Much like at home, everytime I get ready to finish a story, something new, creepy, and utterly interesting pops up. You'll be lucky if you ever hear the end of how I arrived in Nepal, though I promise that should I return to finish that tale, you'll much appreciate it. As for today: American film vs. Nepali film!
Ok, so, as much as I've tried to avoid the temptations of American culture here in Nepal, I've discovered that when you don't know how to communicate, what better way to drown your sorrows than the bootleg dvds for sale in the marketplace. Pirated Pirates of the Caribbean 2, oh sweet and not-so-bitter irony!!!! Jason and I took it upon ourselves to purchase a slew of movies for the orphanage after discovering that entertainment fares not so well for Nepali children. We get cable for some reason (no true indoor plumbing, but we get Showtime and Starz, go figure), so the kids watch a LOT of tv. Sounds like America, or at least Lafe, from what I hear. Anyway, when the options are only soft-core psuedo porno movies, Hindi music videos, and Evil Dead II, something must be done.
And it was, sort've. Jason, being the good parent, stocked up on a lot of Disney movies and both of the Ice Ages, which were packaged in some sort of Faustian bargain with Garfield the Movie. Watch it with a crucifix and a Roman priest present. I however, being the indulgent fat uncle type, stocked up on all the really good American movies I'd missed in the last few months. And Miami Vice, just because it was there. So all this boils down to the viewing of Flight 93.
If you want to be a jerk, you can call this a September 11th column, but it ain't my friend, it ain't. My memories of The Day in 2001 involved going to Spanish class and then staring in shock at my tv for about 4 hours inbetween classes wathcing the events unfold. And then leaving for Best Buy since it was a Tuesday and the new P.O.D. album was released that day. Yes, that's right, I forsaked the quintissential media moment of my generation for Satellite and Here Comes the Bomb (Ready of Not). I am a pretty crappy American. But I digress.
Anyway, Flight 93... Go to Blockbuster, rent it and watch it now. And I say that jokingly about a lot of things, but I'm really quite serious. Cast with a bunch of unknowns and several government and FFA administrators playing themselves, this might honestly be one of the most honest ficticious treatments of a historical event I've seen in a while. And by fictitious, I of course mean the drama that plays out onboard the plane that was not described via phone calls to loved ones, but truly lived out in moments of abject terror and human triumph.
The people are REAL, and the terrorists are not Jerry Bruckheimer morons with machine guns and flannel shirts. I truly believed that the actors onboard the plane existed, and as the drama unfolds with the pilots finding out about the WTC tragedy mere moments before being killed by the hijackers, you really get to see the intensity and the chaos of the whole event. The last 20 minutes of the movie are the most absolutely intense and stirring thing I've seen in recent memory, with the passengers banding together and launching a desperate attack against the hijackers to take back the plane. Visceral, shaky, heartbreaking...the last shot of the movie is a mass groping of bloody and sweaty hands frantically grasping at the controls of the airliner. 5 hands, then 20, 50, 150... So desperate and sickening, and beautiful. I cry at movies. I cried a lot at this one. So watch it, please, if for any reason, so that I will have something shared with friends at home. And call your parents, they love you very much.
So great, right? All we do in Nepal is play and watch movies that make us cry. I spent the rest of the night in bed listening to the forgotten Derek Webb cd, I See Things Upside-Down; it's the one that never sold because it doesn't sound like Christian music is supposed to, doesn't make you feel all sexy and confident in your spirituality. Anyway, the lyrics go...
I've got faith in the bank and money in my heart.
I've got a calloused place where your ring used to be, my love.
I've traded naked and unashamed,
for a better place to hide, for a righteous
mask, a suit of fig leaves, and lies.
I thought the cattle on a thousand hills were not enough to pay my bills,
and I fell in love with those who proved me wrong.
And now I want a broken heart...
And I cannot look you in the eyes to check the knots on my disguise,
And I fell in love with fashion in the dark.
And now I want a broken heart...
I've got alibis for every pry,
A substitute to do my time,
Does your heart break?
Is it enough on both our parts?
And now I want a broken heart...
Anyway, I can't really explain my mood or the stirring that song wells up inside me, but it happened, and if I'm going to be honest with this thing, then I must share all, must divulge all, must vomit on this keyboard. But I think you can peel the feelings associated with the song out of the lyrics, at least if you have a heart and can read. And none of this has nothing to do with movies or Nepal (or does it...) or bootleg dvds, but there it is. Go download the album, sit somewhere quiet, and hug your mug of tea while you read through Colossians and contemplate the nature of our savior and our need for true repentance and brokenness. Meh.
Whew. Movies, right? Right?
