Andrew James Pritchard's Blog
February 16, 2021
The Barn Swallows of Bijukchhe Traders
It has not been long since the fragrant scent of Shiva Ratri fires were yet in the air, especially with one such shrine practically across the road, but nonetheless, the recent improvement in the weather makes a change for the better. Indeed, it is like a calm in the eye of the storm, as it falls between the cold of winter and the heavy monsoon rains. Thus, the season changes towards warmer times, and the rice soon to be planted, a time for all ages to rejoice.
Each year, at about this time, the barn swallows, as is their tradition, casually return to the Aalu Maila Shop, on Ganeshman Sinha Maarga. Usually the males drop by first, to check out the nesting site and to attract a female, if one hasn’t chosen one already. So, from dawn until dusk each day, once the wide entrance panel doors are removed, the swallows briskly swoop in and out of the low earth-tone yellow and brown shop, for they have already set about their diligent housekeeping. The male swallows, like metallic blue and off-white long-tailed darts, will then constantly flit back and forth from the exposed low ceiling beams, where fifty to sixty nests hang.
The birds are perhaps on a mission with a mouthful of mud, or some old chaffed rice husks, tidying and repairing the nests from past years, though the nests generally are in good shape. This is due in part to good construction, and to the shop proprietor seeing the nesting birds as a blessing and auspicious omen and therefore the old nests are left alone. Besides, the customers respect and tolerate the swallows’ buoyant presence, despite soaring only inches above their heads, just as the swallows ignore the human traffic of commerce, going on below. In any case, it is rare that new nests are constructed by the birds, unless the colony numbers have recently increased.
Nonetheless, soon the swallows will settle down somewhat, as only one set of each nesting pair will come and go in search of food, while the other unwearyingly sits to incubate the newly laid egg. They are very clean birds, nest wise in any case, as by beak they remove their droppings elsewhere. This is just as well, since the shop floor is a rather tight and narrow space, roughly three meters by eight meters. In that limited area, there are various open bins of rice, lentils and beans, and shelves of various household goods along the inner walls, together with sacks of flour and heaps of packaged goods in the center.
There are other elements of the small retail outlet to note, like a slight recess along the front wall for the cash box, as well as a nook at the back of one half of the shop, and a narrow passage towards a back storage area. However, the barn swallows seem to nest exclusively in the main front part of the structure, presumably for easier access to the outside. There is an optimum of natural lighting here after all, with sufficient cooling shade at the same time, as well as an abundance of insects and various water supplies nearby.
When the heavy rains have again arrived, the hatchlings will begin to emerge from the snug confinement of their shell. Meanwhile, the human traffic below will chatter and gossip, and try to haggle prices, despite the young swallows, in the rafters above, warbling up quite a deafening storm. The featherless chicks, understandably, are in fierce competition against one another, with head raised high on stretched neck, and mouth wide open, awaiting a parent bird to regurgitate a sloppy insect meal for them. Therefore, the parents are extremely busy, constantly zipping back and forth to feed their three or four frail and fragile looking offspring, get water, or clean the build-up of guano from the nest.
Meanwhile, the clerks on the shop floor, tally up the customer’s numerous purchases, their nimble fingers flying on the calculator keys. Not just once do they do so, but twice in quick succession, to double check, and rarely are they wrong in their calculations the first time. In fact, nothing seems to distract them in their line of duty, even though one might think that all the racket of the birds, all day long, would eventually drive them up the wall.
However, much like the shop owner, the clerks seem quite chuffed to work in the presence of the active swallows. Indeed, every now and then the clerks might pause momentarily in their work, look up at the hatchlings and smile affectionately. In this age of constant change and rapid modernization, even in Nepal, it is indeed refreshing to know that somethings don’t change and are in fact caringly preserved.
The first lively brood of barn swallows quickly then grow and mature into fledglings,throughout the monsoon season due to the parents’ frantic efforts, and so it’s not unusual for a second brood to start. Often the first brood, even though now able to fly and fend-for-themself, will hang around to assist in the raising of their weaker pint-sized siblings. This apparently also makes the initial fledglings more likely to return to the same nesting site, than those which migrate soon as possible. Either Way, Hirundo Rustica has spread out around this planet, much like the human affiliation it commonly follows.
By the time the monsoon ends, a steady breeze has dissipated the misty clouds, which until then had concealed the Himalayas, and so a drier season gradually arrives. Therefore, the rice is harvested, from the terraced paddies, so that it might be dried and then the chaff winnowed from the grain. Particles of husk suspended upon the warm eddying currents of air might drift past the now empty, or soon to be, nests. The parent swallows, and their young fledglings then migrate off to South-East Asia, and perhaps even further. In any case, the swallows will return, for they are the shops' legacy, to be passed on down through the centuries.
Each year, at about this time, the barn swallows, as is their tradition, casually return to the Aalu Maila Shop, on Ganeshman Sinha Maarga. Usually the males drop by first, to check out the nesting site and to attract a female, if one hasn’t chosen one already. So, from dawn until dusk each day, once the wide entrance panel doors are removed, the swallows briskly swoop in and out of the low earth-tone yellow and brown shop, for they have already set about their diligent housekeeping. The male swallows, like metallic blue and off-white long-tailed darts, will then constantly flit back and forth from the exposed low ceiling beams, where fifty to sixty nests hang.
The birds are perhaps on a mission with a mouthful of mud, or some old chaffed rice husks, tidying and repairing the nests from past years, though the nests generally are in good shape. This is due in part to good construction, and to the shop proprietor seeing the nesting birds as a blessing and auspicious omen and therefore the old nests are left alone. Besides, the customers respect and tolerate the swallows’ buoyant presence, despite soaring only inches above their heads, just as the swallows ignore the human traffic of commerce, going on below. In any case, it is rare that new nests are constructed by the birds, unless the colony numbers have recently increased.
Nonetheless, soon the swallows will settle down somewhat, as only one set of each nesting pair will come and go in search of food, while the other unwearyingly sits to incubate the newly laid egg. They are very clean birds, nest wise in any case, as by beak they remove their droppings elsewhere. This is just as well, since the shop floor is a rather tight and narrow space, roughly three meters by eight meters. In that limited area, there are various open bins of rice, lentils and beans, and shelves of various household goods along the inner walls, together with sacks of flour and heaps of packaged goods in the center.
There are other elements of the small retail outlet to note, like a slight recess along the front wall for the cash box, as well as a nook at the back of one half of the shop, and a narrow passage towards a back storage area. However, the barn swallows seem to nest exclusively in the main front part of the structure, presumably for easier access to the outside. There is an optimum of natural lighting here after all, with sufficient cooling shade at the same time, as well as an abundance of insects and various water supplies nearby.
When the heavy rains have again arrived, the hatchlings will begin to emerge from the snug confinement of their shell. Meanwhile, the human traffic below will chatter and gossip, and try to haggle prices, despite the young swallows, in the rafters above, warbling up quite a deafening storm. The featherless chicks, understandably, are in fierce competition against one another, with head raised high on stretched neck, and mouth wide open, awaiting a parent bird to regurgitate a sloppy insect meal for them. Therefore, the parents are extremely busy, constantly zipping back and forth to feed their three or four frail and fragile looking offspring, get water, or clean the build-up of guano from the nest.
