The Bat Cave

Dear dedicated reader,

Sitting alone in the dark of the biggest cave in Nepal, I began to relax. I could hear the voices of the others farther on in the chamber and see their lights flash in a disorganized way around the walls. They were looking for footing in order to climb the steep incline of the cave floor; an ascent I could not make because of my inappropriate footwear. Their voices became more and more distant until they cleared the steep incline and their lights and voices were subsumed by darkness and silence.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I packed only my flip flops for my four week trip. I knew I’d be coming to Nepal; I knew one of the major attractions here for tourists is trekking. I can only assume my thinking just hadn’t gotten that far or I seriously underestimated the terrain I’d be dealing with (only, you know, the highest mountain range in the world…geez, Cat). Either way, this is how I found myself holding on to a stray root stretching out from the side of the path as I gingerly tried to find footing on a slick, narrow trail stretching downwards hundreds of feet at a terrifying angle. I could see farther ahead the guide we’d hired from the tourist information booth in this tiny village of Bandipur (a local science teacher at the Nepali medium school who only had a half day of school, incidentally) looking up at me with a concerned look on his face.

I faked a smile like I do this everyday and his face relaxed, but only slightly. The rest of our group (Kate and a Spanish couple who’d jumped into our hike just as we were taking off) looked equally concerned as they reached the plateau in the path where he was standing. I let go of the root that I was clutching, still smiling, and continued to move downwards, slowly, concentrating my full attention on each step. I could hear the others chatting as they caught their breath down below me, but I couldn’t let myself be distracted: my mind was busy calculating the likelihood that the next rock would be the one I would slip on and would pitch me face first over the mountainside.

With a luck that I can only attribute to God or sheer, embarrassed determination, I was able to make it down to where everyone else was standing. This, however, was only the beginning. Our hike out to our a destination, the largest cave in Nepal according to our trusty and ever present Lonely Planet, was reported by the same to be about an hour and a half. At this juncture, we’d hiked approximately fifteen minutes. I gritted my teeth and slugged some water before following Sandra the Spaniard down the trail under the watchful gaze of the snow peaks rising towards the heavens on the other side of the valley. At that moment, their peaks appeared as hands in prayer, soliciting the sky. Hopefully on my behalf, I thought.

To my own amazement, one and a half hours later we arrived at the narrow opening of the cave, sans broken ankles or any other injury save a little soreness in my knees. Around the opening to the mouth of the cave were a few idle looking Nepali men who demanded payment of 50 rupees and offered up the hire of a large industrial sized flashlight of which the Spaniards promptly took advantage. Kate had brought a practical head lamp which I figured I’d just follow (I mean, really: a girl who can’t be bothered to pack sneakers can hardly be expected to remember fancy gadgets like flashlights!)

Entering the cave, I had a sudden flashback to a five day field trip we’d taken in the 7th grade to West Virginia, during which spelunking was mandatory. It was a rather narrow gorge that we were expected to crawl down on hands and knees, and I chickened out about ten minutes in when we got to the part where we were expected to go underwater and then come up on other side (called ‘the keyhole’ or some such thing). I’d waited outside, cold and wet, until the rest of my group emerged, triumphant, from the mouth of the cave. As we entered, I told myself this cave wasn’t nearly as narrow and anyway that was twelve years ago and I am an adult now, after all.

Navigating without a light was a little like trying to find my way to the outdoor bathroom at our guesthouse at 3 am: I kept having to stop and sort of feel around with my sandaled foot to see if I was all right to continue forward. Kate kindly kept turning around to shed a little light (literally) on the situation and in this way, I managed to make it out of the main entryway and deep into the cave itself. The rock itself was smooth and though navigating it in my flip flops was difficult, I was able to scramble across the rocks with the use of all my limbs as supports.