So yesterday, with most of the kids out of the orphanage for a week to visit families for a massive Hindu festival going on this week (I'll explain later, sorry), we thought it would be a great idea to take the remaining handful of kids who really have absolutely no family to the movies. So several mini-buses later, we were in Patan with a dozen orphans for my first (and last) experience with the Nepali movie culture.
American movie theaters are...well, almost like temples in and of themselves. Brightly lit, snack counters every six feet with the over-sized Mr. Pibbs that make you need to pee right at the climax of any movie you happen to be sitting in (which really, really sucks if it happens to be in the midst of Lord of the Rings), massive seating beholden to an altar on which Tom Cruise sacrifices our group integrity to his shirtless chest. You get the idea. Anyway, Nepali movie theaters? Cisterns. Fallout shelters. Cement craters with refreshment stands.
The theater is hidden behind chained link fencing, as though customers are being sent into government reprogramming camps, with each individual viewing room underground. Everthing's made out of concrete, dark, sweaty, beads of water running down the walls. Credits roll before the movie to the tune of incredibly loud synthesized blather, though the children love it. And the movie? Where to begin...
I don't know the title. I don't know the actors. I don't understand the language. But dear God, I know it was bad. The basic plot for said film was that two brothers lived together in poverty until one got married...evil boss man opens up rift between brothers over the false belief that she was two-timing her husband for his brother. Husband finds out that evil boss man took his father's land when he was very young, and attacks evil boss man; evil boss man's thugs get the best of husband and kill him, throw wife and brother out into the cold. That took 2 hours, and I was bored to tears. Then...the movies over? Yes? Yes?
Nope, just intermission. The second half of the movie involves the widowed wife wandering around and getting crapped all over by every human being she meets. Seriously, she was weeping inconsolably for at least 45 minutes of this movie. Oh, and by the way, she's pregnant. Manages to later give birth to a healthy baby boy even though she hasn't eaten in 4 months and has been slapped around and thrown to the floor, landing on her belly every single time, at least 25 times. Brother-in-law eventually saves the day, gives a lot of impassioned speeches, and turns into a ninja at the end of the movie. Seriously. Out of nowhere, he turns into a killing machine and murders every antagonist that appeared in the entire film, even some midget town crier. Evil boss man gets pummeled with every stick weapon known to man, and then hung in a tree by the widow and ninja brother-in-law. And then his dead body is dragged through the townsfolk. End of movie, beginning of massive audience applause. What?!?!?! Where AM I!!!!!
Not to be ethno-centric, but let me break this film down for you. It starts out like a bad Walter Matthau comedy done Mexican television style, rife with bad physical humor and goofy "whizoo" or "boink" sound effects. Just think of the Bee Guy from Simpsons. Then the violence. Everybody fights in this movie, but the shocker is the sheer amount of physicality against women. At least half of the punishment in the film was men slapping, punching, kicking, or bodyslamming helpless women, one of whom I've already mentioned was pregnant. What the heck kind of culture have I settled myself into here, when this is the children's matinee movie???? I could go on for quite a while: pointless close-ups ( in groups of threes) of characters' eyes accompanied with a "bwishhhhhht" sound whenever said character gets totally pissed; the random song and dance numbers shot like George Michael music videos that just come out of, like, NOWHERE; the background passers-by in city scenes who don't understand that a commercial film is being shot, and choose to dance around like idiots or hump bicycle tires or whatever; the grainy film quality, full of little orange tears in the film that made the screen look like it was leaking carrot juice. Oh, and I left out the dead dog lying in the alleyway INSIDE THE THEATER when we exited.
Friends, I am not in America anymore. Will somebody please send me season 2 of Lost on dvd and some hand sanitizer?
Next time: Jason fights in a gladiator ring to save the life of an Indian princess! Crab spiders kidnap the prime minister of Bangladesh!! And dhal baat!!!!
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
A welcome diversion from your daily breakfast
So, in spite of the fact that I have an ongoing story to complete, I'd like to take time away this morning to examine the complete awkwardness of family interactions in Nepali culture and my hatred of the caste system. Case in point:
(By the way, Hogs 24-Bama 23. Sloppy. Houston -- scholarship kicker please? I've met a few Nepali orphans who could accurately boot the besneezes out of the ball and would really benefit from the free American education. And shoes.)
OK, so, yesterday, being Sunday, we had a big "Couple who has been married for over a year have their parents finally meet each other and everything goes wrong" celebration. I think that was pretty self-explanatory. No Robert De Niro or Mr. Jingles, but we had enough weirdness to compensate.