Meanwhile, the clerks on the shop floor, tally up the customer’s numerous purchases, their nimble fingers flying on the calculator keys. Not just once do they do so, but twice in quick succession, to double check, and rarely are they wrong in their calculations the first time. In fact, nothing seems to distract them in their line of duty, even though one might think that all the racket of the birds, all day long, would eventually drive them up the wall.
However, much like the shop owner, the clerks seem quite chuffed to work in the presence of the active swallows. Indeed, every now and then the clerks might pause momentarily in their work, look up at the hatchlings and smile affectionately. In this age of constant change and rapid modernization, even in Nepal, it is indeed refreshing to know that somethings don’t change and are in fact caringly preserved.
The first lively brood of barn swallows quickly then grow and mature into fledglings,throughout the monsoon season due to the parents’ frantic efforts, and so it’s not unusual for a second brood to start. Often the first brood, even though now able to fly and fend-for-themself, will hang around to assist in the raising of their weaker pint-sized siblings. This apparently also makes the initial fledglings more likely to return to the same nesting site, than those which migrate soon as possible. Either Way, Hirundo Rustica has spread out around this planet, much like the human affiliation it commonly follows.
By the time the monsoon ends, a steady breeze has dissipated the misty clouds, which until then had concealed the Himalayas, and so a drier season gradually arrives. Therefore, the rice is harvested, from the terraced paddies, so that it might be dried and then the chaff winnowed from the grain. Particles of husk suspended upon the warm eddying currents of air might drift past the now empty, or soon to be, nests. The parent swallows, and their young fledglings then migrate off to South-East Asia, and perhaps even further. In any case, the swallows will return, for they are the shops' legacy, to be passed on down through the centuries.
January 17, 2021
Departure
I feel at times that I am like a ship leaving port late at night, the warmth, comfort and security of the shore gently dropping away in the distance. As the ship sails through the waves a phosphorus trail is left, yet this too slowly fades, while I make my course sailing into the dark unknown.
To the East, lands of the rising sun, I shall set my direction of voyage, yet who knows which way the wind might force my sails to turn.
I am at the mercy of the tides and currents, the waves and weather, will the gales blow favourably or will they rip me apart and dash me upon the jagged rocks?
All the same, to strange lands and adventures I must sail, I can no more refuse than the earth cease to spin nor fail to revolve around the sun, it seems that this is ever to be my destiny.
To the East, lands of the rising sun, I shall set my direction of voyage, yet who knows which way the wind might force my sails to turn.
I am at the mercy of the tides and currents, the waves and weather, will the gales blow favourably or will they rip me apart and dash me upon the jagged rocks?
All the same, to strange lands and adventures I must sail, I can no more refuse than the earth cease to spin nor fail to revolve around the sun, it seems that this is ever to be my destiny.
January 5, 2021
Battle Cry
The drums of war seem to beat most favourably at this time of evening, with a steady morse code precession, a message calling all to arms and to the trenches, as the sun gradually dips below the horizon. Flares then erupt into the still night air, raining down sparks as if multi coloured snowflakes, as sirens wail to wake the dead and thus spread panic, and shells whistle by splattering muck and mire, all with a deafening hammering thunder. Now orders are sent forward for the men to make ready for the advance, and I am cowering, yes cowering within my foxhole, slithering in the muddy ooze from fears which will not let me go. My stomach is wrung into twisted knots under the pressure of awaiting the final battle call, and still the tension mounts.
The ground now shudders, someone nearby falls screaming, in a blood spraying twitching death dance, and machine guns fire. How many people must get tangled up in barbed wire, step on landmines, be shot at and piled into shallow graves before we, as a society, see that it is wrong to carry on this way? It tears me apart, I want nothing more than to quit this battle, yet at times I feel helpless to take any course of action, other than to blindly follow orders. Back and forth I therefore pace in my foxhole, ranting and raving, possessed with a fever until foaming at the mouth. If someone could see my face, in the flash of the flares, they might think that I was a fiend come to rip their heart out!
A soldier is brave, a soldier is strong, a soldier will not flinch when faced with death, and a soldier fights for freedom. Therefore, I shall show them a true soldier! Let the flares light up the night sky, fire the shells and the guns, blow the whistles loud and shrill to call the men over the wall! Over the wall! To arms, to arms!
Over we go, to death or victory, over I go as well, yet in the opposite direction, throwing down my weapons and mule packs. The sergeant then yells at me, blowing again his shrill whistle, calling me back with a warning. However, I simply look at the remains of dead barren trees, imagining birds chirping away in them, feeling a warm breeze on my skin and a lightness of body after so long having been weighed down. The sergeant yells his final warning of court martial, I hear the click as he loads his rifle, and I can sense him aiming at the back of my head. But I am walking away, walking to freedom, I can see the trees now full of summer leaves, children playing in the shade, flowers in full bloom and birds sing…
Into the darkness I then suddenly tumble and fall swirling down into the void unfathomable spiralling like a top out of control uncertain of my destination a free-for-all rolling-flying fuck through a spinning donut helter-skelter in the summer swelter a hodge-podge jumble, brilliant is the only word to describe this sensation of passing by way of osmosis from the physical into the hands of the great and mighty Goddess/God/Demon/spirit what have you, like a warm creamy smooth Guinness sliding down one’s throat, it’s the world turned topsy-turvy flapjack style with a side of raspberry jam, like waking from reality to find that your wettest dream come true when that something you were afraid would snap finally does and you can relax in the recoil as the tension is released and you can again take a gulp of fresh air for the first time in so long and you almost choke drowning on the sharp coolness of the intake, coughing you fall to your knees like rubber laughing that you are free, yes my prison term is over, finished with and all agony gone, I am free to run to yell, to cry with joy and to dance a merry jig especially if you don’t know how to, to heal your wounds and to know that you have died to reach this point of resurrection, to eat grass and roll on the damp earth, wash your face with it, smell the rich decay like perfume, to trip and fall and skin oneself, to yell out loud I AM ALIVE, ALIVE I TELL YOU, you bastards, so Pogue Mahone!
The ground now shudders, someone nearby falls screaming, in a blood spraying twitching death dance, and machine guns fire. How many people must get tangled up in barbed wire, step on landmines, be shot at and piled into shallow graves before we, as a society, see that it is wrong to carry on this way? It tears me apart, I want nothing more than to quit this battle, yet at times I feel helpless to take any course of action, other than to blindly follow orders. Back and forth I therefore pace in my foxhole, ranting and raving, possessed with a fever until foaming at the mouth. If someone could see my face, in the flash of the flares, they might think that I was a fiend come to rip their heart out!
A soldier is brave, a soldier is strong, a soldier will not flinch when faced with death, and a soldier fights for freedom. Therefore, I shall show them a true soldier! Let the flares light up the night sky, fire the shells and the guns, blow the whistles loud and shrill to call the men over the wall! Over the wall! To arms, to arms!
