36 Hours in San Diego

How do you picture the perfect 36-hour trip to San Diego? A peaceful train ride along the coast? Dinner and breakfast at an oceanside restaurant? Driving around in a convertible in 75 degree, sunny weather? I was lucky to spend a day and a half during my ten-day California trip doing just this.

I started out my brief excursion with a painless 4-hour train ride from my home in Santa Clarita to Solana Beach, just outside of San Diego, with a transfer at LA Union Station. I have to admit that I've never been completely comfortable taking public transportation in California. I take trains everywhere in NYC, but not being in a car in California is just plain odd to me. The train to San Diego was full, so it I'm clearly not an oddball. As I was waiting for the Metrolink train in Santa Clarita, a sign indicating the station atop caught my eye:


Santa Clarita was a sort of cowboy outpost in the 1800s, a junction point for the Southern Pacific railroad. Even though the sign is fairly new, it has rusted over, and when against a desolate and dry backdrop, it's like a snapshot out of the wild west.

After switching to my Amtrak train at LA Union Station, I settled into my aisle seat on the left side of the train. Score! This side faces the ocean on the ride down the shoreline. At the Irvine stop, the gentleman sitting in the window seat to my left got off the train and I slid into his spot. There were beautiful mountain views of San Juan Capistrano and Laguna Niguel, and even the stations, modeled in a Spanish style, were a welcome sight from the generic, unwelcoming (and often dirty) stations of the east coast. I also got a wonderful sunset view from just north of Oceanside all the way to Carlsbad. It was peaceful to watch surfers bobbing up and down in the water waiting to catch the last waves of the day, and people laying out on the beach enjoying the warm weather and spectacular sunset (overcast days aside, are there ever any unspectacular sunsets?).

The train coasted into the Solana Beach station around 6:30pm and Justin was on time to pick me up. To give you a background, Justin, a native San Diegoan, and I met on a Supershuttle to Dulles airport just before Thanksgiving 2002. He is part-bad ass, part-GQ metrosexual. In typical Carol style, we struck up a conversation in the van, which included most of the other riders, and it turned out Justin was on my flight to LA. We somehow convinced the American Airlines rep to find two seats next to one another (on a Thanksgiving flight no less!) and we spent the whole flight chatting. Afterward we exchanged information and hung out whenever I could during my trips to California. Unfortunately, we lost touch for about three years and reconnected when he called me about two weeks ago. The funny thing was that I had tried emailing him in July 2008 to see how he was doing, but the two email addresses that I had weren't active anymore. I would have called him, but I had lost all my phone numbers when I lost my old cell phone and I know of no other way to get in touch with him.

After picking me up at the station, we sped off to Del Mar, a beautiful coastal town just south of the station, and stopped at a small shopping center to pick up some shoes for Justin. We ran into one of his friends and chatted with her for about 10 minutes before making our way to the L’Auberge del Mar, a restaurant-hotel for dinner. As we were climbing down the stairs of the shopping center, I couldn’t help but stop and take a picture of the scene. I miss these sorts of California sunsets when everything is bathed in a warm light and the temperature is balmy enough for either jeans or a dress.

We were greeted by a cheery hostess at L’Auberge and were promptly seated at a table in a large, elegant courtyard that overlooked the ocean. Because of the occasion, I decided to indulge in my first alcoholic beverage in two months and I choose a drink called the Leahtini, a martini-take on a Mudslide cocktail. Justin, ever the secure man, choose a pink lemonade-flavored martini and we toasted to old friendships. We ordered a cured meat platter as an appetizer and it came with prosciutto, house-made chorizo, bresaola and a tangy raspberry sauce that we used to mix with the meats. For dinner, I ordered a grass-fed hamburger (sans bun) with bacon, pickles, onions and tomatoes and a salad, while Justin opted for the “best” Cuban sandwich, which he kept insisting I try with the bread even though I told him about my gluten allergy. I stood my ground even though I was tempted to try it.

The food was great, but I have to say the company was better. It’s funny how one can go so long without seeing a friend and when you reunite, it’s as if no time had passed at all. Justin is one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met in my life. He’s incredibly intelligent, funny, genuine, giving, open, but what I admire most about him is his humility. I’ve met very few people in my life with whom I feel truly comfortable and who appreciate my idiosyncrasies because we both have very similar personalities---we are incredibly passionate and we do everything to the extreme, tending to go a little overboard in the pursuit of our interests. Some may laugh at our quirks, but I think that most people are a bit envious of our intensity and commitment.
After dinner at L’Auberge, we took a drive along the coast and despite the darkness and mildly cold temperature, it was pleasant and relaxing. We stopped off for a nightcap, then headed back to Justin’s condo in Northern San Diego around 11pm. We stayed up till past 2am talking, then retired to our respective rooms for the night.

We got up around 10am and left for brunch around 12. What was on tap for the day? Prior to the trip I called Justin to ask what sort of activities we would be doing so I knew what clothes to bring. He said, “I was thinking we could go kayaking, bike riding or to the shooting range so you can try out some of my guns.” My kind of man. (Did I mention that when I met him, Justin was training to become a Navy Seal?)

It was sunny and beautiful as we drove to La Jolla and had lunch at a small restaurant with an incredible ocean view. We both ordered eggs benedict in a tomato sauce with small salads, and after devouring these, we headed to Mission Bay to view an auto show. Justin, being the generous guy that he is, had donated some money to a car club called the Over the Hill Gang, who in turn donates money to the Wounded Warriors Project, which gives financial assistance soldiers wounded in combat. This car club puts together a 3-day auto show where all the members bring their restored historic cars and the public can view them.

After we were given a VIP tour, it was time to eat again and we made our way to Coronado, an island off the coast of central San Diego. It was starting to become overcast and a little chilly, so I borrowed a light jacket from Justin and we walked to our late lunch destination at the Coronado Hotel. Although it was a bit overrun by tourists, we enjoyed a lunch of cobb salad (for me) and clam chowder (for Justin) before taking off for the Solana Beach station. We hit some unexpected traffic on the way to the station and I arrived just as the train was pulling into the station. After a delay on the elevator with about 10 other people and much signaling to the conductor to hold the train, I boarded and found a single seat.

