by Jeffrey Vonk
While roaming the neighborhood I am asked to buy a handmade pouch by some teenage girls. I reply that I do not need one of those, but after thinking out loud perhaps I can assist in generating some income by helping out their cause to sell their merchandise to tourists. Instead of money, only strange looks are received from unsuspecting passers-by. A new friendship is born. From that moment on we are hanging out every chance we get. The oldest of fifteen is also the fattest and clearly the leader of the group. She has the biggest mouth but perhaps also the biggest heart. Rita functions as a mother for her younger sister Sangita, a friend with a similar name, also known as Sunita, and the others Parbati and Maya. Later that same week we visit the cinema together for the latest Bollywood movie ‘Krrish’, and during lunch the girls luxuriate over pizza, as for the last fifteen years or so they have been eating dal bhat with masala every single day, which is one of the traditional dishes consisting of boiled rice and spices.
On one of the Saturdays we walk two hours straight to check out a church in another part of town. “It’s walkable,” they said. Dawdling their cheap flip-flops along irregularities of dirty roads with their tongue hanging out from their mouths, it demonstrates quite a challenge. As a way of not offending anyone, they left the red dot between their eyes at home. We leave our footwear in the hall and walk in barefoot. It’s not a problem that we are a little late; the service lasts five freaking hours! Sitting on the concrete floor with a boney ass and not understanding a word of the sermon, I praise the heavens when it is over. All this waiting is not in vain however, as I am approached by a beautiful girl from the United States who is volunteering for an evangelical organization. Wavy dark hair, together with those dark eyebrows with light oculars beneath them, and a voice likened to a merry lullaby, a slim body and a playful nose ring. I had been checking her out during the service and she is intrigued at how I ended up here with five teenagers she happens to know. As we decide to catch up later in the day, I think to myself that I never reckoned a church to be the place to pick up chicks.
Without use of words it becomes apparent that the all-American girl and I are very fond of each other. Every time we meet we talk for hours and hours, until we get kicked out as the last ones at restaurants at three in the morning. Where the staff is already sleeping on chairs slotted together, or until the first women go out to the well to fill their pitchers, which is usually around five. We walk and we talk through all of nature’s hurdles, whether it be thirty degree Celsius heat (the cause of my sunburned legs) or being showered down from the first signs of the Monsoon – we are simply inseparable. Thus, on a given afternoon, we end up climbing the many stairs of Swayambhunath, a five-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple on top of a hill. Clearly visible from several places from the valley down below. Unhindered by time it stands out on account of a white stupa with a gold helicoid. Black-painted eyes of the omniscient god are intoxicating to say the least. The religious shrine is better known as the Monkey Temple, obviously because it is packed with monkeys. One of those scallywags set his sights on the pineapple on a stick we are enjoying and launches an attack. From off a ledge to the ground he jumps up in a split second and reaches for the stick, biting the girl in her calf, his fierce canines sinking into human flesh. What happens next is something I will never forget. I’m not making this up. She screams from the pain while at the same time cursing the animal in the name of Jesus! I do not know if I should laugh or be amazed. When I chase the monkey away and check her leg, I am dumbfounded to see it without a single scratch. Call it more than meets the eye but maybe the black-painted eyes of Buddha had seen it all happen.
* * *
When the time approaches to leave this beautiful country I spend every day with the teenage pouch-selling girls from the street. Parbati, the most beautiful one, invites me to her home. She lives with her mother and grandfather in a dirty wooden shack. They actually own a cow that provides for most of the income. Meeting the family, I quickly realize that I am baited into an awkward situation. Her mother more or less proposes for us to get married, as a way of securing her old days with this supposed walking white treasure chest. In Nepali culture the age gap is not much of an issue, so that is tackled, and she is definitely appealing. Raised with a Western mindset I simply cannot marry a child. Having said that, I am not the boogieman either and make her mother happy after all. Converted to an X amount of dollars, equal to a mere couple of hours of work in my own country, she can enjoy schooling for a year and her sister will receive a new stack of schoolbooks.
