Welcome to Trisuli

I just reread my last post. Jesus, that's just downright depressing. Foremost, it's probably making my mother cry (or so I'd like to think), and I'm sure that you don't want to read such morose prose. I apologize wholeheartedly. (Additionally, it's ridiculous that I wrote that the Bhaktapur incident had "been confined to the pages of my notebook until now..." Who the hell am I? Am I writing lead-ins for Dateline NBC now? You're hardly reading the long-lost memoirs of an important and interesting celebrity or historical figure. Or those of Steven Seagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, or Nicolas Cage.)

After surviving Bhaktapur, I felt ready for anything. Things could only improve for both my body and my psyche. And, amazingly, they did (well, for my psyche anyway). As we boarded the bus to take us westward out of Kathmandu, I couldn't help but wonder what my living arrangement would be like. At this point, I had received minimal information regarding my housing and had just spent a miserable night in Bhaktapur. Needless to say, I was growing increasingly dubious about both my desire and physical ability to happily reside in the Nepalese countryside for three weeks. As for my accommodations, I kept envisioning a collection of dilapidated huts. (Ever the optimist. At least I didn't picture said huts being made out of yak dung. I must be making psychological progress.) I am fully aware that such a notion is ridiculous, but after the previous night (from hell), I was a wee bit jaded.

As the bus pulled to the side of the road after a three-hour journey, I was unsure as to whether this was my stop. Once it was confirmed as such (mainly because nobody else made a move for the exit), I took stock of my new home. Christened Trisuli Center (most likely because it is situated next to the Trisuli River), the village serves as an entry point for the many rafting trips that Himalayan Encounters (GVI's partner organization that oversees the volunteer program) operates year-round. The town and rafting center (on the right side of the picture below) are connected to the other side of the river by a long bridge suspended approximately 100 feet above the lazily flowing water. The bridge is stable, but it still takes a few trips before one feels totally at ease traversing it.


My spartan bedroom provided no frills, but it did protect me from the elements (which is always good). It also served the secondary purpose of being a breeding ground for bed bugs (or udus, as the Nepalis call them). As such, our place of slumber was relocated to an open-air balcony. While offering desirable seclusion, the nook did not prove to be all that comfortable (wooden floors usually aren't). Both of my sleeping quarters can be seen below. I highly doubt that any of you are jealous.


My adopted home was a charming little hamlet that relies on the frequent influx of tourist rupees while granting them beautiful scenery and friendly smiles in return. I realize that last sentence was overwhelmingly hokey, but I've never met friendlier people than the Nepalese. Despite their hardscrabble daily life, Nepalis (particularly those with whom I lived) never stop smiling. In particular, the neighborhood kids that I taught/mentored/served as a punching bag for were some of the warmest and most carefree individuals that I've ever encountered.

In the interest of brevity, I will summarize the formal teaching element of my Nepalese experience as limited. This was for two reasons: holy days and academic exams. These two disruptive forces combined to limit my teaching duties to three days (over the course of three weeks). As I mentioned in previous posts, disorganization is a hallmark of basically everything in Nepal. As such, the country is both endearing and exasperating, depending on the day.

Although my "formal" teaching duties at the government primary school were limited by the various academic breaks, I grew closest with the village children who participated in Trisuli Young Leaders, which is a youth club of sorts that we ran each afternoon to practice English, do community projects, play sports, etc. And by play sports I mean participate in a game of beach rugby where the primary objective for everyone other than me is to rip off my extremities. The boys loved having my (relatively) oversized frame in the game because they could tee off on my arms, legs, ankles, neck, etc. I survived the first Saturday on the gridiron without suffering any catastrophic injuries, but was slightly apprehensive about trudging down to the beach the next weekend. Nevertheless, I powered through the soreness for a second session of rugby with a rabid pack of 13-year-olds. (I use such gravitas. My tone would be more appropriate if I had written something more impressive, like "gutted out a marathon" or "broke the world record in the bench press.") Anyway, most of my rugby crew is seen in the picture below, which was taken on the morning of Holi.