At Union Station while waiting for my transfer to the Metrolink, I sat outside in a courtyard and enjoyed the warm air and light of early evening. I always forget how much I love California. It's not until I make my way north to Santa Barbara or south to San Diego that I realize how comfortable and peaceful the scenery is, how much I miss it and yearn to be a part of it. It feels like home because it is home. California is not only a part of me, but a metaphor for me: varied, multifaceted, the state is a contradiction of people and places, liberal vs. conservative, white vs. black/brown, snowy mountains vs. desert landscape. But it is in these contradictions that the state (and I) derives a sort of constancy and a welcoming feel. I feel at ease in New York because I fit in, but despite how long I live there and how much love I have for it, it will never truly be home. It took 25 years for me to get to this point in my life, but only 36 blissful hours in San Diego for this epiphany to dawn.

As the Metrolink train pulled out of the Santa Clarita station, I waited in the pick-up area for my ride. A sleek, black car pulled up and a door was opened. I hoisted my luggage into the trunk and slid into the backseat. Inside were my cousin and her boyfriend, the newest addition to our family. “Do you need to stop anywhere?” “No,” I responded. “Let’s go home.” And that’s exactly where we went.



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Nepal Trip: April 16, 2007 Email, Part II

Paul and I took another day trip to a place called Nagarkot, about an hour and a half from Kathmandu. It is known for its beautiful sunrises and sunsets and views of the Himalayas. Paul and I found an excited driver who took us there for 1000 rupees ($15) and offered to pick us up the next day for the same fare (probably what he makes in 3-4 days). We left the crowded and polluted capital and drove towards the mountains, which were dotted with quant brick houses and wheat fields. Driving up the mountains is a very frightening b/c it is a one lane road that is very windy and you have to watch out for TATA buses that come careening down the roads.

One thing Paul and I have observed is how fatalistic the Nepalis are. Death is approached very differently here than in the US and everything is left in the hands of fate and can’t be changed. So if you are in an accident and died because you weren’t wearing a seatbelt, but possibly could have survived if you wore one, that’s just the way the gods wanted it. There’s a lot you can do to avoid dying and one way is just to drive safely. Unheard of here.

Anyways, we arrived and settled in at the Club Himalaya Resort, a 5-star resort that cost $100 total for our stay, including all meals. The weather was cloudy but there was a chance of it clearing up. We decided to 90 minute massages, and instead of putting us in two separate rooms, they stuck us in the same one. I guess they figured we were a couple. Instead of concentrating on the massages and relaxing, Paul and I talked non-stop, which must have been sounded like an annoying, steady barrage of noise to the masseauses who spoke zero English. We swear were thinking, "Don't these people ever shut up?", though I'm sure they forgot all about the verbal tsunami as we gave them a tip for our incredible $20 massages. The two masseauses exchanged excited looks and tried to suppress smiles as Paul and I handed them each a $5 tip. I think we made their night.

After Paul and I ate dinner and chowed down on some of the best brownies of our lives, we went back to room and watched Scarface. Interestingly, it was subtitled in English. I guess foreigners have a tough time with Al Pacino’s authentic Cuban accent.

We had scheduled a 5 AM wakeup call to watch the sunset rise, but since it turned out to be a cloudy morning, the front desk just called to say there would be no spectacular sunrise, and Paul and I went back to sleep.

After waking up and eating breakfast, Paul and I went to pack up our things and check out before taking a walk outside. I was packing while Paul was checking out, when he suddenly came into the room looking rather out of breath.

"You'll never guess who's here!"

"Who?"

"Sir Edmund Hilary!"

"Who?"

"The first man to have climbed Mt. Everest!"

For those of you who don't know, Mr. Hilary enjoys a demi-godlike status in Nepal. He has donated large amounts of money for schools and clinics, and brought international prestige to Nepal after his historic climb. As Paul was checking out, the receptionist excitedly told him that Sir Hilary was right behind him sitting on a couch.

Paul and I rushed out of the room, and sure enough, there was the 80-something-year-old man, sitting on a couch in the lobby with a cold glass of Heinekin in front of him (it's about 9 AM, btw). Paul fumbled around for something proper to say and came up with something along the lines of, "Mr. Hilary, it's a huge honor to meet you." Hilary looked rather disoriented as Paul and I asked to take his picture, but he kindly obliged, which left us giddy with delight. We hovered around the lobby area until Mr. Hilary's room was ready and the staff helped him to his room. I found it ironic that a man who climbed to the highest summit on earth now needed assistance getting down four or five stairs. Sadly, this would be Mr. Hilary's last trip to Nepal because he died in January 2008. I'm glad that our visit to Nagarkot was not in vain.

The honorable Sir Edmund Hilary

After our celebrity encounter, Paul and I set out to explore the surrounding area. We decided to head for the summit of a tall mountain a few miles from the hotel, and along the way, we passed rice fields, roaming goats, roadside snack stands and Nepali army training camps, where soldiers were outfitted in their army fatigues and completing exercises. Literally, these soldiers were running past us carrying huge guns and doing drills. The walk took about an hour, and during this time, the weather was looking extremely forboding. Before reaching the mountain's summit, I stopped at a snack stand to buy a drink and ask for a plastic bag to protect my camera. When we reached the top, Paul and I took a couple of pictures before hightailing it out of there as the dark clouds rolled in.

Nagarkot before the clouds rolled in

Nagarkot's countryside

Cute little kids!

Paul at the summit of the hill

Halfway through our walk back to the hotel, we began hearing gunshots from the army training sessions, and they were getting closer and closer. Not wanting to get stuck in any crossfire, Paul and I REALLY hurried down the road, but pretty soon it started raining, then pouring, so our main concern became staying dry. Luckily, we found a taxi parked on the side of the road not long after the rain started, although the driver charged us an outrageous 400 ($3.50) rupees for the 5-minute ride to the hotel.

Flash your passport, Paul; these guys don't look too friendly

We enjoyed another $25 massage before our driver arrived, and we soon piled into the small taxi for the ride back to Kathmandu. As we were making our way down the mountain road, we came around one corner and came face-to-face with a Tata bus. Our driver slammed on the brakes and our little car slid a few feet along the wet, gravel road as it struggled to slow down. I automatically tensed and grabbed onto Paul. Thankfully, the Tata had less momentum and was able to stop suddenly. Our driver then found it prudent to adopt the "Nepali two-horn honk" system to alert oncoming traffic to our presence on blind corners. I've had more close encounters here than I would like to remember.

