BIRDING BHUTAN

Flying in the shadow of the giantsThe flight from Katmandu, Nepal to Paro, Bhutan on a clear winter's day, skirting south of the majestic mountain expanse from Everest to Kanchenjunga, is the perfect introduction to the world's one remaining Buddhist kingdom. The looping final approach to the airport between forested mountains, accompanied by a rapid descent, reinforces the notion that one is entering a very different sort of place. Perhaps even dropping into a magical past, cut off from the rest of the world by more than four dimensions.

Instead of saving our travel until the end of the volunteer month, Judy Forbes (friend and volunteer with the anesthesia department at the National Hospital) and I had made arrangements with Tsheten Lodey (www.bhutantouragent.com) to see some of the birds of Bhutan. Neither of us would consider ourselves die-hard twitchers or even moderately avid ones, though I admit to having kept a bird list in our travels and will gladly share it. So, why birds? Birding is simply a way to organize a trip, give context to the lay of the land, and provide delightful entertainment. Both Judy and I are more interested in "pretty birds" than rare ones, and find raptors far too difficult. But give us a foraging nuthatch in an erythrina tree or a busy fantail and we are enchanted. Birding is also quiet and slow--a legitimate excuse for a journey without too much sweat. By the end of our 6 days, the red vented bulbul and Hodgson's redstart had become familiar creatures in an increasingly familiar countryside.

Journey to Discover Bhutan
Tsheten Lodey's company, Journey to Discover Bhutan, organizes specialist tours for studying Bhutan's natural history; cultural endeavors, especially those centered on the exuberant Buddhist religious festivals, for which the country is famous; and trekking. Besides his knowledge of birds, he knows the habitats in which to find a particular species and the time of year to look for them. For example, one day he promised us a honeyguide. He stopped along the side of the road, in what I thought an inauspicious location, and sure enough, camouflaged on a bare branch of a shrub overhanging a rock face sat a yellow-rumped honeyguide.

In a small country that ranges in altitude from 150 meters to 7500 meters in the space of less than 100 kms and varies in rainfall from monsoon fed sub-tropics to dry alpine scrub, a birder is offered an astonishing variety.

The White Bellied Heron
One of Bhutan's rarest birds, the white-bellied heron, winters in the rivers around Punakha in the western part of the country. During our first dinner, some Bhutanese discussed the delay in the bird's appearance. As of 24 Nov it had not been sighted and its return was questioned on TV news casts. Would it arrive? Of course we went looking, walking along the Pho Chhu ( Pho River) near the Punakha Dzong (a fortified monastery combining state administrative and religious functions) the afternoon of the 25th without luck. The next day we drove north into the Jigme Dorji National Park along the Mo Chhu almost to Damji. Two hours walking along the river, hearing from the school children and local adults that, yes, they had all seen the herons. A pair had flown by about noon, an adult and a juvenile had been seen in a place where they commonly fish. We followed bands of boys who showed where the day before or that morning they had seen the birds. Tsheten queried everyone and we followed all leads. But no luck. On the return drive to Punakha we stopped frequently to check the river. Just below the Dzong, near the area we had walked the day before, Tsheten pointed. To the lee of a gravel bar stood a most stately bird. Soft gray in color with an exaggeratedly long neck, he walked in the shallow waters with the purposefulness of royalty. After being admired he spread his wings and, capturing all the grace of his species in that one movement, flew down river.

ShatuOur driver, Shatu, is also a birder, as well as ex-champion light weight boxer in the army. In a country of one lane roads and inexperienced, young, male drivers Shatu's army-acquired driving skills were reassuring. Shatu knows birds by sounds and their habits, something for which I have no talent. He grew up in eastern Bhutan, west of Mongar, where the semi-tropical forests are home to the best birding in the country. He learned about birds while tending his family's cattle and spending time in cattle camps. While driving with his window open, he'd hear a bird song or call, tilt his head a few degrees, stop the car, and say its name, showing us the bird--usually one we could hardly identify with binoculars and a bird book. He reminded me of the endearing character, Benjamin, in the book, A Guide to the Birds of East Africa--A Novel.

Sunbirds and Flowerpeckers
During our tour winter flowering cherry trees in clouds of pink blossom studded the mixed deciduous temperate forests, breaking the green with unexpected spring-color. Our first day out we stopped to take a picture of one glorious specimen tree along the road and spent an hour observing sunbirds, flowerpeckers, warblers and tits who were making that curve in the road a vibrating, noisy aviary. Finding a cherry tree and parking ourselves at an easy viewing distance became our strategy for early morning independent bird watching.

