Airports, Continued

Now I’m at the Washington Dulles Airport. I was in a really grumpy mood by the time I finally spotted my suitcase. Too many airports and too many airplanes. Next time I’m definitely only going to one country, unless I’m crossing borders in a tour bus or on a ferry. And my luggage is so heavy—but that’s my own fault, thanks to buying so much in Nepal. On the bright side, I bought lots of gifts. I was doing so well until those last couple days in Nepal.

Because of my flight delay from Kathmandu to Delhi, it was after six when I met up with the driver at the airport, and it was almost seven pm by the time we got to the guesthouse. It was already dark out, even if the weather feels like summer. Not the friendliest of drivers, and he spoke English so fast I had trouble understanding him, but I did mention to him how that I wanted to be picked up again at 4:30 am.

The guesthouse in Delhi was really charming—Lutyens Guesthouse—too bad I couldn’t stay longer and see it in daylight and hang out in the garden. There were lots of seats in the back yard and a garden with a plethora of terra cotta pottery and sculpture and the like. My room was in a little, long building out back, facing the house itself, a white bungalow with a row of numerous French doors facing the back yard. The room would have been like paradise to a college student. It was small with white walls and a slanted ceiling with decorative yellow beams. All the fabric in the room—and there was quite a bit—carried out a blue and green color scheme. The window curtains, the fabric under the glass covers of a couple of small tables, the blankets, and a large pillow, the rug, and the chair upholstery were all in blue and green, mostly stripes. The bathroom was all white, with white porcelain tile, and had a white metal wardrobe that I didn’t use.

I woke at 3:45—that’s when I set my alarm. I did some yoga and got dressed and did what little packing I needed to do—and I rolled up and tossed out the black t-shirt in which I had been sleeping. That t-shirt was the last garment I left behind. Gee, maybe I should go ahead and change my socks for the pair Qatar Airlines supplied me with, even though this is so the last leg of my journey—only one more flight left, and so far it’s on time!

At four in the morning, I heard a bunch of peacocks calling. That was probably the only time I heard peacocks on this trip, and I didn’t seen any. It reminded me of the time I heard so many of them on the grounds of the Taj Mahal.

Was it really just this morning? We were at the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 4:50, and the driver wanted me to pay him, and I said, “Oh, I thought the guesthouse was going to add it to my bill,” and after some argument, I just went ahead and paid it, though I don’t know why the guesthouse would say via e-mail that I didn’t have to pay the driver, if I had to pay the driver. Maybe it only referred to the drive from the airport to the guesthouse.

It must have been about 5 am or slightly later when I got to the Qatar Airlines flight 233 ticket counter. The woman behind the counter said there was no record of my ticket in their system. I asked if she could put the record in the system, and she said she could but she’d need a supervisor and asked me to step back and wait till I was called. So I waited till about 7 am—the flight was scheduled for 8:05 am—and meanwhile I stood and waited and worried and bit my nails. I felt so short-shafted and didn’t even know if I’d be getting on this plane.

In short, I was stressed. Finally after the crowd died down, not to mention after I’d been standing by a trash receptacle and repeatedly thinking, “I was here before all these people,” finally I walked up to the counter and said to a different young woman than the one I previously spoke with, “I’ve been here since five, but your records don’t show me in the system.” Like, I bought the tickets back in October and have records proving it, even exact confirmed seat assignments. Since this was India, I strongly suspected that the word “supervisor” referred to someone male (India, indeed--that’s common in the U.S. too), but this young woman asked me if I had confirmed the tickets, and I said, “No, I don’t think so.” Apparently I was supposed to look up the flight to make sure it was on time and somehow confirm my tickets in the process. I thought confirming just meant you look it up online or on the phone to make sure the flight is on time, but she was able to promptly print out my next two boarding passes. Why couldn’t someone have done that two hours earlier?!

But then I had to wait in the endless immigration line. Then I had to stand in line at security—the electricity wasn’t working or something, and this took some time. Meanwhile a disembodied voice announced that my flight was boarding! I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I got through security finally, behind a screen with a woman searching me very thoroughly and too slowly with a wand. She had me empty my pockets and was very thorough, as if she knew I was running late. I thought I’d never make it. But I did, just barely! I think I was the last one on the shuttle to the plane.