The obstacle which finally stymied my progress was a rather smooth decline to the next passage in the cave that had been made particularly slick with water dripping down from somewhere in the cave’s ceiling. Kate went first and I made to go after her until she made the intelligent observation that I might not be able to get back up again. The surface was very slick and there didn’t seem to be many natural footholds, at least that we could see. I hesitated, unsure of what my options were. With no flashlight, it was impossible for me to turn around and exit the cave to wait there, but continuing on seemed impossible in light of the terrain. After another moment, I finally said the only thing I could think of: “I’ll just wait here; you guys go ahead and I’ll get you when you come back.”

“Are you sure?” asked Kate. “Do you want the light?”

I hesitated again. I didn’t want to take her flashlight, but the idea of sitting in a cave in complete darkness didn’t really appeal to me either. “Uh, yes,” I admitted. And then, “Sorry…”

She handed me the headlamp, which I put on. They made to move on, and while I could see them, I tracked their progress with my flashlight, hoping to be useful in any way that I could. After they’d moved out of flashlight range, I could still hear their voices but realized that I was pretty much on my own.

At first, I felt very relaxed. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought to myself. “I mean, the Buddha meditated in caves by himself...” I settled myself into a cross legged position on the high perch where I was stuck. I glanced around the cave, flashing my light into different crevices as I did so. As I looked up, I saw my first bat. I wasn’t really frightened, particularly: I’d seen tons of bats hanging from trees in Kadod. A voice from my past, perhaps from the very same seventh grade camping trip, that it wasn’t a good idea to shine lights on bats for too long. I quickly refocused the light on the ground of the cave.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing. I could still here the vague echo of the others who by this time had disappeared much farther into the cave. Soon this was gone and it was completely silent. I could see why such an environment would be conducive to deep meditation. I tried switching off the light for a moment, but the cowardly spelunker in me found the blackness of the cave was too overwhelming and I immediately switched it back on again. I straightened my spine and closed my eyes again. Breathe in… Breathe out…

It was at that moment that I heard a distinct swish…

I jerked my head in the direction that it came from and saw, to my horror, two bats unpredictably flapping around only a few feet from where I was sitting. I stifled a scream, knowing on some primordial level that this would only make things worse and it came out as a squeak. My breathing quickened and I could feel my heart pounding as I immediately pulled my legs into my chest and my sleeves down over my arms.

All was silent for a moment and I dared to put my head up, but at that moment the swishing started again and I thought I heard a squeaking close to me. I felt my body involuntarily curl into itself. I ducked my head into my legs. I didn’t know if the light made it worse, or better and in looking up again, I really did scream as a bat dived at my head and came inches from my body.

The scream, of course, served no purpose at all since the others were too far away to hear me. I briefly considered trying to leave the cave myself, but the bats were coming from the direction of the entrance itself. I found myself pressing my face against my knees and simply whispering “Please come back…” over and over to no one in particular. Every time I heard the swishing, I’d press in harder, trying to compact myself so much that I’d disappear.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour but in reality was probably only ten minutes or so, the lights of the others flashlights appeared at the far end of the cave. I unwillingly pried my head away from my legs fearfully, but tried to relax my face so they wouldn’t know anything was wrong. I mean, really, I’d already caused enough trouble and after all this was entirely my fault in the first place. I hoped my smile looked like one of contentedness and not of desperate happiness that they had returned.

Making our way out of the cave was much simpler than coming in and soon we were sitting on the thin ledge outside the narrow opening leading inside, discussing which way would be best to return. We decided on the way we came, which meant a longer serious uphill battle, but was much easier for me to navigate in my flip flops than the slippery, steep trail leading down to the road. Really a relief, after having come so far, and all in my flip flops! It was almost something to be strangely proud of. It was with this feeling that I started on the return trip home.

That is, until I remembered the possibility of lurking leeches attaching themselves to my bare feet…

Best,
Cat

P.S. Trip pictures to come on my return to Kadod!