The Black-necked Crane
Like most members of its family, the black-necked crane is globally threatened. In the late autumn hundreds leave their Tibetan breeding grounds and head to the extensive marshes of the Phobjikha valley in central Bhutan where they attract an array of tourists from unreconstructed twitchers to the casually curious. Like the white-bellied heron, this bird's preservation has become part of Bhutanese culture. Conservation and recognition of the endangered, threatened, vulnerable, or rare animals and their habitats is a governmental goal, taught in schools, and practiced by the citizens. We saw this when hunting for the white-bellied heron. The children knew this bird and its habits in a way I have rarely seen with American children or ever practiced myself.

The extent and diversity of its forests set Bhutan apart from other Himalayan countries. Over 70% of the country remains forested and in turn, most of the birds are forest and scrub dependent species. Bhutan has birds similar to those I know from Africa, such as sunbirds, drongos, hornbills, and bulbuls, while others such as crossbills and grosbeaks look similar to North American regulars. Though the plumage of the spotted nutcracker looks nothing like that of the Clark's nutcracker I know in Montana, the body, the beak, the call and habits make them unmistakable cousins. But I knew nothing of minivets, fulvettas, or redstarts until seeing them here.

Spring, the season of flowering for Bhutan's 47 varieties of spectacular rhododendrons and other seasonal blossoms is the best time for seeing birds. Ah, something to look forward to.

AROUND TANSEN (aka Palpa)

Hike to Ranighat
When a Nepali tells you a journey is flat, he or she sees it with different eyes than mine and most other Westerners. Moderate ups and downs don't register with a Nepali the same way they do with one more used to "true flat". When asked the time to a certain place, we were given both a Nepali time and a "bedeshi time". (Bedeshi is the neutral term for non-Nepali) A "bedeshi time with camera"--talking advantage of all photo-ops--is longer still. However, this telling of distance by hours I find strange since few Nepalis wear watches and asking 4 different people the same question of distance gives five different answers.

I joined a group of 9 Westerns who started off from the Tansen Mission Hospital on Thursday morning and worked our way down and around the hills on paths and rutted dirt roads to the Kali Gandaki River. I believe the general direction was north and west, but I don't think the cardinal points on a compass mean a great deal in the mountains. During this time we gradually descended through forest, around fields and farms before reaching a warm, damp almost jungle growth. Along the path were spreading Ficus religious trees in cement platforms, many types and sizes of bamboo, holly, rice fields--recently harvested, humped cattle plowing the terraces for the winter crop and people going about their agrarian business. We were serenaded with the sound of water in irrigation canals and natural springs and an intermittent hum of cicadas in the lower altitudes along the river. The sparkle of small and medium sized butterflies flitting among the flowering shrubs growing in the dappled sun along the paths added movement to rather idyllic scene.

A rundown 19th C. palace on the Kali Gandaki River called Ranighat was our goal. Built on a platform with steps down to the green-watered river between two deep curves, this river abode--built in honor of a local ruler's consort--still shows vestiges of its previous grandeur. We arrived after 4 hours walking and ate our bananas, crackers, biscuits, oranges, and sandwiches in the cool shade.

Continuing to Ramdi?Reiner, the leader and a surgeon who had worked at the hospital for a number of years and spoke Nepali, asked some of the locals about the possibility of us following the river to Ramdi where we could find transport by vehicle back to Tansen. The villagers said it would take about 4 hours, and once we gained the ridge, we had only to follow the river along a level path. This is where the excursion began to take shades of one of Orty's and my unprepared few hour hikes that inevitably turn into a full day unprepared hike in unmapped territory. And remember, a Nepali "level path" has nothing to do with flatlander bedeshi reality.

The way Reiner put forth the choices of a rather boring return along the way we came, verses an exciting, but pleasant 4 hour walk, who could have chosen the former? His directions written on four lines, didn't match much of what we found. We were often on the wrong path, traveling in the opposite direction from what we were supposed to, but always people helped us, sometimes walking with us to point out a tricky intersection or hidden turn-off.

Jacob, the Swedish medical student, and his wife Therese had a large packet of balloons in their backpack. Every filthy, snot-nosed child received one, looking quite amazed at the strange present. It reminded me of my father's buzzy bees--his signature balloon reward, which fascinated many youngsters, erasing the sting of a shot or painful prodding.

