The blog has moved!

Hello, dear friends! 

I'd like to inform you that this blog has moved to http://www.wander-if-you-must.com. It's been pretty inconvenient managing all my three blogs and some, so I've finally decided to merge all of them. You can also read all my other adventures in Southeast Asia and Ethiopia from there. 

Again, here's the link: http://www.wander-if-you-must.com, so don't get lost. 

Enjoy reading. :)

The Encounter with the Monk

Back in Kathmandu, I had to see a doctor, for the stomach didn’t stop running. I kept going to the bathroom frequently, until there was nothing left but just watery stuff to come out. So much water! It spoilt my holiday. I was worried I’d caught something like typhoid, or cholera, or dysentery, for the day we went to see the caves we ate in this really traditional Nepali restaurant. And the woman ripped us off, charging us an outrageous price for very bad food. It wasn’t really a clean restaurant, and you can easily catch diseases from eating in such a place.

So we went to the clinic and had some tests done, and the doctor told me it’s nothing to worry about and that I it’s Nepal’s way of welcoming tourists. Well, that was comforting. They gave me a whole load of medicines to swallow. For a day, I kept inside the hotel room. We didn’t go out, only chatted on the internet, and watched movies (can’t remember which one, but it was a funny one). And then, when I was ready, we went to see the Boudhanath Stupa.

It’s similar to the Swoyambounath stupa, where we saw the thieving monkeys, but this is older and more famous. It’s often used as a symbol of Kathmandu, the way they use the Eiffel Tower for Paris. This stupa is huge, and from the air it’s quiet a spectacle, so I’m told, though I didn’t get a chance to have a really good aerial look at it.

Well, it’s a Buddhist place, full of pilgrims coming and going. But the thing is you only walk in one direction, clockwise, because it’s a circular structure. And everyone walks in one, clockwise, direction. You can’t walk anti-clock wise, even if you forgot your bag just a few shops back, you have to go all the way round to reach that spot again! And it’s quiet a distance, for it’s as big as the pyramids. Well, not that big, but you get the picture?

At one point we ran into a monk, who welcomed us into a monastery. Again, being off tourist season, we got a private guided tour. Normally, you’d have to do it with loads of other tourists. But the catch point is that after the tour, you make a donation. We did. And he gave us blessings, put a white cloth around our neck---it’s a Tibetan culture to welcome you someplace. And we took photos with the monk as well---he was so captivated by my boy friend’s height and color. And he gave us his email address to send him the photos.

Later, he took us to the roof of the monastery, where we had this grand view of the Stupa. Something many tourists fail to see, for they remain on the ground. Then he took us into a prayer room, where there were some Buddhist saying prayers. They gave us incense sticks to burn, and put stuff on our foreheads---the rituals had started, but I got scared. Later, Dilman, who understands Nepali, told me that they were saying something like, “That black man talks Nepali? Then don’t ask him for money.” But at that time, I didn’t know what they were saying. I remember a time in Ethiopia when we went to this temple and got ripped off by the monks themselves and I feared something similar was going to happen.

I urged Dilman to get me out of there, and we went out. He told me there was nothing to fear, but we couldn’t go back in. Well, this is when the monk came out and became really nice to us, talked to us, and told us the meaning of his name. When I go back, I’ll surely have to look him up. I should remember to send him his photo as well.

The sunset was coming fast, and though the monk was talkative and nice, we had to say goodbye to him. We ran to another building, which had a rooftop restaurant, with a splendid view of the stupa with the sunset in the background. Well, this picture says it all!

There were two African men in this restaurant, one was a footballer, the other an intern of some kind, and after dinner, they took us to the nearest pharmacy where I could buy more medicine. They had an interesting story. The footballer, had been to many parts of Asia. He travels from place to place, playing football. There’s a whole community of them in Nepal, apparently, African footballers, mercenaries, who follow the buck more than they follow the ball. It’s a story worth writing about, or turning into a documentary, as Dilman, who is obsessed with such things, told me. Am writing it just to remind him of it so later he won’t have to forget the encounter.

The One With the Margarita

On the third day in Pokhara, we found ourselves up early. And we at once rushed to the rooftops to see the elusive mountains. Finally! There they were, in all their glory! Such an breathtaking view. What I’d travelled half way across the world to see, the snow-capped mountain peaks. But this was only a fleeting sight. Not the full range of the mountains. Only three peaks we saw, in the Annapurna range. And it didn’t last a long time, for as the sun rose rapidly, the clouds came and masked the mountains.

But at least we had something to show of the mountains from our visit to Pokhara. We had breakfast, and off we went to explore the Devi Falls and the cave next to it. We heard that it was a falls that plunged into a bottomless cave, and we were excited to see this spectacle.

