"In Nepal we don't fly through clouds -- there might be rocks in them." This famous Nepali pilot's quote ran through my head as we descended into Kathmandu. Every once in awhile I could see a chunk of a foothill mountain peek through the whispy, spider web clouds. The valley below was a beautiful lush green despite being viewed through eyes that hadn't slept in two days.
The humidity of the monsoon season hit us like a soft brick wall as we exited the plane onto the tarmac of Tribhuvan International Airport. A brief, but confusing, conversation ensued with an immigration official over our temporary visa status, but after conferring with a colleague and stamping our passports and other pieces of paper a dozen times he sent us on our way to the baggage area. Several young men with luggage carts insisted on helping us although we assured them that having gotten the bags nearly 10,000 miles we could probably drag them another few feet. To our surprise, all the bags showed up within a few minutes. Customs agents sitting next to an X-ray machine automatically waived us and everyone else through the green "nothing to declare" exit. We could have brought a small horse into the country.
Only when you finally step outside the terminal do you realize that you're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Hundreds of people lined the street waiting for flights to arrive, to help with bags, or drive you into the city. I spied our driver, Bijaya Gurung, holding an identifying sign. He approached us with three other men who I assumed were with him. One was a mentally disabled young man who was very aggressive in grabbing one bag. Bijaya took one and Bonnie and I kept the other two. The other men looked frustrated. Only after putting the bags in the van did I realize that Bijaya came alone and the others were hustling for tips. Not having any Nepali currency, I gave the fellow a dollar bill which seemed to satisfy him.
The next ten minutes were an experience in sensory overload as we drove the three miles through Kathmandu to the Fulbright Commission office. Small cars and motorbikes all honking for no apparent reason, all driving in no apparent lane, paying attention to no apparent traffic signs. Exhaust fumes thick in the air. People walking on the sides of the muddy road only inches from passing vehicles. Three and four story buildings side-by-side in miserable condition plastered with brightly colored advertising signs, some without windows or doors. Garbage heaps on the sidewalks. Naked toddlers being bathed by laughing mothers in orange saris. A half-naked holy man with matted hair and piercing eyes staring at me as we passed. Shanties lining the narrow Dhohi Khola River where sacred cows grazed with impugnity. Vendors everywere selling everything.
I looked over at Bonnie and with my eyes I asked her, "What have we gotten ourselves into?"
The humidity of the monsoon season hit us like a soft brick wall as we exited the plane onto the tarmac of Tribhuvan International Airport. A brief, but confusing, conversation ensued with an immigration official over our temporary visa status, but after conferring with a colleague and stamping our passports and other pieces of paper a dozen times he sent us on our way to the baggage area. Several young men with luggage carts insisted on helping us although we assured them that having gotten the bags nearly 10,000 miles we could probably drag them another few feet. To our surprise, all the bags showed up within a few minutes. Customs agents sitting next to an X-ray machine automatically waived us and everyone else through the green "nothing to declare" exit. We could have brought a small horse into the country.
Only when you finally step outside the terminal do you realize that you're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Hundreds of people lined the street waiting for flights to arrive, to help with bags, or drive you into the city. I spied our driver, Bijaya Gurung, holding an identifying sign. He approached us with three other men who I assumed were with him. One was a mentally disabled young man who was very aggressive in grabbing one bag. Bijaya took one and Bonnie and I kept the other two. The other men looked frustrated. Only after putting the bags in the van did I realize that Bijaya came alone and the others were hustling for tips. Not having any Nepali currency, I gave the fellow a dollar bill which seemed to satisfy him.
The next ten minutes were an experience in sensory overload as we drove the three miles through Kathmandu to the Fulbright Commission office. Small cars and motorbikes all honking for no apparent reason, all driving in no apparent lane, paying attention to no apparent traffic signs. Exhaust fumes thick in the air. People walking on the sides of the muddy road only inches from passing vehicles. Three and four story buildings side-by-side in miserable condition plastered with brightly colored advertising signs, some without windows or doors. Garbage heaps on the sidewalks. Naked toddlers being bathed by laughing mothers in orange saris. A half-naked holy man with matted hair and piercing eyes staring at me as we passed. Shanties lining the narrow Dhohi Khola River where sacred cows grazed with impugnity. Vendors everywere selling everything.
I looked over at Bonnie and with my eyes I asked her, "What have we gotten ourselves into?"
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