The litter along the paths and roads is quite foul in Nepal. Plastic chip packets and candy wrappers are the norm, the result of a culture unused to waste disposal. One wonders if the unnatural sight of the litter doesn't offend the Nepalis, but I suspect they have a blind spot for such vulgarity.

One bright spot in the Nepali landscape is the variety of color. Houses are painted or the wooden doors and window frames are painted bright colors. Flowers, especially marigolds are in profusion around the houses and women wear bright colors, glorifying themselves and the clothes lines.

About 16:30 we started to cross a footbridge of the Kali Gandaki River, thinking we were heading in the right direction and could catch a vehicle on the other side. A motorcycle driver coming across told Reiner that what we wanted was still a good hour away and in the opposite direction. He gave Reiner directions and said that he'd drive ahead to his village and wait to show us the way so we got on the correct road.

The United Mission Hospital of Tansen has a good name in the area. People we met in the villages responded positively to us because of the hospital. I think they feel that they get good treatment at a fair price and if really poor, know they will be taken care of without payment. Reiner introduced us as working there, which may have set the stage, but still, there was a sense of recognition, and smiles, showing that people appreciate the hospital's presence.

It seemed that every time Reiner stopped to ask directions the distance to Ramdi magically lengthened and the time to reach our destination grew like Pinocchio's nose--as if we were walking in a fairy tale or a Steven King story. It was beginning to get dark and we had still at least an hour to go, probably longer. Just as the group arrived in the motorcyclist's village a jeep from Tansen came trundling down the rutted road. The driver agreed to drive us back to the hospital. What a fortuitous, unplanned coincidence.

Traveling half in dusk, half in darkness we rode the treacherously narrow and steep mud road up and up, then down and down for an hour in the 15 km trip to Tansen. The 30 year old driver was the one person in the entire world who best knew the road, including the 6 curves that have to be taken by backing up part way because they are too sharp to be taken in one try. Despite the lack of any barrier to the sheer drops into the great Himalayan void, we were grateful for the jeep's fortuitous arrival and the agreement to bring us home after a long and tiring day.

TANSEN AKA PALPA, Western Nepal

Beggars and their dogsMany of the Kathmandu beggars have dogs. The few curs I've seen up close, sleeping on the same mats and blankets as beggars look no worse off, and usually a lot better than most other dogs, who suffer from mange and worms. I wonder if the beggars beg for the dogs and share, of if the canines are on their own for procuring meals. Not being dependent on a human for food, it may be a purely companionable relationship. I like to think so, because I imagine the future in such a relationship. When I become a demented bag lady, I will have a short-haired rather small dog, one that keeps my feet warm. Seeing the possibilities on Kathmandu's streets makes planning for this eventuality a little more realistic. I know I won't be the only one.

The Road to TansenSapana Panday's father graciously escorted me to the central bus station at 06:30 Sunday morning. He'd already purchased my ticket to Tansen, though it could have been purchased that morning without problems. I feel very pampered to have such attention. It has made movement easy, almost too easy, since I don't have to figure out my own coping strategies. I had seat number 8, a window seat on bus 4806, with "speed control" written across the front bumper. The painting of a trident holding blue Shiva with a cobra wrapped around his neck graced the front of the Tata bus, flanked by pairs of outstretched open-palmed hands offering flowers . The sides were painted with identical village scenes of houses in hills with a shrine. I wrote down the number of the bus's license plates because at crowded bus stations I've sometimes lost my bus due to poor attention to such simple details.

I was both dreading this estimated 10 hour trip and looking forward to the adventure. Where the line of adventure would cross into abject discomfort was unknown, but could have been at any stage in the journey. How much abuse can an already grumbly lumbar spine take? And the toilet facilities? Do they exist? Can one stomach them? Ah! This is always my worry, though in Nepal it is less a problem than in a place like Afghanistan. And if I'm so worried about toilets, what am I doing here? About an hour out of Kathmandu valley, the bus stopped and all the men got out to pee. At the breakfast stop, (greasy chapattis and curry potatoes) there were some not totally disgusting loos and even water to wash hands. And much later in the almost dark, I went with two sari-clad women into some low shrubs at the far side of the road and squatted. I didn't drink all day, fearful of the consequences.