After our 90-minute drive to Kathmandu, we asked the driver to drop us off at Fire and Ice, where we indulged in some funghi pizza and an frothy, Irish beer.

I was slated to depart Wednesday, April 18. The last couple of days passed quickly. I visited the Tibetan monastery one last time and brought them four pizzas for lunch. I meant the pizza for the few monks who I had hung out with, but in their truly selfless ways, the pizza was distributed to every monk, young and old. I was invited to join them for lunch in the temple and even I received a small sliver of pizza. I also brought the monastery 2 CDs of pictures and a small monetary donation. I asked that half of it be put towards another picnic and the other half could be used for the monastery.

On my last night in Nepal, Paul and I decided to have dinner at Fire & Ice so I could enjoy one last funghi pizza. But before dinner, I set out to buy some pashminas to take back to my family. Paul and I had purchased a couple of pashminas in Pokhara, one being a gorgeous sky blue pashmina which I intended for Linda, Andrew's mom and another a rich maroon for my mom. I was set on finding more blue and maroon pashminas, so Paul and I hit up Thamel and scoured the stores along the main street looking for these two colors. After an hours long search, we found a large store that sold colors similar, but not exact, matches to the two pashminas. We bought about 15 pashminas and pitched the man a price. He came back with another, and after some more back and forth, we made our final bid. After a few tense moments, the man accepted our price (significantly below the first asking price) and it felt like we had hit the lottery. I never knew one could get a high off of haggling and Paul and I left the store with a bounce in our steps. We were starving and making our way to Fire & Ice, until I spotted a piece of sky blue fabric out of the corner of my eye. I stopped suddenly. Paul and I had finally found the elusive sky blue pashmina. I bought one (at the price the other store had offered to us!) and was thrilled to have made this discovery. Paul and I enjoyed our last meal and when we exited the restaurant, we were treated to a techno concert in the street that was filled with only men. There were green lights and lasers shooting everywhere and no one was dancing, everyone was just standing there watching the stage. It was an interesting end to an even more interesting trip.

The next morning, after packing up the last of my items, Paul came by to pick me up and take me to the airport. When we arrived at the airport, some guards at the entrance were only allowing ticketed passengers through, but Paul flashed his US Embassy pass and he was able to escort me to the ticket counter line. We said goodbye to one another and I was officially on three-leg journey home. When I reached the front of the line, the agent informed me that my luggage was overweight and that my carry-on was too big and would have to be checked. I had no money left and was instructed to go exchange $50 for Nepali rupees. After I did that, I got back in line and when I reached the ticket counter, I was told it was a mistake and I wouldn't be paying any additional fees. I figured I could exchange the money when I arrived in India, after a short flight to New Delhi, it was the first thing I tried to do. Unfortunately, Nepali currency is not the most stable currency in the world, so I was refused an exchange and was left with a considerable amount of useless money.

I had a 6-hour layover and I had one more thing to do before leaving India: return the borrowed money to Parvinder, the cheauffeur from the Meridian Hotel. After picking up my luggage, I got a taxi to the hotel. When I arrived, I went to the luggage room and asked the attendant if Parvinder was there. He called for him and asked what it is I needed. I told him I was here to return his money and he said, "Many people say they will return, but very few actually do." Parvinder entered the lobby area a few minutes later, looked at me a little confused and then recognition flashed in his eyes. "Nepal" he asked. I handed him the original $7 he lent me and about 500 Indian rupees as a gesture of thanks.

I enjoyed an Italian dinner at the hotel's restaurant, which was excellent until two Chinese men were seated next to me (in an empty restaurant) and proceeded to chain smoke. Around 7pm, I gathered my belongings and made my way to the taxi line. One was hailed for me and off I went to the airport. My driver decided to take a slight detour and stop the car on an empty, dark side street. He said something about a cousin, and we waited. I didn't know whether to stay calm or jump out of the car screaming (not like anyone would hear me), and after several minutes, another man showed up and took the driver's place and drove me straight to the airport.

On my way to Chicago, I was seated next to a very nice, Indian-Amercan Sikh, who I chatted with during most of the flight. It was an uncomfortable flight because the seats were so small, but we arrived in Chicago with no problems. I transferred to my next flight, which was the smoothest I've ever had, and before I knew it, I was back in my 240-square foot studio in Manhattan. A boring end to a not so boring trip. The end.

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Nepal Trip: April 16, 2007 Email, Part I

Below is part I of my final email detailing my Nepal experience:

American Airlines wouldn’t let me make changes to my ticket and wanted to charge me something like $2500 to extend my trip. Ridiculous. I was pretty bummed about it for awhile because I was in the mindset of staying an extra week, but now I’m excited about coming home.

I went on my Tibetan monk picnic on Wednesday (April 11) and had a great time. I was a bit tired throughout the whole thing b/c I had to be up at 6 AM because the picnic bus was picking us up at 7:30 from the monastery. Of course the bus didn’t get there till about 8:30 and we piled in to this ancient bus that was blasting Indian music. I sat next to this mute mini-monk (he spoke no English and looked miserable) and asked Dawa (the trip organizer) to tell him I would move, but the mini-monk said no. After a good hour in traffic, (I got out of the bus and was taking pictures at some point) we arrived at the picnic grounds and food was waiting for us. I was starving, but when they served us, there was some pita-like bread and hard-boiled eggs. I wanted the eggs sooo badly, but knew it was probably safer not to eat them, so I just had bread and Tibetan tea (salty and made with butter, milk and black tea). Thank God lunch came about an hour later and was pretty delicious. While I was eating, I got to sit with the older monks and was treated like a special guest, which is just strange because all I did was walk into the monastery and start taking pictures one random day. There was also a Swiss girl there who was working with an NGO and had befriended Dawa.

Hanging out at the picnic

Me and Nyima, the gracious doctor

Most of the time everyone played soccer, volleyball and cricket and the mini-monks ran around like normal little kids do. I didn’t bring proper shoes, so I just watched most of the time, although I did play some soccer. I got some great pictures though.

Around 4:30 PM we headed back to the capital, but didn’t get home till about 6:30 because the traffic was atrocious. I promised the monks I would return before I left.

