China to Nepal
03/12/10
Many travelers had them. Most did not know why. There was no real way of knowing its potency, like that of death, the terrifying peace, the eternal sleep that waits for us all. Held so closely to me, it traveled along my side without a shadow. It was my blank canvas, my white pages without words; waiting for my pen, the scars that remind us that the past is real, where new thoughts and forgotten epiphanies traveled together at the speed of light, to be placed together, these little bones, the unspoken verses that slipped through the fierce snap of a tensed jawbone. A person is at their most honest when they write to themselves. My notebook – and there were eventually three - was uniquely mine and came to bring me a sense of belonging no matter where I was in the world.
I can quite confidently say that there were many times on the trip when Boxie-boo did not like my journal. There were only a few times she ever said anything directly about it. Her comfort was always put first before my writing, but maybe, there was a sense of jealously, as I can confidently say there were times I shared more of myself with my notebook than I did with her. No matter how sleep deprived I was, how stressed or uncomfortable, I always took the time to write, not only at night before bed, but during the day – walking, riding an elephant, hiking, off-roading, waiting, listening to the lull of waves, etc. – to ensure moments turned to memories and memories turned into stories.
With her head rested on my shoulder on our eighth airplane, I focused on remembering my thoughts, waiting for her to nod off to sleep. I noticed she smelled of expensive body lotion; something she swore was a necessity for the trip. Perhaps, she was right. With her eyes opening and closing, she scrolled through my researched notes with photographs and ideas of things to see and do in Nepal. Turning the pages, she sketched her excitement with her hands. Through my imagination, I could see the energy, the flip and turning, her sudden excitement moving towards me. No matter how tired we ever were, there is something to be said about flying to a country you have never visited, to feeling exposed and alive, naked and reborn, vulnerable and free, where your bravery battles your fear, especially when you know you are to land at night, overcome with uncertainty and that ever-present, pure sense of adventure.
As Boxie-boo nodded off, I pulled out my notebook and thought hard about where we had been and where we were going, not only on this trip but in a greater sense. One of the biggest benefits of travel is the ability to take the time to reflect fully, honestly and openly with yourself and yourself alone. I realized what I was doing was more than traveling, but saving myself from myself.
If I knew I would regret not doing something, I would do it before it was too late, giving me a sense of peace for that horrifying end, the sweet oblivion. Then instead of crying towards my death, I knew I could smile at the memories, while allowing the air to lighten around me, so gently that my life could no longer exist within it, leading me to find my pathway away from the seasons, taken in by the spell of music, the song and dance of days spent in full control of my life. In death, I believe those that accomplished their dreams are sheltered by them, warmed, consoled, loved, who need nothing more than the release of one last relaxing exhale. It was easy to think of death both before and during Nepal, a country where bodies were burned publicly and death has its blinds broken and doors wide open for all to see.
Before I left Canada, if someone had asked me what I would do if I knew my time on this planet was limited, I would say, travel the world. The truth is our time is limited. I believe it is only when you accept your mortality that you truly live. I have thought about this often in my life, about what I would say on my deathbed that I wished I would have done. If your answer to that question – possibly one of the most important you can ask yourself – is where you are presently, then you, my dear friend, are living the dream.
If not, be the change you want to become. Nobody is buried with their possessions. And even death, I believe, cannot take away our memories. Discover your dream. Live your dream. Wave goodbye to your fear of death.
I thought about this on our flight from Kunming, China to Kathmandu, Nepal. I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Although, the plane was fireplace hot and served a hard boiled breakfast at night, leaving the cabin smelling of eggs. It was midnight Kunming time. Most passengers slept while one ‘”gentleman” watched a movie with the volume on full blast on his laptop without earphones, with complete disregard for those trying to sleep. Oh China, I thought, it is time to say goodbye.
I was living the dream, yes, but this flight left me damp with sweat, feeling near feverish, exhausted and nauseaus from the food. I was glad I went to China - an unforgettable and exciting experience - but the often rude, pushy and selfish nature of the Chinese culture had gotten to me and it was time to move on. The worst part of China, in my opinion, was in many major cities it was hard to spot someone happy, their faces almost all sad, while the sky beyond them was constantly overcast and depressed with pollution.
After three hours, we arrived at the same time we left, 10 p.m., due to the time difference. I was excited to enter this country in classic third world fashion – by walking across the concrete runway, passed parked airplanes, into an old building of red brick. Inside, a smiling custom’s official, the first friendly I had seen in over a month, showed me where to fill out my visa application. The cost was $25 U.S. per person and I received my visa within two minutes of filling out my application. This was the fastest visa on the trip. Boxie-boo and I were smart, leaving Canada with money for visas, job letters and paystubs for employment proof and the necessary passport photos.
After receiving our bags, we walked up to the x-ray machine for luggage scanning. A custom’s official gestured to us to not bother. We skipped the scan, looking back at the line-up of Chinese being examined. We had no idea where we were headed and how we were getting there, just that we had paid a small deposit online for a cheap guest house with great reviews in what we believed to be the heart of Kathmandu.
Outside in the darkness, we could see only the passing lights of scooters and hear the random honking of cars. There were no streetlights on, no police in sight and no sense of direction. A tense silence loomed beyond the horns. Boxie-boo asked tentatively with her eyes for a connection and I quickly grabbed her hand. I had seen this look before - vanished, frightened, frozen and fretful – looking out at a world so bizarre I’d swear the universe was upside down. In this half-lit glance, seen only in the spray of moving vehicles, I pulled her in close, while she stepped more than into my embrace, but towards what was familiar and understood. I lifted her hand to mouth, smelled the lotion once more and gave her palm a kiss. Our hands joined and uncontrollably gripping, were all we needed to know, while the unseen depth of Nepal waited, whirling this clasp alive as we moved together finding a way through the darkness, as if letting go would release a curse held from within. With no options available beyond a transit booth, we pre-paid a taxi for 600 Rupees (less than $8 U.S./Canadian) for our ride to the International Guest House.