But we reached in the middle of the day, with the sun overhead, and we soon discovered it’s the worst time to take photographs! With the shadows so hard, and our cameras, though good, had no view finders, so you had to rely on the LCD screen to compose your photos. To make it worse, everyone was staring at us. Not at me, for I looked like a Nepali, but at my African friend. And it pissed me off more than it did him, for he was already used to the extremely rude staring.

But then, the clouds came. Rain clouds. Which was both a blessing and a curse. For rain would soon fall. But the cloud cover threw a soft light upon the water falls, thus giving us the perfect settings to take photos. We clicked and clicked and clicked. And here are pictures of the falls.

Right across the falls is a cave.  And though I’m claustrophobic, I did entertain the idea of visiting it. We went in right after rain, and the roof was dripping, and it suddenly struck me that there might be a flood. Or the roof might collapse on us, and bury us in there forever. But it wasn’t a long cave, and my panic soon ebbed when we reached the end of it. They had promised we would see a view of the falls from this underground cave, a better view, but the view from up above was better. Still, here are pics of the falls and the cave.

Just as we got out of the cave, the storm hit. Previously, it was simply a drizzle. Now, the rain fell with such furry that we had to take shelter at the nearest restaurant. We had plans to visit a bat cave, but that was so far away, and with such rain, it might flood, or maybe the roof would fall in. So we cancelled that.

We went into a local restaurant where we were ripped off. The woman gave us a bill that would make those in a 5-star hotel raise their eyebrows in surprise. But we couldn’t argue much with her for the mistake we did was not to ask for the price list before eating. So we paid up and left the restaurant in annoyance, though it was still raining hard. We took a taxi back to our hotel, and spent the rest of the afternoon watching a movie.

And then the clouds disappeared, and the sunset came. And we had to rush out of the hotel to catch a glimpse of the sunset on the lake. We practically ran all the way, for the two things we had most loved to see in this trip was a view of the snow-capped mountains, and a sunset on the lake.

But though we were blessed with the mountains at sunrise, we couldn’t see the actual sunset on the lake. The sun hid behind clouds all the time, though you could see the brilliance of its colors on the water, and in the sky.

We stayed by the lakeside until the breeze got too cold for us to hang around. But it was lovely listening to the water lap after the sun had set, and the wind blowing from someone’s fingers—okay, I better no get so poetic at this moment, because what followed after that beautiful moment was something I wish I could forget.

We went to this bar, which played passably enjoyable rock music. I’m a big fan of rock, that’s why we checked the bar out, though my friend wasn’t really enjoying the music. He loved the food though. And wanting it to be the best night in Pokahara, I had a margarita.

But it turned out to be a nightmare night, for I woke up at an unholy hour with a strange feeling in my tummy. I thought if I just slept on, it would pass, but it didn’t and I was forced to rush into the bathroom in the middle of the night to throw up.

And I thought it would be a slight sickness, but OMG! You should see how much stuff I dumped into the sink! It was yellowish, orangish, all the good food I’d had in the rock bar, undigested, all the margarita, and it filled the sink! I was scared of myself. How could I throw up all that stuff? So much as to fill the sink to the brim! I looked at my stomach, stunned that it could hold so much stuff yet I always eat only a half a plate of food at a time.

And it sure stunk as hell! I tried to flush it away, but it only blocked the sink. What could I do? I didn’t want the maids to come and deal with this mess in the morning. It was so embarrassing. But being the middle of the night, I couldn’t do anything. I went back to my room and hoped it would go away by itself. Maybe it was just a nightmare.

It didn’t, and now I had diarrhea as well. I kept going to the bathroom, to that terribly stinking place, and each time I went, I saw the mess I’d made in the sink. Now, I was terrified. For what is there to diarrheate yet I’d puked out everything?

A bad night it was for me.

We woke up in the morning, and my friend came up with a plan to clean it up. I was sad to watch him go into the bathroom with a cut-off mineral water bottle and scoop my mess from the sink into the toilet. “It’s a solid,” he told me. “You can’t flush it down the sink! Dump it in the toilet!” That way, we managed to get rid of the stuff without having to make the maid’s life really hard.

This being the last day in Pokhara, we loitered around the lake, which was strangely empty this time of the morning, giving us enough freedom to take pictures of ourselves with the lake in the background. We couldn’t have done this earlier, with everyone staring at us. And going to the lake after a whole night of puking and diarrhea was so refreshing it lifted my spirits, and ensured I left Pokhara on a happy note.

Some Boating Fun

We were told that to see the mountains in Pokhara, you needed to wake up very early, before sunrise, and run to the rooftop and then look toward the south, and there you’d see the mountains peeking over the hilltops in the distance.

