“You’re going where, again?”
“Nepal.”
“…by yourself?”
I paused for a while, letting the concept sink in. “Yes.”
Traveling as a single woman in regions beyond Europe’s gentrified cities is an undertaking that, while not for the faint of heart, is doable. Not just doable, but a soul-wrenching experience. The third-world country of Nepal welcomes an abundance of sojourners hailing from many backgrounds; some freshly-graduated students don nose piercings and buy bright pink saris to wear against their pale skin; others are Swiss financial consultants taking a break to hike the Everest base camp; others, like me, are going through a stereotypical existential dilemma wherein I wish--in vain--how a Buddhist meditation retreat at a monastery may help reveal my life's mission.
In actuality, solo travel to central Asia isn’t filled with spiritual revelations borne from Tibetan Buddhism classes. The more plausible (and less exciting) reality is incurring sinus infections from the cooking fires and motorcyclists. Bouts of traveler’s diarrhea are also to be expected in a region where greens and vegetables must be dipped in iodine to be fit for consumption. And then there are the times where you’re in your pancake-flat bed, aching to have conversations with people from home who know you best. On a brighter note, it only takes about a week to get used to Nepal’s routine power outages and fickle electricity. Here’s another tip--if you happen to find a toilet that flushes, star it on your traveler’s map along with any restaurant that doesn’t create a growling, uncomfortable churning in your stomach.
But then there are other times when your experiences leave you wondering if you’re in some bizarrely-amazing work of fiction. For me personally, I had dinner with a group consisting of members of the Nepali mafia and Middle Eastern traffickers by freak coincidence—thankfully, they were keener on buying me shots than using their alleged machine guns sitting in the car. That night ended with the entire restaurant dancing to, irony of ironies, “Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night” by the Black Eyed Peas. On another occasion, I briefly shared a tent as part of a romantic interlude with a yoga teacher/human rights consultant who talked circles around me regarding the US involvement in Pakistan. A side note: I refrained from keeping his Buddha beads left in my tent in an effort to avoid bad karma--if they were beads from New Orleans, however, I’d have kept them as a matter of pride. Then there was my free fall bungee jumping experience on a 360-meter bridge overlooking the steep lush gorges by the Tibetan border. Though people have incessantly reminded me to stay safe with ample hand sanitizer, protection and always answering, “yes, I’m traveling with a large group,” my richest moments have come from an inherent trust in the goodness of people and taking risks.
What marveled this introvert most about solo traveling was not the brilliant architecture of Hindu temples and Buddhist shrines. Though Durban Square’s wooden pagodas and dragon statues left me awe-struck, I took greater solace and delight from interacting with the locals. The Nepali people are some of the kindest I’ve met—as an example, an impromptu spring rain storm left me talking with one shop owner for some time. When he saw my bruised leg, he grabbed his homemade remedy of several oils and kerosene and proceeded to dab my leg. Though I smelled like a petrol station for an hour afterward, I felt humbled and to my surprise, my leg actually looked better the next day. Many have invited me to their homes to eat dinner of traditional ‘dal baht,’ or, rice with lentils, potato and vegetables. I owe any knowledge of the Maoist presence and government corruption to the insights of the people.
When bouts of loneliness begin to percolate, a trip to a rooftop bar usually provided a cure. Though Everest lager isn’t half-bad, the better remedy was striking up a conversation with my fellow travel compatriots. The usual initial script is a variation of three or four questions: “So, where are you from?” “What brings you to Nepal?” “How long are you here for, and where are you going next?” Somehow the conversation invariably evolves into richer topics. I’ve learned about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict from Jews, a Dutch perspective on the formation of the European Union and a Venezuelan’s perspective on Hugo Chavez. I’ve also found the transient nature of travelers means your interactions tend not to last more than a 24-hr period, and that’s perfectly acceptable. Maybe you only share a glass of mint lemonade; perhaps you might then meet up to explore the “Garden of Dreams” later that day.
Though admittedly melodramatic, I’ve not given as much thought to death as I have here. There’s a simplistic beauty to life here that connects you to your mortality. Such moments don’t come from near-misses with mopeds on the street or paragliding in the Annapurna region, either: It usually originates from banalities such as hearing cracks of thunder or watching a tiny woman carry a woven basket full of corn. There's a slowness to day-to-day existence in a country where iPads are not coveted and productivity isn't measured in your hourly work. While I’ve gathered physical souvenirs of Tibetan singing bowls, filigree earrings, masala tea and a number of vibrant $6.00-silk dresses, it’s the ephemeral conversations I wish I could somehow take home with me.