Over we go, to death or victory, over I go as well, yet in the opposite direction, throwing down my weapons and mule packs. The sergeant then yells at me, blowing again his shrill whistle, calling me back with a warning. However, I simply look at the remains of dead barren trees, imagining birds chirping away in them, feeling a warm breeze on my skin and a lightness of body after so long having been weighed down. The sergeant yells his final warning of court martial, I hear the click as he loads his rifle, and I can sense him aiming at the back of my head. But I am walking away, walking to freedom, I can see the trees now full of summer leaves, children playing in the shade, flowers in full bloom and birds sing…
Into the darkness I then suddenly tumble and fall swirling down into the void unfathomable spiralling like a top out of control uncertain of my destination a free-for-all rolling-flying fuck through a spinning donut helter-skelter in the summer swelter a hodge-podge jumble, brilliant is the only word to describe this sensation of passing by way of osmosis from the physical into the hands of the great and mighty Goddess/God/Demon/spirit what have you, like a warm creamy smooth Guinness sliding down one’s throat, it’s the world turned topsy-turvy flapjack style with a side of raspberry jam, like waking from reality to find that your wettest dream come true when that something you were afraid would snap finally does and you can relax in the recoil as the tension is released and you can again take a gulp of fresh air for the first time in so long and you almost choke drowning on the sharp coolness of the intake, coughing you fall to your knees like rubber laughing that you are free, yes my prison term is over, finished with and all agony gone, I am free to run to yell, to cry with joy and to dance a merry jig especially if you don’t know how to, to heal your wounds and to know that you have died to reach this point of resurrection, to eat grass and roll on the damp earth, wash your face with it, smell the rich decay like perfume, to trip and fall and skin oneself, to yell out loud I AM ALIVE, ALIVE I TELL YOU, you bastards, so Pogue Mahone!
September 24, 2020
The Spelunker
With a darkening sky, and grey billowing clouds, a late autumn storm comes racing through an alpine valley and over the towering peaks. Nonetheless, a lonely figure dressed in animal skins cautiously approaches along a narrow goat path, over bits of loose fallen scree, along the unprotected face of a jagged summit. With each step he scans the grey rock face ahead of him, seeking a tell-tale sign, one which marks a hollow crevice leading into the hill’s depths. He knows it is near, having been there previously, but then he had been with others and this is his first time coming alone, and so he is less confident.
However, brushing away the long strands of hair which the cold robust wind has blown across his face, he once again pans the broken rock verge for the slight tell-tale shadow. After all, he is keenly aware of the approaching icy mist, and therefore must find shelter soon. However, just as he pauses to stroke his wiry beard a moment, he looks up and spies exactly what he seeks. Cautiously he makes his way to the ledge, squeezing his way through the narrow crevice, and finally into the gently inclining cavern.
At last, sheltered from the raging storm, he gratefully drops, upon the cave floor, the leather bag he has carried all this way. He next rummages through the bag for some dry straw and a piece of linen wrap smeared in animal fat. These he uses to cover the end of a short wooden limb which he also has carried in the leather bag. Then with a small wooden bow and drill, he quickly sets light to a small amount of dry grass, and from a spark to flame thereby lights his torch. Well guided now, this spelunker gathers his leather bag, and next wanders deeper into that obscure and mystical terrestrial womb world of past perceptions and memory...
Soon enough he finds a good spot, a relatively large section of the cave wall, smooth for the most part, therefore well-fitting his purpose. Of course, he is not the first person at this location, as evident rings of powdered ash and snapped branches for kindling confirm. Regardless, it make his job easier at any rate. Quickly he sets about building a small hearth, and then, with kindling and a few small branches left behind by previous occupants, he urges a blaze to improve the lighting, while adding a touch of much needed warmth.
Rummaging once more through his leather bag, he removes an assortment of greasy pigments, like cobalt blue; okra red; saffron yellow; earth-tone browns; chalky white; and a piece of charcoal from the remains of a fire for black. Nevertheless, before he can set to his vital task, he must first prepare his mood and focus his mind. So, he takes from a small leather neck pouch a handful of ceremonial mushrooms, which he calmly swallows with a sip of water from a small skin bag. Then, while waiting for their potency to take effect, he rearranges his long hair, tying it out of the way with a strip of leather; before next staring deeply into the growing fire while chanting gently under his breath.
In this way he hopes to evoke the profoundness of the Goddess and God, the sacred spirits of elements and animals. He also desires to access the wisdom of the ancient ones, and of his own inner self, so as to channel such energy through the focal point of his hands, thereby lending a power and force to his forming inspirations. Indeed, he soon senses a slight tingling sensation beginning to seep throughout his form, as his surroundings and inner perceptions begin to shift. Therefore, he willingly basks within the warm spiritual glow of this rapture washing over him, as his mystic vision manifests before him.
He now watches coloured beads of light emitting from the fire in an arched curve of dripping moisture, the shadows now gently swirling, drawn by various energy fields. Every feature of the cave surface then jumps out at him, each stalagmite and stalactite as well as every hollow, and he perceives that he is no longer alone in the cavern. An ancient being of pure energy is surely guiding him, the power of the mushrooms having fine-tuned his metaphysical frequencies to sense such a spiritual event.
Slowly rising to his feet, the spelunker carefully selects the first pigment, watching as if from a distance as his body begins to carefully paint the cave wall. He is a long-distance traveller between various wavering spheres of reality and illusion. Fathoming the endless realms of innermost thought, thus he gropes in the darkness for whatever might await. He is plunging his hands deep into cold black waters, fishing for abysmal creatures which dwell within the Ego and the Id, trying to get a feel of where he stands within himself. While charting the obscure paths of his concealed shame and repressed hostility, he slips even further through mists of the past, toward a landscape of memories lost.
Thus, he relives all the stinging failures and stupid mistakes, the blinding rage and anger forming a vortex, drawing him down to his very core where the many lifetime wounds of his pain and misery are painfully reopened. However, at the very core, where the truth is laid bare, there is a light for those brave enough to mend the wounds of such an outworn life. Surrounded by that glow they can discover the strength to forgive and move on, yet only by changing the very cycle they find themselves trapped within, can such be done. There they find the strength to change from the inner beast, which we fear the most, and rise above the ethereal being, which all beings exalt with awe towards.
His heart of darkness is therefore ripped asunder, to receive an inflow of advent elucidation, so as to purge his obscurity within. Face the pain and anger, struggle with it, as the insane keeper of this harsh and cruel purgatory, accept that this is a part of the spirit, and then let it all go while leaving the heartache behind. The lonely spelunker then looks back at all the tormenting memories for one last time, no longer punishing himself for what he now knows is only human nature, and releases the fear of such thoughts, like the shedding of a dead skin. He next steps out from this (and each proceeding) empty shell of himself, each a relic of his past, those parts of his life are gone now and he is thereby free to choose whatever path he might wish to take.
He is suddenly alive with a renewed spirit as he paints living images of spirit animals, running swift and wild (as is his own soul) leaping among grasslands like the wind, scattering helter-skelter with a playful grace full of mystical life; meanwhile, joyful human figures waver and sway symbolically, playing primal instruments as they celebrate the hunt; spears and arrows swift let fly into the air, arc at the zenith, penetrate the living flesh cutting, life blood flows and the animal spirits soar…
The same must be done of his soul, which is once again all part of the mystic circle. These petroglyphs tell other stories as well, of his monstrous inner demons and odd imps, protective spirits, tribal history and of mystic apparitions. Every colour, shade and form he uses blends into the universal chaos, which is without commencing or completion in its undertow. Images that easily spill forth majestic, brutal, yet externally abstract, flowing with the wondrous power of the unobstructed mind, and each trip offers a different gift...
Sligo January 20/1997
a rewritten excerpt from the novel "In Transition"
However, brushing away the long strands of hair which the cold robust wind has blown across his face, he once again pans the broken rock verge for the slight tell-tale shadow. After all, he is keenly aware of the approaching icy mist, and therefore must find shelter soon. However, just as he pauses to stroke his wiry beard a moment, he looks up and spies exactly what he seeks. Cautiously he makes his way to the ledge, squeezing his way through the narrow crevice, and finally into the gently inclining cavern.
