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As I write this, c19 has invaded Planet Earth. My email is flooded
with info about how to avoid paying rent through force majeure clauses,
impossibility / impracticality of performance, business loss insurance, CARES
Act of 2020, “blue” cities in lockdown (or is it lockup?) mode in “red” states
whose governors refuse to padlock the doors or even the borders, eviction and
foreclosure moratoriums, and the difference between ventilators and respirators.
Here is something I have never done before.
On February 28 2020 I left DFW for a vacation I had planned for over a
year. C19 interfered. For the first time in my travels, I kept a real-time
diary. Here it is and feel free to ignore it.
Otherwise, enjoy.
To Nepal, and beyond!
February 28 and 29, 2020
I’ve never written a travel
diary. This seems like the right time.
Yesterday was Feb 28, 2020. On
Friday afternoon Lynne took me to DFW Airport, there to board a Qatar Airways
flight to Doha. I have never been on Qatar Air. I have never been to Doha, or
Nepal. And I won’t be seeing Doha. As originally planned, I have 50 minutes to
connect to the next Qatar flight to Kathmandu.
As well, evidently I have to
clear security again in Doha. And for all I know I collect my valise too. Happy
news, 50 minutes of transit time was increased to 70 minutes before I left and
more good news, my flight to Doha departed DFW on time and arrived early.
Son-in-law told me that I would
particularly enjoy the business class “suite” on QA. He’s right. Although there
is no ceiling, I am otherwise sealed in a four-walled box. Clever engineering
allows me to lay completely flat.
I advance my clock 9 hours when
I leave DFW. I watch a movie I have been itching to see – Pavarotti.
Highly recommend it for all opera fans. No, broaden that. All music fans.
Towards the end I press the HELP
button; time for dinner. I wait. And wait. Nothing for 20 minutes. Get up and
find a flight attendant. So much for Qatar Air’s obsequious service, as was
suggested by a good travel bud.
Dinner, anticipating that decent
food will be hard to find for a while, is a small steak. It far exceeds my
expectations. No booze; no coffee; no dessert. Time for bed.
I press various buttons, close
several window covers, find my blanket and pillow, and take one full Ambien. I
want to sleep for at least a few hours.
Mission success. Although I am
constantly up due to traffic, noises, and tight quarters, it would be unfair to
complain. Mostly I am able to sleep.
Now it is 12 hours later; I have
just ordered breakfast. This time the flight attendant reset my call button
barely minutes after I pressed it. Cappuccino is on the way and I’m excited.
Coda. I should be sleeping. But
I found Beauty & the Best, one of Disney’s best, on QA’s state-of-the-art
large touchscreen monitor. The casting of Emma Watson and Josh Gad was genius,
IMHO.
Find myself getting weepy as
Beast and Belle fall in love; lights out.
FEBRUARY 29
A full travel day, by anyone’s
metric. Transferring at Doha airport is easy, but again not as simple as I was
led to believe. There are no helpers pointing the route to business class
travelers, much less individual attention as I had hoped. One follows the
general TRANSFER signs, well-marked, and then one starts asking every worker in
sight if there is a special line for me.
There is, at the end, if you
keep looking and asking.
A one-hour layover at Doha feels
like 55 minutes too long. It’s efficient here, the airport gleams, and I’m
guessing my bag makes the flight too. I guess correctly.
I advance my watch three more
hours, then recall that KTM is 11.45+ from DFW. Not 12. How strange, but
perhaps this is the first sign that Nepal is not a “business” country.
The plane to KTM is nothing
special, and mostly empty. No ‘Q’ suites for business class. It feels much more
like a standard AA wide-body plane.
However, service is more
obsequious on this four hour flight, as there are only six business class
travelers representing far less than 25% of the seats. The attendants are
talkative. My helper is a young Muslim man from Myanmar, not happy about what
is happening there. I’m rocking out to Dua Lipa, this starts a discussion with
him about music. He likes Billie Ellish. You know, the one with the green hair.
Whatever.
MARCH 1
There is only one other person
ahead of me at KTM Customs and Immigration. The others are in line buying their
visas. I already have mine, since I paid extra for FedEx to DC while stateside.
The gamble is successful. I am processed in seconds, then through a metal
detector that beeps but the Nepali security dudes don’t care (it is 0100 March
1 now), pick up my bag which comes off in the first group, then out the door
where I find my driver. Who takes me to Hotel Vaishali, in the Thamel district
of KTM.
I talk to my tour guide Achut on
the way. He’s got it figured that I am old and need rest. Yes and no. He wants
to meet me at 1300 today. No. I tell him WAY earlier. I take half of the
generic equivalent of Ambien at 0200 but I get up before 0600.
My room is VERY rustic and there
is little difference between the comfort of floor or bed. That’s Ok. I expected
this.
Off to the shower. The hardware
breaks in two pieces as the knob comes off in my hand. Call reception and a
worker is here within minutes to glue it back on. Now, second effort.
Shower success.
On to breakfast. Fresh OJ, I
can’t drink it. Fresh fruit, I can’t eat it. Indian bread that is similar to
roti (yum but it has some weird Indian spice according to my Caucasian taste
buds – wait, is this cumin?) and various other Indian foods which I cannot ID.
Some have signs but they don’t really help, like ‘fried vegetable.’
I mean, that’s kinda helpful but
I’m not eating fried durian because, well, durian.
Achut contacts me via WhatsApp.
Change of plans; he’ll be here “soon.” The front desk calls. He is here at
1000. YAY. Time to meet the boss.
Achut is not easy to understand
in person. We mutually struggle in the hotel lobby. He determines that we
should walk to his office. Perhaps that was pre-determined. Unclear.
So we walk through Thamel, which
I had already explored this morning. This is no tour – just walking at a brisk
pace with Achut in front and I’m behind. We’re going to work; this is not fun
for him; he is not wearing his tour guide hat.
His office is small. There’s a
storefront with a receptionist / secretary. I later learn her name is Shiva,
one of the most important Hindu deities. We go in the back room, just big
enough for his desk, one ‘client’ chair, a couch, safe, and computer. Two suits
come in (they are literally wearing suits) and occupy the three-man couch. That
leaves the ‘client’ chair for me.