On Thursday, Paul invited me to photograph an event at Tribhuvan University's library, one of only six universities in the country. The university invited the US ambassador to view a small art exhibit, which featured pictures of iconic New York City structures. I met up with Paul and his boss, Sharon in the afternoon, and we discussed the state of Nepali affairs on the ride over to the university. Paul introduced me to the ambassador and told him I would be photographing the event. I parked myself with the other 3 or 4 male photojournalists, all of whom gave me curious looks because I was an obvious newcomer. I felt a little out of place, but after a few minutes, I felt like I was part of the team. As the US contingent (Paul, Sharon and the ambassador) made it's way through the exhibit, I weaved my way in and out of the crowd, snapping pictures of the action and feeling like a bonafide photojournalist. It was a bit of a rush. The coolest part of it was witnessing firsthand the US foreign policy apparatus---official statements, the interaction with the press and guests, reverance for our diplomats. It was strange and fascinating to see it all in practice.

Friday night (April 13) was the Hindu New Year 2064. Paul brought home a newspaper advertising a lavish event at the five-star Yak & Yeti Hotel in central Kathmandu. For $35, you would be treated to an all-you-can-eat buffet, unlimited drinks and some undisclosed live entertainment. I thought the fee outrageous (funny how one gets accustomed to a country's prices so quickly), but was persuaded to attend after some more discussion.

Thank God we decided to go because that night may have been the highlight of my trip. After curling my hair and donning my one nice dress that I brought in case of a special event, Paul's driver shuttled us to the Yak & Yeti around 8pm. Too bad we were running late because when we arrived, the red carpet excitement had died down. Apparently, this is THE event of the year in Kathmandu, and people line up outside the hotel to watch people enter the hotel. Needless to say, we weren't met with much enthusiasm from the few spectators loitering around the red carpet, and we strolled into the large, rather unimpressive ballroom. On the far right was a large, elevated stage with a dance floor set up in front of it. Where the dance floor ended, a sea of tables were set up, occupied by women in Western-style cocktail dresses and men in business suits. To the left of the entrance were a few large tables with various dinner selections and desserts. The tables were first-come-first-serve, so Paul and I found a half-full table of young people along the far wall of the ballroom. I'm almost positive we were the only non-Nepalis at the event, so we got some strange looks as we searched for an open table.

Red carpet ready

Our table

While Paul and I chowed down on delicious Indian food, the live entertainment started up and everyone turned their attention to the stage. What ensued was one of the most bizarre shows I have ever witnessed. Actually, it was the most bizarre I have ever witnessed. Young men and women in tight, glittery outfits danced around the stage for the next two hours to some well-known pop songs. At some point, the men began ribbon dancing. In between, some singers took the stage, giving the exhausted looking dancers some much needed breaks. But the main event of the night was yet to come. The Meat Brothers, a duo of bhangra singers, made a splashy entrance in tight druglord-esque attire and big sunglasses. The crowd went wild and people flooded the dance floor. And by people, I mean ONLY men. Paul and I, drawn by our curiosity and confusion, made our way to the dance floor to gawk at the performers. I have to say that the Meat Brothers had some catchy tunes. We did a bit of dancing, but mostly I just swayed because I felt too uncomfortable by the fact that I was surrounded by only men.

The Meat Brothers

A change of outfits for the Meat Brothers


Men dancing it up at New Years 2064

At some point, I made my way to the restroom. As I was washing my hands, I looked in the mirror at the Nepali girls around me. Some of them were staring at me. Was it my cute dress? My stunning looks? Nope. It was the fact that in my 3.5 inch heels, I was a good 12 inches taller than most of them. I truly felt like a giant and, uncomfortable with the attention, I hurried out of the restroom.

At the end of the night, Paul and I decided to opt out of the midnight techno party that was to take place in one of the ballrooms at the hotel. We found a cab outside and asked him to take us to the apartment in the Baluwatar neighborhood. On the drive home, giddy from the randomness and excitement of the night, Paul started yelling "namaste!" and waving to random motorcyclists on the road. The driver mistook our odd behavior/enthusiasm for drunkeness (which were far from), and when he dropped us off at our gate, the meter read 300 rupees. Paul and I literally laughed out loud because the trip should have only cost 80-90 rupees. We gave the driver 100 rupees and called it a night.

The following morning we awoke rather early to attend a festival in Bhaktapur celebrating the Hindu New Year. Alicia and Beven came to pick us up in their American-made SUV and we started our 30 minute journey to the small town. There was lots of slow moving trucks on the two lane road, and Beven (manning the wheel) would pass the trucks on their right because people in Nepal drive on the opposite (i.e., British) side of the road. This presented a small problem, as Beven's car had the steering wheel on the left side of the car. When confronted with a slow truck, a highly stressful game would ensue. Beven would move the car slighty into the lane with oncoming traffic so Alicia, sitting in the passenger seat, could tell him if the lane was clear for him to pass. They did this twice, but on the third attempt as Beven crept into the other lane, Alicia screamed out, "HUGE TATA!" and Beven jerked the car back into our lane as the Tata whizzed by. Tata is an Indian carmaker and any truck in this country is most likely a Tata. We eventually passed the truck in front of us with no problem, but it was certainly a scary moment.

After we parked the car, we made our way into central Bhaktapur, which was packed with people. We spent the late morning and early afternoon wandering the streets. We eventually came upon the chariot that was being constructed during my last trip to Bhaktapur on April 4. At the head of the chariot was a young man holding a chicken. We weren't sure what he was going to do with the chicken until the man sawed its head off with knife, causing blood to spurt everywhere. The main event of the day was several meters from the chariot, in the middle of a huge square. An enormously tall tree, completely stripped of its limbs so that it resembled a giant lingum, wrapped in rope and anchored to the ground by more rope on one of its ends. On the anchored side, a large group of men was holding the ends of the rope. If they could lift the tree and get it to stand up straight, it would be a good omen for the next year. Not getting it up would mean an unlucky year. Unlucky in what? I'm not sure.

The chicken post-sacrifice

The lingum trunk gets some support

The crowd waits for the main event

Much to the dismay of the crowd, the men struggled to lift the tree and ultimately failed at raising it. How unfortuitous. And just plain dangerous.