Our taxi was a tiny van covered in giant Suzuki stickers, a late-70’s model at best, sounding broken in its own roots and weakening, twig by twig, like some shattering tree in a storm. Liam, Boxie-boo and I sat in a tight row. The roof was covered in dotted green, red and blue lights that were cheaply sewn and taped into the ceiling, powered by a dangling wire into the ashtray lighter plug. The van had one working headlight, causing us to drive half in darkness in the unlit streets of Kathmandu. There were few buildings with lights on, only those with generators as the power was out and there were no street signs in a city without names. We drove down the left side of the road, dodging the dips and occasionally bottoming out, scraping the battered metal against the pothole dissolved concrete.
I looked out the window above the tightly-fitted buildings, like blasted mountain trails for trains, blackened by the night, scanning upwards to the sky to see the stars for the first time in over a month. Finally, freedom from China’s pollution, I thought. The poke-a-dotted sky overwhelmed me, as if I saw the constellations that were guiding us on our long way home, and I knew Boxie-boo saw the same thing, where like glowing crystals the stars exploded in the reflection of her eyes, proof to me of their passing. I saw them as she looked into me for support, while the van reared and bucked, the metals turning and cracking with the sound of breaking ice, as if the engine gently cried over top of hard fought tears. She stayed still like a slim cat under my right arm, my left hand massaging her right, and I saw her fight that flicker under her eyelid, the twilight state between the current of adventure and the blood rush of fear.
This whole time, I ignored the driver’s colleague, who was trying to convince Boxie-boo and Liam that our hotel was attached to a loud disco in the party district. He told them he will show us another one on the way. At one point, I intervened and said aggressively and politely, “No thank you. We will go to the guest house we reserved.”
He persisted, showing Boxie-boo a catalog. “It’s on the way. Look at the rooms,” he demanded.
“No thank you. We hired you to take us to this hotel. We will make no stops,” I replied firmly. This time I raised my voice, folded up the catalogue and passed it back to him. It was safest to go to a hostel that received strong reviews online and not to go exploring our first night in the darkness with a driver we just met and his forceful companion. In many third world countries, taxi and tuk tuk drivers earn a commission by taking you to a colleague’s establishment.
He tried to show me the catalog. I felt I had to give him some sense of victory and saw business cards in his cup holder. I then asked him for his card in case we were unsatisfied with our hotel. He agreed, finally, to take us to the International Guesthouse, seemingly upset. Five minutes later, we arrived at our graveyard silent hotel with no disco in sight.
In our room, the ceilings were pink, lined with spray-painted gold crown moldings and hardwood creaky floors. It had two single beds. The next day I lied to hotel staff, stating we were married, a necessity, in order to switch us to a room with a large enough bed for us to share. Boxie-boo got scared, sometimes, sleeping on her own in foreign countries, especially in Nepal, where power outages often left us in the uncertainty of darkness.
We discovered that Boxie-boo’s backpack was damp. Her hair mouse exploded inside her bag. Luckily, she remembered to place the bottle in a plastic bag so most of her clothes were dry. It was near 3 a.m. and after hanging up her clothes to dry, we pushed the two single beds together, and prepared for much needed rest.
I loved and hated this common exhaustion we battled on the trip. Ironically, it was something I longed for at home, where in my day-to-day life my adrenaline ran thin and in my future all I saw was more of the same dull routine. The thought of what I had left seemed so abstract, even more so than this city without power. It came to me, suddenly, that I was in exile.
I made my way back to my notebook, using a small flashlight to illuminate the page as to not to disturb Boxie-boo’s slumber. I felt a sense of conquering my own dare – to travel around the world – as although I was organized and well-researched, nothing could have prepared me for where we were presently, without power in a city where we could not see the surroundings we were living in. The faces I had met in the building were unacquainted, but also open. The unaccustomed, the openness, the hunger to understand: That was who I had become. I held little knowledge of each country we visited, Nepal included, but I was willing and enthusiastic to soak it up, the same as the blank pages of my notebook.
The room faltered in the expanse of the narrow flashlight. I pulled the pen from my pocket – always wet-tipped and dripping – and I was stuck with myself and this peculiar place. I fought to figure out how to describe the experience.
I reached into our small carry-on bag and took out Boxie-boo’s lotion, spreading it evenly over my hands that had been dried by China’s winter. I was sure to use very little, as Boxie-boo always did, to see how long we could make it last. I would not find the same kind for her for some time. She was always very sentimental of these little things, of tiny pieces of home she brought with her around the world – the stuffed turtle, Ipod with family photos, her favourite lotion. My hands begin to smell of her hands, and in writing, my notebook began to smell one in the same. It seemed as though my pen was about to write, but I placed the words elsewhere.
I wrote in lotion on both my forearms and felt reminded, suddenly, that though different, we both had our own ways to connect with where we were from and where we were going. Perhaps, this is why she was always so helpful when I searched for new pens and why without realizing it, I too, felt it was important to hand her the stuffed turtle when she was feeling ill in Shanghai. Placing her Body Shop cream back in her bag, I aimed to find her a replacement, which came later when needed most; a welcomed surprise on a day when Boxie-boo was most homesick after a long tiring safari in Africa. It may have been that which brought her a sense of belonging, no matter where we were in the world.
That’s all for now.
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