At last, sheltered from the raging storm, he gratefully drops, upon the cave floor, the leather bag he has carried all this way. He next rummages through the bag for some dry straw and a piece of linen wrap smeared in animal fat. These he uses to cover the end of a short wooden limb which he also has carried in the leather bag. Then with a small wooden bow and drill, he quickly sets light to a small amount of dry grass, and from a spark to flame thereby lights his torch. Well guided now, this spelunker gathers his leather bag, and next wanders deeper into that obscure and mystical terrestrial womb world of past perceptions and memory...
Soon enough he finds a good spot, a relatively large section of the cave wall, smooth for the most part, therefore well-fitting his purpose. Of course, he is not the first person at this location, as evident rings of powdered ash and snapped branches for kindling confirm. Regardless, it make his job easier at any rate. Quickly he sets about building a small hearth, and then, with kindling and a few small branches left behind by previous occupants, he urges a blaze to improve the lighting, while adding a touch of much needed warmth.
Rummaging once more through his leather bag, he removes an assortment of greasy pigments, like cobalt blue; okra red; saffron yellow; earth-tone browns; chalky white; and a piece of charcoal from the remains of a fire for black. Nevertheless, before he can set to his vital task, he must first prepare his mood and focus his mind. So, he takes from a small leather neck pouch a handful of ceremonial mushrooms, which he calmly swallows with a sip of water from a small skin bag. Then, while waiting for their potency to take effect, he rearranges his long hair, tying it out of the way with a strip of leather; before next staring deeply into the growing fire while chanting gently under his breath.
In this way he hopes to evoke the profoundness of the Goddess and God, the sacred spirits of elements and animals. He also desires to access the wisdom of the ancient ones, and of his own inner self, so as to channel such energy through the focal point of his hands, thereby lending a power and force to his forming inspirations. Indeed, he soon senses a slight tingling sensation beginning to seep throughout his form, as his surroundings and inner perceptions begin to shift. Therefore, he willingly basks within the warm spiritual glow of this rapture washing over him, as his mystic vision manifests before him.
He now watches coloured beads of light emitting from the fire in an arched curve of dripping moisture, the shadows now gently swirling, drawn by various energy fields. Every feature of the cave surface then jumps out at him, each stalagmite and stalactite as well as every hollow, and he perceives that he is no longer alone in the cavern. An ancient being of pure energy is surely guiding him, the power of the mushrooms having fine-tuned his metaphysical frequencies to sense such a spiritual event.
Slowly rising to his feet, the spelunker carefully selects the first pigment, watching as if from a distance as his body begins to carefully paint the cave wall. He is a long-distance traveller between various wavering spheres of reality and illusion. Fathoming the endless realms of innermost thought, thus he gropes in the darkness for whatever might await. He is plunging his hands deep into cold black waters, fishing for abysmal creatures which dwell within the Ego and the Id, trying to get a feel of where he stands within himself. While charting the obscure paths of his concealed shame and repressed hostility, he slips even further through mists of the past, toward a landscape of memories lost.
Thus, he relives all the stinging failures and stupid mistakes, the blinding rage and anger forming a vortex, drawing him down to his very core where the many lifetime wounds of his pain and misery are painfully reopened. However, at the very core, where the truth is laid bare, there is a light for those brave enough to mend the wounds of such an outworn life. Surrounded by that glow they can discover the strength to forgive and move on, yet only by changing the very cycle they find themselves trapped within, can such be done. There they find the strength to change from the inner beast, which we fear the most, and rise above the ethereal being, which all beings exalt with awe towards.
His heart of darkness is therefore ripped asunder, to receive an inflow of advent elucidation, so as to purge his obscurity within. Face the pain and anger, struggle with it, as the insane keeper of this harsh and cruel purgatory, accept that this is a part of the spirit, and then let it all go while leaving the heartache behind. The lonely spelunker then looks back at all the tormenting memories for one last time, no longer punishing himself for what he now knows is only human nature, and releases the fear of such thoughts, like the shedding of a dead skin. He next steps out from this (and each proceeding) empty shell of himself, each a relic of his past, those parts of his life are gone now and he is thereby free to choose whatever path he might wish to take.
He is suddenly alive with a renewed spirit as he paints living images of spirit animals, running swift and wild (as is his own soul) leaping among grasslands like the wind, scattering helter-skelter with a playful grace full of mystical life; meanwhile, joyful human figures waver and sway symbolically, playing primal instruments as they celebrate the hunt; spears and arrows swift let fly into the air, arc at the zenith, penetrate the living flesh cutting, life blood flows and the animal spirits soar…
The same must be done of his soul, which is once again all part of the mystic circle. These petroglyphs tell other stories as well, of his monstrous inner demons and odd imps, protective spirits, tribal history and of mystic apparitions. Every colour, shade and form he uses blends into the universal chaos, which is without commencing or completion in its undertow. Images that easily spill forth majestic, brutal, yet externally abstract, flowing with the wondrous power of the unobstructed mind, and each trip offers a different gift...
Sligo January 20/1997
a rewritten excerpt from the novel "In Transition"
September 19, 2020
Lumbini Morning
For millennia the moon has slowly waxed and waned, shifting through phases from thin crescent to full orb, as it rises and sets over the vast Ganges Plain. In that simple sweeping motion Shiva's divine cosmic dance of creation and destruction is performed, as countless stars and planets slowly arc and wobble in an ancient spiralling pattern of precession, across the night sky. Such a breathtaking sight of the expanding universe touches the heart and illuminates the spirit, thus enlightening the mind, while hopefully transforming the way we view existence. In such terms each of us is nothing, spanning no time and going nowhere, regardless of our delusions of influence or achievements.
Indeed, eons pass as Himalayan sourced rivers shift in their courses, altering the dominating landscape, and notable kingdoms arise briefly holding sway, some sagely reigned and others foolishly, as excessive battles are waged. However, even the most powerful empire eventually crumbles into ruin, the scammers and schemers, along with the heroes and sages leaving behind nothing but forgotten bones. Thus, it all becomes nothing but legend and myth passed down throughout the ages.
Nonetheless over the centuries, in the absence of civilization, nature creeps in invading with bodhi tree seedlings, prying apart man-made structures, as beasts of the jungle take over abandoned temples and palaces. But then, like weeds of resistance, tribal groups may occasionally spring up, surviving by simply living off the land. Thus, mother nature majestically reigns, until pushed back once again by civilizations' encroachment. Such ages come and go, in constant flux, like that of a gentle tidal surge.
But everything comes full circle, and what was thought lost and forgotten shall be found once more. Witness the scattered foundations of ancient red-brick monasteries, extracted from the once thick jungle, now that only pocket patches of woodlands remain. So, once again, as in previous millennia, holy men in ragged robes with their begging bowls, and travelling merchants carrying fancy wears on shoulder yokes, wander throughout the hot dusty land. See also the peasants tirelessly working the fertile soil, to feed the ravenous multitudes, and women carrying water from the banks of the winding rivers, along with swaddled infants. They are seedlings of hope for a better future, let them break-down the walls of social ignorance, and political strife, let them take root on a more progressive ground.