So on our second day, we did try to wake up early, but by the time we got to the roof top, the sun was already up, and which means the clouds had already covered up the view. We didn’t see anything.

Disappointed, wondering when we would be able to see these elusive mountains, we went down to have breakfast and plan for what we could do that day. It just beat my understand that a whole range of mountains could be so elusive. I mean, it’s not like looking for an anthill. These are the highest mountain ranges in the world, so why is it that I just couldn’t look and see them?

Anyway, that second day, we did a lot of boat riding. It being off season, the lake wasn’t infested with boatloads of tourists. It was all so empty and nice. I guess it would be so horrible to come here during the peak of the tourist season, where you might have to wait a whole day to rent a boat for yourself.

After the tour in the lake in Ethiopia, over waters infested with crocodiles and hippos, this was like a row in the backyard swimming pool. No danger at all. And what they call a lake is so small it could be a pond. But I guess to a mountainous country like Nepal, it’s big enough to be called a lake. There were a lot of fishermen around, but from their faces, we could tell they had been at it for very many hours without catching anything at all!

Reminded me of the “condom fishing trip” in Juba. Read here. 

But the lake was nice, and the water was beautiful, and it’s a place I would like to buy a house and live next to for the rest of my life. There was this lagoon that was visible from a distance, you could see the whiteness of its beaches glimmering in the sunlight, sandwiched between the green water and the green jungle that rose into the sky. It reminded me of those old films were people get marooned on a tropical paradise.

We took with us a pizza and ice-cream and mineral water, and had a picnic in the jungle. We had wanted to have the lagoon to ourselves, but that wasn’t possible, for there were bands of fishing Nepali men all over the lagoon. They also seemed irritated when they saw us coming, and they asked our boatman “how long are they staying?” and the boatman assured them, “Only a few minutes.” They seemed not to understand why anyone would come visiting during the off-season, when it’s supposed to be the Nepalis’ turn to enjoy the lake.

It wasn’t so scary a boat ride, but then we got stuck on the rocks twice. The first time, we were near the banks and it was easy to swim to shore, in case anything happened. But the second time, the boat was way off shore. And I could swim, but my friend couldn’t.  And all the time I was wondering how I would take him to land in case the boat got stuck. Which reminded me of how shallow the lake was, so shallow that you could get stuck on a rock while in the middle of it!

Sometimes, trying to describe the beauty of something isn’t possible with words, especially when you are very tired .J So here are pictures from the lake. 

The not-so-private lagoon.

Mountains surround the lake.

Too lazy to catch elusive fish.

An Afternoon at the Lake

So we reached Pokhara on June first. A very short flight, and we missed the mountain view seats! I did get the window seat, but it was the windows facing the wrong direction from the mountains. Nothing to see but clouds and hills. Not so nice. While flying into Kathmandu, I did get a good view of the mountains, but at that time, my camera batteries had run out. I couldn’t take any photos. And what’s the point of seeing something so beautiful if you can’t preserve it on a photo? My mind is not that photographic anymore.

But then, I didn’t really complain a lot about getting the wrong window seat. After all, I was going to Pokhara, where they say you get these incredible views of the snow-capped Himalayan mountains! And there is a lake I’m told which you can see the reflection of the mountains on this lake. So I was excited!

But Pokhara turned out to be hot, and I didn’t want to leave the room immediately. So we spent the morning idling in our hotel room, the fan rotating overhead. We had lunch on the balcony, which had a view of the stupa---some kind of a Buddhist structure.

Then we started to explore the town, when the temperatures were much cooler. But the moment we stepped out of the hotel, it started to rain. A heavy downpour. A bad omen, actually, for this is about the time the monsoon starts, and I was told that when it starts raining here, it can go on and on for days without end.

At least as we took shelter from the rain, I found a shop that sold skirts. Remember I had searched for these all over Kathmandu and failed to find any. But Pokhara has a sizeable number of Western people living here, and so finding western kind of clothing is much easier than in Kathmandu City. I picked myself a couple of great-looking skirts that will knock their teeth off in Bor! Here I come, Mr. Director General!

When the rain ceased, we went off exploring the town. I got a map, and this helped us find our way without a guide. Like in other parts of Nepal, men offering to guide us kept pestering us. Saying, “good price” and “almost no price” and “very cheap guide.”

Well, the town was rather empty, and actually it’s only one man who pestered me with this guide thing. We came during the off season time, when there are no tourists, and so the town looked like one of those small towns you see in modern western films, a sleepy town, seeming very quiet, as if some virus had killed off everyone.

