BHUTAN'S NATIONAL DAY CELEBRATION 17 December

Special invitations
Invitations for the National Day celebrations were suppose to have been received before 09:30, 16 December. By the time we left the hospital at 15:00, no invitations had arrived. Dressed early in our bright, silky Bhutanese national dresses, Judy and I were sure are native beauty and gallant efforts to look the part could not help but secure reserved seats. As we walked through the painted entrance on the far side of the stadium, a man rushed up to us explaining that this was a national holiday, the 102nd anniversary of the first king's assumption of the throne. I was sure he was going to tell us to go in the plebian entrance. Our identification as volunteers at the hospital and taking a photo of him beside the effigy of the first king with a promise to send him a copy brought out his card--Senior District Cultural Officer of Thimphu. Our invitation!

With innocent ignorance I flashed the Senior District Cultural Officer's card at the first entrance where it was given a skeptical look and a nod to go to the next entrance. The card was still viewed with an irregular gaze, but no one wanted to be a spoil sport, or get in trouble by showing that they didn't recognize a special invitation when duly presented and we were welcomed inside. Our seats on the north end of the stadium were in full, glorious sun.

Beautiful Ghos and Kiras
All the spectators were dressed beautifully. The men wore colorful striped and plaid ghos with their white sashes, topped (or bottomed) by embroidered and appliquéd cloth boots. They sat under the awning and in the VIP stands in rows like church deacons in belted and sashed vestments as portrayed in 5th century mosaics. The women were dressed in gloriously patterned kiras and taegas, (long sarong skirts or dresses and boxy cuffed and collared jackets) the latter often shot through with shiny metallic threads. Everyone was scrubbed and bright in strikingly attractive color juxtapositions. Who would have ever thought peach and sage green were meant for each other? From a distance, anyone can distinguish the chilip (westerner) females in Bhutanese clothes from the Bhutanese women. Few chilips have the imagination to don the color and design combinations that the Bhutanese women wear so effectively with casual grace.

The Processional
The procession of the monks was a costumed parade of color and costume, hats, robes, wigs, with drums, horns, and cymbals. The display, pomp, and purposefulness of the whole thing, the shades of a warrior cult with the swords along with the robust and obliging religion showed the workings of power. Bhutan is not a theocracy. Like Saudi Arabia, the state and the official religion work hand in glove ruling the country. It was like an historical reenactment taken to the extremes and we the audience, in our own costumes, were part of the show.

After the processional the king gave a long speech with awards to various citizens. I was told that King's words accompanying the red sashes and swords, the equivalent of knighthood, carried the admonition that the color was that of the Buddha, like the king's yellow, and carried the distinction, not of power, but of responsibility.

The show began with the dancing groups. I was told these came from different areas of the country, though the rhythm of strings, flutes and drums and the uncomplicated male-female singing duets sounded alike to my untrained ear and the gentle movements of lined men and women also had similar lulling qualities. There were no high jumping theatrics, nothing with the least motions of flirting or sexual insinuation.

Nature Story or Saving the Tree or perhaps something else
The following is a description of my favorite performance and from the reaction of the crowds laughing and cheering in the stands, theirs too. N.B. My version is most romantic and in its Golden Bough search for meaning and sacredness, beats all others, even if it is wrong.

The setting: A tree, which I assume stands in for all trees, if not the sacred grove, erected with some effort in the middle of the field. The background music: bird and sounds of nature.

A group of men in gold helmets with neck and cheek flaps, garbed in leopard and tiger skin skirts with tails and legs making the hems, to reinforce the idea of their primitive nature, danced around the tree brandishing their long curved machetes to a wilder beat. They were quite vigorous and one could easily imagine all sorts of variations on virile tree worship. These warriors left and out came a procession of "villagers", the men in shirtless lungis and the women in toga-like vestments wearing crowns and holding offerings or playing flutes. Some religious types followed in their finery--the staff of office, the vestments, their assured carriage. The bird/nature music resumed and one could easily imagine scenes from the Mahabharata or stories of cavorting Dionysian virgins--take your pick.

The music changed to approaching thunder, forcing the "villagers" to take cover with the return of the leopard/tiger-skinned warriors. These latter joyously danced around the tree, but when they moved in as a group with their swords raised to chop down the tree, they are repulsed not only by the thunder from the music, but some magical force from the tree that sent them sprawling on the ground after each attempt at destruction. (a crowd pleaser)The male "villagers" returned with bows and arrows and a great stylized battle took place between the two armed lines, striding forward, retreating, all choreographed against loud, martial music and thunder sound effects. I think the archers won this battle, but it wasn't clear. My assumptions derive from knowing archery is Bhutan's national sport and rational thoughts that that this should show superiority, especially in a National Day celebration. But following the story in the stadium, the religious guardians, accompanied by the bagpipes, cymbals, and drums of Buddhist monks, saved the tree, enticing all the combatants to put down their weapons, with all men now living in harmony.