I paused for a while, letting the concept sink in. “Yes.”
Traveling as a single woman in regions beyond Europe’s gentrified cities is an undertaking that, while not for the faint of heart, is doable. Not just doable, but a soul-wrenching experience. The third-world country of Nepal welcomes an abundance of sojourners hailing from many backgrounds; some freshly-graduated students don nose piercings and buy bright pink saris to wear against their pale skin; others are Swiss financial consultants taking a break to hike the Everest base camp; others, like me, are going through a stereotypical existential dilemma wherein I wish--in vain--how a Buddhist meditation retreat at a monastery may help reveal my life's mission.
In actuality, solo travel to central Asia isn’t filled with spiritual revelations borne from Tibetan Buddhism classes. The more plausible (and less exciting) reality is incurring sinus infections from the cooking fires and motorcyclists. Bouts of traveler’s diarrhea are also to be expected in a region where greens and vegetables must be dipped in iodine to be fit for consumption. And then there are the times where you’re in your pancake-flat bed, aching to have conversations with people from home who know you best. On a brighter note, it only takes about a week to get used to Nepal’s routine power outages and fickle electricity. Here’s another tip--if you happen to find a toilet that flushes, star it on your traveler’s map along with any restaurant that doesn’t create a growling, uncomfortable churning in your stomach.
But then there are other times when your experiences leave you wondering if you’re in some bizarrely-amazing work of fiction. For me personally, I had dinner with a group consisting of members of the Nepali mafia and Middle Eastern traffickers by freak coincidence—thankfully, they were keener on buying me shots than using their alleged machine guns sitting in the car. That night ended with the entire restaurant dancing to, irony of ironies, “Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night” by the Black Eyed Peas. On another occasion, I briefly shared a tent as part of a romantic interlude with a yoga teacher/human rights consultant who talked circles around me regarding the US involvement in Pakistan. A side note: I refrained from keeping his Buddha beads left in my tent in an effort to avoid bad karma--if they were beads from New Orleans, however, I’d have kept them as a matter of pride. Then there was my free fall bungee jumping experience on a 360-meter bridge overlooking the steep lush gorges by the Tibetan border. Though people have incessantly reminded me to stay safe with ample hand sanitizer, protection and always answering, “yes, I’m traveling with a large group,” my richest moments have come from an inherent trust in the goodness of people and taking risks.
What marveled this introvert most about solo traveling was not the brilliant architecture of Hindu temples and Buddhist shrines. Though Durban Square’s wooden pagodas and dragon statues left me awe-struck, I took greater solace and delight from interacting with the locals. The Nepali people are some of the kindest I’ve met—as an example, an impromptu spring rain storm left me talking with one shop owner for some time. When he saw my bruised leg, he grabbed his homemade remedy of several oils and kerosene and proceeded to dab my leg. Though I smelled like a petrol station for an hour afterward, I felt humbled and to my surprise, my leg actually looked better the next day. Many have invited me to their homes to eat dinner of traditional ‘dal baht,’ or, rice with lentils, potato and vegetables. I owe any knowledge of the Maoist presence and government corruption to the insights of the people.
When bouts of loneliness begin to percolate, a trip to a rooftop bar usually provided a cure. Though Everest lager isn’t half-bad, the better remedy was striking up a conversation with my fellow travel compatriots. The usual initial script is a variation of three or four questions: “So, where are you from?” “What brings you to Nepal?” “How long are you here for, and where are you going next?” Somehow the conversation invariably evolves into richer topics. I’ve learned about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict from Jews, a Dutch perspective on the formation of the European Union and a Venezuelan’s perspective on Hugo Chavez. I’ve also found the transient nature of travelers means your interactions tend not to last more than a 24-hr period, and that’s perfectly acceptable. Maybe you only share a glass of mint lemonade; perhaps you might then meet up to explore the “Garden of Dreams” later that day.
Though admittedly melodramatic, I’ve not given as much thought to death as I have here. There’s a simplistic beauty to life here that connects you to your mortality. Such moments don’t come from near-misses with mopeds on the street or paragliding in the Annapurna region, either: It usually originates from banalities such as hearing cracks of thunder or watching a tiny woman carry a woven basket full of corn. There's a slowness to day-to-day existence in a country where iPads are not coveted and productivity isn't measured in your hourly work. While I’ve gathered physical souvenirs of Tibetan singing bowls, filigree earrings, masala tea and a number of vibrant $6.00-silk dresses, it’s the ephemeral conversations I wish I could somehow take home with me.
By Catherine C.
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