It was nice, though. So we didn’t have to bump into a tourist every step we took. However, when we went to the lake, the famous Lake Fewa, we thought we would have the beaches all to ourselves. But we were mistaken. There were hundreds of Nepali folk about. Many of them were couples in love. They say that Nepal is a traditional society, but if you come here, you find couples holding each other in very intimate positions, without caring of upsetting anyone.

We did find a nice spot to sit, where there wouldn’t be anyone within listening distance to us. But no sooner had we sat than a Tibetan woman came to us. She was so polite. We didn’t know she is Tibetan then, and she said “hello” and started a conversation with us. She wanted to know whether we were from America, and though we kept saying no, she sort of tried to insist that we are Americans. Maybe because my friend was African and they often get mistaken for Americans.

Anyway, as we were wondering what this was all about, she started telling us about Tibetan crafts, and if we would like to buy some. Then it hit us. She really wasn’t just being nice and trying to get a conversation going with us. She was a saleswoman, and a very nagging one. The worst of the kind. Invades privacy in a way that pisses you off. At least if she had come brandishing her goods at us, we would have known right away. But just as we were getting talky about Tibet, and how they are surviving in Nepal, we discover it was all a sales gimmick. That kind of hurts.

That first evening by the lakeside passed with the Tibetan ladies pestering us to buy their products, one after another they came, in regular intervals, and so we didn’t have a lot of time to ourselves, to enjoy the peace and beauty of the lake. It was kind of annoying.

To worsen matters, we failed to see the sunset, or the view of the mountains. It was too cloudy. We did console ourselves with rays of the sun bursting out from behind the clouds and streaming onto the lake like a scene from a religious doomsday film, but that was really it. A disappointing first evening at the lakeside.

Disappointing because we didn’t get to see the lakeside sunset, or mountains, but there were nice views of people in the boats. And just listening to the water lap against the shores had a calming effect on my heart.

Of Horror Houses and Cremation Sites

Most of my third day in Nepal was spent lazing in the hotel because my friend/tour guide wanted to finish some work. It was good though because I got to get some catnaps, before we went out in the afternoon. First stop was Buddha Air to get tickets to Pokhara. Turns out my friend was a frequent flyer in Buddha Air, and thus had accumulated enough air mileage that we paid only USD25 for a return trip, Kathmandu-Pokhara! Yet the price would have been US$200! How nice. Saved me having to go on a six-hour bus journey over mountains, and through cliffs, on buses in questionable mechanic condition. But that would have been exciting as well.

The flight lasted 30minutes, and we were only served water and candies. I’m told even in their longer flights, Buddha Air serves nothing more than peanuts! Talk about bad airline food! Peanuts, soda, water, candies---that’s the only choice you get on the Buddha Air menu. But at least if they reward their frequent flyers with free airtickets, then it’s worthy flying with Buddha Air.

With our super-discounted tickets in hand, we decided to go to Pashupatinath, which is one of the most famous Hindu temples in the world. It’s also the place where they cremate bodies, and I was told the whole burial ceremony is there for tourists to behold. I’m told of tourists who go so close, not caring about the grief of the mourners, and take extreme close-ups of the burning bodies. Well, I wasn’t about to do that. I only wanted to see, for an open air cremation is something you see only once in a life-time. (That is if you are not a Buddhist.)

Preparing the dead for the after-life.

Unfortunately, while we were still in the taxi, a heavy downpour came. Almost out of nowhere. We reached Pashupati while it was raining Hindu dogs and monkeys as though the gods were angry with me for something I don’t know. We took shelter somewhere outside, and when the rain relented a little bit, we decided to try our luck inside.

Now, I look like a Nepali, and my friend being a resident, has this card which grants him free access to all those lovely tourist sites. But I had to pay. Yet, looking like a Nepali, I could easily pass for one. Just walk through the gates, pretending like I’m a Nepali, and no one would stop me---for as long as I don’t open my mouth.

We did pass through the gates successfully, but then, the taxi driver had deposited us at the wrong gate. So we ended up heading into a place that was restricted. Only Hindus could enter this part of the temple. We were stopped. And my Nepali cover was exposed because while everyone was barefoot, we sauntered down the aisle with our rain-drenched sandals. That was the give-away. Now we had to go back round to the other side of the temple and get in through the right gate, which meant passing through more “Please Pay” counters.

And the ground was wet. There was still a drizzle. How could I enjoy anything in such weather! Better save my money for a sunny day! Further more, at this time of the day (almost 5 p.m.) we would be pointing our cameras towards the sun, and thus the photos wouldn’t look any good! What good is there then in going to a tourist site in which you can’t take photos?

It’s supposed to be the start of the monsoons, so not a good time to visit Nepal (as I would later sadly find out) but luckily, the monsoon isn’t in full bloom yet, so the trip is still enjoyable.

Well, we decided to come back another day to enjoy Pashupati.

