Journeys Beyond the Front Door Page 12

  With that dilemma out of the way, onwards we walked, with backpacks firmly secured and indulging on biscuits and cigarettes as three Nepalese pilgrims came running up to join us from behind. They had witnessed the meeting of the small children and through the international language of broken English we laughed and engaged in small talk as they eyed both Sarah and myself up and down, no doubt different reasons. They had arrived from a far eastern mountainous corner of Nepal some days earlier to engage in a right of passage, a spiritual quest if you will. They had come to visit the sacred Buddha tree to pay offerings and study in the temples and monasteries. As is now traditional, they paused us and asked if they could have photographs with us. We agreed and moved off the side of the road and as they took turns in taking their photos, we noticed the contents of the plastic bags they had tied to their belts. Statues, chips, cola and large Ghurka knives. With still friendly banter we continued our walk into town as Sarah, in her well rehearsed street wise manner, began the process of subtly scanning the ground for possible weapons whist I offered out biscuits, which also gave me an excuse to pause and retrieve my own pocket knife out of my bag. Sarah herself had found a pointed, fist-sized rock – enough to do a man or beast serious damage - and stowed this handy item in her pocket. With a sense of paranoid doom, we continued on as our guests conversed amongst themselves, as we feared that our images may either wind up on a kidnapping gallery or some other fell situation may befall us. Our experiences from home taught us not to trust over friendly strangers, much less a small armed group of them, out in the unknown. Thankfully, this obscene paranoia was unwarranted and within five hundred meters down the road, the group of lads had turned off down a driveway into a hotel with a friendly wave.

  Without any additional drama, we finally arrived into the village of Lumbini to the cacophony of dying cars and trucks mixed with the laughter of children playing badminton on the side road. Sarah had swapped her smelly sneakers for flat shoes for this part of our journey, thinking them more suitable, but unfortunately this aggravated the blisters that had been forming on the heels of the feet the past few days. We found a small cafe along the main strip of buildings and ordered coffee before I ventured through the surrounding stores in search of snacks and bandaids. Chips and biscuits appeared to be everywhere, with multiple shops stacked one after each other, containing more and more of the same stock and none of anything different. After roaming to the far side of the village and becoming disenchanted I finally came across a pharmacy of sorts and was served by a small female child of no more than ten who was able to find some bandaids behind the counter for me. With a rejuvenated kick in our bandaged heels, we enquired with the local military as to the way to the Sacred Garden and following their hand gesture, trundled along the outside of the stone and steel fence line that had been our companion leading into the village.

  After what seemed like an extraordinary amount of distance for what we were told, we finally came across a large steel gateway that spanned across pillars covered in vines. An old, wheelchair-bound man with apparent Elephantitus was conversing with a soldier on a park bench under the arch and motioned that we had indeed found the Sacred Buddha Gardens that we were after and thusly we entered. We walked a long cobblestone pathway through towards the centre of the grounds, with trees and ponds skirting the fields around us until we came across the first of many temples along the way. Standing outside one such temple we came across was a monk hovering quietly in the middle of the path, holding small lengths of string in his hands. When we approached, he quietly tied these brightly coloured strings around our wrists and performed the ritual of blessing. He then also asked for money.

  Whilst I had been planning on taking some culturally distasteful and mildly offensive photographs with mascots ‘Ziltoid’ and ‘Tiny Trolley’, I was not prepared for the spectacle that we would become in this Bethlehem of Buddhism. As we came to front gates surrounding the birth place temple itself, we were required to remove our shoes and place them on the provided racks as a sign of respect to tradition. As we found our place at the back of the line, we were approached by a small group of Indian men whom upon asking where it was that we hailed from, requested to have their photographs taken with us. Having had this situation play out numerous times previously, we agreed and paused for the obligatory round of shots. Whilst this was happening, the crowd began to swell and other people joined the circle to take their own photos of us having our photo. Mobs of strangers taking other strangers photographs, as if we were some sort of foreign dignitaries posing at a temple in our hippy pants and crude shirts. It was all rather disconcerting. Thankfully the line was swift and we quickly left behind us the embarrassment of false idol worship to weave our way though the renovated first temple, with its creaking wooden elevated walkways that spanned above the sacred excavation of the old holy site. Below us lay the remains of a two and a half thousand year old temple complex that marked what is said to be the exact spot where the Buddha was brought into the physical world. Sarah - with her mystical connections and engrained spiritual abilities - claims to have been able to sense the energies off this ancient structure and visibly broke out into goosebumps, I just found it to be calming. We silently shuffled along behind the other pilgrims, making our way along the wooden track to finally arrive at the glass covered key stone and completed the obligatory custom of pilgrimage by throwing cash money down onto the holy spot before letting another pilgrim take our place. Exiting through the complex, we came out into the vast sacred gardens that centred itself on the sacred tree and birthing pond area and was scattered with the remaining stone foundation of millennia old and ruined stupas and temples.