Rita, a Christian, and Santos, a Hindu (equally yoked, what?), have been married almost a year and a half, but the folks have never interacted. Partially because they come from different castes, Santos' being the higher, and thus, Rina's family is looked upon as being sub-human. Like, breathe through gills and live below the earth's crust with the Morlocks sub-human. Rina has met Santos' family before, but apparently things didn't go quite well and she hasn't seen them since. And you thought your in-laws (or milkman, if not yet married) were bad.
Rina seems to take it in stride however, and had mentioned to us earlier in the week that her husband's folks were coming by on Sunday for lunch. I think back to my American experiences, making the oft mistake of assuming. If you plan on traveling to East Asia in the near future, please don't assume. You will be made a fool, and probably end up eating yak excrement as a joke. Nevertheless, the last time I recall meeting a girl's parents, it involved barbecue, her grandfather farting in my face, and me getting tipsy off of heavy margeritas and hiding that from said flame and parents rather well. I think.
So Sunday rolls around, and upon waking, I find that Barnum and Bailey's has set up a temporary rest stop in the pavilion in front of the orphanage. A grand tent, complete with wait staff and seating for 50, has been set out, Rina is decked out in a golden sari and brass jewelry, and the orphans have been rushed off to parts unknown, i.e. school. Rina and "Mummy" (her mom and CWC's founder, Rupa, as we affectionately and obediently refer to her) are frantically rushing around the house, fluffing pillows, spraying air freshener to rid the orphanage of our stank, refluffing the pillows, preparing flowers, waxing the floors, and refluffing the pillows yet again. Rina gives me a stack of saris and a dress shirt to gift wrap with approximately one square foot of wrapping paper. I lay hands on the wrapping paper and pray fervently, and lo and behold, more wrapping paper--brought by one of the children because Rina forgot it. Feel free to continue thinking of me as a miracle worker though.
The guests begin arriving in an armored Mercedes, and by guests, I mean Santos' entire family. Grandma, grampy, uncle Buck, crazy aunt Whatever-Her-Name-Is. All of them. Carload after carload, I count at least 20, but still, his parents are not here. Jason and I bide our time by sitting on the floor in the television room with rest of Rina's family upstairs, purposefully not talking to each other. Rina's family ask us questions about America like, "Is it nice?" and "You are from America, yes?" One woman begins breast feeding; Jason promptly leaves the room, while I take the opportunity to peruse the photos on the walls for the fortieth time. Breast feeding=gross. Baby birds eating=gross. Yak butter=gross.
Everybody finally shows, and we make a big pomp and circumstance by giving all of Santos' family a flower and a tika (that red smattering of rice and paste on the forehead that every Hindu in your 6th grade World Cultures book had), uttering the Nepali welcome of "Namaste" to each. One of the older orphans, Ramesh (Charlie Luu 2.0), informs me that the way I am greeting each person by bowing is offensive, even though this is the way he taught me 10 minutes ago. I am the butt of an orphan joke. AGAIN.
Upstairs, we all sit on the floor in a circle, Jason and I in the corner with Hilda, a German girl who is also working with us as a volunteer. Everyone else, including us westerners, receive the tika, and for the rest of the day, I have to deal with Jason jokingly asking me "Is this a sin?" Later that night, I kill him in his sleep. If you are reading this, please send me a new, living volunteer partner. Preferably a pretty southern one, of the female persuasion, who enjoys Ryan Adams and Cubs basbeall.
Waiters bring in appetizers such as excrutiatingly hot potatoes, drumsticks, fish sticks, and some sort of vegetable hush puppy. And Coke! And Mountain DEW!!!!!!!! I am His beloved and He is mine, thank you Jesus! Meanwhile, nobody talks; nobody. Santos' family look like they would rather be getting tortured with olive oil and a hyperactive ferret. One lady in green, whom I will refer to hereafter as "Miss Judy", looks sour enough to be a representative of the Slugworth candy factory. She makes a mental note to stare at me and frown constantly, unless I look at her, in which case she quickly averts her eyes as if she were some sophomore college girl who didn't want me to know she was looking at me. But I know Miss Judy... I know... I contemplate throwing my vegepuppy at her, but I am here as an observer first, assassin second, and Christian somewhere down the list. So no misbehavior, for Rina I tell myself.
Rina is paraded in in all of her golden beauty (and yes, even pregnant, she is quite beautiful), and meets the fam. Mummy gives each of the women in Santos' family my poorly wrapped miracle gifts, which are tossed in a pile and later nearly left behind, and Rina trails behind, stopping at each woman to touch their feet and then press her hands to her lips. The women break character for about a minute and all laugh, as though this is all some cruel joke at Rina's expense. Then, when Rina is done humiliating herself, its back to stern lunchlady mode. Miss Judy is not pleased.