It was not an uncomfortable trip. In fact, the small, up-right seat with no space for knees did wonders for my back. Don't ask how. I sat beside an old Nepali man in a wool coat and Nepali hat. He was quiet, didn't cough or burp too much and considering what could have been, I was grateful for this politely quiet and neutrally fragranced seat mate. He politely refused my offer of a digestive cracker, which may have been because of its appearance, my caste, or his lack of hunger.
The mountains to the north were misty, everything was misty, my pictures taken out of the opened window are blurred or inconsequential and hardly worth saving. How many pictures of harvested terraced rice fields can one justifiably save ?

We traveled south from KTMD, crossing the middle range of mountains in vertiginous curves, following a river, (sorry, I do not know the name) into the terai, the southern strip of flat land, which is more like India than one's storybook idea of Sherpa landscape. In the terai we made good time on the straight road heading west until 40 km E as Butwal, where we came to a stop behind a 300 meter line of backed-up trucks and buses. A multi-ton road building machine had fallen off a truck on a sharp curve and now, on its side, blocked the road. No matter the lever, and no matter the number of Nepalis giving directions, I could see nothing positive coming of this affair for many hours. I tied my fleece around my waist, shouldered my back pack, and grabbing my laptop, set off.

What a wonderful feeling. I'd been so pampered with help from people arranging tickets, ferreting out times, driving me to appointments or picking me up, that I'd forgotten the sense of freedom independent travel can give. In a space of minutes I was made a free agent and in the process felt a new capability. I started walking, crossed under and over the wreck and near the end of the backed-up traffic on the other side found a bus heading west for the town of Butwal. As the bus was taking off, I was offered a seat, shared with a man and three absolutely filthy children at the very front of the bus. What a great seat. As the children pawed me and kicked me with their dirty feet, I reminded myself that if I wanted to stay clean I wouldn't be traveling in Nepal on a public bus. My bags had been left on the rack in the back where I'd been standing before the offer of the seat arose and I was a bit concerned about pickpockets, but tried to release the thought, insisting to myself that people are generally good and helpful. Which of course they are.

The Butwal bus left me at the edge of town and I took a rickshaw to the station to catch a bus to Tansen. I was the last passenger to board the last bus and was on the road again within a few minutes, at 17:00. Wow! What luck. (Strange that a small good fortune quickly following a set back seems so especially sweet).My crowded back seat and the growing dusk didn't allow much appreciation of the canyon we followed north. All my trust in the driver on this exquisitely twisting road was rewarded with arrival in Tansen, possibly at about the same time as my scheduled bus would have arrived had it not been blocked.

I called my contact, the true value of cell phone technology at night in strange towns where one hasn't a clue, and in short time was whisked to Tansen hospital --United Mission Hospital of Tansen--where a room was waiting as well as a slightly cold, but welcome dinner of pizza and cabbage (which wasn't pizza at all, more like cake topped with buffalo meat, but as close as one is likely to get to pizza in western Nepal). I ate with great appreciation. After dinner I walked outside the hospital gates, found a "cold shop" selling beer, bought a 650ml Tuborg and drank what I didn't dare drink all day.

DHARAN

Rice harvest
Nepal's rice harvest is almost finished. On the flat cobbles in front of temples and shrines piles of grain lie on plastic sheets to dry. No associated blessing accompanies this placement as I'd assumed, thinking of the blessing of first fruits or the blessing of the fleet. It is simply a matter of making use of an open and warm space. In the fields bundles of rice straw are carefully arranged in solid cylinders about 6'wide and 6' tall, coming to a point in the center topped with a decorative marigold branch. What is it about the flowing lines of terraced rice fields that stir the heart? The infinite shades of green or gold, the notion of fecundity, the foreignness of the organic lines to western eyes? Rice fields dominate Kathmandu's eastern valley. The middle distance is thick jungle or forest, while snow sharpens the distant peaks. Viewing the cold, forbidding, far horizon framed by graceful banana leaves puts the scene into another world.

Yeti Air
Thursday morning I flew Yeti Air from Kathmandu to Biratnagar in the SE of Nepal to visit the BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences in Dharan. Kathmandu's small domestic terminal was filled with trekkers, primarily "geared-to-go" middle aged Europeans or young travelers in their 20s, flying to distant base camps to begin their treks. The quality of the PA system made announcements incomprehensible, so everyone crowded around the airport staff near the gate, afraid to miss their plane. One can fly Yeti Air, Buddha Air, Cosmic Air, Gurka Air, Agni Air, Mountain Air, or Tara Air. After learning about Tara at the Rubin Museum before coming to Nepal, and knowing how positively disposed she is for helping humans, I would have liked to fly with her. I was the only barang (frangi, gringo, haole) traveling to Biratnagar--not exactly a prime trekking destination.