In the grubby streets the girls try to teach me their language and show me around. After getting to know each other a little more, I really begin to care for them. That they also begin to care for me I find out when I become really ill. For days I am plagued by heavy vomiting and experience the pleasure of squirting hot gravy out of my behind, the acid burning away the enamel of the toilet. Presumably I ate something very bad. Incapable of leaving my hotel room they show up at the door to bring a net of oranges and water, bless their hearts. Because I need to run to the bathroom every five minutes, I try to send them away. Moving heaven and earth they refuse to heed my requests and do not give up easily. Insisting for thirty minutes, I’m finally swayed to let them in. Who knows maybe they will provide some distraction from the discomfort. And that is exactly what they do as one of them accidentally types the wrong access code on my cellphone three times, immediately blocking it. The PUK code to reactivate the phone is stored in a taped-up cardboard box in an attic somewhere in the Netherlands. How convenient. Seeing how guilty the girl feels I try to laugh it off. What more can you do?
Dorje and Bindu, the owners of an internet cafe on the corner of the street where I have lunch pretty much every day, noticed that I have not been around lately. Concerned about my well-being they check with the manager of the hotel and learn about my situation. Without speaking to me first they hurry to the pharmacy and bring me all the medicine and groceries I need. How lovely is that couple. Thanks to them, I restore quickly after that.
Bear in mind the whole thing lasts for two weeks, leaving me malnourished and weak. For that reason, I am too tired to bring one of the girls home at night, as I often do, on the back of my motorcycle. She lives in another district only twenty minutes from where we are. It is way too dangerous to let her go alone at this ludicrous hour. I feel responsible for the situation and come up with a risky solution. Since Steve had left, I have an extra bed in my hotel room, so I decide to sneak her in. We climb over the fence and discreetly avoid the reception desk, rush up the stairs and quickly get into the room. If we are caught the people will probably hang me on the highest tree for this, but for now it seems the logical thing to do. Sunita is the youngest of the group and coming from the poorest family. She is only thirteen. Although the shower is less than lukewarm, she has not bathed in two weeks. Therefore, she does not complain at all. When she exits the bathroom with wet hair and a towel wrapped around her frail underfed body I realize she has not smelled so fresh before. She crawls up beneath the blankets with a smile of satisfaction, showing her intense white teeth. As I switch off the work lamp, standing on an ugly brown nightstand dividing the two beds, she tells me this is the first time in her life that she will be sleeping on a mattress. Back home her family is so poor that she is used to sleeping on the floor. I think I am just in time turning around in my bed before the moonlight shining through the worn-out curtains reveals that I began to shed some tears. That just breaks my heart. Even if it was for this night alone, I am thankful her young bones experience the comfort of an actual bed, and she can truly rest.
Before the staff wakes up in the early hours I sneak her out of the complex to send her on her way to school. There we cannot be seen together also, so I have to let her go alone. At least the first daylight makes it free from direct danger. Now that I cannot protect her anymore, I keep watching her walk away until I lose her out of sight. Independent as they are I know the girls feel safe with me. Their own fathers ar
e alcoholics and slackers.
That certainly explains why saying goodbye was such a heavy task. On the last day before I continue my trip, all the teenagers gather around to bestow a genuine present to me. I am speechless when it becomes clear that they saved all their earnings for this refined kashmir cloth. I shriek inside to not accept it and give it back, but on account of their culture that would be very disrespectful to them. With certain agony, I receive it. Of course, I am also very proud of them. The owner of the internet cafe puts a silk scarf around my neck and according to tradition wishes me Tashi Delek. I had no idea I was loved so much by the people, but when the whole neighborhood congregates to wish me farewell, I am deeply touched. So much so that I don’t hesitate to put on my goggles, in case they notice my wet eyes. It really feels like leaving home. Sound of the engine echoes through the familiar narrow streets. As I might never return, I allow one last peek into my mirror while raising my hand, before vanishing in the cloud of pollution from the traffic. Far removed from being good to go, but there I go, completely alone again, embarking on a journey filled with prodigy.