Everybody heads downstairs for the meal under the giant tent. Oh, did I mention its been raining nonstop for three days at this point? So the rugs which our tent is made out of are soaking wet, the ground is soaking wet, but still we eat. The two families do not speak to each other, no cordial words, no hellos or goodbyes or "Hey, thanks for the mutton curry!" at any point. Santos' folks stuff their faces full of peanut butter marsala (not American peanut butter, but some horrific butter made of peanuts; Jason gags on his and chooses to eat 3 lbs worth of pita bread instead) and curds and whey before retreating to the Decepticon Mercedes for their return to Mordor. Once the family is gone, the orphans and released from the house to join us, and for once, the party takes an upswing. The kids are laughing, chugging the cold water, tossing hunks of mutton at each other. Jason and I retreat upstairs when we hear some American music, but alas!!!!!! Bryan Adams!!! Backstreet Boys!!!! Wham???
So there you have it. Meet the Parents, Nepali style. No toking on Puff the Magic Dragon, although the potatoes do have a hallucinogenic effect to them. Add in some Bryan Adams crooning of "Everything I Do, I Do For You," and what more could you want? How about social ethics and lovingkindness? Or toilet paper? Oooooh....FORKS.
I love you all. Email me, pray for me (been sick over the weekend with a stomach virus, language acquisition sucks, cynicism ::surprise!!:: with the culture, not sleeping, etc...), pass my blog on to your friends. And God's sake, come visit us!!!!!
Join me next time for: Greed, deception, and an airport greeting straight out of H.P. Lovecraft!
(By the way, Hogs 24-Bama 23. Sloppy. Houston -- scholarship kicker please? I've met a few Nepali orphans who could accurately boot the besneezes out of the ball and would really benefit from the free American education. And shoes.)
OK, so, yesterday, being Sunday, we had a big "Couple who has been married for over a year have their parents finally meet each other and everything goes wrong" celebration. I think that was pretty self-explanatory. No Robert De Niro or Mr. Jingles, but we had enough weirdness to compensate.
Rita, a Christian, and Santos, a Hindu (equally yoked, what?), have been married almost a year and a half, but the folks have never interacted. Partially because they come from different castes, Santos' being the higher, and thus, Rina's family is looked upon as being sub-human. Like, breathe through gills and live below the earth's crust with the Morlocks sub-human. Rina has met Santos' family before, but apparently things didn't go quite well and she hasn't seen them since. And you thought your in-laws (or milkman, if not yet married) were bad.
Rina seems to take it in stride however, and had mentioned to us earlier in the week that her husband's folks were coming by on Sunday for lunch. I think back to my American experiences, making the oft mistake of assuming. If you plan on traveling to East Asia in the near future, please don't assume. You will be made a fool, and probably end up eating yak excrement as a joke. Nevertheless, the last time I recall meeting a girl's parents, it involved barbecue, her grandfather farting in my face, and me getting tipsy off of heavy margeritas and hiding that from said flame and parents rather well. I think.
So Sunday rolls around, and upon waking, I find that Barnum and Bailey's has set up a temporary rest stop in the pavilion in front of the orphanage. A grand tent, complete with wait staff and seating for 50, has been set out, Rina is decked out in a golden sari and brass jewelry, and the orphans have been rushed off to parts unknown, i.e. school. Rina and "Mummy" (her mom and CWC's founder, Rupa, as we affectionately and obediently refer to her) are frantically rushing around the house, fluffing pillows, spraying air freshener to rid the orphanage of our stank, refluffing the pillows, preparing flowers, waxing the floors, and refluffing the pillows yet again. Rina gives me a stack of saris and a dress shirt to gift wrap with approximately one square foot of wrapping paper. I lay hands on the wrapping paper and pray fervently, and lo and behold, more wrapping paper--brought by one of the children because Rina forgot it. Feel free to continue thinking of me as a miracle worker though.
The guests begin arriving in an armored Mercedes, and by guests, I mean Santos' entire family. Grandma, grampy, uncle Buck, crazy aunt Whatever-Her-Name-Is. All of them. Carload after carload, I count at least 20, but still, his parents are not here. Jason and I bide our time by sitting on the floor in the television room with rest of Rina's family upstairs, purposefully not talking to each other. Rina's family ask us questions about America like, "Is it nice?" and "You are from America, yes?" One woman begins breast feeding; Jason promptly leaves the room, while I take the opportunity to peruse the photos on the walls for the fortieth time. Breast feeding=gross. Baby birds eating=gross. Yak butter=gross.