There is an animated
conversation between the three of them; I can’t determine if the subject is me,
delinquent taxes, payment of tribute, or clothing measurements. Voices are
tempered, I suspect it’s a business meeting and they make the correct
assumption that I speak not a word of Sanskrit or Nepali or whatever they
speak.
They leave. My turn. Achut
prints my Druk Air flight info, and my Bhutan visa. I pay him the USD $50
Bhutan visa fee in cash, which I expected. Achut is keenly interested in the
few extra days I have allowed myself at the end of my Nepal visit, presently
unsupervised.
He wants to book my hotel. He
had previously offered to do so at $90 per day. I found the same room online
for less than half that rate. We move on.
He wants to arrange a tour of
Pokhara and a safari. I remind him of what I had told him many times by email,
that I have NDD as recently detected by my bud in San Diego – nature deficit disorder – and have little
interest in valleys, monkeys, mountains, cows, trees, sunrise, sunset, yaks,
Himalayas, snow, killing or photographing animals, creeks, streams, fields,
&tc.
He gets it. Finally. I think.
We talk about what I would like
to see. Clearly, he’s never had a tourist who wants to see the inside of
Parliament, Courts, white powder wigs (does that make them Whigs?), culture, or
similar. He maintains his composure, and regroups. He’ll work on this tomorrow,
he tells me.
I ask him about the remainder of
this day, as it’s not quite 1200 yet. He insists that I should return to the
hotel and rest. He’s likely correct, he’s been doing this a long time. But I’m
not feeling it – far too excited.
I tell him I want a guide now,
for the balance of the day. Achut wasn’t expecting this. He steps outside and
works the cell phone. He found one, he says, but it will take him a few hours
to get here.
My disappointment is evident. So
he offers his secretary / receptionist, Shiva, and allows that Shiva will
please me. I am initially unclear of the exact purpose – in what manner will
Shiva please me? He explains that while Shiva is not a tour guide, she will
show me some of the markets.
And so I spend a few pleasurable
hours with a young woman from Nepal, who has never been out of Nepal and has no
desire to do so. Shiva has both a university degree (issued at 20) and a
master’s degree attained a few years later. Her sister died in the 2015
earthquake, as did both parents shortly after. She is 23, unmarried,
unattached, and struggles with her enormous loss and position in life.
And yet she is a capable
ambassador, answering my questions and trying to explain the complexities of
the Nepali versions of Hindu and Buddhism as we walk the spice, vegetable,
fish, meat, clothing, and hardware markets in Thamel. This wouldn’t be easy
even in her native language, and the attempts at translation are sometimes
laughable. It’s a struggle for both of us, but we persevere.
Think it will be an early night,
as tomorrow – March 2 – promises to be full. I hope so. I’m ready.
MARCH 2
Up early and ready to meet my
guide-o-the-day. Hotel breakfast buffet again, most of which I cannot eat, but
a few eggs, toast and coffee will provide sufficient fuel. The weather is
temperate here in Kathmandu. Not hot, not cold, low chances of precip, should
be a fine day for a tour.
I haven’t written much about my
accommodations. Hotel Vaishali is perfectly situated in Thamel District, which
should be as boisterous as the French Quarter. But it’s remarkably quiet here.
I have no neighbors and typically share breakfast with two other people.
Today’s breakfast cadres are
from Barcelona, they are proud of their Catalan heritage. I don’t ask, but just
by observation they seem to eat and drink everything with no restraints.
I am far more careful. I figure
I’ll get ill at some juncture, but I’m hoping it’s towards the end – not at the
beginning.
My guide Shanti and her driver
(name unknown to either of us) are waiting for me downstairs at 0945. By 0946
we are in the VW diesel, off to tour.
First stop is the Boudhanath
Stupa. It’s the UNESCO Site that contains the huge plaster white stupa, with
the prayer flags over Buddha’s all-seeing eyes. If you research Nepal in
Wikipedia it’s likely the first entry. Good news, this is exactly what I wanted
to see and the area is full of Buddhist pilgrims. Bad news, we cannot enter the
holy building because, well, we cannot.
There appear to be few
non-pilgrims here.
So we circumambulate (clockwise
only / always) and spin the prayer wheels, releasing prayers to Buddha. It’s an
awesome area and I feel the deep significance to those around me who fervently
believe.
Next stop is Pashupatinath
Temple. It’s a huge Hindu complex, replete with an ox or two (they’re real) and
monkeys (same). I know cows are sacred. But so are dogs and I did not know
that. Also here is an outdoor crematory, with capacity for 10 Hindus commencing
their next journey.
The Temple is on the banks of a
river, which serves to abate the fires from the cremation services.
The crematory workers are busy.
There are two stiffs starting their roast while three or four others are
completing their immolation. Workers step gingerly into the filthy river, there
to splash water on the wood-fueled fires that now need to be extinguished.
The Hindu Temple is a golden
site in brilliance. Shanti is a fervent believer, and offers tribute to various
deities like Shiva and Ganesh. She – Shanti not Shiva or Ganesh – then
patiently explains the Hindu religion to me, as she learned it in Kathmandu.
The word ‘complex’ doesn’t begin
to describe the Hindu religion. Even base gods whose names I know have
siblings, nieces, nephews, children, fates and muses whose names I know not.
Each is in charge of something different, all of which appear to be important.
Many are fearful, multi-headed,
fanged creatures intended to scare those who question or sin into the path of
submission.
I am pumped about seeing my
first Hindu Temple. More bad news, I am denied entry. Shanti can enter, I may
not, since I am a non-believer. I tell Shanti that in fact I am also a Hindu
and will enter. She laughs and says I will be tested and I will fail.
She’s not joking.
Next stop is Durbar Square. I
know this place because of Freak Street! It was started by USA hippies in the
1960s during the beginnings of the Viet Nam war. They came to avoid the draft,
and stayed because there were no rules here but there were an ample supply of
drugs.