We took a tempo down to Ratna Park, for I wanted to shop for a skirt (I think you’ve read about my escapades in the skirt hunt, about Nepalis not wearing anything but long dresses and trousers?) We went to Kathmandu Shopping Mall, and spent a greater part of an hour looking for a skirt to no avail.

But we stumbled upon a horror house. And in we went! I was so frightened, for I am claustrophobic, and the place was so dark. I was screaming “Let me get out! Let me get out!” even before the door closed. Well actually, the attendant was trying to close the door and I was pulling it back like some sort of tug-of-war. I wanted to get out! But my friend had my other hand and was pulling me into the darkness of the terrible house. He won. The door closed. I was locked up in there. And started our tour of a horror house.

There were some frightening moments, especially when my friend started to ask, “Where is the exit?” All along, I was laughing and frightened, that kind of fright you have while watching a horror movie. But now, I really got scared, and I thought we were lost inside this dark place. Being claustrophobic, that’s not really a good place to get lost in!

Well, we stumbled our way out, laughing so hard that our cheeks hurt. Thirty minutes later, we were still laughing and feeling the hurt in our cheeks. It was such kind of a horror house. Not frightening. Just for laughs. Certainly not like the Silliman University Haunted House, where I actually fainted because of fright.

And when we came out of the shopping mall, what do we see? The Mountains! The snow-capped Himalayan ranges! It’s something people travel from all over the world to see, and here we got a glimpse of it. Not too much, just a little, and it increased my eagerness to go to Pokhara. For they say that in Pokhara you get a clear view of the mountains, all year round. I couldn’t wait!

Namaste!

The Bush Girl Has Landed

Yohooo! Finally I escaped from Bor-dome! It took me four flights, over two days, but finally I reached the ancient city for Kathmandu, for two weeks of rest and pure relaxation. First plane was from Bor to Juba. I had to take it on Wednesday, and not Friday 27^th, for at then there was talk of a huge celebration party for the SPLA on Friday, in Bor, meaning flights might have to be cancelled that day. And I would have missed my escape! Something I’d waited for since weeks before. 

Well, long story short, I ended up in Juba two days early, had some fun at the Chinese restaurant with a fellow Pinay, and finally I flew to Nairobi.

Then started the maddeningly long waits at the airports. Four hours in Nairobi. Eight hours in Dubai. It made me so tired. I had planned to do a lot of shopping at Dubai---buy flat shoes, a skirt, maybe an external hard disk---but I was so tired and the goods were so expensive. I thought that maybe once I reached Kathmandu I could find a skirt, but let me give you a bit of advice: Nepali women never wear skirts. They only wear dresses, or trousers, but not skirts! The only skirts available were very, very skimpy. Anyway, it was only something that teenagers would fancy, or something you might wear at the beach, but not something I could wear in Bor to see the Director General. I wanted a really long skirt, and I hopped around several shops and shopping malls in the city without any success! The shopkeepers would look at me as if I was looking for a piece of moon rock. Oh, there were some longer ones but with some kind of zigzag cut and made of shiny stuff, not really my kind of thing.

So finally, I arrived in Kathmandu on the 28^th, at 6pm, right on the day there was supposed to be a general strike. I discovered at the last minute that I’d booked the wrong flight, for on this day, 28^th May, there was supposed to be a new constitution in Nepal. But various political parties were not happy with the thing, just didn’t figure out what exactly was the problem. But now, I was suddenly faced with the possibility of spending a whole night in the airport! Because during a bandh (strike) in Nepal, all transport is shut down, and then how do you get to the hotel?

Luckily, the political tempers had cooled by the time I reached and I was able to get a taxi to my hotel. I slumped into bed immediately for I was soooooooo tired! I had forgotten what a bed feels like!

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Well Hello, Kathmandu!

After a whole night of resting. I finally started my tour of the city. First stop? A visit to a goddess’ house! Well, that’s not something that you see every day. A living goddess, breathing and looking at you from out of a small window up a building that is maybe a thousand years old. And she was a little girl, about nine years old, with a face painted so white she might have been a geisha. But I know Hindus would kill me for likening their living goddess (a.k.a. “kumara) to an entertainer.

The only problem was that you can’t take her photo. You are only allowed to take her photo during special festivals. So all you do is look at her. And hold your hands together as if in prayer---bow, pay respect to a goddess, feel awed. She looked haughty, looking at us from that high window, well, a goddess looking at human beings from a heavenly window would look haughty. And she turned this way, and that way, and I thought she was going to wave at some point, but she didn’t. Within half a minute of appearing, she vanished into the darkness of her “heaven”.

The secret window.