We may have evolved by leaps and bounds, from a primitive state, but have a long way still to mature on conceptual and transcendental level. Until we do, we will continue to look at lives we might think as less than our own and treat them unfairly or with indifference. Here and now, we are in a unique position where we can choose to be cruel and destructive, by using anger and hate to inflict pain on others, or do wise and noble acts.
So, why is it that we choose to neglect our micro connection to the macro cosmic whole, and the intricate part we each have on the overall universal stage? For the truth is that we are all one and the same a part of the cosmos, small as we are within it, as everything is connected and interacting to various degrees. Indeed, the very stars around us have produced the carbon dust that we and everything else are composed of, thus the milky way is a bioluminescence in a fathomless galactic ocean.
Some have strived towards a better existence for all beings, and others still reach for that goal, listening to the wind of their soul blowing wherever it might guide them. Yet, though many temples and shrines may be built in their names, to memorialize their pious efforts, and their followers significant, such structures, grand and memorable as they might be, are not as impressive as what nature in its full beauty inspires. Since, like any grand and powerful kingdom or empire, such man-made edifices eventually tarnished and decay. So, forget the weathered relics of a long dead past, since a living memorial of a sacred event serves, in this case perhaps, a far better purpose.
Now the stars have faded away as already a new day has arisen, veiled in the thick misty-fog as the warm breezes from the south meet the cooler mountain air. Sure enough, the birds begin to sing and oxen grunt in the nearby fields, dogs bark and chickens cluck in the surrounding communities. So, come walk in the cool morning air where stands a massive Bodhi tree, pleasantly decked with countless long strings of colourful Tibetan prayer flags radiating out like spokes of a vast wheel, leading into the depths of the mist, like a connection through a haze of confusion, as if this is the center of everything this moment, umbrella of the spirit/soul, the unfolding of the cosmos on a micro level.
This tree of life ever growing, its roots reaching deep into the nurturing soil to become much stronger, its trunk a pillar of its potency, and its mighty branches stretching out forming a protective canopy over all who shelter there. Season after season may the tree bear its fruit, seeding ideas and concepts which will take root in the minds of kind compassionate beings. Even if damaged, the tree can repair and rejuvenate, and from its seeds will grow new trees to spread out and form another forest. This lamination after all outshines the glitter of the surrounding materialism. It is the enlightenment, just as the sun illuminates the moon.
Toronto, 09/19/2020
Indeed, eons pass as Himalayan sourced rivers shift in their courses, altering the dominating landscape, and notable kingdoms arise briefly holding sway, some sagely reigned and others foolishly, as excessive battles are waged. However, even the most powerful empire eventually crumbles into ruin, the scammers and schemers, along with the heroes and sages leaving behind nothing but forgotten bones. Thus, it all becomes nothing but legend and myth passed down throughout the ages.
Nonetheless over the centuries, in the absence of civilization, nature creeps in invading with bodhi tree seedlings, prying apart man-made structures, as beasts of the jungle take over abandoned temples and palaces. But then, like weeds of resistance, tribal groups may occasionally spring up, surviving by simply living off the land. Thus, mother nature majestically reigns, until pushed back once again by civilizations' encroachment. Such ages come and go, in constant flux, like that of a gentle tidal surge.
But everything comes full circle, and what was thought lost and forgotten shall be found once more. Witness the scattered foundations of ancient red-brick monasteries, extracted from the once thick jungle, now that only pocket patches of woodlands remain. So, once again, as in previous millennia, holy men in ragged robes with their begging bowls, and travelling merchants carrying fancy wears on shoulder yokes, wander throughout the hot dusty land. See also the peasants tirelessly working the fertile soil, to feed the ravenous multitudes, and women carrying water from the banks of the winding rivers, along with swaddled infants. They are seedlings of hope for a better future, let them break-down the walls of social ignorance, and political strife, let them take root on a more progressive ground.
We may have evolved by leaps and bounds, from a primitive state, but have a long way still to mature on conceptual and transcendental level. Until we do, we will continue to look at lives we might think as less than our own and treat them unfairly or with indifference. Here and now, we are in a unique position where we can choose to be cruel and destructive, by using anger and hate to inflict pain on others, or do wise and noble acts.
So, why is it that we choose to neglect our micro connection to the macro cosmic whole, and the intricate part we each have on the overall universal stage? For the truth is that we are all one and the same a part of the cosmos, small as we are within it, as everything is connected and interacting to various degrees. Indeed, the very stars around us have produced the carbon dust that we and everything else are composed of, thus the milky way is a bioluminescence in a fathomless galactic ocean.
Some have strived towards a better existence for all beings, and others still reach for that goal, listening to the wind of their soul blowing wherever it might guide them. Yet, though many temples and shrines may be built in their names, to memorialize their pious efforts, and their followers significant, such structures, grand and memorable as they might be, are not as impressive as what nature in its full beauty inspires. Since, like any grand and powerful kingdom or empire, such man-made edifices eventually tarnished and decay. So, forget the weathered relics of a long dead past, since a living memorial of a sacred event serves, in this case perhaps, a far better purpose.
Now the stars have faded away as already a new day has arisen, veiled in the thick misty-fog as the warm breezes from the south meet the cooler mountain air. Sure enough, the birds begin to sing and oxen grunt in the nearby fields, dogs bark and chickens cluck in the surrounding communities. So, come walk in the cool morning air where stands a massive Bodhi tree, pleasantly decked with countless long strings of colourful Tibetan prayer flags radiating out like spokes of a vast wheel, leading into the depths of the mist, like a connection through a haze of confusion, as if this is the center of everything this moment, umbrella of the spirit/soul, the unfolding of the cosmos on a micro level.
This tree of life ever growing, its roots reaching deep into the nurturing soil to become much stronger, its trunk a pillar of its potency, and its mighty branches stretching out forming a protective canopy over all who shelter there. Season after season may the tree bear its fruit, seeding ideas and concepts which will take root in the minds of kind compassionate beings. Even if damaged, the tree can repair and rejuvenate, and from its seeds will grow new trees to spread out and form another forest. This lamination after all outshines the glitter of the surrounding materialism. It is the enlightenment, just as the sun illuminates the moon.
Toronto, 09/19/2020
August 31, 2020
Seagull
Seagull
Seagull cry
High above, overhead
As you fly
Fly on by
Be my guide
Show the way, across the sea
The sea so wide
And I will follow, by your side
Wherever you go
So, under your wing
Take me now
To hear you sing
And see what our fortune brings
Day by day
As we sail upon the waves
Let no storm turn us away
But prevail, come what may
Wherever we go
Seagull cry
High above, overhead
As you fly
Fly on by
Be my guide
Show the way, across the sea
The sea so wide
And I will follow, by your side
Wherever you go
So, under your wing
Take me now
To hear you sing
And see what our fortune brings
Day by day
As we sail upon the waves
Let no storm turn us away
But prevail, come what may
Wherever we go
January 1, 2020
Word of the day
Begpacker
A western tourist who tries to fund their continuing travel plans by begging for money on the streets of countries that are much poorer than the country from which they came from.
A western tourist who tries to fund their continuing travel plans by begging for money on the streets of countries that are much poorer than the country from which they came from.