* * *
Kathmandu, believe it or not, is the only city in a different time zone as opposed to the rest of the world. That in itself already makes this place supernatural. Driving through the city’s traffic all the way past the outskirts, is absolute mayhem. Coming out from the valley it is nothing less of a relief when red-bricked communities make way for overgrown hills and lavish green mountains. Winding roads are overshadowed with huge overhanging plants due to the escarpment, the splendor of bright flowers as well as this typical humid smell in the air. Advancing this trip without company makes me feel lonely, I need to get used to not having the privilege anymore of directly sharing my experiences with another human being. Providentially, the awe-inspiring view across the extended sequence of valleys with a clear sky gives me some comfort. The route leads two hundred kilometers west until I unintentionally end up in the unwinding hotspot of Pokhara again. Having an impulsive moment, I intercede with the original plan to crash here for a few days. Just having escaped the snarl I convince myself a mini-vacation is deserved.
Everything is still here: friendly people, the majestic bay with colorful fishing boats, and the viewpoint from Sarangkot where sunlight on the eternal snow produces millions of flickering stars. The staff of the hotel I stayed at before are pleased to meet the notorious motorcycle that goes with the plethora of stories I had shared on my previous encounter.
Fish straight from the lake with fresh mango juice and French fries. Although I order the exact same meal every day at a cozy restaurant on the street corner, the owner, who is a huge woman as wide as she is tall, pulls back a chair and sits herself across the table to take my order. In spite of her heart of gold I feel sympathy for the plastic lawn chair that almost literally weighs down under immense pressure. As in the days prior to this one, she tries to hook me up with her daughter who has not yet reached the age of twenty. By all means, not meaning to boast but this happens almost everywhere I go. You get used to this brazen conduct after a while, but it’s still flattering.
With a setting like this, it is effortless to be entertained. Everything is going fine until I’m told there will be a beach festival on one of these nights. When the time comes, the manager of the hotel insists that I should join the self-proclaimed party animal. In doing so, he is very persuasive. Having had my fair share of amusement when I was younger (in fact as a semi-professional dancer at clubs and raves from Miami to Ibiza, and occasionally performing for Calvin Klein International), I choose to keep on lounging on the sofa in the reception hall. With a head full of new impressions, it’s nice to just relax and watch movies sometimes. There is probably no MDMA anyway, although nowadays drug use is extensively remote of my normal range of things that I enjoy. He goes on by deviously offering to buy me all my drinks, however, and this may surprise you, alcohol has never entered my esophagus. I just can’t stand the taste of it. You cannot find smoking or drinking in my dictionary. By the time the manager realizes that he simply can’t get me out of that sofa he suddenly pulls the trump card out of his sleeve. “My four friends will be coming along,” he says while showing unframed pictures of gorgeous looking girls. Manipulated idiot that I am, I jump up and get ready for the night. A quick shower, a spray of deodorant and a dollop of hair gel makes me all groomed up. What’s the worst that could happen?
Arriving back in the lobby the so-called friends just happen to walk in and without exaggeration they might be the prettiest girls in the whole freaking country. It was as if they walked out of some magazine. Once at the festival the manager is trying everything he can to render me drunk. It will not be long before I unravel his true intentions. Enjoying funky beats at the shoreline, we place ourselves in the soft grass, the four angels and I. Two of them do not shy away from kissing my neck and sticking their hands down my pants. This all happened way too easily, but even now I am dumb enough to not grasp what’s going on. This looks promising, I actually think to myself, promptly raising the bar of my own simplicity. When they suggest going back to the hotel where they have a room, I know it’s bingo. While the five of us are lying on the double bed the rude awakening finally kicks in. Entangled in this shameless scheme, the nothing but ordinary prostitutes want to see rupees first, aka cold hard cash. How could I have been so stupid to not have seen this one coming? This party is over. That scumbag of a manager probably gets his guests drunk all the time in order to do this despicable trick. He is a mother fucking P.I.M.P.! Disgruntled, I leave the room and walk up the stairways to go to my own bed. The problem is, I’m still horny as hell. Since there’s only one option left I pathetically masturbate myself to sleep. Indeed, these are the difficulties one faces while traveling.