Feeling Touristy

After a lazy first day in Nepal, visiting the home of a living goddess, and ending up in a really nice place to eat dinner in a tourist/backpacker’s district called Thamel. Its narrow streets and a billion neon lights and the endless crowd of tourists and locals mingling with the rickshaws and taxis and motorcycles and all sorts of hawkers give it an awesome atmosphere.  Almost like Bangkok but way more subdued. There are mobile food vans---well, basically carts with four bicycle tires---selling fresh fruits, and there are hawkers trying to sell you all sorts of goods. From sarangi (a kind of Nepali guitar) to musical pipes, and then there are those who come whispering to you, “Do you want to smoke?” Of course, they aren’t offering you cigarettes, but hashish, marijuana, and some would even claim to have coke or heroin or whatever you want. Thamel is certainly a heartbeat in the polluted city of Kathmandu.

But on top of all this, there are professional beggars and street children. They pester you and make you feel sorry for them. There are those who come and say “please I don’t want money, only food for baby,” and when you decide to buy her something, she takes you to this supermarket where she fills up a whole trolley full of goods---enough to stock a small shop somewhere. Which is what I hear they do: they have shops and the goods you buy for the “baby” here ends up as stock in this shop somewhere outside the Kathmandu valley. Well, sometimes, they hold a bundle to their chests, but these bundles don’t really have any baby in them.

We ended up in a bar and restaurant called OR2K. Really cozy place. Romantic. Real low lights, you have to leave your shoes at the doorway, and sit on the floor---more like Japanese dining arrangements---and eat from low tables. The windows where wide, but cigarette smoke hung in the air like it was an opium bar of some kind. The hum of conversations and the traditional Nepali music was rather---ahem!---arousing and the food sort of aphrodisiacal. Many of the couples were lovers, but a few tables were crowded with party folk, drinking and smoking and eating real good food. There were one or two lonely eaters---the ones "seeking enlightenment" I suppose.

So that ended the first day. The second day (really my third day there, it being Monday and I came in on Saturday). We ate in a restaurant called Gaia, then headed up to Swoyambounath. Ha! It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need a lot of words to describe.

I thought I’d seen it all at Angkor Wat in Cambodia, with all these Buddhism and all. But Swoyambounath was different in certain ways. We went up a really long steps, I didn’t know how unfit I was until I tried to climb up those steps. And there were monkeys all the way.

The monkeys played on the statues, on all the prayer flags that hang from the trees, and they sat by the steps looking for ticks in each other’s bodies. It being off-season for tourists, there were mostly Nepali folk, and some Indians on pilgrimages or others who come to worship their gods. The thing about temples in Nepal is that both Buddhists and Hindus pray from the same temples. So while Swoyambounath is a Buddhist temple, many Hindus come from all over South Asia to pray here.

And the monekys are cheeky. They like snatching bags and stuff from people. Especially food stuff. One monkey snatched a necklace when a vendor wasn’t looking, and it went up a tree so fast and wore the necklace! It is a thing I will never forget! I tried to take the pics, but they are a bit blurry because my camera is crap.

And on the temple itself, one man was carrying a big tin of biscuits for his son. But a monkey snatched it off his hands and jumped away to feast with her own child. Unlike muggers in the cities who will snatch your property and vanish to hide in the dark alleys, these monkeys steal, and only jump a pace away, so you watch them while they feast on the loot. The vendor whose necklace was stolen could only shrug, for maybe he was used to such things happening. But this Indian man, who had come all the way from some city with his family, he watched in horror as the monkey and her baby feasted on the biscuits, right in the presence of an excited crowd.

But then, to Hindus, these monkeys are holy. There is a Hanuman, the Monkey God, and I am not sure what role they play, but they must be some kind of angels or something. And for a monkey to steal your biscuits---well, you would be sad for a few seconds, but after a while, you might shrug it off with the thought that you are feeding the gods! So this must be a blessing of some sort.

To be continued . . .

Relief at Last!

I’m so glad to be out of Bor. Back in Juba---but not loving the attention of some people who want to take me out. No offense meant, my friends, but I don’t feel like going out this time round, not on a date, and especially not with all these insect bite marks all over my body.

You see, the problem is the rainy season. For here we are living in a bush.  The river is just a walk away. So since the rains have started, insects seem to have come out from wherever they were hiding and they buzz around in swarms as though this were a doomsday sci-fi film. I use insect repellant lotion, but it seems it only repels mosquitoes. Now I have red and dark spots all over. And they're soooo itchy. I scratch and scratch and scratch until my colleagues wonder if I’m dancing to some music!

I am allergic to insect bites. I had flea marks in Ethiopia as well. I should get a swat, you know one of those tools for killing flies. But problem is you can't swat the small insects. And there seems to be no way of stopping these bugs from feasting on me.