June 5, 2018
rags make paper poem
rags make paper,
paper makes money,
money makes banks,
banks make bankers rich,
bankers make people beggars,
beggars make rags...
unknown 17th century poet
paper makes money,
money makes banks,
banks make bankers rich,
bankers make people beggars,
beggars make rags...
unknown 17th century poet
June 3, 2018
decisions
Drop a stone
breaking the surface of a still pond
with spreading rings,
like decisions,
reaching out across the water
Drop another stone,
more rings reaching out,
more decisions
entwining, affecting one another
More stones, more decisions
entwining affecting
turning the still pond
into a raging sea
so that even the smallest individual decision
resonates outward
until all of us are affected
breaking the surface of a still pond
with spreading rings,
like decisions,
reaching out across the water
Drop another stone,
more rings reaching out,
more decisions
entwining, affecting one another
More stones, more decisions
entwining affecting
turning the still pond
into a raging sea
so that even the smallest individual decision
resonates outward
until all of us are affected
August 29, 2016
The many Trials and Tribulations of Travel
The Many Trials and Tribulations of Travel
Recently I had just begun my return journey to Nepal, after twenty-two months of working in Toronto, Canada, to earn enough money to complete work on my guest house home, and to have money to support myself while back in Nepal as well. On paper, when I had first booked the flight ticket, it all looked fairly straight forward and simple. I would fly from Toronto to Amsterdam, a journey of about seven and a half hours, followed by a three hour layover in Amsterdam, before continuing on to Delhi. The journey to Delhi was roughly to be an eight hour trip, with a seven and a half hour layover, before finally making the last relatively short stretch from Delhi to Kathmandu.
All together it was to be a twenty-seven hour journey, add then the seven hour bus ride from Kathmandu to Pokhara, and it should have been a thirty-four hour trip. Thus, making it one of the shortest durations, for me, between Canada and my home in Nepal. At least, if it had actually worked out as it had on paper, it would have, but reality can often be a totally different mater.
I had arrived at Toronto airport the full three hours before departure, as is strongly recommended. But, even upon approaching the check-in counters, it became quite clear that there was a bit of a problem, judging by the size and general confusion of the crowd. This was not just at the Jet Airways counter, where I had to go, but at most of the other counters as well.
In fact, it turned out that there had been a whole series of delayed departures, but especially for Jet Airways, going back a day or two. Apparently, because of a computer error. So, there were people in line who should have flown the previous day. Therefore, it’s perhaps not so surprising that it took me almost an hour and a half just to inch my way through to the check-in counter. Next, I had to spend another hour in line, just to go through the security check at the flight gate, but that was fine, since my flight had already been delayed an hour from the time originally posted. Eventually we did board Jet Airways flight 233 and our aircraft departed, an hour and a half late, which at the time didn’t seem too bad, considering the overall situation.
There was a bit of turbulence from the very start of the journey, which continued most of the way east, until well past Newfoundland. A little turbulence now and again I can handle, but a lot of heavy turbulence, over a long duration makes me rather uneasy, in fact like a long tailed cat in a rocking-chair factory. I feel that the aircraft will be damaged by all the shaking and pitching, or that the pilots might lose control, if the weather is too rough. This turbulence wasn’t very heavy, yet still I was a bit concerned.
Perhaps even worse than heavy turbulence is when someone is continuously farting throughout the flight, possibly due to nervousness or something they ate or drank. Farts so noxious that you want to block your nose, and tell whoever it is to put a cork in it. But because the aircraft is pressure sealed, and the air is constantly circulated, the smell of fart soon fills the whole passenger cabin. Nonetheless, everyone struggles to politely ignore the stench, after all we are all human, and so everyone does their best to carry on.
Meanwhile, looking at my next boarding pass, for the journey from Amsterdam to Delhi, to find out what gate I would need to locate, I noticed that the departure time was 23:55 instead of the original time of 11:45. I was hoping that there had been some sort of error, like someone had confused am for pm. But at the same time I figured that it was highly unlikely, especially as the 24 hour clock was supposed to avoid all of that confusion. No doubt, we really would have to sit around for twelve long dreadful hours in Amsterdam Airport.
After a few more bouts of occasional turbulence, over the Atlantic and Europe, which were only a little unsettling, and more evil flatulence, which was rather disturbing, we touched-down at Amsterdam Airport. Once off the aircraft, most of the passengers, at least most of those who were continuing on to Delhi, rushed over to the gate indicated on their next boarding pass. There indeed was an 11:45 Jet Airways flight to Delhi, at that gate, still boarding (same flight number even), but it was carrying passengers who were supposed to have travelled the previous day. So, eventually everyone ended-up at the flight transfer desk, where a young female Jet Airways employee was handing out food and drink vouchers, while trying to explain the situation and answering everyone's questions.
But the crowd was more or less ganging-up on her, by crowding in too close, especially the men, and intimidating her by loudly asking her questions which she was in the middle of explaining or had already answered. Apparently, the airline was planning to take the Delhi bound passengers to a hotel outside of the airport, as well as hand out food vouchers, provided that each passenger could get the security clearance to have their passport stamped with a visa. I personally had no great need for any food or drink vouchers, I would be fine with just water for the next thirteen hours or so, until our flight. Rest I might need however, but I had no interest in leaving the airport. Besides, there were various places to lounge and lay down throughout the airport.
My main concern was contacting the people who were to meet me in Kathmandu, and let them know about the change in my arrival time. Amsterdam Airport has a fairly good Wifi service however, which is free if you have your own internet device, otherwise you can use a computer, provided at certain locations, for a few Euros an hour. In any case, there was no problem in emailing my friends, and letting them know of my situation. Meanwhile, there wasn’t much else to occupy my time, but to surf the internet, listen to music on my hard drive and on Sound Cloud, or to do a bit of writing.
However, all of these activities drain the computers power supply. I had two power cords for my computer, one that was for a standard North American wall socket, the other one was good for a number of European and Asian countries, but unfortunately not for the Netherlands. So, after about four hours of that, I only had a few minutes of power left. This was just enough power to quickly check my emails, before getting on the flight to Delhi. In Delhi, I knew that I would have no problem recharging my computer.
The rest of the time, I wandered around Amsterdam Airport, from one end to the other and then back again, several times, of each section. It was good exercise if nothing else; I had a good look at the many shops, bars and restaurants, even if I didn’t buy anything. I also got a few hours of sleep, even if it wasn’t the most comfortable slumber, with all the surrounding noise and not being able to lie perfectly flat on my side or stomach, still it was better than no rest. Then, as the evening came on, there were rumours that my fight to Delhi had been further delayed, until 01:55 hours. I tried to locate a flight monitor to find out for certain, but in my rushing around, the strap on one of my flip-flop sandals broke. It had been hot weather on leaving Toronto, just as it would be hot in Kathmandu, so I had only wore shorts, a short-sleeve shirt and flip-flops; all my other foot wear was in my checked-in baggage on the aircraft.
It was about ten in the evening, at this point, so everything had more or less shut down, or was about to. I recalled that there had been a little stall selling flip-flop sandals nearby, so I rushed there on my one good and one broken sandal, but only to find that the stall was closed. There was a Hugo Boss shop across the way, which still was open, and even though I knew anything there would be expensive, I decided to give it a try. The shop keeper however, suggested that I try at a souvenir shop around the corner. As it happened, the souvenir shop was still open, and they did have a small selection of relatively inexpensive flip-flops, some of which even fit my feet. That certainly saved me from arriving in Delhi bare foot, and I even got myself a nice practical souvenir of my enjoyable time in Amsterdam Airport.