Bus-iness as usual

Dear dedicated reader,

Somewhere between watching a woman repeatedly throw up into a small plastic bag that she carried with her for that purpose and becoming a little too close to the migrating limbs of the narcoleptic man sitting next to me, I realize that there are few joys that delight more than taking the local bus.

Seriously: as we careened haplessly around a hairpin corner on a mountain road with no guard rail with a thousand foot drop on the other side, I happened to quell my terror long enough to spot a comfortable, close windowed, air conditioned tourist bus out of the corner of my eye. The look of utter boredom which was apparent on the faces of the passengers within said bus as they passively took in the countryside was enough to convince me that if I were to die on these mountain roads (a fate which I felt at this point in my observations of Nepalese driving was assured), I would much rather do so while listening to a sixty minute loop of the same Nepalese music with the wind blowing in my face than in some comfortably cushioned video coach.

But really, I should start at the beginning. Bolstered by Obama’s heartening win, Kate and I arrived at the New City Bus Station in high spirits. I can’t attribute these completely to politics: we’d been looking forward to leaving the unchecked chaos of Kathmandu since we arrived. Our destination was the small mountain town of Bandipur which had been recommended by friends and a random Frenchman with whom Kate had struck up an acquaintance before I arrived. We also wanted to break up the seven hour ride to the other major tourist city here in Nepal, Pokhara.

Upon our arrival, we did what any good westerners might do: we set off to ferret out where the tickets for the buses were sold. Immediately, we were set upon by some adolescent boys asking in their accented English, “Where do you want to go?” We’d become used to this routine from our exploration of Kathmandu’s Metro Bus Service (a series of small vans with boys who travel with them and shout out the names of where the van is going to any interested passerby), so we told them. Immediately they grabbed our arms and ushered us frantically to a window which said clearly in Devanagri the name of our destination.

“You pay 220 for one – okay?” The boy/man shouted at us with a frenetic energy I can only attribute to local urgency or cocaine. I looked at Kate.

“I think you should ask at the window,” she said.

I turned back to the window and yelled over the head of the boy/man to the guy sitting behind the grill in Hindi, “Hey bhai, how much to go to Dumre?”

He mumbled back a number that sounded the same, so we handed over a 1000 rupee note in the hopes of getting change. The boy/man immediately took off with us in tow and unceremoniously pushed us onto the bus.

“You sit here,” he said, indicating the seat directly behind the drivers.

I threw down my bag and Kate headed towards the back of the coach, as we had previously agreed on sitting apart during the journey in order to allow each other to fully get in ‘the zone’ (not to mention give a little space).

Boy/man then disappeared and left us wondering what the hell happened to our change…

I settled into the seat “assigned” to me. As the bus started and boy/man got behind the wheel, I learned early on that there are a few distinct advantages to having the seat directly behind the driver’s:

1. Front row seats for the magic show that is keeping a Nepalese bus on the road.
2. Intimate acquaintance with the top part of the bus’s engine as it is located (gasp) directly in front of you, shaking and rattling and overheating your legs which must rest on it out of necessity.
3. There’s no one sitting in front of you to throw up/spit/toss trash out their open window that will subsequently splash on you through your open window.
4. First pick of the various snacks peddled at the national high way bus stops including but not limited to: freshly cut cucumber, Indian cheetos, and small dried fish speared on wooden kabobs replete with eyes, scales and fins.

Actually, my favorite part of my particular vantage point was that I got to observe first hand that the driver of this multi-passenger vehicle and I actually have a lot in common. Just like me, the driver would occasionally get thirsty while driving, fumble with his water bottle and hold the steering wheel lightly with one hand or perhaps his knee; also like me, he’d occasionally get sick of the music playing and I’d watch his eyes leave the road so he could fumble around on the dashboard for a different tape, which he’d then have to insert into the bus sound system and press play. But don’t worry: only once or twice during these minor distractions did we actually face the possibility head on collision with an oncoming vehicle.