It’s 13.40, and I insist on
lunch. I’m not hungry since I had breakfast, but still feel like a break would
be smart. Shanti finds us a restaurant on Freak Street. I am pleased to see
they accept Visa, as I have been steadily depleting my supply of Nepali rupees.
Entry fees at each site are approx. 1,000 rupees, which computes to about $10
USD.
I had only exchanged USD $60 at
my hotel, but already blew $12 of it on dinner. I know I need to tip both
Shanti and ______________ (fill in blank with name of driver). I’m the rich
American, this is a third-world country, and I’d like to help them.
Although Shanti offers to pay
for her lunch, I insist and tender my Visa card. Then I am told Visa is not
accepted. I point to the sign in the window.
Of course we accept Visa. Just
not international Visa.
I yield to the restaurant gods,
reach in my pocket, and pay the bill with rupees. Oh well. Perhaps there is an
ATM in my future.
There are many stupas and
chortens in Durbar Square, more than I can count. Buddhist structures co-exist
with Hindu temples. At least I’m no longer disappointed to learn that we cannot
enter any. This now meets my expectations.
The monkeys get into a fight
over a piece of trash. The dogs fight over, well, I’m unclear what they fight
about. They’re dogs.
Regardless, it’s an interesting
place and I’m glad to see it.
It’s after 1700. Shanti says
we’re done, and I don’t argue. It’s been a long first day. But on the way back
she changes course and says there’s yet another Hindu Temple I would find
interesting.
I reject the opportunity to see
another Temple from the exterior. Back to my hotel I go, where I write this
travel log and start considering dinner.
Tomorrow I have a 1000 flight to
Paro on Druk Air. The landing in Paro is supposedly the most difficult in the
world. Only Druk Air pilots with more than 10 years’ experience are allowed to
land, and even then, only during daytime hours. Although the flight time is
barely more than one hour, we will drive to Thimpu on arrival which makes
tomorrow a full travel day with no touring.
My driver comes at 0745. More
adventures await.
MARCH 3
I am up before 0500, knowing:
(a) this is Tuesday morning but Monday evening in USA; which means (b) I have
now been out for my first full day as my clients and office would consider; and
(c) the first day out is always the hardest. I am on the computer in minutes,
connecting to the world to see how many people are yelling at me.
It’s not horrible. Important
clients have a new important deal. But there’s nothing else that can’t wait.
Off to breakfast. This time there are other customers, almost all of whom
appear to be Indian. But for the table next to me, from Australia I suspect.
My driver comes promptly at
0745; we are at the KTM Airport shortly after 0800. My bags are scanned and I
gain entrance to the ticket counter.
I work my way through security,
then x-ray, then find The Nepali Dude Whose Job Is Stamping Boarding Passes
With A Blue Seal.
On to the waiting lounge, this
time accompanied by my music box Woody built for me. Kelli O’Hara’s voice in
The Bridges of Madison County is my special space today in this crowded area,
and I feel a stupid smile coming. Life is good.
Flight time! Well, bus time to
the airplane. My expectations are destroyed when I see a recent-vintage
150-person Airbus jet, as opposed to the 24-person prop plane I wanted.
Small matter. I’m no fan of
scenery, but how many people can say they flew within a few thousand meters of
Mt. Everest? The view is stunning at 30,000 feet and even if predictable, the
moment feels important.
The air jockey drops through the
clouds, banks hard right through the ridiculous turbulence, and puts the rear
tires on the tarmac while still turning. I now understand why the Paro airport
is considered by pilots to be the most dangerous in the world.
My temperature is taken – twice
– in the small outdoor alcove between tarmac and airport in Paro. There, a man
in a white lab coat and face mask conducts a personal interview in perfect
English. Where I have been? Where am I going? Have I been to China? Did I come
to Nepal directly from USA? No, well then where did I stop and why did I not
disclose this initially? How do I feel? Am I coughing, overly tired, sneezing,
and more than anything, do I now / have I had a fever recently?
I pass all tests, although the
EU travelers behind me fail and they are escorted to The White Tent. I am
unclear what becomes of them, but since it is all pre-ordained anyway there is
no purpose in asking.
Outside the terminal I look for
my guide. There are more than 25 Bhutanese men, all 5’6”, all 130 lbs, all with
black hair, all 30 years of age, all wearing the red stripe kimono I see in the
pictures of Bhutan with black knees socks and black high-polish dress shoes.
Each holds a sign with the name of their guest(s).
I find mine stage left. Tashi is
helpful, his English is solid, and he introduces me to Dorji. Dorji will drive.
Tashi will guide.
We lock and load and are off to
Thimpu in seconds. There is almost no traffic on these switchback roads hugging
the mountains, and we climb from 4300’ to 7200’ in 90 minutes, speeding along
at ~ 30 kph tops. I suppose again that since all is predestined, there is no
need to rush.
I get to know Tashi and vice
versa as he is talkative. My first impression is that he is a government minder
like in China and Vietnam, but with more freedom and flexibility. We stop for
lunch in Thimpu. Tashi asks if it is Ok that we walk upstairs to the
restaurant, as the elevator is either occupied or doesn’t work.
Sure, I graciously volunteer.
Guess what, the restaurant is on
the 4th floor and the bottom floor is not the 1st but
rather the bottom floor, like in EU, so my hike begins without me even knowing
it. I am huffing and puffing by Floor Four, but good news to me anyway, so is
Tashi.
Besides the obvious, there is a
reason. I check the compass on my pocket toy. Paro’s elevation is 4200’. But
Thimpu is at 7200’. I feel better about being winded.
I am seated by myself as there
is almost no one else in this restaurant, c19 having destroyed tourism here
too. Tashi eats in another area. I invite Tashi to join me, he makes some lame
excuse but the gravamen is, I think, that he is not allowed. I don’t see Dorji
or I would invite him too.
Four small bowls are delivered
to me, along with one medium. The small bowls appear to contain spinach with
cheese, cabbage surprise, unidentifiable road kill, and a white cream sauce
with chili peppers. The medium bowl has lentil soup.
Also served is a small tinfoil
containing three very small tortillas.