Then there’s  this bee that is so in love with me that it never fails to give me a visit and buzz around my head every single day! My colleagues keep on teasing me that maybe I smell like a fruit or a flower. Normally that would make me laugh, but these days even innocent remarks like that irritate me.

Maybe the stress of work has finally set it, and I am getting burnt out---after only about 2 and a half months on the field. Last weekend I lost my voice, as in completely lost it. I woke up and started my morning singing exercise, but only a croak came out. Panic! My singing-superstar dreams are sooooo over! At least, I have gained my voice back, but now I sound like a man.

Well, I wanted an adventure. I am not complaining. For if you pray for rain, don't cry over the mud.

At least now I’m in Juba, and there seemed not to be too many insects. It being a city, and not a bush. And above that, at least I can finally get myself ice cream and pizza! In Bor, I’ve been stuffing myself with rice and eggs so much that now I feel like a hen that’s about to start laying.

Oh, what else can I write here? Is my life really this boring? I thought I was coming to have a lot of fun, but Bor is so Boring for now, and it’s all full of work, work, work, and more work. Even on weekends, I find myself in front of my computer---actually working.

But now there is the R&R coming up soon. Rest and Recreation. And I’m going to do just that. I’m going to escape from this madness for two weeks, and maybe I’ll have some fun! Get some relief. :-)

House Arrest

It’s a really bad weekend. First, Internet is on and off, flashing like the cheap jewelry on a prostitute to drive me crazy---okay, why exactly am I using the prostitute as a symbol? Maybe it just shows how anoyed I am this weekend.

No Internet and now we are in a kind of house arrest. We can’t leave the compound until Tuesday, not even peek outside the gate. Security has been tightened around Bor Town, not because of the ongoing cattle raids and tribal clashes, but because of a major celebration on Monday to commemorate the day the SPLA started the war against the north. And as with such celebrations, there is bound to be some shooting. The locals told us not to worry because people shoot towards the sky anyway---maybe they haven’t heard about gravity yet.

During the referendum in January, the shooting lasted for 3 hours! I wasn’t here yet that time, but my Kenyan colleague had recorded the “shooting symphony” on his mobile phone and now he’s using it as his ringtone.  

Actually, a few days ago, stray bullets fell into our compound! The thing is that we have SPLA (they call themselves “police”) for neighbors. There is a camp just next door to us, and maybe they had some of kind of internal fighting and as is often with these people, they just started shooting  wherever and stray bullets fell into our compound.

Luckily, no one got hurt. But next time, maybe someone will. Shouldn’t we be looking for a safer position, somewhere a little bit far away from military camps? But the government gave us this land, and I am not sure how much say we can have on where we pitch up our camp! For the moment, we have to pray, and hope that nothing goes wrong. At least for all the years that HI has been in this compound, with the military camp right next door, there haven’t been any incident. So that’s a good sign, and it means that probably nothing will happen.

Well, maybe the way we can make sure that these SPLA men don’t create accidents is to supply them with a whole trailer load of girls from the neighboring countries. Prostitutes, I mean. Oh, that’s probably why I mentioned it up there. 

Well, the Sudanese women are so far very traditional, and they won’t sell themselves for money. They do get bought off during their wedding day, for the husband has to pay scores of cows to take the bride home. But that is different. That is not prostitution exactly. It’s bride price, and it means you become the property of one man for the rest of your life. With prostitution, you become the property of one man for a few hours, maybe a night.

With the large number of expatriates in this land, they say there is one expatriate for every five Dinka! That’s really a lot more than in reality, but it’s a joke, just to stress the fact that this place is flooded with expatriates of all sorts. Humanitarian workers, relief workers, development workers, engineers, well-drillers, farmers, construction workers---name the job and you’ll have someone doing it here from somewhere.

And because of the conflict situation, you can’t bring your partner along. Which means a lot of the expatriates are lonely men. And women. There have been cases, actually lots of cases, where the expatriates (even the married ones) pair off. In fact, aid workers have this joke going around that “aid workers do it for relief.” But the number of foreign women here is far less than that of foreign men. For example, there are two (and sometimes three) men in our compound, and I’m the only woman. So people are now wondering which one of the three I should help in his times of need. Fortunately, I am still traditional when it comes to these things, so they can go on wondering.

Anyway, what I was saying is that because of the large number of lonely expatriate men, there are some “expatriate” women who come specifically to give them comfort in the loneliest of their times. These women mostly come from Uganda, Kenya, and Ethiopia. There’s a flood of them in Juba, and I hear there’s a “community” of them here in Bor as well. And they do make a pretty big sum!

