would be Kibuye. From pines with long, drooping needles to massive cactus-esque flora to trees bursting with yellow flowers and eucalyptus filling the air with their fragrances. Birds flit among the trees, lizards precariously climb flower stalks, cows low in the distance, all perfectly accompanying an early morning breakfast with a spectacular view. 

Not a bad escape, no matter how brief. 

Where Time Slows Down

Ah, old colonial towns. Whitewashed buildings, nearly blinding in the sun, topped with red-orange tiles, doors and windows painted in vibrant colors. A town square, complete with bubbling fountain, a magnificent church, and plenty of stands peddling foods, hats, ponchos, and produce of every shape and variety. Cobblestone streets make their way from house to house, leading onward dogs and cars alike. Residents recline about in shady patches.

This quaint scene has repeated itself time and again in our Colombian travels. The midday sun, soon to be quenched by afternoon rains, drives people into the shade and under the brims of hats. It makes you feel the need to slow down, to adjust to the siesta-loving pace of the locals. Here, time works at the speed of molasses, slow and sticky, irresistible. It is the time of slow-cooked meals and freshly made juice.

Nestled in among mountains and greenery, these are towns and cities built in clusters, settled into their individual nooks and crannies. They stack together, tumbling and climbing around hills and valleys. And, though each of the towns are so similar, each time we crest a hill the blues and greens that wrap themselves around these colonial towns, entangled with gauzy white clouds, catch me off guard. I am reminded that, although it may be difficult coming from a Western perspective, it is important to stop, appreciate places where time runs a bit slower, and just sip it all in. 

Mobile Bliss

We spend very little of our time living in the present moment. Between endless to-do lists and planning, not to the mention frequent “did I turn off the stove?” and “oh no, I feel like I'm forgetting something,” our minds race from one thing to another, rarely slowing down enough to do just one thing at a time.

But I feel blessed. I have found solace from this constant mental racing in the strangest of places. I have recently discovered a sort of meditation-in-motion every time I drive my scooter around town. Unlike driving a car – battling traffic, shoulders tensed, constantly frustrated, fingers poised for honking – cruising about on my little 50 cc scooter I find myself completely relaxed. (It’s hard to believe I was ever terrified by the prospect of driving a scooter.)

I expected to feel anxious on a scooter; I am, after all, much smaller and slower than the other vehicles on the road. But it is this size and speed difference what has altered my attitude about driving. I am forced into being completely aware of my surroundings – other cars, potholes, trash – in a way that matters less when driving a car. I am able to feel the nuances of the pavement and must move subtly within the confines of my lane in order to avoid excessive jostling and bouncing about. It is this awareness that keeps me tuned in to the present moment, rather than worrying about reaching my destination or what I must do once there.

Scooter driving has also cultivated an attitude of calm in regard to trying to keep pace with those around me. Being able to only reach speeds of 30-35 mph, I must practice more fully acceptance of my limitations. Pass me if you must. I am not in control of other people’s need to rush (though I do try to only take roads with these lower speed limits, out of compassion for those in a hurry). And this is something that I try to carry around with me in the rest of my day – I can only do what I am capable of today.

I’m sure that many of the people behind the wheel of a car find me frustrating (especially with the number of scooters in Albuquerque ever-increasing), but I try to just let that thought wash over me and disappear, choosing to focus instead on just being attentive.

And so, I coast around town with none of the tension I experience when driving a car. Sun on my face, wind whipping my hair around, catching whiffs of flowering plants, noticing just how many butterflies flit around town unnoticed. Calm and present, doing something we should all try to do more often: doing just one thing.

Bangkok Retrospective

So here we are, one year after our arrival in Bangkok, back in the same airport, waiting to fly to Sri Lanka. It has been a very long year, full of airports, trains, buses and tuk-tuks. We have lived in two parts of Thailand, taught a combined 3,000 students, and traveled to seven other countries. Considering the Rachel I was on our first weekend in Thailand, I have to say I am proud of how far I’ve come.

To say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement. First arriving in Bangkok, the heat and humidity was stifling, my hair, skin and lungs tested as soon as we left the airport doors swished open, dumping us into Bangkok. Win, having lived in India for a year and traveled to Thailand before, knew what to expect. Although, his go-to Indian-accented English and desire to argue over every price were the extreme counterpoint to my helpless befuddlement.

The sheer number of people was mind-boggling. The traffic was congested, intermixed with neon cabs, driving on the left side of the road, and bobbing, weaving and swerving, rules of the road ignored. The streets, jammed full of people and various stands, most often reeked of garbage. And I was under constant attack, my stomach by the food and water, my legs and arms by an endless army of mosquitoes. It took a while for me to settle in, and even longer for my body to adjust.