There wasn’t much to do after that, other than to go to the departure gate and wait for my onward flight to Delhi, even if the departure wasn’t until almost two o’clock in the morning. In any case, the ongoing flight had most of the same passengers, in the same seats, as the outgoing flight from Toronto. There were of course a few new faces picked-up in Amsterdam, but we certainly hadn’t got rid of the terrible farter! Once again, the passenger cabin was stinking to high hell the whole while, and one can only try to distract oneself so much by listening to music or watching films. At least there was no turbulence, and there were even some nice views, in the morning, of the Caspian Sea and northern Afghanistan, as seen from 11,000 metres.
However, as we came in closer to Delhi, I came to the sad realization that I was more than likely going to miss my connecting flight to Kathmandu. Indeed, we landed at Delhi Airport at about 45 minutes before the departure of my ongoing flight. But, by the time I had disembarked with the rest of the passengers, and had been rushed through the security check, with the help of a Jet Airways employee, and had finally reached the departure gate, it was already closed.
Once again, the Jet Airways people were most helpful, however. So, after a bit of a patient wait, they brought me to the Holiday Inn Express, which is one of the in airport hotels. Next, they personally talked with the hotel receptionist and booked me a room for the night, with dinner included, all at no cost to me. They also re-booked my seat, for the next flight to Kathmandu, which was to depart early in the morning.
In any case, I had a small but cozy room in the hotel, with most of the usual amenities, but most of all it allowed me to take a much needed shower. Staying in the Holiday Inn Express also gave me access to their internet code, as it wasn’t possible anywhere else in the airport to access the internet, without some sort of code. Best of all, I could get a few hours of needed sleep, just before dinner, and then a full night’s rest afterwards. That was very important, since I had to get up at 05:00 hours to check-out of the hotel, and reach the departure gate for my Kathmandu flight.
I was a bit worried in the morning, when I did arrive at the departure gate at 05:20, as I couldn’t see any aircraft. However, it was such a small jet that it had simply been hidden behind the covered passenger ramp. In any case, the flight took off on time, and the weather was perfect, with lots of great views of India below, and the majestic snow covered Himalayas rising above the clouds as we approached Kathmandu. That flight also had to be the swiftest I’ve ever been on, between Delhi and Kathmandu, clocking in at only an hour and fifteen minutes, when usually it’s at least half an hour longer. Getting through customs didn’t take long either; though there was some confusion on my part, due to a new system they have set up, but then I was on to collect my baggage…
Well, I might have collected the two bags I had checked-in back in Toronto, if they had been on the flight I had just arrived on. But somehow they had been misplaced, or put on a later flight to Kathmandu. Nonetheless, when I came out of the airport, with just the clothes on my back, and my computer in its carrying case, I was hoping to see my waiting friend. Yet no such luck. I had been hoping that he had seen all the emails I had sent, concerning the changing times of my arrival. But I wasn’t sure if he had since I hadn’t received any replies from him. I couldn’t call him, as I had no cell phone coverage in Nepal, so I borrowed a passersby's phone and called my friend, only to get a message that his number was temporarily out of service. I next bought a SIM card for my phone, so that I could keep trying without bothering anyone else, however the SIM card wouldn’t work in my phone.
After another half hour of waiting, I again borrowed a person’s cell phone, and this time I got through to my friend. It turned out that he was in the airport, at that moment, though in a different section. He had been waiting at the proper time, and had waited and waited, but then not seeing me after all the other passengers had left (probably as I was filling out the missing luggage forms), he thought that I had missed my flight again. So, he had gone to the Jet Airways office, to try and figure out what to do next.
In any case, we finally had our little reunion, went to book into a cheap hotel in Thamel. Finally we had some dal bhat, before waiting until evening to call the airport and see if my baggage had arrived. My lost luggage did indeed arrive on the evening flight, in from Delhi, and so we bought tickets for the morning bus to Pokhara. I was certainly looking forward to the warm welcome I would get once I arrived there, by then. But all in all, a journey which should have taken only thirty-four hours, including the bus trip to Pokhara, ended-up being a fifty-nine hour journey, the longest I’ve ever had to undertake!
28/08/16
Recently I had just begun my return journey to Nepal, after twenty-two months of working in Toronto, Canada, to earn enough money to complete work on my guest house home, and to have money to support myself while back in Nepal as well. On paper, when I had first booked the flight ticket, it all looked fairly straight forward and simple. I would fly from Toronto to Amsterdam, a journey of about seven and a half hours, followed by a three hour layover in Amsterdam, before continuing on to Delhi. The journey to Delhi was roughly to be an eight hour trip, with a seven and a half hour layover, before finally making the last relatively short stretch from Delhi to Kathmandu.
All together it was to be a twenty-seven hour journey, add then the seven hour bus ride from Kathmandu to Pokhara, and it should have been a thirty-four hour trip. Thus, making it one of the shortest durations, for me, between Canada and my home in Nepal. At least, if it had actually worked out as it had on paper, it would have, but reality can often be a totally different mater.
I had arrived at Toronto airport the full three hours before departure, as is strongly recommended. But, even upon approaching the check-in counters, it became quite clear that there was a bit of a problem, judging by the size and general confusion of the crowd. This was not just at the Jet Airways counter, where I had to go, but at most of the other counters as well.
In fact, it turned out that there had been a whole series of delayed departures, but especially for Jet Airways, going back a day or two. Apparently, because of a computer error. So, there were people in line who should have flown the previous day. Therefore, it’s perhaps not so surprising that it took me almost an hour and a half just to inch my way through to the check-in counter. Next, I had to spend another hour in line, just to go through the security check at the flight gate, but that was fine, since my flight had already been delayed an hour from the time originally posted. Eventually we did board Jet Airways flight 233 and our aircraft departed, an hour and a half late, which at the time didn’t seem too bad, considering the overall situation.
There was a bit of turbulence from the very start of the journey, which continued most of the way east, until well past Newfoundland. A little turbulence now and again I can handle, but a lot of heavy turbulence, over a long duration makes me rather uneasy, in fact like a long tailed cat in a rocking-chair factory. I feel that the aircraft will be damaged by all the shaking and pitching, or that the pilots might lose control, if the weather is too rough. This turbulence wasn’t very heavy, yet still I was a bit concerned.
Perhaps even worse than heavy turbulence is when someone is continuously farting throughout the flight, possibly due to nervousness or something they ate or drank. Farts so noxious that you want to block your nose, and tell whoever it is to put a cork in it. But because the aircraft is pressure sealed, and the air is constantly circulated, the smell of fart soon fills the whole passenger cabin. Nonetheless, everyone struggles to politely ignore the stench, after all we are all human, and so everyone does their best to carry on.
Meanwhile, looking at my next boarding pass, for the journey from Amsterdam to Delhi, to find out what gate I would need to locate, I noticed that the departure time was 23:55 instead of the original time of 11:45. I was hoping that there had been some sort of error, like someone had confused am for pm. But at the same time I figured that it was highly unlikely, especially as the 24 hour clock was supposed to avoid all of that confusion. No doubt, we really would have to sit around for twelve long dreadful hours in Amsterdam Airport.