Afterwards, the four of us explored the city. As we passed by this tiny house, I saw an old lady sitting directly in some interesting light. Alicia, who speaks fluent Nepali, asked the lady's permission to take her picture, and I started snapping away. After a few shots, the lady got up and became extremely agitated. She said something to Alicia, who responded and then the lady waved her hand in front of my camera, knocking it away from her. As we walked away, I asked Alicia what she had said to the lady. "I asked her if you could take pictures of her house. She said yes as long as you didn't take pictures of her." Luckily, I got a good shot.

Before my hidden agenda is unearthed

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Nepal Trip: April 11, 2007

Below is the third email from 2007 Nepal trip:

I was in Thamel (the center of Kathmandu) on April 3, and got roped into a tour around the central square with two Nepali tour guides. They turned out to be very nice and we spent most of the morning walking around the city. They took me to see a living goddess, a 9-year-old girl who is actually considered a living deity. She lives in a house off the main square, gets treated like a princess, and people come and pay homage to her. Once she reaches adolescence, some holy people scour the land looking for the next goddess. They obviously made a mistake by overlooking Santa Clarita, CA.

Anyways, we were standing in the living goddess's courtyard and I asked if she ever came out to say hi. One of the tour guides stepped into the house and asked the servants if they would ask the living goddess to come to the window. The tour guide came out extremely excited and announced she would make an appearance. Well, the courtyard began buzzing with excitement and then she finally came out, this little girl with full makeup on her doll-like face. All she did was lean on the balcony and smile a little smugly, then she was gone in 5 seconds. A little anti-climactic.

After that, the tour guides took me to a temple where a holy man insisted on giving me a blessing after I took his picture. He rubbed some red and yellow paste on my forehead, muttered some prayers and then scooped up some water in this spoon and put it in my hand. I looked at the guides and they said, "drink it." Foreigners are NOT supposed to drink the tap water and probably the worst thing you can do is drink water that is sitting in a rusty cup and came from God knows where. So, I stared at this water in my hand and all I could think about was "I don't want to offend this holy man and/or be permanently cursed." I decided to take a tiny sip and let the rest fall off my hand and run down my face. Thankfully, I did not get sick, although my skin became irritated by the paste on my forehead, which was clearly not non-commodogenic.

Holy man in the temple in Durbar Square, Kathmandu

On Friday night, there was a party at the Marine Guard House at the embassy. The fun employees were there, and after that party ended, we headed to a club called "J Bar" which played surprisingly good music. I remember drinking some generous portions of Bailey's, and after returning to the apartment around 2 AM, I realized I had left my jacket at the club. (I returned the following Monday to inquire about my jacket and it was unsurprisingly gone. Thankfully, Andrew saved the day and found an identical jacket for me in NYC.)

Paul and I took a trip on Saturday to a town called Pokhara, west of Kathmandu and near the Himalayas. The drive is along a two-lane highway that goes along the side of mountains and is extremely dangerous. This is one of only two main highways leading out of Kathmandu. Paul convinced me it would be better to take a 30-minute flight on a small plane instead of driving. I reluctantly agreed.

Around 8 AM, we arrived at the domestic airport, which is just one big building divided into two parts. The baggage claim was in located outside and in front of the main building. It was just a fenced area with a tin roof. We went through the x-ray machines and then headed to the ticket counter, where the airline wrote us a ticket (yes, wrote it). We went though another security check, which was a quick pat down and a glimpse into my two bags. Finally we entered in the waiting area. Paul and I staked out a spot near our "gate." The "gate" was really a random door manned by a pretty girl in a purple sari who announced each flight departure with a megaphone. You had to listen carefully to her announcements because her English was so heavily accented that you could easily miss your flight. Paul and I must have gone up to her four or five times to ask if she had announced our Buddha Air flight. The airport was also my first experience with the squat toilets, you know, the ones with the hole in the ground. Awkward, just awkward.

Our flight was delayed and I started getting nervous. When the announcer finally called our flight number, we boarded a minibus that would take us to our plane. That's when the nerves REALLY kicked in, as I realized I would be flying on a small plane in the third world. Images of a plane crashing into a mountain kept coming to mind. The minibus made its way toward two awaiting planes, a newer one and an older one. Paul assured me that the American-made plane we would be traveling in was safe, and then he pointed to the new one and said, "See, it's got turned up wings, which means it was made in the last couple years." As luck would have it, we cruised right past the new one and parked next to the old one. Those who had luggage were asked to check a cart being pulled by the minibus to make sure their bag was there.

There were little stairs leading up to the plane and I had to crouch down really low to get to my seat. There were about 10 seats on each side of the plane and the seat in front of me was coming apart. I kinda freaked out on the takeoff, but the flight was surprisingly calm and we got a view of the Himalayas:

View of the Himalayas

Frightened as we hit a patch of turbulence

Everyone else seemingly calm

Happy to be on the ground in Pokhara

Pokhara is completely different than Kathmandu. First of all, it's pollution-free. Second, it's TINY, with only a few main roads. It borders a huge lake with stunning views of the Himalayas on a clear day. Paul and I checked into a hotel near the lake (a whopping $40/night with breakfast) and as we were unpacking, we heard a ruckus outside our window. We looked out and saw this enormous elephant leading a parade. We armed ourselves with cameras and took off to follow the parade, which was celebrating the Hindu New Year. I took a lot of pictures of the elephant, but eventually stopped because it started looking straight at me.

Is Carol safe from the elephant?

Nepali cow poses for Paul

We got some great pictures and it was a lot of fun. After awhile, Paul and I found a restaurant that served BEEF and we had a great peppered steak. Flies were swarming us as we feasted on our steak, so we didn't get to fully enjoy the experience because we had to keep waving our hands around to shoo away the flies. After lunch, we walked around the town, did some light shopping (I bought a pretty silver bracelet with a turquoise stone for 1200 rupees), got a massage, and eventually went to a late dinner at a quaint Tibetan restaurant. Paul and I ordered ordered buff (buffalo) and some interesting Tibetan beer made from millet and served hot. It had a unique flavor that I had never tasted. We got to bed around 11 PM.

Around 5 AM, we woke up and got a taxi to take us to Sarangkot, a lookout point with a view of the Himalayas. We had a mostly clear day and the sunrise was beautiful.