Another delight was watching the woman across from me breast feed her baby. Now, I am in all for public breastfeeding: I mean, if the baby needs to be fed, it needs to be fed and really its just a natural relationship between mother and child. However, usually, after the feeding is finished, you can count on the mother to remember to put her breast away. Unfortunately in this situation, mom was so distracted by having to throw up in her plastic bag every so often, she and baby simply fell asleep, both forgetting that her breast was still hanging around, literally. I wasn’t sure if, as one of the only other woman in the vicinity, I should say something? I mean, what would you have done?

With a sudden eventual jolt of the bus stopping at some discrete village location, she awoke and rearranged herself accordingly. Fortunately, this particular jolt also woke the narcoleptic man next to me whose head had migrated to my shoulder and elbow to my stomach, and he similarly rearranged. Not so fortunately, his new consciousness also made him realize that his bus stop was imminent, and on seeing an acquaintance of his out the bus window, he poked me in the eye with a rolled up newspaper while wildly gesturing to “Vikram” and hitting the back of the seat of the bus driver to get him to stop the bus. The bus driver having obliged, he got down and I was free, but by that time, our interminable bus ride became terminal as I saw a sign which indicated we were only five kilometers from Dumre.

I mean, honestly, who wouldn’t want to travel this way?

Best,
Cat

Acute Aesthetic

Dear dedicated reader,

My shifting perspective is perhaps being influenced by my travel mate: Kate, a now itinerant artist, moves through the world with an acute sense of the aesthetic and I believe that this tendency is rubbing off on me as I wonder at the new visual feast around me. India itself possesses an incredibly varied terrain, but I myself have not seen much of it these past few months as I’ve bicycled Madhi Road over and over again. Much of India’s visual symbolism I’ve internalized and can now translate easily into meaning. Being in a new country, despite its many similarities, has brought with it new symbolism for the same meanings and I find myself staring wonderingly at the strange blend of Indian and East Asian architecture I am presented with, not to mention the world that contains them.

First, I am watching the prayer flags above a towering Tibetan stupa flutter and the prayer wheels lining its base spin, their inert prayers tactilely activated by the devoted and the curious and released in a clockwise fashion out over the open Kathmandu valley, rising above the shadowed mountains which line its edges and freed into the snow capped universe.

Then, I am sitting in a quiet courtyard in the village of Patan while Kate works in her sketchbook. I listen and watch as two Nepalese girls quietly and unself-consciously choreograph a dance to a popular Hindi film song. Above them, old crumblingly sturdy brick buildings continue their centuries old march onward with pigeon infested garlic hanging to dry from their eaves. Around their doorsteps, ducks and dogs and goats gather for a kind of quotidian worship of the hand that feeds them and their rooftop rose gardens sway lightly in soft valley breeze.

Wandering on, I stop for a moment outside a courtyard of the same town and watch surreptitiously from behind a pillar as an old Nepalese woman shovels rice in a fierce and determined way. She brings her shovel slowly back, picks up a bundle and then throws it in a flinging motion across the courtyard where it scatters on a pile next to a large spread of rice drying in the sun, waiting for feet to sift lightly through it, a practical prayer in each grainy step.

While Kate makes quick, hurried sketches of figures which she observes in the bustling of Patan’s touristy Durbar Square, I find myself making similar quick sketches in my head but, lacking Kate’s practiced skill, with words. I watch as an Anglo of ambiguous origin (Italy? Britain? South America? We can only guess) himself sketches along with a gaggle of thrilled Nepalese children to whom he’s given the use of a set of colored pencils. They eagerly adore his sketches and show him theirs proudly. His smile invites others to join and to me the resulting tableau looks almost biblical. Occasionally as I watch, he looks up, we make eye contact, and I look away, embarrassed by my casual staring. As soon as I think he’s not looking, I look back, fascinated by the childrens’ fascination with him.