When I got to Doha, I bought a bottle of water—they only sold those small glass ones—and stood in line for security for a while before a staff member told me I had to go to the other counter and get my passport and boarding pass stamped, so I went over to the counter in question and a guy behind a counter did the stamping in question. I then went back to the line and was almost at the very end of it. I saw the signs concerning bottles of liquid and made a point of gulping down the last of my water and tossing the glass bottle into a trash receptacle; the staff member who had spoken to me earlier noticed this, and she thanked me with a smile. After I got through security, I had to hurry to get on the shuttle on time. Some people came on behind me.

Here in Washington DC, it’s chilly and wet. Not warm and dry like it was in Delhi and Doha. Not cold like in Tibet. Not wet and dark, a week later sunny and warm, like it was in Nepal.

I have just one last flight—it’s supposed to arrive in Kansas City around midnight. I hope I don’t have trouble finding Elaine, and that she doesn’t have trouble finding me. She said she’d be at the baggage claim, and she’s been to the Kansas City airport countless times.

In Kathmandu, strange men accosted me on the street all the time, but they weren’t flirting (with one possible exception, when I told a young guy that I would be going to see a dance with my travel agent, and he did a little boogie in place and said I could go dance with him). Here at the airport in Washington DC, this greybeard with a cane, who’s at least as old as my dad, I swear really was flirting with me, and I found this rather annoying. He first spotted me as he entered the shuttle where I was almost the only inhabitant; the airport is so huge that it has shuttles to take you to different terminals. He said I looked puzzled, or something like that; I had been looking at my boarding pass and feeling so tired but aware that I only had one more flight. After we got off the shuttle, the old guy with the cane asked me where I was going, and I was glad to duck into the woman’s restroom.

I’m waiting at the terminal, and ick, there are a couple of guys talking about football. Toto, I don’t think we’re in the Himalayas anymore.

Arrival in Dharamsala

Monkeys watching traffic from the side of the road, in the Himalayan foothills

During our drive through the mountains or rather foothills, Shantum’s car had a flat tire, so pulled over in front of what I guess was an auto repair shop, and we had to wait for a bit. I wasn’t bored. Some boys out front were attempting to fix a bicycle. As we waited and chatted in the car (and probably made some jokes that I’ve failed to jot down), a couple of Hindu guys walked by along the side of the street. They were dressed identically in white kurtas and dhotis and bright blue turbans, and they had identical bushy beards. Jamie commented on them; maybe they were brothers.

After this interlude, we rode up and up and up. We passed, of all things, an amusement park that was under construction. Sometimes the United States doesn’t seem like a fabulous influence on other parts of the world; you know, malls, guns, nuclear weapons. But I digress. The amusement park is for tourists coming up to Dharamsala, although it’s hard for me to believe that people interested in Dharamsala would be into amusement parks; they’ve never amused me. Furthermore, this amusement park doesn’t improve the scenery. Did the Dalai Lama approve of this? Who knows. Maybe there’ll be a haunted house shaped like a three-dimensional mandala and with hungry ghosts leaping out unexpectedly. And it will have to include something inspired by yetis and snow lions. OK, I’m downright nauseated now.

We stopped up on a mountain, in an area that included a few shops and the occasional colorful truck passing by. To the right of the road, down below, was a river, and directly at the side of the road were monkeys that sat and watched traffic go by; they moved their heads back and forth as if they were watching a tennis match in a cartoon.

We rode past rows and rows of little shops and countless pedestrians, mostly Tibetan, including monks and nuns. The road became a very narrow curving path, and sometimes we passed a sea of red robes. I was afraid the taxi would hit a monk or nun, but somehow it didn’t happen. I often looked downward into the valley, and it was excessively steep! Foothills or not, by most people’s standards these are full-size mountains. It’s no wonder I felt so dizzy. I looked down into the swooping valley and saw very green terraced fields and a few buildings.