Sunrise in Pokhara

After a great breakfast and a quick nap, Paul and I rowed a boat across the lake (okay, Paul rowed and I clung to the sides of it, expecting a leak to spring up), and began a steep hike up an enormous mountain. I was not at all prepared for a hike because I had on jeans,and I immediately knew I would overheat:

Paul showing off the rowing skills he acquired in Tonga

Holding on for dear life

Overheating on the climb up to the World Peace Pagoda

About ¼ of the way up the mountain, we passed a group of Nepali girls. They said "hi" and stopped us. One of the girls grabbed my hand, stroked my arm and pointed at her cheek. She was talking about my skin color and as she walked away, she yelled out "beauty." I'm beginning to really like this place…

We finally reached the summit of the mountain (really just a huge hill) after a one hour climb, and arrived at the World Peace Pagoda. The pagoda featured some cool Buddha statues, especially one with Buddha in what looked like some swim trunks:

Buddha in swim trunks

On the climb down my legs began fatiguing and I got really light headed. In the boat I started feeling nauseous and Paul diagnosed me with dehydration. After a shower and some rest, I felt better but was starving and waited for Paul to get back from a scheduled shave. One of the hotel employees knocked on my door at 3 PM telling me our car to Kathmandu was ready. We wanted to get an early start because we didn't want to drive at night on the dangerous road and there was also an impending rainstorm. I went searching for Paul and found him sitting in a salon chair, getting a manicure, head massage and looking slightly disoriented. Apparently, he had opted for a deluxe shave instead of a regular one, and an hour and 15 minutes later, he was barely waking up from his massage. He had another 20 minutes to go and we still had to eat. Around 3:30, Paul finished his "shave" and we settled our bills, then headed to lunch at an Italian restaurant. We got on the road by 4:45 and drove towards the countryside, which was beautiful. About 45 minutes into the drive, it started POURING rain and then hailing lollipop-sized chunks of ice. Please note Paul's freshly shaven face in the video below:

The driver had to pull over several times because conditions were so dismal, and although the driver didn't seem to feel headlights and windshield wipers were necessary, we had to ask him to turn them on. When it stopped hailing, though there was still tons of rain and lightning bolts, the driver went about as if it were a clear day, passing buses on the opposite lane, even on blind corners. Paul assured me his driving skills were better than most third world drivers. Looking down at the pitch black gorge alongside our lane, I didn't feel any better. We made a stop in random town for about 15 minutes for a quick bathroom break and a stretch for our legs. It had stopped raining and was a beautiful, warm night out. We continued our journey to Kathmandu along the windy, treacherous two-lane highway, relaxing only when there was solid land on either side of the highway. At some point I decided that if we were going to die, it would be while I was asleep. I slept for a couple of hours and woke up just before we reached Kathmandu around 10 PM. Paul informed me that while I was sleeping, our car passed a bad accident.

I spent Monday (April 9) resting and organizing my pictures. Tuesday and today (Wednesday, April 11), I got up early to photograph some Tibetan monks I befriended last week. I went to the monastery where they live and photographed some adorable mini-monks, very young boys who have been sent here by their families. These people are so friendly and open, it's no wonder why the Chinese have been able to occupy their country with almost no physical resistance. I've been invited to join them for a picnic on Thursday.

At one point, I walked over to a table where a group of young boys was reading aloud. One boy was leading the recitation and the rest of the group was following along and repeating what the leader was reciting. The mini monks were adorable in their red cloaks and their high-pitched voices. While I was photographing them, things got a little rowdy as the recitation turned into a contest to see who could recite the loudest.

Too cute for words

Morning prayers

Samtenling Monastery in the morning

Reading Tibetan Scriptures
Copyright 2007, Carolina Guizar

Tuesday night, Paul and I went into the center of town for some pizza at my favorite restaurant in Kathmandu, Fire and Ice. On the way there, our cab driver pulled over on a dark corner and stopped the engine of the car. Paul and I looked at each other, very confused, and the driver turned around and put his pinky in the air. We asked him what was wrong and he just held his pinky up in the air. Was this a signal to some awaiting kidnappers that the foreigners were ready to be snatched? Then the driver said, "you no know what this means?" and threw open the door and ran out of the car. We were kinda freaked out and wondering what to do until we saw the driver unzip his jeans and start peeing on the opposite side of the road. It took him about a minute to finish. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

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Nepal Trip - April 5, 2007

Below is the second mass email I sent out to friends while I was in Nepal:

My last couple of days in Kathmandu have been quite interesting.

Kathmandu, although crowded, is a lot more manageable than New Delhi. The central area, Thamel, is where all the tourists hang and that's where I've done most of my photography. The area is quite old and has lots of winding alleys and streets.

There is so much pollution and dirt in the air you can literally feel it entering your body. A lot of people wear masks over their mouths and I would be doing the same, except that my smile is my WMD. I smile so much here because I think that disarms people a little as I'm taking their picture.

I draw a lot of attention and I attribute it mostly to my camera. People love it and love posing for me. They are especially delighted when I show them pictures of themselves with my digital cam.

Being a Westerner, you often get preferential treatment wherever you go. They scoot people out of the way so you can be first in line and call you by the most respectful of titles, like "ji" at the end of your name or just a simple "madam." And they go out of the way to make you feel comfortable, opening all your doors and offering you a seat. It's sometimes a little uncomfortable for me, although Paul swears you get used to it. People are just always SO, SO, SO nice.

Paul and I frequent this place called Phora for lunch. It's like a little Western country club of sorts and has a gym, restaurant, tennis courts, pool and spa services. The membership is a startling $35 per month (considering most Nepalis make around $334/year, that price is outrageous).

The Nepalis do what Paul and I call the "head bobble." Instead of nodding your head to signify yes, the Nepalis bobble their heads side-to-side. I read about it in Lonely Planet, but forgot about it. So the first day, unless someone said OK, I thought people were telling me maybe. It still throws me off, but I usually follow the bobble with an "ok?" and people respond with "yes" or "ok."

Every night there is a blackout around 7:30 PM (it's about 5 mins away from happening). Everything is black for about 10 seconds before the generator in the apartment kicks in. Obviously, most people don't have generators and I wonder how long the blackouts really last.

Honking is an essential commodity that, like carbon emissions, should be traded because there is a whole lot of noise pollution in this city. When there are no laws governing the roads, honking is really the only way to predict people's movements. I've observed that there are two forms of honking in the third world: 1) two short beeps are out of politeness for the other drivers. It is either to warn them of your presence in a blind spot or around a blind corner; 2) one long honk means "Get the hell out of my way!"