Today, I am far better at traveling in a number of ways. I trust that a cab might take the roundabout way, but they will probably get us where we are going (and if not, we aren’t really obligated to pay). I am alright playing the occasional game of menu roulette, just pointing at a menu item and hoping for the best, all the while knowing I am bound to eat frog one of these days. Haggling over prices is a sort of game, not a source of stress. And I am slowly adapting my Western mentalities to the Thai ‘sabai-sabai’ attitude. I still have a way to go before becoming Thai-style laid back, but my immune system has stepped it up a notch, and my outlook isn’t far behind. 

Indonesia Stew

Given its proximity to two active volcanoes and its tendency to be earthquake-ridden, Yogyakarta was a city with a warm, positive outlook. Lounging about on benches, motorbikes, and rickshaws, the people were all smiles and hellos. So, after seeing the requisite temples, we decided to hang around and enjoy the atmosphere. The people were friendly. There were three book stores, and several restaurants had chess boards. Our guesthouse had a balcony and cheap beer; cigarettes were less than a dollar. What more could we ask for?

Periodically throughout the day the Islamic call to prayer would rise above the rooftops, a cacophony coming from a hundred places, beautiful and syncopated, washing over the buildings. In the afternoons came the rain, like bowls of water being poured over the head of the city, squelching the midday heat. Geckos clung to walls, searching for insect snacks. Indonesians sprawled in the heat.

We lounged on the guesthouse balcony, reading or napping, cigarette smoke circling lazily above us.  I traded for more books and used toothpicks as makeshift bobbypins when the heat became stifling. Win and Mikal played chess for hours with the rickshaw drivers who lazily attempted to lure passengers. All in all, it was three days completely lacking in productivity: just the break we needed in the middle of all that traveling. 

Time Difference

Why are there stuffed crocodiles on top of every car in the parking lot? Why has that man walked a half a block along the telephone lines? How do you fit six people on a motorbike? Why do none of the clocks say the same time?

It’s been just over five months since we moved to Thailand, and I find myself questioning what is happening on a regular basis. Five months ---various cultural surprises (some pleasant, others less so), a finished first semester, a full year’s worth of illnesses (on my part), two thousand students, three pregnant stray animals, bug bites by the hundreds, a dozen new friends, one catastrophic elephant ride, a whole heap of bruises --- and here we are. During this time I have struggled, much more than Win, with the lack of planning, the disregard for punctuality, and what I saw as general confusion.

We go to school the first week and learn we have no students Friday. We show up to school and find out we have short classes for Sports Day. We show up the next day and find out Sports Day is next week, so it will be short classes until then. We arrive on Tuesday and are told that, no, today will be Friday classes. Half day Friday. No, Thursday and Friday. First period is a concert, last period is first. All last minute, day of. No calendar, scrap the lesson plans.

In a parade for Father’s Day (King’s Day) having the foreign teachers come is an honor, so we went. After an hour and a half of getting all of the individual school lined up, teachers donning pink or yellow, and the bands ready to lead, color guards in spandex and neon, drum majors in heels and cowboy hats, we were ready to go. We then walked several kilometers through barren parts of town at dusk on streets that hadn’t been cordoned-off and to the delight of no spectators, all while carrying cardboard cutouts of the King.

In attempting to book an elephant trekking tour we settled on the jungle trek instead when the elephants were all booked. We assumed that the two treks were different and separate. The assumption resulted in a five-minute hike through the jungle, first crossing a river, then clambering up an ant-covered embankment, climbing an ant-covered ladder, crossing back over the same river (more ants), and falling in line behind the elephants to finish our trek. We dodged mounds of elephant poo and crossed rivers in water up to our armpits, bags held overhead. All this while the Thai families sat comfortably atop elephants, shaded by umbrellas, dry and unharmed by ants.

We go to a restaurant and get a menu all in Thai, so we just point at something and hope for the best.  The best instance resulting in stir fried veggies when I was feeling nutrient-depleted; the worst, rice gruel with a raw egg at the bottom and spare parts soup, complete with grey meat, tripe, liver, and various other indistinguishables. We go to a restaurant, try to order food in general and are told “Mai Mi,” no have. No have food? No have cook? We don’t know, but they don’t have something. We show up at one of three border crossings to get into Burma/Myanmar, “Cannot.” Why? “Burma is closed to you. Open Thai Burma only.”

Five months of nothing going according to plan, but here we are. And I have become much more adaptable and easy-going. There was little choice. We live on Thai Time. Things happen when they happen, and always somehow work out. When we don’t understand each other we smile and shrug. A smile goes a very long way. A good sense of humor goes even farther.