After a few more bouts of occasional turbulence, over the Atlantic and Europe, which were only a little unsettling, and more evil flatulence, which was rather disturbing, we touched-down at Amsterdam Airport. Once off the aircraft, most of the passengers, at least most of those who were continuing on to Delhi, rushed over to the gate indicated on their next boarding pass. There indeed was an 11:45 Jet Airways flight to Delhi, at that gate, still boarding (same flight number even), but it was carrying passengers who were supposed to have travelled the previous day. So, eventually everyone ended-up at the flight transfer desk, where a young female Jet Airways employee was handing out food and drink vouchers, while trying to explain the situation and answering everyone's questions.
But the crowd was more or less ganging-up on her, by crowding in too close, especially the men, and intimidating her by loudly asking her questions which she was in the middle of explaining or had already answered. Apparently, the airline was planning to take the Delhi bound passengers to a hotel outside of the airport, as well as hand out food vouchers, provided that each passenger could get the security clearance to have their passport stamped with a visa. I personally had no great need for any food or drink vouchers, I would be fine with just water for the next thirteen hours or so, until our flight. Rest I might need however, but I had no interest in leaving the airport. Besides, there were various places to lounge and lay down throughout the airport.
My main concern was contacting the people who were to meet me in Kathmandu, and let them know about the change in my arrival time. Amsterdam Airport has a fairly good Wifi service however, which is free if you have your own internet device, otherwise you can use a computer, provided at certain locations, for a few Euros an hour. In any case, there was no problem in emailing my friends, and letting them know of my situation. Meanwhile, there wasn’t much else to occupy my time, but to surf the internet, listen to music on my hard drive and on Sound Cloud, or to do a bit of writing.
However, all of these activities drain the computers power supply. I had two power cords for my computer, one that was for a standard North American wall socket, the other one was good for a number of European and Asian countries, but unfortunately not for the Netherlands. So, after about four hours of that, I only had a few minutes of power left. This was just enough power to quickly check my emails, before getting on the flight to Delhi. In Delhi, I knew that I would have no problem recharging my computer.
The rest of the time, I wandered around Amsterdam Airport, from one end to the other and then back again, several times, of each section. It was good exercise if nothing else; I had a good look at the many shops, bars and restaurants, even if I didn’t buy anything. I also got a few hours of sleep, even if it wasn’t the most comfortable slumber, with all the surrounding noise and not being able to lie perfectly flat on my side or stomach, still it was better than no rest. Then, as the evening came on, there were rumours that my fight to Delhi had been further delayed, until 01:55 hours. I tried to locate a flight monitor to find out for certain, but in my rushing around, the strap on one of my flip-flop sandals broke. It had been hot weather on leaving Toronto, just as it would be hot in Kathmandu, so I had only wore shorts, a short-sleeve shirt and flip-flops; all my other foot wear was in my checked-in baggage on the aircraft.
It was about ten in the evening, at this point, so everything had more or less shut down, or was about to. I recalled that there had been a little stall selling flip-flop sandals nearby, so I rushed there on my one good and one broken sandal, but only to find that the stall was closed. There was a Hugo Boss shop across the way, which still was open, and even though I knew anything there would be expensive, I decided to give it a try. The shop keeper however, suggested that I try at a souvenir shop around the corner. As it happened, the souvenir shop was still open, and they did have a small selection of relatively inexpensive flip-flops, some of which even fit my feet. That certainly saved me from arriving in Delhi bare foot, and I even got myself a nice practical souvenir of my enjoyable time in Amsterdam Airport.
There wasn’t much to do after that, other than to go to the departure gate and wait for my onward flight to Delhi, even if the departure wasn’t until almost two o’clock in the morning. In any case, the ongoing flight had most of the same passengers, in the same seats, as the outgoing flight from Toronto. There were of course a few new faces picked-up in Amsterdam, but we certainly hadn’t got rid of the terrible farter! Once again, the passenger cabin was stinking to high hell the whole while, and one can only try to distract oneself so much by listening to music or watching films. At least there was no turbulence, and there were even some nice views, in the morning, of the Caspian Sea and northern Afghanistan, as seen from 11,000 metres.
However, as we came in closer to Delhi, I came to the sad realization that I was more than likely going to miss my connecting flight to Kathmandu. Indeed, we landed at Delhi Airport at about 45 minutes before the departure of my ongoing flight. But, by the time I had disembarked with the rest of the passengers, and had been rushed through the security check, with the help of a Jet Airways employee, and had finally reached the departure gate, it was already closed.
Once again, the Jet Airways people were most helpful, however. So, after a bit of a patient wait, they brought me to the Holiday Inn Express, which is one of the in airport hotels. Next, they personally talked with the hotel receptionist and booked me a room for the night, with dinner included, all at no cost to me. They also re-booked my seat, for the next flight to Kathmandu, which was to depart early in the morning.
In any case, I had a small but cozy room in the hotel, with most of the usual amenities, but most of all it allowed me to take a much needed shower. Staying in the Holiday Inn Express also gave me access to their internet code, as it wasn’t possible anywhere else in the airport to access the internet, without some sort of code. Best of all, I could get a few hours of needed sleep, just before dinner, and then a full night’s rest afterwards. That was very important, since I had to get up at 05:00 hours to check-out of the hotel, and reach the departure gate for my Kathmandu flight.
I was a bit worried in the morning, when I did arrive at the departure gate at 05:20, as I couldn’t see any aircraft. However, it was such a small jet that it had simply been hidden behind the covered passenger ramp. In any case, the flight took off on time, and the weather was perfect, with lots of great views of India below, and the majestic snow covered Himalayas rising above the clouds as we approached Kathmandu. That flight also had to be the swiftest I’ve ever been on, between Delhi and Kathmandu, clocking in at only an hour and fifteen minutes, when usually it’s at least half an hour longer. Getting through customs didn’t take long either; though there was some confusion on my part, due to a new system they have set up, but then I was on to collect my baggage…
Well, I might have collected the two bags I had checked-in back in Toronto, if they had been on the flight I had just arrived on. But somehow they had been misplaced, or put on a later flight to Kathmandu. Nonetheless, when I came out of the airport, with just the clothes on my back, and my computer in its carrying case, I was hoping to see my waiting friend. Yet no such luck. I had been hoping that he had seen all the emails I had sent, concerning the changing times of my arrival. But I wasn’t sure if he had since I hadn’t received any replies from him. I couldn’t call him, as I had no cell phone coverage in Nepal, so I borrowed a passersby's phone and called my friend, only to get a message that his number was temporarily out of service. I next bought a SIM card for my phone, so that I could keep trying without bothering anyone else, however the SIM card wouldn’t work in my phone.
After another half hour of waiting, I again borrowed a person’s cell phone, and this time I got through to my friend. It turned out that he was in the airport, at that moment, though in a different section. He had been waiting at the proper time, and had waited and waited, but then not seeing me after all the other passengers had left (probably as I was filling out the missing luggage forms), he thought that I had missed my flight again. So, he had gone to the Jet Airways office, to try and figure out what to do next.
In any case, we finally had our little reunion, went to book into a cheap hotel in Thamel. Finally we had some dal bhat, before waiting until evening to call the airport and see if my baggage had arrived. My lost luggage did indeed arrive on the evening flight, in from Delhi, and so we bought tickets for the morning bus to Pokhara. I was certainly looking forward to the warm welcome I would get once I arrived there, by then. But all in all, a journey which should have taken only thirty-four hours, including the bus trip to Pokhara, ended-up being a fifty-nine hour journey, the longest I’ve ever had to undertake!
28/08/16