I was so excited to find this "sacred tree" theme in the Himalayas, expressed so energetically on a Bhutanese playing field in glorious sunshine. Surely, it is hard-wired in human DNA? That a universality of ideas inspire mankind is a soothing thought, able to banish many darker aspirations, unless one looks too closely as the hard-wired nature of evil. When I asked my Bhutanese orthopaedic colleagues the next day to confirm my mythical, universalist rendition, I was told the story probably had something to do with folklore, but neither of the surgeons knew the story and thought it had a more modern ecological meaning of fostering a respect for Bhutan's nature. I will hold to my own version.

Dance of the Monks
My second favorite performance was the dance of the black-hat monks. (Not the traditional Black Hat Dance as done during the festivals.) Dressed in wide-sleeved, voluminous, long, belted robes of red, black, blue, or gold and swathed in various other colored layers the booted monks danced in a studied ritual of circling in a circle. Slowly twirling the handle of their two-sided drum and hitting first one side and then the other with the flexible curved metal "stick", they swooped in forward-bending, back-kicking circles to the low registered drone of long horns. Colors flared with every graceful movement. The tall, conical, and brimmed hats are made taller with a discoid centerpiece and the many strands of braids flowing from under the hats, give the monks a decidedly witch-like aspect. I don't believe (even in my quest for universality) that the origin of these monks' dances align with those of the mystical Sufi dervishes who whirl in their journey to find god. But could the result be the same?

By this time in the early afternoon, a gentle breeze had come up, tempering the hot sun. The silk appliquéd awnings and yellow ruffles of the royal pavilion billowed and fluttered. In true Bhutanese fashion a dog wandered into the field, curled up, and slept. A marching band in yellow ghos, embroidered boots and gold helmets looking a bit like roman legions on the march, performed a routine that would be fitting of a staid half-time football entertainment.

The King's departure
The end of the celebration was a slow dance, the tashi lebey, in a round to which everyone was invited to participate. Judy and I watched. When it was over we waited for the departure of the fifth king, the young handsome king. He turned to us, bowed, and thanked us for coming.

LIVING IN THIMPHU

Judy and I have been living in Thimphu for almost 2 weeks now, in the two bedroom flat for the nurse anesthetist HVO program. The kilometer + walk to the hospital in the morning is all downhill and the reverse in the afternoon. The orthopaedic guesthouse is on the hospital grounds but suffers from the lingering presence of an offensive dead rat smell. Also being large and cavernous, it is not heatable with the available appliances. Days are sunny and pleasant, needing only a shirt and a fleece, but the nights are well below freezing and space heaters make no dent in the heavy cold.

Changangkha neighborhood
Though Thimphu is a small town with only a couple of major streets, it has taken us this long to get to know where we are and how to describe it to others. We have a map, but none of the locals, including the cab drivers, know the names of the streets. We have learned to give the general neighborhood, Changangkha, the name of an old fortress temple and monastic school, Changangkha Lhakhang, perched on the heights above us. But the best directive we have is DHL. For some reason everyone knows where the DHL office is located. Rounding the corner form the DHL office, our next coordinate is the dripping faucet that identifies our gate from the others. Not exactly a GPS reading, but it seems to do.

Streets are known by obscure names. Colloquially known "Swimming pool Road" is marked as Doebum Lam on the map. Doebum has nothing to do with swimming pools. Directions are given as up or down. The cardinal points of the compass mean little, since nothing lies in a straight line. Even the ups and downs curve most surprisingly.

Shop Number 7
Number addresses mean nothing. Business establishments are in "buildings". And somehow one absorbs these names in an organic manner. Names are another quirk. We were told about a nearby grocery, referred to by everyone as Shop Number 7. Easy as chips--a left and a right, up and up--can't miss it. After a bit of confusion, a helpful woman pointed it out: M/S Lhatshog General Shop and Imports. Yes, the same as Shop Number 7, but the number is nowhere written. The story: Shop Number 7 used to be down in the town where there was some attempt at order with numbering the establishments. When it moved up to Changangkha neighborhood, everyone still called it by the old name. No one knows the present one; I can't even pronounce it. Advantages of shopping at Shop Number 7 is that the walk home is all downhill and one can pick wild marijuana along the road.