Knowing I will be ill soon
anyway, I pick at some, try a taste of all, and drink copious amounts of
bottled water. The road kill is stringy and chewy, the cheese spinach is good.
A sliced green banana is produced, more to signify the end of the meal I think
than to be enjoyed.
Next stop is The Thimpu Post
Office, and I have no idea why we are stopping here. Seemingly there are two
reasons. First, there is a display of wooden phalluses on the top shelf that
Tashi wants me to view. Second, I am invited to pay 500 ngultrum to have a
postage stamp made of my face.
I decline the stamp and
evidently the phallus display was for shock value as it relates to a fertility
god I will meet soon. We leave for the hotel. On the way it is discovered that
Tashi is learning a new foreign language. So we both practice our first grade
French.
Clearly, his is better than mine
and I am bummed. But we have fun teaching Dorji to roll Rs.
We check in to the Hotel
Phuntsho Pelri. I may be the only guest. Tashi patiently explains to me that
there is hot water between 1700 and 0900 daily. The hint is I might want to
consider delaying ablutions until those hours. I tell Tashi bon nuit and adieu as evidently the afternoon is mine to do as I please.
And so I am free to explore this
village, the capital of Bhutan.
March 4
I am up before 0500, and on my
computer by 0501. I have 51 emails from yesterday. Only a few are garbage, the
others require either thought or response. Some need both.
If that’s the bad news, the good
news is that: (a) I am able to ‘tether’ to my pocket computer although it takes
several tries and several minutes, and (b) none of the emails require too much
of my attention.
The email process takes a full
hour as internet speed is similar to connecting on the Southwest Air flight to
LaGuardia. One types and waits several seconds for the text to appear. It’s
frustrating, but doable.
Time for morning ablutions. I
turn on the hot water but there is none. Guess I won’t be shaving. Again. But
this also means no shower. Bhutan water comes directly from the Himalayan
mountains. It is close to 32 deg, IMHO without testing.
I call downstairs to receive
assurance that it will be fixed pronto. Wait 15 minutes, call again. Wait 10
minutes, call again. Wait five minutes, and call the last time.
I find my flippers I have
conveniently packed, and walk down three flights in my shorts. The halls and
common areas of the hotel are not heated, the temp must be below 50 deg.
The front desk helper changes
his tune. In person, he allows that he has contacted The Maintenance Boy and
TMB is most assuredly on his way here. But unfortunately he doesn’t live close.
I ask him to contact my guide
Tashi. He looks glumly like that is not possible. I force the issue and contact
is made by phone. I explain to Tashi, Tashi explains to front desk dude.
All of this seems to cause a
progression, as shortly after there are two helpers in my room. They assure it
is fixed. I test it and indeed, the water is boiling.
Into the shower I go. There is
no distinction between boiling, hot and warm – it is all nuclear hot. I
gingerly spray some on my head and rub in shampoo, just in time for hot water
to turn to cold water which morphs into no water.
I muddle through this
inauspicious start to my day, envisioning my lifeless body found three weeks
later at the bottom of a Himalayan ravine. This does not auger well.
Breakfast, however, involves
coffee so I am re-powered. Time to tour.
Tashi and Dorji are on time. We
start at a magnificent Buddhist stupa, with huge prayer wheels that require
significant muscle to spin. Unlike Kathmandu, we gain entry and Tashi patiently
explains the meaning behind the thangkas, sculptures, statues, mantras, and
mandalas. It is fascinating. Also incredibly complicated, as each deity can
change manifestations into something and someone else, to frighten the pilgrim
into submission and service to Buddha, assist the pilgrim in fornication
efforts (my assumption is that this creates future Buddhists and thus assures
tribute), and in general to provide guidance to The Path of Enlightenment.
Pilgrims are scarce. Only two
prostrate themselves like I saw in Lhasa, and they do so in a special reserved
prostration area on raised wooden platforms. The others circumambulate three
times; we do so once. I am advised that three times symbolizes hell, earth, and
heaven.
On to Buddha Point. Initially I
understand Tashi to say Buddha Points, envisioning a Buddha with
outstretched arm and index finger. But no, this Buddha sits astride a
mountaintop, occupying the high ground. We navigate the perimeter clockwise, and
again we are allowed to enter.
Buddha v2 is not unlike Buddha
v1. Inside Tashi again explains the meaning of the statuary, mandalas,
thangkas, etc. It’s confusing but relaxing in a who-gives-a-care-what-happens-in-this-world
kind of way.
Next up, the national library.
There are perhaps 300 manuscripts and books. Small library, small country.
Then, the ‘handicrafts
emporium,’ clearly designed for tourists to depart with their ngultrum (we
accept credit cards!). I don’t buy and Tashi’s disappointment in another day
without a commission is not evident to me.
I tell Tashi I want to use the
toilet. He says sure as he is headed that way too. It’s a squatty potty that
hasn’t been cleaned in, well, perhaps since Buddha’s birth. I am thankful,
again, that I am traveling solo as this is a seriously disgusting moment.
We stop for lunch but I’m not
hungry. See above.
On to the paper mill and other
opportunities to spend money. But I don’t. Tashi seems Ok with it.
It’s midafternoon and Tashi
suggests it’s been a long day and time to head back. I resist so we compromise.
First, a stop at the pharma for me to buy shaving cream, which I’ve either lost
or forgotten. Although if there’s no hot water then this seems pointless.
Second, back to the hotel where
we will recoup for a few hours allowing me to write this journal. Then head
back out to a combo fortress / monastery which I am excited to see.
5 March 2020
I am up early again, due to a
combination of excitement as we leave for Punakha, a two-hour drive through the
mountains and curiosity. Will Buddha provide hot water, or any water?
There is hot water! Well, until
there’s not. But that may be a function of someone flushing a toilet as the
water returns to its dribble function in maybe 60 seconds.
Off to breakfast. Feeling
indulgent, I ask Madame for black coffee. Then again, Then, once more. Life is
good.
On the way back to my room to
pack and await Tashi and Dorji, I stop at the stand where newspapers are
offered to guests. I select the first I see in English. The date is October 28,
2019. The second I select is more current – January something, 2020. My surmise
is that there is no need for current news, as all is predestined.