Everybody finally shows, and we make a big pomp and circumstance by giving all of Santos' family a flower and a tika (that red smattering of rice and paste on the forehead that every Hindu in your 6th grade World Cultures book had), uttering the Nepali welcome of "Namaste" to each. One of the older orphans, Ramesh (Charlie Luu 2.0), informs me that the way I am greeting each person by bowing is offensive, even though this is the way he taught me 10 minutes ago. I am the butt of an orphan joke. AGAIN.
Upstairs, we all sit on the floor in a circle, Jason and I in the corner with Hilda, a German girl who is also working with us as a volunteer. Everyone else, including us westerners, receive the tika, and for the rest of the day, I have to deal with Jason jokingly asking me "Is this a sin?" Later that night, I kill him in his sleep. If you are reading this, please send me a new, living volunteer partner. Preferably a pretty southern one, of the female persuasion, who enjoys Ryan Adams and Cubs basbeall.
Waiters bring in appetizers such as excrutiatingly hot potatoes, drumsticks, fish sticks, and some sort of vegetable hush puppy. And Coke! And Mountain DEW!!!!!!!! I am His beloved and He is mine, thank you Jesus! Meanwhile, nobody talks; nobody. Santos' family look like they would rather be getting tortured with olive oil and a hyperactive ferret. One lady in green, whom I will refer to hereafter as "Miss Judy", looks sour enough to be a representative of the Slugworth candy factory. She makes a mental note to stare at me and frown constantly, unless I look at her, in which case she quickly averts her eyes as if she were some sophomore college girl who didn't want me to know she was looking at me. But I know Miss Judy... I know... I contemplate throwing my vegepuppy at her, but I am here as an observer first, assassin second, and Christian somewhere down the list. So no misbehavior, for Rina I tell myself.
Rina is paraded in in all of her golden beauty (and yes, even pregnant, she is quite beautiful), and meets the fam. Mummy gives each of the women in Santos' family my poorly wrapped miracle gifts, which are tossed in a pile and later nearly left behind, and Rina trails behind, stopping at each woman to touch their feet and then press her hands to her lips. The women break character for about a minute and all laugh, as though this is all some cruel joke at Rina's expense. Then, when Rina is done humiliating herself, its back to stern lunchlady mode. Miss Judy is not pleased.
Everybody heads downstairs for the meal under the giant tent. Oh, did I mention its been raining nonstop for three days at this point? So the rugs which our tent is made out of are soaking wet, the ground is soaking wet, but still we eat. The two families do not speak to each other, no cordial words, no hellos or goodbyes or "Hey, thanks for the mutton curry!" at any point. Santos' folks stuff their faces full of peanut butter marsala (not American peanut butter, but some horrific butter made of peanuts; Jason gags on his and chooses to eat 3 lbs worth of pita bread instead) and curds and whey before retreating to the Decepticon Mercedes for their return to Mordor. Once the family is gone, the orphans and released from the house to join us, and for once, the party takes an upswing. The kids are laughing, chugging the cold water, tossing hunks of mutton at each other. Jason and I retreat upstairs when we hear some American music, but alas!!!!!! Bryan Adams!!! Backstreet Boys!!!! Wham???
So there you have it. Meet the Parents, Nepali style. No toking on Puff the Magic Dragon, although the potatoes do have a hallucinogenic effect to them. Add in some Bryan Adams crooning of "Everything I Do, I Do For You," and what more could you want? How about social ethics and lovingkindness? Or toilet paper? Oooooh....FORKS.
I love you all. Email me, pray for me (been sick over the weekend with a stomach virus, language acquisition sucks, cynicism ::surprise!!:: with the culture, not sleeping, etc...), pass my blog on to your friends. And God's sake, come visit us!!!!!
Join me next time for: Greed, deception, and an airport greeting straight out of H.P. Lovecraft!
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Welcome to the Dheli Airport! Would you like an uncomfortable seat with your extra-long wait?
Isn't the point of having a blog the constant upkeep of it? Oops...missed that one. So, its been a month since I posted, but seeing as how its been a month since anything of substance happened in my life, I think the two kind of even themselves out. For those that are seriously interested (mom), my last month in America was mainly bland. Lots of satellite TV (Gremlins 2 at 3 in the morning? Yes, I DO think so...), lots of "this is seriously my last beer before I leave dude" with Ben and Brian, lots of putting off of the support raising, lots of...tedium. So there's that. I've been in Nepal for a little over a week now, and the blog, she needs an updatin'. So grab a cup of coffee and a powerbar, curl up in your precious recliners, and gather the children. Thus begins the tale of an awkward furlough in the Forgotten Country...