Ah yes, Holi. Known as the Festival of Colors, it is the popular Hindu celebration that takes place each spring and primarily consists of people throwing colored powder and water balloons at each other. (In my experience, as well as that of my fellow teacher Ellie, motor oil and eggs were also thrown into the mix.) I won't go into the religious significance, specific rituals, etc. because I think the photos above and below give a fuller understanding of what it feels like to experience Holi. In short, it is absolute chaos (in good way, not like being folded into a minivan in Kathmandu) and everybody, and I mean everybody, goes insane for the entire day. In short, Holi = awesomeness. (By the way, the last photograph is not my head shot for a possible Apocalypse Now remake. But I think I'd get the part.)


As memorable as Holi was, my most vivid recollection of living in rural Nepal is...the buses. Understand this about bus travel in Nepal: The best place to look is your lap so as not to witness the 87 possible accidents that you narrowly avoid along the way. In particular, I recall an afternoon trip that Ellie and I took to the quaint hillside village of Bandipur. As the bus lurched down the winding highway, horn honking constantly, panic-stricken expressions on our faces (or at least mine), I was unsure of whether I was actually going make it back from Bandipur. (Side note: I specify my uncertainty about making it "back from Bandipur" because we were taking a "local" bus for the return trip. There is an important distinction to be made between "local" buses and "tourist" buses. If you are interested in safety and a reasonably competent driver, stick with the tourist buses. However, these coaches run less frequently and are more expensive. If you are interested in getting to your destination expeditiously and are amenable to accepting the increased risk that you might die in one of Nepal's daily "road mishaps," which is a phrase used by the newspaper to describe any automobile accident regardless of how many people perished, then hop onto a local bus. In addition to being death traps, local buses might require you to share your seat with livestock. There I go again with my parenthetical notes spilling into parenthetical paragraphs.)

Anyway, as we hurtled along the highway back to Trisuli, I looked to Ellie for guidance. Ellie, who had been living in Nepal for a few months, was immune to the fear caused by Nepalese drivers' total disregard of defensive driving principles. I quickly deduced that all drivers' strategy is to maintain a steady horn attack because, in stark contrast to America, where a horn usually means "stop" or "get out of my way", a screeching horn in Nepal means "keep doing what you're doing" and "stay where you are." Even with this "system," I put my chances of survival at 50/50. (Interestingly, each truck also seems to have its own custom horn, many of which play a tune for up to five seconds. Apparently, ringtones are to Americans what automobile horns are to Nepalis.)

After 2 1/2 weeks, I went back to Kathmandu. Why, you might ask? Two words: bowel infection. Warning: the following is disgusting. Stop reading if you do not want to learn about bowel infections.

I had had a pain in the side of my stomach for almost three weeks. I was far too familiar with the toilet and had um, "disposed" of far more food than I had consumed (I told you this was going to be disgusting). After whatever I had eaten exacted its revenge on my digestive system for the umpteenth time, I decided that it was time to pack it in and consult a physician in Kathmandu. (Additionally, I don't think I could have looked more unattractive, gaunt, sickly, etc. See the picture below for proof and ladies, please try to control yourselves.) After saying goodbye to Ellie and my students, I rode back to the capital without incident (I was on a tourist bus, of course) and visited a local medical facility. Since vexatious hospital visits are turning into somewhat of a theme on my journey, I prepared myself for the worst.


But it didn't happen. I met with a knowledgeable, English-speaking doctor and her visiting American resident. After a series of tests, I was diagnosed with a bowel infection and prescribed a 5-day antibiotic regimen. And lo and behold, I felt perfectly fine by the end of the week. "Perfectly fine" enough to attempt the Everest Base Camp trek...

NB: I have linked all the photos from Kathmandu, Bhaktapur, Trisuli, etc. in the upper right-hand corner of the page. You should know the drill by now.