Regardless, I ask front desk
helper for a current paper. He excitedly says yes he has one! It is dated 4
March – yesterday – but I haven’t seen newsprint in almost one week so I am
pleased.
The daily Kuensel, That The
People Shall Be Informed, advises in the headline that Bhimraj Rai and Aiti
Maya, siblings aged 35 and 29, converted to Christianity more than 10 years
ago. But happy news, they were “ritually restored” to Hinduism, their birth
religion, yesterday afternoon in a rather simple ceremony.
I learn that Bhimraj is a driver
at a mining enterprise. And that Aiti’s husband works at the same company.
Bhimraj said he had intended to
bring a pundit to do the rituals, but
proved cost prohibitive. I have to research this use of “pundit,” and learn
that in Indian culture it means a Brahmin scholar.
In other news, taxi drivers ask
for an additional fuel depot. Indian trucks are allowed to continue access into
Bhutan. Waste Warriors battle mounting waste. Duktip will face Orong Gewog in
the Finals.
On the back page I learn that
today, well yesterday, augers well to: consecrate, appease local deities, perform
wealth accumulation rituals, learn astrology, start a new business, marry and
celebrate, shift house, and to sow seeds. This day does not, however, bode well
to appease Naga, to install a vase, or to perform astrological predictions and
divinations for both dead and living.
At some level this is like
returning to Marvell Arkansas. Not reported is that Beulah Lou wore a bright
yellow dress with a pink hair ribbon on her second date with Buster Joe, which
ended at DQ where Buster had a chocolate malted and a cheeseburger (double
onions please) but Beulah Lou, ever-watchful of her figure, enjoyed only a
super-sized order of French Fries and a diet soda. But I would hardly be
surprised if it’s here – maybe I missed it.
And time now to sally forth to
the next adventure.
We drive to the Dochula Pass,
over 10,000 feet high. The view of the Himalayas is likely unbelievable. But I
have no means to know, as Buddha has elected to obscure all with clouds.
Outside I start a conversation with a Bhutan guide in traditional gear, aided
by a NY Yankees ballcap. He claims he is a baseball fan but I think he wears
the cap to please his American tourists, as he cannot name one NY player and
doesn’t know the base rules of MLB.
I meet Tashi’s BFF named “Pig,”
another guide with whom Tashi has worked for several years while they shared
the same employer.
Back in the car and off to
Punakha. I have researched this city; my pocket computer’s weather app told me
it was going to be 9 degrees. So I move my gloves, hand warmers, rabbit lined
bomber hat, scarf and other cold weather gear from suitcase to rucksack. I
leave my new long handle underwear in my suitcase, figuring if I need it then
I’ll make Dorji stop and regroup.
By Buddha I am going to be
ready.
We get to Punakha. At least the
signs say PUNAKHA. It is sunny here, the temp is 62. We enter the Punakha
Dzong, the 17th century fortress. More happy news, today is a
national festival for those in the Punakha District. There are dancing costumed
monks in the square inside the fortress, and it is very well attended with only
a few tourists (I gauge this mostly by the people with expensive cameras) but
far more local people who are wearing their national dress. I use that word – dress
– purposefully as virtually all Bhutanese wear the same outfit, with minor
variations.
It’s sort of a robe and kind of
a dress. The men’s dress is knee high; they wear black tights underneath. The
women’s dress is ankle length. Men wear conservative,
black-polished-and-spit-shined Johnson & Murphy dress shoes. Women wear the
equivalent, without the tights. Children too. There are few, very few, jeans,
t-shirts, and sneakers.
I stand out for several reasons,
some of which are unavoidable anyway. But no one points; no one stares. They
have seen tourists of all gradations before. Since Bhutan became a popular
place to visit towards the end of the last century, Indian, Chinese, EU and
Australian tourists are not strangers here.
It’s particularly easy for
Chinese tourists, my new festival cadre explains, as the type of Buddhism here
is not dissimilar to the two types practiced in China.
The festival is major fun, and
an unanticipated event. I likely destroy the tour agency’s daily itinerary as
we stay far longer than Tashi had allowed. There won’t be visits to local
markets, which is fine with me. Buddha’s path will be revealed when it is time
to do so.
The path appears to be a literal
one. Tashi wants to show me another Buddhist Temple, he knows I can’t resist.
Yes I say. Nous allons maintenant SVP (he’s practicing French – did I
already say that?) I tell him.
We park near a river, in a field
next to four-wheel Jeeps and Land Cruisers that advertise “Rafting Here.” No
Temple that I can see.
Tashi is rooting around in the
trunk, and comes out with hiking boots. Off go the spit-shine dress shoes.
Tashi is ready to climb.
I inquire. “Moderate hike” he
allows. How many minutes? About 30, take or give.
We start. Tashi is in front
climbing effortlessly and barely breathing. I am next, huffing and puffing
hard, pulse 195. Dorji brings up the rear. He wears his black dress shoes, I am
guessing he has no others. There is no tread on the bottom. They are completely
flat and 100% unsuitable for this.
I force Tashi to stop several
times, as between the 4,000+’ altitude and my lack of conditioning, I am
struggling. Tashi is patient. I am pleased I brought my climbing poles from
USA.
They are at the bottom of my
suitcase. In the trunk.
Dorji sprints up an alternative
path that a mountain goat would deem unsafe.
The Khamsum Yulley Namgyel
Chorten is worthy of the climb. It is peaceful here, and the Buddhist statuary
is impressive. Glad I did this.
We started this day at 0900. It
is after 1600 now. Our day ends. Hotel time.
Coda: back to my cold
weather gear I schlepped 20,000 km. Now I think I must have been researching
Punakha Alaska or maybe Punakha Mongolia. There is no need for any of this and
I must decide to pitch all or shlep.
Damn.
6 March aka c19 Day
Breakfast is one of my favorite
moments. Even one week later, it’ still a special treat to enjoy fresh farm
eggs, toast, and coffee.
We launch our four-hour mountain
drive at 0900 sharp. Dorji and Tashi are both reserved today. They are serious
now, and don’t pretend to laugh or smile at my silly jokes.