Taking off at 07:20 the fog in the valleys hadn't yet been burned off and another layer of cloud obscured the high peaks to the north. The landscape of the middle range became steeper and drier as we flew east, forest and field giving way to rock and scattered hamlets. The cloud and the filthy window prohibited any reasonable picture taking.

Dharan
Biratnagar is flat, warm, and humid, with an immediately recognized decrease in smog compared to KTMD. It also has more bikes and rickshaws, tractors and old trucks on the flat, better maintained roads.

Congregations of Indian mynahs on wires look natural here. Delonix regia, coconut, mango, acacias, figs of various types, eucalypts, casuarina, plumaria, papaya, great spreading canopies of an albezzia, and 40' tall bauhinia purpura are trees I can identify. There are many more I can't place.

The campus of BP Koirala Institute of Health Sciences is lush with old growth trees in a run-down park-like setting. The British built a Gurkha camp with hospital here and now it has evolved into almost a town dominated by the extensive health complex of hospital, medical and dental schools, hostels and housing and playing fields. The huge compound has a nice, active feel.

The ER is a crowded chaotic mess with patients on mattresses on the floor and people milling, pushing to enter, demanding, holding up their papers. The noise is terrific. I was taken aback seeing a middle aged man in peasant clothes bagging a patient while white coated doctors and nurses tended the person on the trolley. My orthopaedic colleagues frowned when I commented on this, saying it was sad, but the hospital only has a limited number of ventilators and not enough staff to physically ventilate every patient who comes to the ER in need of assistance breathing. A family member has to do it. I can't imagine what a son must feel when he is handed an ambu bag and told to press it in order to deliver oxygen to this dying mother.

My room at the guest house is fairly clean, a bit shabby, but suitable. Besides space sufficient to do TaiChi, hearing the familiar chur-chur of resident geckos makes even the lack of hot water acceptable.

While I bought a beer at a small shop outside the hospital, a woman came up and stood beside me at the counter. With no verbal exchange, the proprietress walked to the back of the store and returned with a half liter of whiskey, wrapped it and gave it to the woman. How convenient to have your wants known without saying a word. I came away with a semi cool 650ml Tuborg, wrapped in a June 26, 2009 page from the Katmandu Post.

While waiting at the Biratnagar airport for the return Yeti flight to Kathmandu, a small high-winged STOL airplane taxied to the departure gate. Short dark, wrinkled hill people--women with heavy gold rings hanging from their nasal septums and ears and wearing long colorful skirts and head wraps--filed out of the gate and into the plane.

It seems one can tell where people are going by their clothes and what plane they board. The trekkers in their gear leave in certain planes, the hill people in another and just regular folk into another. Who you are determines your destination.

The "GPS Manikin"
I don't know the streets in Kathmandu or the neighborhoods, except the one in which I'm presently staying. I don't even know which way I'm traveling and the short cuts the taxi drivers take leave me baffled. However, over a couple days riding around the city I have come to recognize a few landmarks. One is a manikin at a dress shop. It stands on the sidewalk and has breasts so pointed and unbalanced, Barbie would be embarrassed.

Thoughts after a week in Katmandu

The Pandey Children
The five year old Pandey girl, Chandani, goes to all-day kindergarten. She can read and write short stories in English and Nepali. I was told she can read the Nepali newspaper, though has to ask the meanings of some of the longer words. When could I write stories in English, let alone a foreign language? Maybe second grade. Though I know this sort of private education is not given to all Nepali children, or even 1%, her abilities let me know how and why we Americans are not destined to remain a powerful force in the world much longer. The educated people from the rest of the world are going to eat us alive, crunch our ill-educated bones for the marrow, and spit out our indigestible parts without us even asking for quarter or even knowing how to ask, because we have become so ignorant.

Seeing how the Pandey children's top-notch education sets them apart from what I know of American children and of most Nepali children, I am struck by the power of knowledge and education. It doesn't bring us together, but instead divides us. On the savannah we all had pretty much the same education, knew the same things, held similar ideas. With the expansion in our fund of knowledge or information we become divided into haves and have-nots. No matter the category of life one studies there are those who get it and those who don't. If in one category you are a "have", it is more likely that you are a have in a few others. The same goes for the have nots. The divisions seem to be coming out more and more unequal.