I'm of the opinion that if you're going to leave behind country and kin for a year, the best way to do so is to be pissy over breakfast. What better way to say, "Farewell, you gave birth to me and came to all my crappy tee ball games and sat through my saxophone solo at band concerts in PA's lower gym, you put me through college and taught me to read and how to shop for bananas and let me chew on your sleeves during church when I was young, and I love you I love you I love you!" than to scowl at the table and complain about how nobody is ready, and yes, my laptop is charged up. I have been in better moods, and I have been in worse, so to describe my attitude upon leaving America, I would have to say: surly. Pitiable. Grousey. Cancer-inducing. I am wicked son, a lazy friend, and the future leader of America. Crap.
Final day in America.... A drive to Fayetteville one last time, spent silent in the Accord's backseat spent reminiscing about the Pig Trail last fall and world geography and how much I hate flying. Lunch at the Marketplace Grill with the family and Jake Newell, who shows up for hugs, kisses, and a free wrap of some sort. (pssst. I had a steak. No beef in Nepal you know. Just for the record, it was a Cajun ribeye. Medium. And I didn't eat the baked potato, watching my caloric intake) The purchase of a picture frame in Tuesday Morning, aptly named, because that's when their shoppers usually leave in bewildered fashion after getting lost in the store of over the course of a weekend. At the airport a whole 2 hours early so that....Oh. Crap.
Our flight has been postponed. Take an earlier flight or wait a day. I've only been waiting, oh, 2 months now to leave. So tired of people thinking I'm dead, in Limbo, in Denmark, wanting to know why I'm still in Fayetteville, and YES, I've gotten all my shots. "This earlier flight, when does it leave?" asks the Jason. "In 25 minutes," says the underpaid and confused United Airlines attendant. "Oh," say Jason and I. "Oh," says Jessica Gudino, who will be joining us on the first leg of our flight. "Oh," say Jason's father, step-mother, and my father in unison.
So we leave in 25 minutes. American Airlines is verrrry understanding, to the tune of charging Jason an extra $260 for his 2 extra bags of charitable items for the orphans. "Oh," says Jason. "They're for orphans." "260 please," replies the attendant. We pay, or that is, Jason pays, I just hold the card. And stress. I'm sweating, my bag hurts my shoulder, and I don't want my father to carry any because he had a heart attack in an airport, and dear God, Dad! I can't handle you dying today! I got a yellow fever shot that turned my shoulder brown for this. DO NOT DIE.
3 minutes to take pictures. Shaun supervises, and for a moment, he is more of a mother than my Mom is. My parents do not cry. Jason's parents bawl, or at least his mother does. Jason's sister Krystal is weepy. Shaun is weepy. Jessica is weepy and has already retreated to the flight lounge. My brother does not cry, as he has been asleep in the car and barely understands what is happening. My family's parting words? I have no earthly idea, something about unicorns and taking care of the legacy.
We are stopped in security, all our bags searched. Of course. My shoes have to come off, while the guy behind me line, who just told me how great I am for "doing the Lord's work," curses out a guard for having his travel toothpaste trashed. American Christianity, goodbye!!!! The plane has left, I am thinking. Jess is off on her own, stretched across my seat and hers, eating my peanuts, charging vodkas to my Visa card. No, she's probably hijacked, held at bay with a straight-edge ruler and calculator battery. Lucky, I am thinking. The guard gives me back my shoes, unlaced. Of course. Jess wore Chacos, smart girl.
The plane is still here. I run into an old friend from Camp Timberline (the Hirschy-Jordan saga continuing to run full circle), we trade life stories, hers is better, and I brag to Jess about how many beautiful married women I know. Plane boards, silent flight to Chicago, Jason takes pictures, I practice asking for the American embassy in Nepali. In secret, I also learn the phrase "My friend here is an international terrorist. Please you make arrest of him. I scared."
O'Hare airport in Chicago for an hour layover. I love this city, too bad all I see of it is fluorescent lighting and overpriced Chili's Airport 2Go. Jess begins crying in the airport, the meaningful kind. She is preparing herself to "be mean" again since she is re-entering Europe. I pray for her while thinking, "Efff. Aren't missionaries supposed to be joyful and excited? I am screwed. And I smell already." With every head bowed and every eye closed (every being Jess), I change shirts in the airport. I call Hunter Goff back and leave him a message. I call my mom, she starts crying over the phone. Crap. Jess hears her crying via cell phone, begins crying again. I. Am. An. Idiot.
I sleep nearly the entire trans-Atlantic flight to Germany with my feet on my bible. The food is good, but I don't remember it. The in-flight movie is "Over the Hedge," so I play Guess-the-celebrity voice while Jason sleeps. Garry Shandling, tough one. Let me know if you figure out the exterminator. German airport is busy, we part ways with Jess, she is no longer crying, and board another flight to India. Germany looks nice, all 12 seconds of it. Never got to see the gigantic lake Garrett Lewis always obsessed over. Sleeping on the plane all the way to India as well. Shouldn't I have been reading or praying or something? Scratch that, bible gets left on the plane when we disembark. Way to go moron. (I packed 2, but the backup is NIV. I'm a bible snob, deal with it) And now....the Indian airport in Dheli.