Tashi admits that his days as a
guide might be ending, I could be his last customer. The Virus has landed in
Bhutan. I ask him what he and Dorji will do after they drop me at the airport
Sunday morning. They shrug their shoulders, neither has other skills. They
don’t know and are anxious. Nervous. Scared.
Yesterday at Dochula Pass Tashi
was talking to another guide. Being rotund, Tashi introduced him as “Pig.” See
above.
Pig was guiding two American
tourists. Their previous port-of-call was in India. A few places in India, I
think.
The 76-year old male tourist was
complaining of headaches. Later, stomach issues. Then fever. Yesterday
afternoon he was admitted to the hospital in Punakha and tested positive for
Coronavirus.
His 55-year old traveling
companion was also admitted, but for observation.
Pig was admitted as was the
driver, both also for observation.
I can only imagine the fear
confronted by Tashi and Dorji, having interacted with Pig for more than several
minutes. My interaction constituted seconds and there was no EU-style face
kissing or even handshakes. I met neither 76 YO nor 55 YO.
I also think neither Tashi nor
Dorji was introduced to them. But I could be wrong. I wasn’t with T&D for
the duration, I was inside the warming hut.
So off we go, clearly weighted heavy
by the anchor that started at the Wuhan meat market in December. This has the
making of a long day.
Lunch, I don’t recall. There may
have been two Buddhist temples entered. Or maybe one Temple and one fortress.
Or maybe none. It no longer matters.
Our day ends early. It is before
1500 and something palpable has joined us in our car. As I am dropped at the
next hotel, I ask Tashi what he will do this afternoon and evening.
Tashi struggles to control his
emotions. He takes a breath, then tells me that he and Dorji are headed to the
hospital in Paro, there to be observed. The virus has now entered his orbit and
my world. This is real now, no longer merely a cautionary tale.
Tashi is married. He has
cremated two of his children already. He has an 18-month old daughter and wife,
and it is clear he adores both.
It’s a similar story for Dorji.
Life is cheap, as rural medical care in Bhutan mostly involves shamans,
oracles, and witch doctors, and many children are stillborn or only live for a
few days.
I tell Tashi to contact me via
text or WhatsApp this afternoon and report. He promises me he will do so. I
make him promise again.
And now it is 1600. My new BFFs
are headed to the hospital. I am mostly unconcerned about me. But I’m supposed
to meet my family in little more than one week now. If they are later infected,
I will blame myself and assume that I was the carrier.
What to do? At this juncture I
feel 100% fine. I have the sniffles, but what else is new as typically my nose
drips all year anyway. I have always shared this affliction with my Mom.
I had only tangential contact
with Pig, and while I may have been in the same room with Virus Man I don’t
think I was close.
My head is clear, my stomach is
Ok (and even if it’s not, isn’t that expected anyway for every western
tourist?), and I don’t feel feverish. Really, I feel great, maybe buoyed by
eating nothing more than eggs, toast, boiled chicken, cooked vegetables, boiled
potatoes, rice, and fruit for one solid week.
I learn that the only Bhutan
airport that offers international service, in Paro, will close after all
international tourists have left, in a week or two. This is a tiny country and
my Bhutan visa states my full itinerary, day by day. The Royal Government of
Bhutan knows where I am at all times. The Government knows when the last
tourist has departed.
I have one overriding thought. I
have several extra days at the end of my tour in Kathmandu, with nothing
planned so far. I had spoken to Achut about this earlier, and we talked through
some options.
My thought is that the Kathmandu
airport will also close. But the Nepali government can’t know the number or
location of the tourists. The country is far bigger, and tourism is much more
accepted in Nepal. My surmise is that on any day the tourist population may
number 100,000 in Nepal, as opposed to 1,000 in Bhutan.
So maybe I should see if Qatar
Airways will allow me to advance my return to London a few days early. I can
leave KTM any time on or after March 9. Perhaps better to be stuck in London,
if airports close or quarantines are imposed, then KTM?
I can think of three ways to
make this happen. First, I booked my tour through Manakamana Travels in
KTM. While it is unfair to say that Achut is responsible for me, in some manner
he might be.
Second, when I return to
KTM Sunday I can look for a Qatar Air agent at the airport that can assist. I
know Qatar Air has a presence in KTM, after all I came to KTM on Qatar Air via
Doha. But I suspect that a QA agent in KTM likely has the authority to check
passports, confirm tickets, and issue boarding passes. Probably nothing more.
Third, I can get on the
phone with Qatar Air. Even if I have to purchase another ticket, this might be
smart at this juncture. Then from London I can either stay or return home,
assuming again airports are open and quarantines are not imposed.
7 March, the Bug Out Day
Yesterday I elect to exit Bhutan
one day early. I have heard nothing from Tashi nor his Bhutan Tour Agency, so
all I know is that he is hospitalized.
I put all of this in motion by
contacting Achut, who calls his counterpart Nawang in Paro. Nawang is coming to
see me, at my very hotel!
Happy news, or is this code for
the Bhutan Royal Police are taking me away for quarantine? How strange that a
travel agent would come to my hotel. Beyond strange.
I wait. Nothing. Contact Achut.
Nawang is “on the way and will be here in minutes.” I wait. And wait. Contact
Achut again. Yes, Nawang is en route, I am advised. I wait. And wait.
Now it is 2000. Screw it. I go
downstairs to eat dinner, more as an activity then for protein. At the hotel
restaurant I meet two males and one female from NYC, likely ~ 30 YO, who occupy
the only other table along with their guide and driver. They are retired, and
have been traveling EU, northern Africa and the Indian subcontinent for six
months. Their last stop was Delhi.
I am engaged in a deep
conversation with them, when T&D walk in together, now both wearing face
masks. They are asymptomatic they tell me, using words that are similar. More
happy news in The Land Of Happy.
They already know, having been
advised by Nawang (their employer, I now recognize) of my new plans. They don’t
try to convince me otherwise, and don’t ask the reason for the change. I don’t
tell them I have changed directions due to their failure to communicate their
situation, and consequently will miss the number one tourist attraction in
Bhutan, the Tiger’s Nest.