Chaos after civil war
On our overland walk to the hospital to avoid the chaos of the demonstration that blocked off his hospital last Friday, Chakra made the point that despite having no government, and living in the midst of chaos, people continue to function as if life is normal--evidence that there is a human need or constitutional imperative to live and sort out life the best way possible.

Nepal is an example not of a developing country but of a deteriorating country. It shows how civil war can destroy the cultural fabric of the country. The insurgency has done nothing positive for anyone. Previous levels of trust (what Chakra called the innate forgiveness of Nepalis) no longer exist. The blame can be placed in many quarters, but I don't see how anything positive can come from the existing situation. A Nepali mentioned that he'd been in Vietnam and saw that everyone between the ages of 15-50 was moving, going somewhere, doing something. In Nepal, about half the people were moving and after 2 weeks in Sierra Leone, he calculated that about 10% of the people were moving. He figured a country had about 5 years, or some set, short time in which to right itself after a civil war, and Vietnam had passed this magic interval satisfactorily and is on its way to wealth and stability. Nepal is rapidly losing the opportunity and SL, well, . .


One of the wireless phone companies is called STD. Signs on small shop windows advertising STD/ISD available make me think automatically they are clinics to treat sexually transmitted diseases.

Kathmandu's Durbar Square
On Saturday Cherin Pandey, male about 13, and I visited Kathmandu's Durbar Square. one of the main tourist attractions in the city. A must-do. The historic site of official business lined with old government buildings and crowded with temples, filled now with tourists, touts, punks, dogs, motorcycles and cars. We started our walk in the tourist area of Thamel. I was a bit confused because I couldn't figure out where on the map we had actually started since none of the streets have names and even my little compass confused me. Cherin was a fastidious guide. Every 25 meters he'd ask a person the way even though we'd already been told and hadn't changed direction, or met up with a side street that would have allowed a change in direction.

The Square and its buildings were uninteresting--crowded, noisy, smelling of human waste and awash with litter. I would have no reason to return, or to walk through Thamel, past the souvenir sellers with their gaudy overpriced merchandise. Since I am uninterested in buying, nothing looks interesting to me.

Toy-Toying in Nepal
Sunday, on the drive to Nepal Orthopaedic Hospital the car was twice diverted into long treacherously crowded and dusty detours because of demonstrators performing on the road. This seems to happen daily. A group is unhappy about something and takes its discontent into the street. It all seems relatively peaceful, with chanting and marching, nothing mean or aggressive, but the street is closed, inconveniencing everyone and raising the general level of frustration mixed with anger. Such actions are called marches or demonstrations, but I think of them using the South African word: they are toyi-toying in the street. The term fits.

On Tues the Kathmandu Valley was shut off by the Maoists at all the major roads. No guns, no violence, just long sticks, red flags, red and blue baseball caps, plus some singing and dancing. By their numbers and the narrowness of the road, the mass of primarily male demonstrators prevented vehicles from coming in or leaving the valley all day. Riot police stood in their protective gear along the road, a presence only.

I had been planning to visit two hospitals east of the city and secured a ride beyond the valley's boundary in an official hospital van. After much palaver with the demonstrators the driver got us through in the morning, but coming back to the city we had to wait until one leader, with a very bad hair color job, finished his speech. Driving out I sat in the front passenger seat. I was told my presence was auspicious because Maoists are known to be kindly disposed to foreigners and generally don't harm them. (thought extracting payment is another thing) I suppose they are keen to prevent bad publicity. These toyi-toyis add to the already atrociously snarled traffic and fray the nerves.

I can't imagine the Afghans toyi-toying like the Nepalis or even the Africans. Demonstrating a grievance by taking it nonviolently to the street doesn't fit with notions of any preferred Afghan response. On further reflection, such peaceful action seems positively ridiculous in an Afghan setting.

ARRIVAL IN NEPAL

On approach to Kathmandu, the rugged snowy peaks of the Himalaya sparkle above the horizon of green hills protecting the Kathmandu valley. A magnificent sight marred only by thick fumes pouring from open fires and smoke stacks.