In these moments that I’ve described, I’ve never felt more aware of the kind of voyeurism that is tourism. Observing these small, private interactions feels too intimate, more intimate than even when I see such things in Kadod. I think the difference comes in the egalitarianism of it: in Kadod, my life is as up for scrutiny as anyone else’s, as the frequent intrusions on our American constructed privacy often demonstrate. Here, with my hotel room and my camera and my own ambiguous origin, I am inscrutable beyond my immediate exterior and my wide, constantly gawking eyes.

It just doesn’t seem fair. And yet, I can’t look away.

Best,
Cat

P.S. I'm posting this in the middle of our morning watching of the election coverage. What a luxury to be able to watch full coverage outside your own country (albeit 9 hours and 45 minutes ahead) Go Obama Go!

Re-setting Clocks

Dear dedicated reader,

I had to set my clock 15 minutes forward today.

Apparently in an attempt to differentiate itself from the overpopulated country shadowing it from the left, Nepal has elected to be 5 hours and 45 minutes ahead of Greenwich Mean Time, as opposed to India’s 5 hours and 30 minutes. Or so I discovered today at approximately 7:48 pm, or 8:03 pm, depending how you look at it.

This quirk is itself only one of the small that have punctuated my early experience of Kathmandu. Having arrived here yesterday afternoon armed only with my visa in need of renewing and the standard traveler’s aid otherwise known as the Lonely Planet, I can honestly say I was completely unprepared.

Nestled in the Himalayas beneath sprawling snow-capped peaks, it is easy to imagine that living here bestows upon its inhabitants a sense of cosmic alignment and direction that is lost to those of us who are only passing through as itinerant wanderers. This feeling is reinforced by the muddled way in which those of us not in the know are forced to meander the unnamed streets of this smiling metropolis. Yes, you read right: none of the streets in Kathmandu have names. The result is that most advertisements you see not only include the name of the place and an endorsement of their products, but also a detailed line drawing replete with landmarks illustrating how to get from the location of the advertisement to the store itself.

This reality is particularly terrifying in the tourist haven (or hell) of Thamel where every narrow alley which passes for a thoroughfare looks exactly the same, lined with t-shirt shops, guesthouses, and trekking travel agencies all selling and advertising the exact same services. The effect on the hapless tourist is like Hansel and Gretel lost in the woods, except any trail of bread crumbs would likely be eaten by stray dogs, cats or errant cows.

Lucky for me, my best friend Kate (and my travel partner for the next 15 days) arrived from the US the day before I did and was able to secure us a spot in a lovely guesthouse just outside of this maze of Daedulus called the Tibet Peace Guest House. It is located next to an English Medium School (I just can’t get away!) from which I heard the familiar sounds of chanting issuing forth this morning as we made our way to find filter coffee. After twenty four hours here, I’ve noticed that everything feels familiar: the signs are written in Devanagari script (same as Hindi), the language shares many of the same words, the people dress in the same fashion (plus nice thick sweaters), the traffic emits the same diesel fumes and the country, like India, is largely Hindu. Even the tourist outlets seem to sell the same hippy styled clothing, the same embroidered t-shirts, the same wooden carved chess sets.

The fifteen minutes of difference seems to come mostly in the attitude in which people approach their interactions with each other. Last night at dinner, I smiled at a waiter and he actually smiled back at me. I was slightly shocked. Having spent the last two weeks traveling in India, I was expecting the grittiness with which most foreigners are man-handled, especially in well worn grooves of the tourist industry. What I’ve found couldn’t be more different: Street hawkers simply smile and walk away if you say “No, I don’t actually want to buy some tiger balm, whatever that is” and taxi drivers greet you by saying “I value the divine in you (the literal meaning of namaste). Do you want a taxi?”

Over the past twenty four hours, I’ve found that this absence of abrasiveness has me re-setting my own clock. My urban shield, built up since leaving Kadod, is still feeling out what defenses are actually needed and which can be abandoned in favor of trustfully and positively interacting with other human beings. What calibration is needed I have yet to figure out exactly, but I suppose I have 14 more days.

Best,
Cat