  The 'Please don't climb on the ruins' signs were clearly ignored by the Indian tourists as they ran and played cover the decaying constructs and generally acted like competed dicks. It was at this point in what should be a sacred site of heritage that I felt reassured in my confidence that cosmic karma would not be so offended by my intended photography time with hand puppets. Sarah, on the hand, made her way to the edge of the large concrete edged pond to meditate and be the spiritual she-beast that she is. I wandered off to admire the large trees covered in prayer flags that stretched across the grounds and connected everything else to the immense central sacred tree. As I looked back occasionally, I could see that's Sarah's meditation process was being continually spiritually raped by the throngs of people who were crowding around and taking invasive photos of her, or sitting next to her so that she would be the background of their selfies. Some cretins even stood directly in front of her and stared blankly as if hey were witnessing the Virgin Madonna in all her splendour. Having seen this charade occur many times over the last couple of weeks and generally being the third wheel to such photos - if not just being entirely cropped out - I was surprised to then find myself surrounded by a group of young Indian men also wanting photos. I obliged and received a photo back with them, with the sacred pond and tree behind us to highlight the absurdity of it all.

  With a sense of committing something truly blasphemous, we parted ways and I continued to explore the vast garden area before finding my way back to the pond area to awake Sarah out of her interrupted state of meditation before we made our way together to the heart of the gardens – the sacred Buddha tree. We stood and watched the other pilgrims sitting and praying before this monolithic structure as monks sat to the side, weaving baskets and burning incense before we stepped forward ourselves and received some incense to burn atop a the small cauldron before a statue of the Buddha. As we left the grounds and returned to put our shoes back on, we were once again stopped by another wide-eyed group who requested more photos with us. And again as we attempted to find a bathroom. And once more further down the path, underneath a large Buddha Baby fountain at the central cross roads of the park, where we were greeted by twenty to thirty teenagers clad in leather jackets and sunglasses, high tops and acid wash jeans. They personified the delayed clashing cultures at war within the youth of Nepal,
where the doctrine of the ancients are being chased by the technological fashions of the eighties. Continuing on through to the next area of the garden complex, we arrived at the international monastery section, where Buddhist groups from around the world would set up a specific stupa and temple for their own individual countries. From the pathway, these monstrosities poked through the tree lines with shameless pomp and misguided opulent intent. There was a severe lack of interest in these abortions of monasteries and we continued on towards the library and learning quarter which would transcend into the exit. Along the way, Sarah was again befriended by a group of young school children intent on learning all about how to get into an Australian university and quizzing her about her life in general. Their intent to converse with myself, however, was inevitably lacking so I followed quietly along and chain smoked in the only way that I know how. As we reached the museums and Sarah's conversational limits, the questions from the small children had slowed to a lull and discussions had found their conclusion, we hastily bid our farewells but not before giving the most talkative child a kangaroo key ring, to which she scrunched up her face like a stress ball and cried small tears. Bless.

  The need to use the bathroom had also hastened us towards the museum. With blistered feet and full bladders, we reached the gates of the oddly-shaped museum, which resembled large stacked copper pipes, to find that we required a ticket from the booth across the pond to enter. I left Sarah where she was to nurse her broken feet as I shuffled my way back across the way we came to find the booth and then waddled my way back. Whilst the museum was absent of all but replicas and photographs of statues and figurines in various stages of decay, what they did have was a working restroom so it surely begot its bargaining price. With a quick lap of the lower level of the museum, we were once again outside and making our way past the ticketing booth and through to the hawker stalls set up in a row of concrete garages with roller doors before bypassing the assortments of foodstuffs that were being cooked on milk crates and gas bottles.

  As we continued our jaunt, we soon found ourselves outside of the stone and steel fence that encircled the entire grounds and realised that we in fact had no idea where we were in relation to our accommodation. We entered back into the parking lot area behind the food stalls and attempted to find a driver that would be willing to take us home. Through a translator, we managed to haggle a taxi driver down to what seemed like a fair price before being whisked away in a small, non-descript white van, weaving between bicyclist and trucks and possibly clipping one pedestrian. It was still surprising that I had not seen one burning wreck or dead body in the side of the road thus far on this trip. It would indeed seem that Murphy's Law did no apply in these here parts. Within a minute, we were soon back at our resort and safe in the sanctuary that was our little thatched cottage in the middle of the wilderness. We were ready to eat and sleep for we had a long journey in front of us, back through the mountains by death bus to the capital and this would no doubt require as much energy as possible.

  Chapter Sixteen: The Ascending Madness Of Altitude

  After a satisfyingly restful sleep, we awoke earlier than necessary and were able to sufficiently pack our items into their respectful areas of our bags – there’s a first for everything. We made our way down the misty, tree-lined pathway past the smouldering fire pit and into the restaurant, where freshly made omelettes and baked potatoes were waiting to be washed down with coffee. The past couple of days had seen the mist progressively getting heavier and as we sat looking out the window watching the fog roll through, it was assured that today would be no different. Whilst this added to the tranquillity and mysticism of these ancient, spiritual lands, the idea of a day spent on a bus hurtling through the mountains with no visibility dispelled this notion with a flavour of disenchantment.