Traffic
The traffic problems of the city, and I suspect of the country, are an inadequate road system in 1)quantity for the rapidly growing amount of traffic and 2) structural quality so that what little is available is rather more a detriment than a conduit for travel. Walking is a nightmare of avoiding both the torn up sidewalks, if there are any, and the vehicles whose sole goal has nothing to do with extending one's longevity. The roads can not be widened and no attempt has been made to repair or repave them. 99% of the hordes of careening motorcycles are driven by young men without either licenses or regard. They could well be seconds for any scene from Mad Max.

The city is filthy in litter, plastic bags, dust, and pollution. Foul smells of organic waste abound, mixed with chemical irritants. In short it is not a friendly city, liberally spiked with all manner of difficulties in getting from point A to point B. However, the home Dr.Chakra Pandey and his family have offered me is off the main street in as quiet and peaceful a setting as one can imagine in a noisy Asian city. (Night dogs still require ear plugs.) At 06:00, first light, pigeons and house crows awaken along with a 20 second lilting wake-up song by an unseen bulbul type of bird, who rouses the sparrows who chirp off and on all day. Mango, persimmon, orange, papaya, and kumquat trees line the garden parterres along with clay pots of marigolds and chrysanthemums. Cannonballs of pommelos hang from a neighbor's tree over one wall. The temperature hovers around 55-60° at night, warming in the sun to a cool bright 75°.

I have been given a pleasant sunny upstairs bedroom in a house adjacent to the Pandey's, but on their compound. The first floor's spacious entrance room has little furniture and its smooth wood floor and open space allow an exuberant, daily Tai Chi ritual. All in all a perfect place.

Fitted for Shalwar-Kamis
I thought I needed a shalwar/kamis, something a little lighter, a bit dressier than my expedition gear. I was also looking for clothing for warmer weather than the one I imagined from snowy Montana, and chosen with the thought of surviving a Himalayan December. I pictured some cheap clothes, but in the ready made stores there wasn't much without beads and sequins or gold glitter. The local tailor has pre-made sets of color and pattern coordinated cloth pieces suitable for top and bottom and a shawl that are then made up in the style one chooses from a picture book. I picked out all the components and dimensions for my sartorial masterpiece-- a round neck opening large enough so there's no need for a zip or buttons, long sleeves, kamis length to below knee, shalwar of thin legs bunched up at the ankles and elastic waist band. The picture book showing the various styles looked like the book I used in Sierra Leone for a wedding party dress--a mix and match guide of possibilities. It was quite exciting creating what I think I wanted, though I'm sure that when I try it on, I will find something not quite right. Sapana, Chakra's accommodating wife, did all the talking for the transaction. How wonderful to watch someone who understands how to get what she wants.

Nepali style Anarchy
Thurs afternoon, the day I arrived, 5 Nov, a bus ran into 3 people buying radishes beside the street, killing them. The driver ran away, knowing he'd be held accountable to some sort of public "justice". People destroyed the bus (similar to killing the messenger) and a big demonstration took over the street which the police closed, snarling traffic for the next 24 hours.

The hospital in Dharan was recently closed for a week because a patient's relatives had beat up some doctors when something untoward happened to the patient. Chakra attributed it to the general anarchy, since the state offers no security or justice and the hospital can't provide it either because the hired guards aren't trained, have no authority, and run away when trouble starts. Like the bus driver.

Friday the road to Chakra's hospital was closed, even ambulances weren't allowed to pass the barricades. One of the servants drove us until we couldn't go further because of a traffic jam, so we walked among the stalled cars, over a bridge, down a dirt embankment, up and around to the hospital. From the orthopaedic clinic windows I watched demonstrators march on the street, shouting slogans. The road was finally opened late in the afternoon.

5 Nov,
NEW YORK AND THE RUBIN MUSEUM OF ART

A couple weeks ago I came upon the name and description of this museum and a coupon from the internet for a free pass to accompany a person paying full price. I thought this would be something worthwhile to prime a trip to Nepal and Bhutan. Dick Freeman and I spent an informative afternoon in this tasteful, new museum. One of the organization's goals is to inform and educate people about the art one finds in the Himalayan areas, concentrating on a Tibetan Buddhism. This it does very well.

At the suggestion of the ticket seller, we joined a small tour group run by a white-haired gentleman who by picking a few exhibits gave the half dozen in the group the barest beginnings of an education. He was wonderfully knowledgeable and able to answer questions without losing us on detail. He made the many arms of the gods less threatening, despite the weapons wielded in each.