T&D look miserable enough.
I talk to Nawang by phone. He’s
not coming to see me and never was. He allows he will try to change my travel
so that I will fly to KTM one day early, but he’s unclear if he can get me a
seat assignment.
Now it is March 7. I get to the
airport at 0815 for a flight on Druk Air that leaves at 1120. I learn here, for
the first time, that I am on standby. I secure the last seat, on the last row,
at the last minute. I am grateful, as this seems like the right call.
There are three gates in Paro.
My board pass says Gate 2. I clear security and passport control in seconds.
Gate 2 is barely 30 meters away. The door is open, the e-sign above screams
BOARDING.
There is no one else in line as
I present my passport and boarding pass. I badly want to get on this plane
before someone reconsiders and stops me.
But alas, I won’t be boarding
this plane. The gate agent tells me that my board pass says KTM but this
particular plane is going to Bangkok.
Sir, is this a mistake? Sir, do
I want to go to Bangkok? Sir, you’ll need to start over and you’d better move
it as we leave in 10 minutes.
Glory be to gate agents that
check boarding passes. No thank you ma’am. I’ll, umm, retreat into my little
corner by Gate 2 and try to melt into the wall cover, sort of next to the photo
of the current King, his pregnant Queen, and Baby Prince who will be joined by
his new baby brother within a few more days.
At KTM airport I meet my driver.
We drive 25 minutes to the Qatar Air offices. It’s closed. My surmise is that
between Achut and I, we both forgot today is Saturday.
I get the driver to take me back
to the airport. We are directed to an anonymous building that seems to have
offices for all airlines that serve KTM.
Driver man leaves me at the
door. I am guessing he cannot enter. I ask a guy at the Nepal Air office for
directions to Qatar Air. He points me up a flight of stairs, turn right, hard
left at the dogleg, then down a long hall.
I climb, feeling like King Kong
although it is almost a one-mile high elevation at KTM. I. Am. A. Climber. Now.
Make the right and sensory
overload. Curry. No, not just curry. CURRY MAJOR BIG TIME.
It’s 1330 and the Nepali workers
must bring their lunch with them. Or, as I saw in the Bollywood movie about
India whose title I cannot recall, maybe there is a class of workers who
deliver hot curry every day from home to office at lunchtime on their bicycles.
I find the Qatar Air office in
due course. There is one worker, surrounded by luggage. I give him my record
locator, he confirms my flight for 13 March. I tell him I want to change my
itinerary. He allows that he is a baggage handler, dispatched here from the
home office as a fill-in for someone else.
With a stern visage he tells me
that he wants to help, but lo’ he cannot or he will lose his job. Instead, he
suggests I call Qatar Air using an American number which he furnishes.
I yield to the travel gods, find
my driver, return to Hotel Vaishili. My bellman shows me to my room. It is a
bit larger than last week.
This time I am careful, as I
have learned from previous dashed expectations. TV control, check. Heater
control, yes. Phone works. There is soap. There is shampoo. There are two full
size towels.
Good start. The last item is hot
water. When is hot water available, I ask. Now I am told. I turn on the hot
water. There is none.
Bellman says he is going for
backup. Maintenance man comes, tests the water and declares it hot. I tell him
it is not. He shrugs and says it is warm, turns, and departs.
I call the front desk. There is
an issue, it appears, as the boiler systems are now being interchanged with
solar. Or v.v. No matter, again I yield to the water gods.
7 March, Return to Kathmandu
Today, after 10 days of full
third-world Asian immersion, I offer the following conclusions.
1.
Your life will be defined by breakfast.
2.
Do not assume hot water.
3.
Do not assume water.
4.
Breakfast involves coffee.
5.
Electricity sometimes works.
6.
Electricity doesn’t always work.
7.
Breakfast is supreme, always eat breakfast,
trust only breakfast.
8.
Bring nuclear fallout earplugs. The kind air
traffic tarmac workers use, directing an Airbus to the park lot.
9.
Breakfast involves food items you have a chance
of identifying.
10.
Squat pots are the world’s most obscene
invention.
11.
Fire is good. Trust fire. Fire brings heat.
12.
The invention of the wheel does not mean you
will be transported to your destination.
13.
Bring a music box with you for long drives and
flights. This pro tip also gives you the opportunity to drone out the guide’s
struggles to communicate using words.
14.
Eat. Break. Fast. It will be your only protein
for the day.
15.
Bring bottled water everywhere. Including
breakfast.
16.
Negotiate like the very devil when you buy
anything. This includes breakfast.
17.
The Asian definition of “bed” does not comport
with the western concept of “bed.”
18.
Do not assume that a hotel offers soap.
19.
Do not assume that a hotel offers shampoo.
20.
Do not assume that a hotel offers towels.
21.
Do not assume that, if hot water is on now when
you don’t need it, it will be on 20 minutes later when you do.
22.
Do not assume that the hotel phone works.
23.
Do not assume that the hotel TV works, or if so,
that you can work it.
24.
Study the differences between C temp and F temp
before you leave.
25.
You know those little plastic baggies you bring
with you to the EU breakfast to load with croissants and nutella for your snack
later in the day? Don’t bother. Scrambled eggs from a bag five hours after
preparation tend to lose their appeal.
26.
You will be ill. Deal with it.
27.
Smile. Speak slowly and clearly. Make your
intentions and requests known. Cynicism, humor and sarcasm don’t work well in
foreign cultures. Neither do metaphors and simile.
28.
A tip of the equivalent of one dollar can be
bigly appreciated.
29.
Airports are not like what are you used to.
Prepare for ridiculously long lines and workers that do not care about your
troubles.
30.
If you pack a razor blade and have imperfect
vision, correct your vision before you reach in your bag for your razor (I
learned this only today).
Post script: Bhaktapur is
amazing, easily the best part of Nepal. I knew I wasn’t in Kansas when, on
entry, Hindus celebrating a wedding slaughtered a goat at the altar. There was
much merriment, for all save one.