* * *
In retrospect, I am really happy nothing happened though. Being in the summer of 2006 I’m in the very middle of my self-commissioned seven years of celibacy, a promise that I almost broke, due to constantly having to fight the temptations. Friends and strangers alike call me crazy, and perhaps rightly so, yet to me this total abstinence of sexual relations is something I have to try in order to fulfil my spiritual journey. And what do you know? At the ending of this personal jubilee I actually complete my goal, making me feel more enlightened. Right after the seven years of pureness, it is inevitable for it not to backfire. I start sleeping with the girl next door who is in a relationship and I get addicted to filthy internet porn. That is right. I am embarrassed to be called a human being.
Lesson well learned. In any case, I will not let the incident tarnish my stay. In fact, I have something to look forward to. In a fortuitous turn of events, I meet Scott, a man from the United States, who also happens to know my pouch-selling friends from Kathmandu. With help from sponsors, he found means to treat the girls to a new set of fine robes, and a trip to Pokhara! How about that?
Through email contact, we know where to find each other. Upon their arrival, we catch each other from afar, as their jauntily yelling fills the street: “Dzjef! Dzjef!” It is funny to me how they have a hard time pronouncing my first name correctly.
When the generous American and one of his friends rent motorcycles for a day, they politely ask me to join. I answer I would like to but of course not without the girls. Without any form of hesitation, they agree. And so it happens. With the girls on the back and the sun in the sky we cruise alongside the lake. Being at the foot of the greenest foothills of the Himalayan range, it stretches far inland. Pale blue clouds smolder at the distant horizon. Everybody is having the time of their life. The air is filled with smells of freedom and independence. Encompassed by a blissful scenery of tranquility is the warm wind caressing the hairs on my arms while pacing the winding trail. Tiny birds frolic about. A feeling of peace of mind overtakes me. Except for teaching the kids how to swim, I do not remember the last time I really had to work. In this wandering existence where sometimes I don’t even know where I am when I wake up, I feel at home,
I feel alive, I feel loved. While having Parbati’s arms around my waist, the channeling begins. Intense joy of these new friendships is healing to the soul. Even more so, they help erase wounds of a haunting past if you will, making space for new energy to indulge, thus revitalizing my whole well-being. This, is backpacking.
At nighttime after a neat candlelight dinner on the rooftop of a restaurant, we head to the lake, the two girls and I with whom I connected most with. Crashing on one of the bobbing fishing boats at the shore, deep conversations follow that move me beyond words. I learn that there was no real time for them to enjoy their childhood as they are hindered by the hard city life. Listening to their heartbreaking stories, I conclude they more or less skipped the adolescence phase and went straight into adulthood. I never thought that I could learn something from a couple of children, yet here we are. Where do you find such wisdom and soundness among the youth?
Saying goodbye on the last night in the mountaineer village is so much harder than a week ago. As if the kashmir cloth wasn’t enough the girls now give something of personal value when we’re congregated in their hotel room. Varying from something simple as a key chain to imitation jewelry, something that will help me remember them. Not that they have to worry about that. My memory collects the images of their richly flowing tears and with a fluttering lower lip I can hardly restrain myself. One by one, we hug goodbye until it is really time to go. Walking through the hallway of the hotel towards the exit they keep staring. Standing there with the doorknob in my hand, I turn around one last time, only to see them close together waving goodbye with wet cheeks and sad faces. With pain in my heart, I wave back and make it around the corner just in time, before I burst into sobbing. God, I love these girls. Maybe that is why, now thirteen years later, I still talk to them frequently on the phone. How amazing is it to witness them all growing up into beautiful women, getting married, and becoming responsible mothers themselves.