We had been riding for a long time, when we came to a village setting. Stores packed right next to each other lined the sides of the narrow road. Indians bustled about their business, and I was struck by all the bright colors, thanks to the painted buildings, the merchandise (I saw at least one fabric store), and of salwar-kamiz on the women walking by and barely looking at us. No doubt the locals are very accustomed to Western tourists.

Finally, the taxis stopped in a drive in front of a house in the woods, at the top of a mountain. We got out and met a very friendly, big black dog. I had my Indian book bag and my backpack handy but still had enough hands to pet the dog. I admired the trees around us and saw some vestiges of older architecture. Along a sort of ledge was a low stone wall, and in front of it some old columns lay on the ground, amid the leaves. I looked up at the house itself, Cloud’s End, the Maharani’s and Maharaja’s summer home and guest house. The house itself is a bungalow that looks like it could have been an add-on, and it has additional buildings out in the back courtyard. Out front, the Maharaja himself greeted us along with at least a couple of his servants. The Maharaja wore a lavender hand-quilted coat with red trim and local cylindrical hat that was off-white with green trim. Shantum introduced him and explained that he was an old school friend at Dehra Dunn. The Maharaja corrected good-humoredly, “Or perhaps school enemy.”

I gawked when I got up to the regal room that I’m sharing with Enid. The doors to the room are glass doors framed in a dark wood and flanked by matching windows that filled that section of wall. To my left was a small shelf, sort of like a deep wainscoting, along the wall, and then a desk and chair, and next to that a stone fireplace, and then a sideboard with, among other things, a platter containing bottles of water and two glasses. In the center of the room, facing me, was a very large bed, and next to it was a nightstand; on the other side of the nightstand was a door.

A corner of my room at the guesthouse

To the right, there was a charming nook full of bookshelves, and another ledge along the wall, but this one was covered with paperback books. Below it was a very low silver settee with a big cushion and accented with very colorful patchwork cotton pillows. In front of this was an equally low coffee table. All of the furniture looked antique, from the nineteenth or early twentieth century. The only light sources in this luxuriously decorated room were a lantern hanging from the center of the ceiling, a small lamp on the nightstand, and another small lamp on the desk. Despite all the books, the nook had no light source.

The door and windows of my room

Beyond the large and ornate room was a very small bedroom with a wardrobe facing a Victorian dressing table, and in the far corner was a small and simple bed, in sharp contrast with the big regal room. A door next to the dressing table led to the white porcelain bathroom. It has a slanted roof and is basically a lean-to, and in the far corner is a small bathtub for bucket baths. After asking Enid if she’d mind, I took a squatting shower and was delighted that the water was very hot. That’s something you can never take for granted when you travel to the other side of the world.

Shantum had announced that lunch would be at 2:45 at the Snow Lion Restaurant, Hotel Tibet, in Dharamsala. We walked there, and it was good to be walking after sitting in a car. Inside the restaurant, I sat at the end of a long table in the far corner, and I was close to an open window. Despite my dizziness, I was compelled to pause by the window and look out at the fascinating mountain view. We were very high up, and the mountains descended and disappeared below. We ate vegetable rice, noodles, roti (bread, like pita bread), veggie balls (made of ginger and cabbage), all after a tofu soup. Also soupy mushrooms and greens. We drank ginger lemon tea afterwards. Throughout the meal, I talked with Etiel, who was trying to figure out if we’d get along well enough to be roommates in Tibet. I felt dizzy and nauseous throughout the meal, but I didn’t think it was worth mentioning and assumed it was because of the ride through the mountains. I also assumed it would fade soon enough.

While we were still inside the same building as the restaurant, out in the hall waiting as people took turns using the loo, Samaya asked me how I was feeling, and I said I’m dizzy and was also nauseas earlier, but now I’m only dizzy. She said, “You’re looking very pale.” I smiled and said, “That’s normal.”