Bhaktapur is a City, perhaps 20
kms from KTM. 20 kms should take 15 minutes by car. But no, it’s more like a
full hour in choking, polluted traffic. It was the capital of the country,
until King Muckety-Muck lost the umpteenth battle to Sheik BlahBlah. Who
decided to move operations to KTM.
Regardless, the faithful stayed
at Bhaktapur, primarily due to Hindu devotion. Hindus are supposed to make a
pilgrimage to various places in India. Those that cannot do so might travel to
Bhaktapur instead, where similar temples were constructed to avoid the Indian
schlep.
Many sacred sites, business, and
hovels – err I mean houses – were destroyed in the last earthquake of
2015. Nepalis are stoic about this. They know another one awaits them, maybe
today or tomorrow, but soon.
For that reason and many others
mostly involving poverty and corruption, the buildings have not been fully
reconstructed. Some structures are completely ignored, while many are held
together with poles placed in the middle of the street at 30 deg angles.
This makes for interesting
challenges for motorcyclists, tractors, cars, trucks, goats, and yaks. As the
concept of “sidewalk” is not existent in this country, one can envision the
consequential effect to pedestrians.
So, while one is gaping at the
phenomenal architecture with tilted head, one is dodging crazed Nepalis with
sacrificial goats tied to the back of their scooters. But good news, they know
the drill and striking a tourista is not only bad karma for the guest, but the
vehicle driver / goat manager would be in Big Trouble.
It’s crazy cool here. Think
Paris’ Latin Quarter carried east far far away, but much bigger – this area
would likely take a few days to fully explore. Instead of banana / Nutella
crepe vendors like I frequent in the LQ there is a guy sitting on a rug trying
to resell his daughter’s used shoes.
This is my first encounter with
beggars, although there are not nearly as many as I envision in India, and few
here are crippled. I ask my guide, she replies it is a Hindu’s duty to help the
poor. This is a holy place, so beggars do better here than say outside my hotel
in the Thamel District.
I go downstairs to call Lynne
who has helped me greatly with travel plans as things have shifted dramatically
o’er the last days and hours. Airports close; people are quarantined; I’ve been
in countries bordering the birth of the Wuhan Virus.
I find a seat downstairs and
start planning my fun day. Lynne calls again; Lindsey and Woody send emergency
texts. My flight to Doha tonight shows “rescheduled” in red ink online.
CNN reports that Qatar airports are denying entry to foreigners from
Virus-infected countries.
I pack my gear in minutes and
grab a cab to the airport, I am here by 0900 for a 2030 flight. I approach the
Qatar Air gate agent who assures me that my flight to KTM is en route and I may
board, provided I am transiting to another country.
And so I sit, waiting, much like
The Band’s Visit, in KTM. I can envision many scenarios, some dreadful, some
wonderful, but none lack excitement.
Woody’s music box, which I
conveniently charged last night to the max, keeps me satiated. I start with TBV
which seems beyond coincidental, move to Hades Town (truly, no reference
intended), on to Sweeney Todd and for grins, LaLa Land.
I never tire of these. Never.
This seems to be the right time
to write (see what I did there) that my family’s concern for me is
overwhelming. They care. Deeply. It is obvious, but I have been oblivious (see
what . . .). They are up at all hours to assist, guide, and suggest.
I am beyond appreciative. This
vacation has elements that I never expected when I registered one year ago.
There are constant surprises, and I don’t envision that will end soon.
I love my family. They love me
back. I am a suit-wearing retro hippy dude looking for my balance and that’s
Ok. I think.
Thank you, merci beaucoup,
muchas gracias, todah rabah.
But mostly, Namaskar.
-s
8 March
Two full days of travel to work
my way back to Doha and on to London, then transfer to Dublin.
This. Sucks.
10 March 2020, to
Dublin Go I
Some random updates occur:
31.
I don’t know what the Priority Pass cost, but if
it is within reason buy it. What a relief to gain some shelter from the
pollution, and sit at a table that was possibly cleaned once or twice since The
Earthquake of April 2015, which is far more than virtually any other public
place in KTM. The club seems to have airport outposts everywhere I go. This is
big.
32.
Don’t think that 100 rupees per kg is as cheap
as you would otherwise believe for laundry service. Charged for five kg (which
I didn’t think was possible), I weighed the sack at my hotel after retrieval
from laundry dude. Barely o’er 3 kg, cleaning dude allowed himself a tidy
profit from this tourista. Oh well. Another $2 gone.
33.
If one travels by oneself to third-world
countries, it is critical to have backup support that will get up at crazy
hours and assist. Without it, prep for the worst; hope for the best.
QED.
11 March 2020, Hyatt Centric, Dublin
It’s cold, windy and rainy here.
There is little live music at the Temple Bar area. The music that I find are
guys playing Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline, while the others do USA college
fight songs like Pat O’Brian’s in NOLA. So the drunken tourists may participate
in sing-a-long karaoke style.
I refuse and instead eat Irish
stew at a local pub. It’s Ok, nothing special, neither is the beer. The Trinity
Bar at One Arts Center in downtown Dallas is better.
But I am not updating this diary
because of the music and food. Ganesh’s sword of irony found me this morning.
I elected to purchase breakfast
at the Hyatt, one more small luxury. And it was awesome. Mostly.
The ham steak contained a 6”
hair. Now understand this did not happen to me in Nepal. Or Bhutan. Or even in
Qatar. No. It happens to me here, in Dublin Ireland.
I call the F&B Manager. I
tell him where I’ve been and what I did not find there. And that I come here
and find this, holding the hair high for all in the restaurant to see.
He did not get the reference.
Then it hits me. He is not from Ireland. His English language skills are
imperfect, he is struggling to understand.
Sergio apologizes, and takes the
plate to the chef. Sergio returns. It is determined that the hair is from a
female (he doesn’t say human or pig or yak), and therefore Hyatt is not
responsible as Hyatt employs no females in the pig service department but he
will contact the pig distributor on my behalf.
Stuart
A. Lautin, Esq.*
* Board Certified,
Commercial (1989) and Residential (1988) Real Estate Law,
Texas
Board of Legal Specialization
Licensed
in the States of Texas and New York
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