Paul warned me not to roll down my window too much in the taxis. I learned my lesson today when a 5- or 6-year-old boy stuck his upper body in my fully open window and put a Nepali newspaper on my lap. I was slightly startled and told him no. After about 30 awkward seconds, during which I had to pretend this kid's head wasn't 5 inches from mine, he got the hint and left. I rolled up my window about 7 inches and the driver laughed at me.

Yesterday, I went to a place called Bhaktapur with Paul's friend, Beven. Beven is also a photographer and was running some errands in that city (about 30 mins from Kathmandu), so he invited me along to take pics. We entered the main square, where the tourist police charged me an astounding 750 rupees, $10, which is actually ridiculous. Beven has a card which exempts him of those fees and even he was surprised by the price. We walked around the town together and got some interesting shots. I particularly like one that I took of this little boy's face behind a table that blends in with all the woodwork he is selling.

Who is this stranger taking my picture?

In the next few days, I'll be doing some travel with Paul outside the Kathmandu Valley to a place called Pokhara, about 5 hours from here. We're getting a car to drive us there so we can make stops along the way. We might fly back on some airline called Buddha Air in a 20 seater plane, but I'm thinking of vetoing that one. He also suggested taking a puddle jumper around Mt. Everest. No thanks.
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Nepal Trip - April 2, 2007

I can't believe it's been two years since my trip to Nepal. I never had a chance to blog about the experience because blogging had not yet been popularized. Below is a mass email that I distributed to friends and family.

I have finally arrived in Kathmandu, Nepal. For those of you who don't know, I'm here doing some travel photography. I am staying with my friend, Paul, who I met at Georgetown in a class of mine. He now works for the State Department and is working in the Public Diplomacy Office at the US Embassy here in Kathmandu. Basically, when anything happens in Nepal and the US has to comment on it to the press, he's the one who puts out that statement and talks with the press.

As some of you may know, it took me three more days than expected to get to Kathmandu (KTM). I was schedule to fly from La Guardia to Chicago, Chicago to New Delhi. After missing my American Airlines flight to Delhi Wednesday night due to my delayed plane from La Guardia, I had to spend the night in Chicago, fly back to NYC and take a plane Friday night to Delhi on Continental. This sounds easy enough except that I had to wait in some God awful line for a few hours to get re-ticketed for my entire flight itinerary because the last leg of my trip included a third world carrier that doesn't know the concept of e-tickets. So after being in airports since 1 PM, I went to my hotel to sleep around 11 PM. Hungry, tired, defeated.

When I went back to the airport in the morning to fly back to NYC, I had the option of going to Delhi that night on American, but decided against it because they told me my baggage was probably on its way to La Guardia and I didn't want to travel without it. When I got to La Guardia, my bag was MIA and NO ONE at American knew where it was. Andrew and I spent HOURS on the phone trying to track it down. Some people at AA said it was still in Chicago heading to Delhi on AA and some said it had been taken to Continental and would be on my new flight. Continental said AA was lying and that they would never receive a bag from another airline. Ultimately, the only thing we could do was wait until I arrived in Delhi and only then could I file a claim for them to look for my bag IF it was missing. Why can't it be like UPS? You know every step of the way where your bag is!

On Friday night, I got to Newark Airport with plenty of time and checked in with a carry-on that contained the essentials in case my bag was not in Delhi when I arrived. I went to security and was flagged for a secondary inspection. I was literally HERDED into a sealed off area in the middle of security that was clear and walled in on three sides. Another passenger looked at me and gave me a sympathetic look, which prompted me to say "mooooo" out loud. He started cracking up. A positive way to start off the trip.

After an uneventful 14-hour flight to Delhi, I arrived around 8:30 PM in the customs area (mosquitos everywhere!) and, of course, I couldn't find my bag at baggage claim. Some airport worker saw me searching for it and asked, "what is your name?" I told him and he said. "come with me," and by some grace of Brahma, my bag was at the airport. After being shuffled across the baggage/custom area literally 5 times, I was escorted to a warehouse where there were 5 guys sitting around watching TV. I walked in with the airline rep (a very pretty girl who complained about how much she hated her job) and had to leave a cart with my belongings at the entrance of the warehouse. The whole time I was eyeing my cart nervously and wondering why I couldn't wait outside WITH my bags.

If you have ever lost luggage it is probably in New Delhi. The warehouse was about three stories high and PACKED with unclaimed luggage. The airline rep said some of the stuff had been there for years, and what I don't understand is why they just don't look up the names and addresses of these customers. I guess watching TV is more important than doing your job.

After finding my luggage, I had to sign out in this book. Very little here is put into computer systems. Then my found bag was taken to an x-ray and screened. Why? I just learned quickly to not ask why.

After getting my stuff (it took two hours and was now 10:30 PM), I found my very animated hotel driver who spoke no English but managed to tell me he had been waiting for two hours. He wouldn't let me do anything for myself and insisted on me waiting to get into the car as he pulled it out of the parking spot and then loaded my stuff in. He had some of that crazy but entertaining hip-hoppish Indian music on in the car and it was a smooth sail to the hotel. The staff at the hotel was very nice and my room was pretty pimp.

My hotel room

I went down to the travel desk to arrange a trip to the Taj Mahal the next day. I finally got to bed around 2 AM and got up around 6 AM b/c I wasn't tired. I got ready for my trip to the Taj and set out around 8:30, but not before snapping a picture of the view outside my window. The forecast had said "smoky and hot", which I hadn't understood until then.

Smoky and hot in New Delhi: morning view from the 17th floor

I met my driver at the hotel entrance and we set off. He was a very nice man who told me all about his life and family and asked me if I was married and when I wanted kids.

Driving to Agra, where the Taj is located, is an interesting experience. On the one side you have the India of 5-star hotels, shopping complexes and palatial government buildings. On the other you have the India of beggars, grass "houses" and barefoot children running around in the dirt streets. And, of course, you always have the India of roaming cows---if intentionally killed, you will be jailed.

The trip would have been about 3 hours, but we were forced to stop for 10-15 minutes every hour or at a series of toll booths. Except these weren't toll booths you drove up to. The driver had to park the car, get out, wait in line and then pay a fee. At every stop, the driver would leave the car running with the doors locked, and me inside. People would come up to the car begging for money or selling trinkets and I would have to pretend not to see their faces pressed up against my window.