What was I talking about before I got distracted with these “expatriate” women? Oh yes, the SPLA. They have a major celebration on Monday, and it’s all happening here in Bor. All the SPLA commanders and high-ranking government officials---including the president himself---from all over the country will come to Bor to feel good about the fact that they started the way, and are on the verge of victory, so there will be pretty high moods, drinking, dancing, and shooting.

Which means we have to stay indoors all weekend! House arrest! Not cool! And especially not cool when there is no Internet to kill off the boredom! Someone shoots whoever provides us with Internet!

Who Drank My Juice?

Just before I could write this entry, I fell sick! And this unfortunate turn of events changes the tone I was going to use on this blog entry, for I would have started it like this, “God is punishing us! Nature is taking revenge!” 

The thing is, we only drink imported water here, because well, they don’t have local water-bottling companies in South Sudan and everything here is trucked from Kenya and Uganda, anyway. And though I’ve been drinking liters and liters of this bottled water every day, it kind of gets me thinking. Imagine, there are three of us expats here in Bor, and each of us drink and brush our teeth with at least eight 300-ml bottles per day. And each bottle costs around 3 Sudanese pounds (1.14 USD). I’m not good with calculations but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that it’s an obscene expenditure. Makes me wonder whether it really is worth it. I mean, there are millions of people in South Sudan who drink the water from boreholes and they don’t fall sick. And here we are importing water for cooking and drinking all the way from Uganda!

Being expatriates, we get treated differently, for they assume our stomachs are not like that of South Sudanese. And it’s not. And I know at any time I can catch a tummy bug from the water and dehydrate to death. But there are expatriates from many African nations, whose water situations back home is similar to that in South Sudan, and I ask myself, when they are back home, do they drink imported water? Do they drink only bottled water? Why then should their lives be different when they come into Sudan on the expatriate ticket?

I guess it has something to do with the big salary they earn, the big budgets their employers have, and maybe the paranoid higher-ups who develop policies from the comfort of their European and American living rooms.

Although it might be a big risk to take, maybe, just maybe we should stop importing water, and to instead look for solutions from within Sudan. And while we may not be in the safe-water supply business, if we can find an affordable solution to the water problem, then maybe we can pass this solution on to the people we are working with, and that might help improve their lives. Certainly, advising them to drink imported water will not in any way contribute to fighting poverty. But if we, say, start very cheap water-treatment practices, or get water filters, or something that can be easily, cheaply, and quickly replicated in a rural and godforsaken place like Bor, then we would be inadvertently contributing to the safe-water solution.

Anyway, while I was wrestling with all these questions in my mind, I fell sick---of typhoid. And to think I got typhoid shots before I came here. Which brings me to another question, “Are vaccines really effective?” But let’s save that for another blog entry.

What actually happened is this. For a few days, there was a very foul smell around the bathroom, something stunk so bad,  like rotting flesh. We all thought it was either of us who was responsible for it. Or maybe there was a dead animal somewhere or maybe the people in the other compound ate fish and threw the remains in our compound. But because we couldn’t find the source of the smell, we didn’t know whom to attack over it, so we just kept our opinions to ourselves. It turns out---tada!---there was a dead bird in the water tank! Yes, you heard me---a decomposing son of a hawk!

The bird

And the tank.

To make matters worse---which makes me think it was a punishment from God and Mother Nature---this big bird dove into the tank at a time when our supplies of imported, bottled water was running out. So we had to use water from the tank to cook, bathe, brush our teeth with, and boil rice. So some things that we thought were grains of rice were actually boiled maggots? Ewwwwwwwwwwww! Anyway, someone had commented that my cooking skills had greatly improved, and yet it’s this bird that was adding flavor to our food. Bwahahaha!

The poor late Mr. Hawk. We had this really heavy wind the other day, almost like a tornado. It lifted the cover off the tank, and Mr. Hawk came in for a swim, or a drink, or it decided to commit suicide by drowning because it's partner ran away with a hen. Whatever its reasons, it really did a good job of getting into our "nerves"---and he sure did get into your stomachs as well!

Within a few days of us making this macabre discovery, I fell sick. Some said it was stress, others exhaustion, the doctor said it was typhoid. I at once thought the juices of the dead bird were responsible for making me sick.

But I remembered Mary Mallon, otherwise called Typhoid Mary, who was responsible for making many people sick of typhoid. It reminded me that even if you are very hygienic, and drink only the purest of water, you can still get infected. You only had to eat food prepared by someone infected with typhoid. By extension, even a handshake with such a person can make you sick.

Which brings me back to the issue of imported water. For we eat in local restaurants, where they don’t cook with imported water, and I can give many other examples of places we could get the disease from, not just dead birds in our water tanks.

Well, at least now I’m fine, and back to work, and longing for my R&R, which is due in 15 days’ time!