Welcome to Hell. No, scratch that. Not hell. My bad.
Welcome to Purgatory. The 12th century Catholic church was right, the place exists. Not quite hell, thanks to the bathrooms and Subway shop, but pretty close to it. How to describe, how to describe... Jason and I try to go through customs, but are refused because we don't have Indian visas. Instead, we are ushered into the Transit room by a uniformed officer who has us fill out our baggage information in a ragged logbook. No computers, no Microsoft Excel, no nerdy lady with a Virginia Slim cough and disapproving stare. A ragged logbook. Made out of human flesh. Ha, just kidding...its more of a spiral-bound.
We are ushered into a nightmarish Underworld of Hindi madness and Escher-esque bewilderment. No one will help us. The information desk is unmanned, and the few men on duty look around frantically as if they are making up answers on the spot while looking for somebody more official-looking to send Jason and I chasing after. I go into the bathroom and come out weeping inconsolable: holes in the ground. Jason buys an Italian BMT for something along the lines of $4 US because he has to have exact change. I visit the Subway later and find that the price has been raised to $13 US. Salami inflation, it ruins entire continents and endangers the international fast-food deli market. I try to haggle with the owner, and somehow the price goes up to $350. I suck at this.
Jason and I wander from bench to bench trying to find a place not already occupied with sweaty people or sweat pools left behind from said sweaty people. I am not a Christian. I am an airport critic, and I hate this place. Jason wanders around looking for people to tell us where our bags are and how we are supposed to leave without boarding passes. I pretend to read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius while secretly judging all the people in the airport and imagining different ways in which I will punish the Subway owner when I rule his country. Annnnd....this post is running long. Polly Dacus long. To be continued...
Next time: Escape! Grand Theft Auto Kathmandu!! Dhal Baat!!! At war with the crab spiders!!!! Orphans and tyranny!!!!! And some stuff about Jesus...
I'm of the opinion that if you're going to leave behind country and kin for a year, the best way to do so is to be pissy over breakfast. What better way to say, "Farewell, you gave birth to me and came to all my crappy tee ball games and sat through my saxophone solo at band concerts in PA's lower gym, you put me through college and taught me to read and how to shop for bananas and let me chew on your sleeves during church when I was young, and I love you I love you I love you!" than to scowl at the table and complain about how nobody is ready, and yes, my laptop is charged up. I have been in better moods, and I have been in worse, so to describe my attitude upon leaving America, I would have to say: surly. Pitiable. Grousey. Cancer-inducing. I am wicked son, a lazy friend, and the future leader of America. Crap.
Final day in America.... A drive to Fayetteville one last time, spent silent in the Accord's backseat spent reminiscing about the Pig Trail last fall and world geography and how much I hate flying. Lunch at the Marketplace Grill with the family and Jake Newell, who shows up for hugs, kisses, and a free wrap of some sort. (pssst. I had a steak. No beef in Nepal you know. Just for the record, it was a Cajun ribeye. Medium. And I didn't eat the baked potato, watching my caloric intake) The purchase of a picture frame in Tuesday Morning, aptly named, because that's when their shoppers usually leave in bewildered fashion after getting lost in the store of over the course of a weekend. At the airport a whole 2 hours early so that....Oh. Crap.
Our flight has been postponed. Take an earlier flight or wait a day. I've only been waiting, oh, 2 months now to leave. So tired of people thinking I'm dead, in Limbo, in Denmark, wanting to know why I'm still in Fayetteville, and YES, I've gotten all my shots. "This earlier flight, when does it leave?" asks the Jason. "In 25 minutes," says the underpaid and confused United Airlines attendant. "Oh," say Jason and I. "Oh," says Jessica Gudino, who will be joining us on the first leg of our flight. "Oh," say Jason's father, step-mother, and my father in unison.
So we leave in 25 minutes. American Airlines is verrrry understanding, to the tune of charging Jason an extra $260 for his 2 extra bags of charitable items for the orphans. "Oh," says Jason. "They're for orphans." "260 please," replies the attendant. We pay, or that is, Jason pays, I just hold the card. And stress. I'm sweating, my bag hurts my shoulder, and I don't want my father to carry any because he had a heart attack in an airport, and dear God, Dad! I can't handle you dying today! I got a yellow fever shot that turned my shoulder brown for this. DO NOT DIE.