The view outside my car window

After a 4-hour drive to Agra and 1 hour lunch at a nice hotel, I met up with my tour guide who wore little or no deodorant in the 100 degree weather. Very nice and knowledgeable. After he found out I was a photographer, he showed me all of his favorite angles of the Taj and Agra Fort (also part of the tour) and instructed me on how to compose the pictures.

My tour guide's favorite camera angle

In front of the Taj Mahal

Beautiful detailing in the Taj Mahal's walls

Rabid mokeys at the Taj

Well, as we toured around the Taj Mahal (the most impressive and beautiful tomb I've every seen), I noticed that some Indian guys were following us around. Well that caught someone's attention because a woman came up to the tour guide and asked him in Hindi if I would take a photograph WITH her 2-year-old daughter. I said sure and pretty soon her entire family of ten people came in for a group shot. BAD IDEA. After that, there was a line of Indians waiting their turn to take a picture with me, most of them men and from the army, and the whole time my tour guide is juggling their cameras. After about 10 pictures, I said I had to go. This happened a couple of more times and the tour guide said that these people are mainly from rural areas and are obsessed with light skin (relative to them, I am PALE) and fascinated by Western dress.

Agra Fort was also beautiful and IMMENSE. It once housed a harem of 300 girls.

Me in front of Agra Fort

Remnants of Agra Fort's former beauty; people stole the gold detailing over the years

Three guys who were following me at Agra Fort

At around 6 PM, the driver and I started our trip back to Delhi and I got some much needed sleep. I awoke from my car nap about 20 or 30 mins before we arrived at the hotel. I spent the rest of the ride trying to figure out what I should tip the driver. He was so courteous and professional and had spent about 13 hours on this trip with me. I decided on $40, which seemed too little for me, but I had given the tour guide a $20 for a 4-hour tour, and he had seemed please with that amount. As I exited the car, I thanked the driver and handed him the $40 worth of rupees. I recounted the tale to Paul the next day because I was worried I had stiffed the driver, but he assured me that I had paid the driver a week's salary in tip. I guess I made his night.

Just when I thought the rest of my trip was going to be smooth sailing, another disaster struck, this time with money. Basically, there was a block on my debit card (although i had called the bank to tell them about my travel plans) and I had to pay with ALL my cash and the rest on my dad's card. It left me with about $17 to my name. In the morning, I finally got everything sorted out and left for the airport, but couldn't get money out of the hotel's ATM (no foreign cards allowed). The driver taking me to the airport felt so bad for me (I still had to pay for me Nepalese visa), he gave me 7 US dollars. He basically paid to drive me to the airport because I couldn't give him a tip. I told him that I would return to Delhi in a few weeks on a 7-hour layover and would do my best to get the money back to him.

So, I arrived at the airport and checked in for my Jet Airways flight. I was immediately directed to an x-ray machine where only my checked bags were screened. I hadn't checked the baggage requirements and apparently was only allowed TWENTY kilos although it was an international flight (passengers on the London-bound flight next to me were allowed 32 kilos) and my carry-on could only be SEVEN kilos. WHO EVER WEIGHS THE CARRY-ON?! Well apparently in the 3rd world they do. I had to take some stuff out of my carry-on, which hadn't been screened, and put it into my checked bags, which had already been screened. And people wonder how there are still plane hijackings. Well, my checked bags ended up weighing a killer 37 kilos and my carry-on was 15 kilos. They let the carry-on slide, but slammed me with a 64 rupee/extra kilo charge. Really it was only about $20 or so for the extra.

So, here I am ready to board my flight. Security is a hassle in the third world if you're a photographer. TSA screeners are Einsteins compared to the Indian army screeners. At least you can communicate with TSA screeners and most of them are nice. These Indian screeners are miserable people who hardly smile and are so arbitrary in their screening procedures. But you listen to them because they have machine guns. They gave me a hard time about my hand inspecting my film, but I finally convinced them not to put it through the x-ray. No tests for explosives here, they just passed it through to the other side (or maybe they put it through when I wasn't looking). I was flagged again for an inspection and the guy went through my things and came upon my tripod head that is shaped like an L and could be mistaken for a weapon. He looked at it and asked what it was. After a small demonstration, he let me go. At the gate, we were all screened AGAIN.

I almost died on the airplane to Kathmandu and I am NOT exaggerating. We were descending and it was kinda bumpy. Then the plane stopped bumping around as we started nearing the ground, and it started slowly tilting side to side, but nothing too scary. I thought to myself, this is strange. All of a sudden BAM, we dropped some 30 feet and the plane started tilting side to side, but this time worse. People screamed because it felt like we totally lost control. It was only about 10 seconds but it was really scary because we were so close to the ground. After the plane leveled out, everyone was looking around at each other just shocked and people were clapping when we landed. During that time I thought, "Oh my God, I'm gonna be on the news and part of that '3 Americans citizens were onboard' thing that no one pays attention to."

The pilot didn't even apologize or come out of the cockpit. Thanks for driving the Greyhound bus, a-hole.

Now that I think back on it, one thing was funny and that is that some old Indian guy screamed out "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!" in a very thick, Indian accent (think Apu from the Simpsons).

I was in a state of shock as I deplaned, mostly because I thought I was going to die in that plane, and secondly because I couldn't believe I had finally arrived. A Nepali guy was waiting for me outside my gate and has some sort of connection with the US Embassy. He had money from Paul for my visa and I was escorted through the airport. I skipped the visa line, didn't need to take a picture for it and then had my bags quickly scanned through security. It pays to visit a diplomat.

From what I can tell, Kathmandu is an island in the Caribbean compared to Delhi. Lots more charm and cleaner looking. Paul's apartment is very nice. I get my own room and bathroom, there is a nice common area with internet, AC and TV and the apartment has its own water filtration system. We're a couple hundred feet from the Prime Minister's residence, so it's a pretty nice neighborhood and we even have a guard at the gate of the complex.

I'm staying in tonight to decompress. Tomorrow I will go out to explore the city. I will be in Kathmandu until April 19.

Much love and lots of besos to everyone,
Carol

P.S. I should also mention that Andrew (the boyfriend) and his father, good ol' Harold Bruce, fixed everything with my flights and hotels after my Chicago flight was delayed. Andrew also helped me sort out the bank situation. Best novio ever.

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