  At the allocated time Dinesh, the eco resort manager, helped carry our things out onto the elevated road where the bus was destined to collect us. Dinesh had organised our transport back to the capital the day before and had arranged for the safer of the two bus companies to pick us up, which thankfully was also the one with more comfortable seating. As we stood on the side of the road in the pre-dawn mist, trucks and motorbikes would emerge through the white walls with only the noise of their engines to give them away, blistering past us at unforgiving speed before disappearing once again into the soup. We did not have much of a chance in the prior days to speak at length with Dinesh as he mixed his days up between running the resort, giving nature walks and entertaining the larger tour groups at night around the fire, but as we stood lamely awaiting our chariot he began to tell us of the various community works that the resort does. The money generated by the casual traveller went into a variety of projects such as tree planting, building local schools and feeding the local village children, as well as various conservation and rehabilitation works and surveys of the animals in the area. Sensing an opportunity to lighten our bags of a couple extra kilograms, we offered up the last of our school supplies to his cause. The stationary was graciously accepted and we were assured that they would be well loved and put to good use when he delivers them to an outskirt village on his travels.

  With impeccable timing, our bus finally emerged like a ghost in the fog, clean and shining in the morning dew and absent of any token offerings nor insignia depicting deities begging hope and shallow promises of safe passage. We bid our farewells and boarded this elegant steel beast and made our way towards the back seats, where we were greeted by graffiti-free lodgings and an unexpected level of room. Even as the local in front of me extended her seat nearly horizontally and feigned sleeping, my knees were only just scraping the back. Thankfully, due to Sarah's smaller stature and ability to sleep in any condition known to man with the help of Valium, we swapped seats and she assumed the 'crouching turtle hidden dragon' fetal position and drifted off on her merry way for no doubt more of her notoriously strange dreams. Due to my innate inability to sleep without stable, quiet and dark conditions, I was destined to stare out of the window whilst attempting to refrain from being as annoying as possible to the dozing one.

  Quite unlike the driving mentality of home, where a small amount of rain or adverse road conditions induce an uncontrolled urge by the general public to drive like an elderly grandmother with arthritis and cataracts, the locals here are completely unfazed by the severe lack of visibility. Once they emerge from the fog before us, the slower trucks and animal-driven carts are overtaken at speed whilst the bus would occasionally lurch sideways to avoid the pedestrians strolling along on the inside of the road. With some what reckless abandon, the driver would - at seemingly regular intervals - hit the breaks half-way through overtaking to drop back behind our compadre buses to bypass the no doubt impending doom of a fiery head on collision. Thankfully, being at the back of the bus, there would at least be a good dozen meat bags in front of us to soften the ensuring blow.

  At the first of our designated stops, the tradition of small troops of peasant children flooding the bus continued, again with one hand outstretched hoping for donations whilst the other clutched fistfuls of money. While I will admit to being uneducated in the ways of beggar folk law and customs, I would have imagined that showing off your profits and dispelling the facade of poverty that the mud faced mask had instilled would have been faux pas. As the children made their rounds of the other passengers - having being waved away by ourselves - we were thusly presented with a 'sadhus', or 'wandering Hindu holy man'. As he approached and locked in eye contact, this elderly man, clad in his simple robes, applied to our foreheads a 'tika', or what is more commonly known as in the west, “that red dot thing”. As it is foretold, he blessed our ongoing journey with an acknowledgement of a divine presence and with the all-seeing power of the third eye which has thusly been squeegeed clean in a short ceremony in the back of a bus. Quite realistically, he may well have been just another beggar with a snazzy gimmick but the sentiments were well received and worth the offerings of the small notes that were le
ft in my wallet. Whilst the small denominations that constituted for all practical purposes worthless money more suited for the construction of paper mache hats, this travelling holy gypsy seemed genuinely happy and it appeared that this was a good exchange for all parties concerned.

  As we departed the flat lands of the Lumbini region and began the uphill climb into the winding mountains of the outer Himalayas, the mist began to clear as the altitude played havoc on the internal pressures of the ear. Nonetheless, this proved to be a blessing as the audible abortion that passed as the Hindi version of 'Now You See Me' being played on the screen at the front of the bus and wafting through the speakers around us was partially drowned out by my own internal rhythmic hum. On a more positive note, the knowledge that the barrier-less cliffs and speeding oncoming traffic were visible up in the front cabin was indeed reassuring in itself. Sadly, within minutes we had rounded into another valley and with the returning fog came the return of the practice of overtaking on blind corners. As we pulled into our designated lunch time truck stop, I awoke the slumbering she-beast curled up on the seat beside me and prepared ourselves for the descent into the basement area of a large stone and concrete structure that may or may not have been the bottom of a hotel. We lined up for the buffet of miscellaneous rice and vegetable curries and heaped an ordinary portion of assortments onto our plates while we watched our Indian tribe of fellow travellers pile fist upon fist of food stuffs onto their plates as if it was a final meal before execution or exile. The beasts were truly ravenous this day.