She said, “I know you’re usually pale, but you’re more so today. It’s probably altitude sickness.” Etiel said, “You definitely weren’t this pale in Delhi.” Meanwhile, I was surprised that they’d noticed I was feeling ill, just by observing me. I hadn’t told anyone how I was feeling and had assumed it was from the movement of driving and driving around and around on the mountain; I had been too focused on the breathtaking scenery and didn’t want queasiness to spoil the bliss. Samaya suggested I tell Shantum how I’m feeling and ask him to get us altitude sickness pills. So in a few minutes I had an opportunity and asked Shantum. He knit his brow in concern and said he’d stop at the pharmacy in just a bit. So after we got outdoors and started the tour, Shantum asked who all was having altitude sickness, and it was only about three people. I seem to be the worst case, and I’m the one who plans on going to Tibet! Like a hypochondriac, I have to admit I enjoyed the attention; however, since the altitude had such a strong effect on me, I thought I was a wimp. Shantum went into the pharmacy and came out with circular orange pills and gave me the packet.

“You take three a day,” he said. “Do you have water?” “No, I’m out,” I said, shaking my big empty bottle. Shantum held out his own plastic bottle, took a sip and asked me if I could drink from the bottle without touching it, and I smiled and said, “Sure.” “Take the pill now and I’ll give you some water,” Shantum said.

With my gloved finger, I fumbled as I attempted to open the package, so Shantum opened it and handed me the pill. I swallowed it and he held the water above my head and tilted my head back, and I gulped down some water as it fell into my mouth. We did this a second time in the center of the crowd, in the middle of the street. With the second gush of water into my mouth, I placed my hand over my lips and had trouble swallowing because I was on the verge of laughter.

As we started to move on, a couple of people asked me for an altitude pill, and I let them each take one. Manny said he didn’t feel quite right but wasn’t entirely sure it was altitude sickness.

The central square in Dharamsala, with many monks

Shantum gave us a walking tour of Dharamsala, or Macleod Ganj, as this mountain is called. In the bustling crowd, mostly pedestrians but also some white cars, we followed along, gawking at the other pedestrians and the shops. At least I was gawking; I’m sure everyone else was so much more sophisticated than me, the youngest in the group. We moved through the crowd, with Shantum showing us particular restaurants and hang-outs, and I was mesmerized by the store fronts displaying colorful shawls and other fabric; statues and ritual tools; thangkas and just about anything else. Someone wandered into a store and got behind, so Jagdish stayed with him. We paused in the street, waiting for them to return, and I noticed an old Tibetan woman selling yak wool shawls, so I bought a burgundy one for only 250 rupees; that’s about five U. S. dollars. I finished up just as the group started moving on. I hugged the folded-up shawl for the rest of the walk, with the wool against my face; it’s so warm and smells like a cow. A clean cow. I had myself a security blanket. We briefly stopped to look at merchandise, and merchants spoke to us, but we knew this wasn’t the time to do hardcore shopping. I was amazed at the sight of monkeys walking on telephone wires overhead. It was like a circus act, tightrope-walking monkeys.

Shantum led us to a bookstore and went in to quickly get us the Wisdom Publications edition of the Tibetan version of the Dhammapada, which is the main text that the Dalai Lama will be using in his teachings this week. As it turned out, there were only thirteen copies left, and they were photocopies. So Shantum led us to another bookstore, which he described as the finest one here, but it was closed. That bookstore was just to the right of a narrow lane leading up to the restaurant where we’ll have lunch tomorrow. Shantum explained how to get up to it and then we walked to the temple where the Dalai Lama gives his teachings.

I doubt we’ll get a chance to walk up to the Dalai Lama, bow, and exchange greeting scarves with him, but you never know. If he’s as tall as his waxwork figure at Madam Tussaud’s, I’d have to stand on tip-toe and stretch to get the scarf over his head. I hope I don’t stumble, fall on the Dalai Lama, and give him a heart attack. I don’t seriously anticipate meeting the Dalai Lama; it’s more important for other people to meet him, particularly Tibetans who have risked their lives and possibly lost toes to frostbite by walking out of Tibet.

The temple is a large, predominantly white and blockish building with several balconies. On a long veranda down below, a throne is draped in yellow fabric. That is where the Dalai Lama sits for the teachings. In front of it was the area we walked around, a courtyard with various pillows and pieces of fabric lying on top of a huge sheet or tarpaulin. Sections were cordoned off, one for Tibetans, and one for foreigners, and they were labeled with pieces of paper attached to the cords. Here and there I saw clusters of string hanging from the cords; the string was yellow or red or multicolored.