3 minutes to take pictures. Shaun supervises, and for a moment, he is more of a mother than my Mom is. My parents do not cry. Jason's parents bawl, or at least his mother does. Jason's sister Krystal is weepy. Shaun is weepy. Jessica is weepy and has already retreated to the flight lounge. My brother does not cry, as he has been asleep in the car and barely understands what is happening. My family's parting words? I have no earthly idea, something about unicorns and taking care of the legacy.
We are stopped in security, all our bags searched. Of course. My shoes have to come off, while the guy behind me line, who just told me how great I am for "doing the Lord's work," curses out a guard for having his travel toothpaste trashed. American Christianity, goodbye!!!! The plane has left, I am thinking. Jess is off on her own, stretched across my seat and hers, eating my peanuts, charging vodkas to my Visa card. No, she's probably hijacked, held at bay with a straight-edge ruler and calculator battery. Lucky, I am thinking. The guard gives me back my shoes, unlaced. Of course. Jess wore Chacos, smart girl.
The plane is still here. I run into an old friend from Camp Timberline (the Hirschy-Jordan saga continuing to run full circle), we trade life stories, hers is better, and I brag to Jess about how many beautiful married women I know. Plane boards, silent flight to Chicago, Jason takes pictures, I practice asking for the American embassy in Nepali. In secret, I also learn the phrase "My friend here is an international terrorist. Please you make arrest of him. I scared."
O'Hare airport in Chicago for an hour layover. I love this city, too bad all I see of it is fluorescent lighting and overpriced Chili's Airport 2Go. Jess begins crying in the airport, the meaningful kind. She is preparing herself to "be mean" again since she is re-entering Europe. I pray for her while thinking, "Efff. Aren't missionaries supposed to be joyful and excited? I am screwed. And I smell already." With every head bowed and every eye closed (every being Jess), I change shirts in the airport. I call Hunter Goff back and leave him a message. I call my mom, she starts crying over the phone. Crap. Jess hears her crying via cell phone, begins crying again. I. Am. An. Idiot.
I sleep nearly the entire trans-Atlantic flight to Germany with my feet on my bible. The food is good, but I don't remember it. The in-flight movie is "Over the Hedge," so I play Guess-the-celebrity voice while Jason sleeps. Garry Shandling, tough one. Let me know if you figure out the exterminator. German airport is busy, we part ways with Jess, she is no longer crying, and board another flight to India. Germany looks nice, all 12 seconds of it. Never got to see the gigantic lake Garrett Lewis always obsessed over. Sleeping on the plane all the way to India as well. Shouldn't I have been reading or praying or something? Scratch that, bible gets left on the plane when we disembark. Way to go moron. (I packed 2, but the backup is NIV. I'm a bible snob, deal with it) And now....the Indian airport in Dheli.
Welcome to Hell. No, scratch that. Not hell. My bad.
Welcome to Purgatory. The 12th century Catholic church was right, the place exists. Not quite hell, thanks to the bathrooms and Subway shop, but pretty close to it. How to describe, how to describe... Jason and I try to go through customs, but are refused because we don't have Indian visas. Instead, we are ushered into the Transit room by a uniformed officer who has us fill out our baggage information in a ragged logbook. No computers, no Microsoft Excel, no nerdy lady with a Virginia Slim cough and disapproving stare. A ragged logbook. Made out of human flesh. Ha, just kidding...its more of a spiral-bound.
We are ushered into a nightmarish Underworld of Hindi madness and Escher-esque bewilderment. No one will help us. The information desk is unmanned, and the few men on duty look around frantically as if they are making up answers on the spot while looking for somebody more official-looking to send Jason and I chasing after. I go into the bathroom and come out weeping inconsolable: holes in the ground. Jason buys an Italian BMT for something along the lines of $4 US because he has to have exact change. I visit the Subway later and find that the price has been raised to $13 US. Salami inflation, it ruins entire continents and endangers the international fast-food deli market. I try to haggle with the owner, and somehow the price goes up to $350. I suck at this.
Jason and I wander from bench to bench trying to find a place not already occupied with sweaty people or sweat pools left behind from said sweaty people. I am not a Christian. I am an airport critic, and I hate this place. Jason wanders around looking for people to tell us where our bags are and how we are supposed to leave without boarding passes. I pretend to read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius while secretly judging all the people in the airport and imagining different ways in which I will punish the Subway owner when I rule his country. Annnnd....this post is running long. Polly Dacus long. To be continued...
Next time: Escape! Grand Theft Auto Kathmandu!! Dhal Baat!!! At war with the crab spiders!!!! Orphans and tyranny!!!!! And some stuff about Jesus...
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