Garbage pick upGarbage pick up is another unique cultural experience. A collection truck comes by Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday mornings, honking its approach between 06:45-08:30. The distinctive horn blasts from the street, followed by the sound of doors opening and slamming, and slipped feet slapping down the stairs announce garbage pick-up. It is almost a community affair with neighbors meeting in the street in various forms of dressing. This seems to be the normal operating procedure throughout the city's neighborhoods.

Thimphu's DogDescriptions of Asian cities are incomplete without some mention of the dogs. Those in Thimpu, and throughout Bhutan, form a separate layer of society that shares the same space with humans, but functions on a completely other plane. They are a constant presence but the Bhutanese treat them as an unseen and unacknowledged underclass that is allowed to go about its business without interference. I walk to work when the few people on the streets and foot paths are cleaners and manual laborers, maybe a few school children, and of course the dogs. Curled up still sleeping in the streets or in hollows in the bush or in protected crevices in broken concrete or already about their business, they are the most obvious denizens of the city. Even in packs they are unthreatening and the only abuse they receive from humans is neglect. Unlike Nepal, I've not seen any physically mistreated. As a whole they don't look particularly disreputable, but many are skinny and the lactating females look particularly forlorn. A patch of sun in a monastery courtyard, the hospital driveway, or the middle of the road is bound to be decorated by a curled canine catching a few Zs so he can join his fellows for the regular nighttime chorus.

The Eviction.
At 14:30 today, 14 Dec, we found out that the owners of the flat near DHL have asked us to be removed so that a relative can stay here. The woman at the hospital is most upset at this abrupt change and we are sad to leave our cozy flat to move into the cold, cavernous ortho guesthouse. Neither of us is convinced the rat smell is completely taken care of and the whole eviction seems rather strange. We could understand if the neighbors had complained about the growing mountain of Druk 11000 beer bottles in a cartoon outside our door, but that doesn't seem to be the case. We will be too far from Shop Number 7 to make use of its downhill trip home, the garbage truck will no longer be a thrice weekly Olympic rush to the street, and we will no longer feel some affinity with DHL. The dogs will remain a constant to remind us that we are still living in Thimphu.

BHUTAN'S NATIONAL SPORTS

ArcheryAnyone who has been to Bhutan, watched movies or documentaries, or read about the country will know that archery (datse) is the national sport. An anachronistic sport that goes well with a culture where men wear generously cuffed, collared, and belted knee-length bloussomed coats as theirmain garment. Whether competing with traditional bamboo bows or the far more accurate American-made compound bows, men shoot at a small target 145 meters away at local archery ranges. Returning from a birding walk in Bumthang, Judy and I watched part of a match, but were more interested in the jests and personal antics of the players who make sport of all aspects of the game, including the abilities or disabilities of their opponents.

Hurling with the monksOn the same walk we passed three monks playing daygo, a game of hurling a heavy stone at a dug-out depression at the far end of the field. A variation of horse shoes or bocce with the goal of both placing your stone closest to the goal and also displacing your opponents' stones. Monks are prohibited from participating in archery. I wonder if this rule stems from the same sort of reasoning given by the medieval church, prohibiting churchmen from drawing blood. Militant arch-bishops and other religious notables still sat their saddles in the vanguard, cradling maces and rushing into battle to crush the heads of their enemies. They followed, if not the spirit of the Christian laws of brotherly love and turning the other cheek, then at least the letter of the law of drawing no blood.

Tsheten said the usual strategy is to get the heaviest stone one can throw, but also one that doesn't tire the arm before the end, at which time one's opponent with a smaller stone would have the advantage.

The all day darts game
The best sport show of all was a women's dart (khuru) tournament. Early on our second day birding, driving north from Punakha to the Jigme Dorji National Park, we stopped to experience a village darts game. Women from two villages were competing on a rough pitch about 20 meters long, formed from the lowest terrace of a recently harvested rice field. The teams of 8 or so players were made up of young and middle-aged women, done-up in their finest long skirts or dresses (kiras--more about them in another blog) topped off with traditional shining silk jackets, taegos, over a silky shirt, wonju to complete a most stunning and unsportif outfit.


The darts are about 12 inches (30 cm) long with a 3 inch heavy metal point, a bullet-shaped wood "bobbin" centered on the shaft and balanced with three feathers of thin plastic sheet. Thrown with gusto, the darts spin through the air and end up in a wide scatter around a two foot high target that had been pounded into the ground and angled from the players at about 50 degrees. The celebration after a hit brings the winner and her fellow players into a circle in the middle of the field where they perform a traditional song and dance accompanied with some superior laughter and a bit of showing off at the expense of the opposing team.


Late in the afternoon on our way back to Punakha, still hunting for the white-belly heron, the women's game was in full swing, encouraged now by a much larger audience of rooting fans and boisterous commentators, fueled by a day of festivities.

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.