He started with the art of Gandhara--the melding of Indian-Buddhism symbols and forms with Greco-Macedonian classical conventions starting in the 3rd C. BCE. Greek facial features, classical Greek hair in ringlets topped with a Buddhist topknot of wisdom; classical draping and arrangement of clothes into a toga; Greek sandals; and a short body of un-classical eastern proportions but shielded with a muscled classical chest, standing on a pediment with a frieze of figures such that one would see on a sarcophagus . The example in the museum is quite instructive of the melding of the familiar with the unfamiliar in a specific setting. (There must be other examples of such cultural fusion come to life in the art of the period, but I can't think of any). A fusion that I'm sure made all the sense in the world to the artists of the day, little aware of what came before and after or what they were "suppose to do" or how they were "suppose to do it".

Our guide, George, explained the Buddhist goddess Tara. She comes in various colors, represented by the colors of the rainbow. I don't quite understand what all she does, or how she functions, but she is a helpful deity, one people turn to and she is known to deliver, ready to jump, coming to one's assistance. This pose of readiness is portrayed by the right leg having slid from its folded, seated position so that it hangs dependent over her seat in readiness to come to assistance. The right hand, open-palmed and dependent resting over the knee gives added motion and intent to her willingness. The way George explained this posture, a bit of ignorance was washed away.

HALLOWEEN

Everyone in NYC was in Halloween mood--much in the way of lawn (if there are lawns in Brooklyn) and fence decorations with cotton strew to look like thick cobwebs, pipe cleaner spiders, parts of human skeletons sticking up from the ground and of course pumpkins. Kids out all Saturday morning and afternoon in costume and adults and teens in the evening/night. Ninjas, Chinese princesses, supermen and Ghostbusters filled the subways. All quite glorious to see, everyone having fun, testing new personas. I haven't experienced Halloween with such intensity since I last trick or treated, probably 45 years ago. And that was before many people took the occasion as seriously as they now do.

NYC MARATHON

Sunday, the 1st was the NYC marathon. We saw the start with the elite women going first over the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn on TV then walked to the corner of 8th St. and 4th Avenue where we saw the runners run past--all 40,000! The energy was palpable, each runner a part of a larger organism. People around me were calling out, "Go Kate, go Fiona, Go Italy," urging the named runners, their country or the charities they were running for. Energy traveled both ways from runners to bystanders and back, people on the curb held out their hands, slapping palms with the runners. Despite the cold, the wind, the damp, I enjoyed it very much.

The wheelchair participants, the blind, the ones whom you know were out to prove a point were very heroic, including a white haired woman in a wheelchair. Some of the people looked as if they hadn't trained at all and doing grave injustice to their bodies should not have been in the field, their fat jiggling, but still, you have to hand it to them--just to try takes something.

AIRLINE REGULATIONS

Tues 3 Nov--JFK in the early afternoon is almost bare, not the time for flights to Europe or Asia. When I left Billings on Fri I had to remove some SIGN nails from my checked in bag because it was too heavy. So, Dick Freeman and I removed some to a separate box with some clothes to distribute the weight since the allowed check in baggage is 2 bags of 50 lbs each. The box was small, taped up and tied with rope--appropriate with all the roped suitcases on board for the sub continent. The check in people didn't like the box. I think it was too small and their reasoning of it getting wet and ruined didn't make sense. So I was asked to put the box into my red roll-on. After all that work or trying to figure out what is right! Preparing for the next leg to Kathmandu, I've discarded the box since its individual contents are easier to stuff in the red bag. I hope I don't get called again on this.

For the one airport that is the primary eastern gateway to the US, JFK is very tawdry; the people who should be nice are rude, barking orders. In a restroom, I couldn't get hand soap from a whole series of dispensers. The cleaner yelled from her duties, "no soap". I gestured disgust with a shrug and she came out and flicked her hand along the line of soapless sinks, "no soap," she said, as if I was totally clueless and gestured for me to use the other line of sinks. Does the airport have the funds to fill only one line of hand soap dispensers?

DELHI

A night in India, for the 14 hour layover before the flight to Kathmandu.
I'm back in the land of ledger books whose white, colored and carbon papers are of flimsy stuff, so that the ink feathers and is unreadable. How incongruent for a country with a huge computer and informational business. This is also the land of lackeys and gofers--a surfeit of official low level workers who in their attempts to be helpful get in the way.