We walked past a many-tiered building that Shantum explained is monks’ quarters. I looked up, and on the third floor balcony stood two red-clad monks who smiled down at us and waved. I grinned and waved back, as did many of us. It was getting quite dark by that time.

We climbed into white cars, after visiting the Dalai Lama’s temple, and we headed down the mountain to have “Strucks” and dinner at Cloud’s End Villa, the Raj’s guest house where about fifteen of us are staying. We went into a living room with a dais, where Shantum was seated on the center front, and I settled down next to him after taking off my coat.

I was feeling very dizzy again, so after we meditated, I covered my new red bag with my new red coat, lay my head down, and used my new red shawl as a blanket, with my feet facing Shantum. I didn’t think about the Indian tradition of not facing your feet toward your teacher; it is a sign of disrespect, which I totally didn’t mean. Shantum massaged my feet and my top leg during “Strucks.” In hindsight, I should perhaps have gone ahead and taken another altitude sickness pill at about that time, but I was out of water to wash it down.

“Does anybody have a bungee cord?” Richard asked. He’s Paula the Rabbi’s husband, who practices both Judaism and Buddhism. “Richard wants to leap into the valley,” Rachel said. Now I can’t remember the real reason he wanted a bungee cord.

When it came my turn to speak, Shantum said I didn’t have to, but I sat up and spoke anyway. I said, “Despite feeling dizzy and nauseas, I was mesmerized by the scenery as we moved up the mountain, and I wanted to be like a many-headed deity so that I could see all around. Also, the monkeys sitting at the side of the road were watching the traffic and turned their heads like they were watching a tennis match. Later, I was fascinated by the stores with colorful fabric and statues.”

Gill, one of the two British sisters, said, “I wouldn’t mind if all I got out of this journey is the company of such a wonderful group of people and the scenery.”

I skipped dinner and went to my room, took another altitude sickness pill, took a shower and changed for bed. I have been writing in my journal since. After Enid, my roommate, got back, a servant brought her a dish of brown pudding in a tray and it looked alluring, so I asked about it. Enid said it was dessert and asked if I want some, and I said, “Sure!” So the servant (all of them are male) soon came back with a dish for me. It was warm and a little spicy, and I realized it was halwa.

The Raj stopped by and asked, “Is someone not feeling well?” He was concerned because I wasn’t at dinner. I said, “I wasn’t hungry—we had a late lunch, and I’m not used to eating so much.” I didn’t mention the altitude sickness.

He asked if we wanted the space heater on, and we enthusiastically replied in the affirmative. The room was definitely chilly. I had noticed the space heater earlier, on the floor near the desk, and the electric cord was draped over the back of the desk chair. I unwrapped it and looked around for an outlet, and the Raj took the plug and approached an outlet on the cabinet next to the desk. My Tandem stuffed toy owl, Dewey, was on the desk, sort of in the way, and I giggled as I picked it up and moved it. The Raj plugged in the space heater and, looking bewildered at the toy owl, said, “What is this?”

I said, “It’s an owl,” with another giggle. Before Enid had gone to dinner, we agreed to take turns sleeping in each of the two beds, because the double bed in the big room looks more comfy than the little bed in the smaller room attached to the bathroom. Enid decided to let me get the big bed tonight, probably because of my altitude sickness. I picked Dewey up off the small bed and had said, “Just so you know, I didn’t bring this to use it as a teddy bear.”

“Are you going to take pictures of it in different places?”

“Wow! Yes, how did you know?” She explained that earlier on the trip, a school teacher had been doing the same thing for her class, with a stuffed toy frog, to teach them geography. I’m glad; a large portion of the group will not be weirded out by my behavior. Well, at least not my weird behavior concerning the owl.

It’s a little after 12:30 am. I’ve had some sleep, wrapped up in the yak wool shawl under the sheet, blanket, and bedspread, but I’ve woken to a very loud downpour accompanied by thunder. The rain is beating heavily against the roof—similar to the sound of a hailstorm in Kansas. Really, this weather is like Kansas in the spring. Weird! I totally didn’t expect this.