I stood in the middle of the dirt street awash in colorful confusion, staring. It stared back. I sipped from the tiny bottle of water and returned the stare. This cow had a look in his eyes as he stopped in the middle of the street gazing at us. He seemed to sense that we were out of place, and indeed, we were. We were in the back, dark, crowded streets, the part of the city no tourist would ever find in a book, or would even care to see. It's the real life of Nepal, one where dogs and cows roam the dusty streets freely, where you are constantly meandering though the never-ending, dense thicket of people, and kids don't go to school. It’s a place where the people live in one-room homes and hope each day to be fortunate enough to scrape together a single meal for their family; it’s a place where physical survival dominates daily life and renders much else meaningless.

We had arrived at the foothills of the Himalayas in Kathmandu.

We walked onward through immigration and exited the airport only to find that the taxi drivers were on strike, so we were immediately swarmed with enthusiastic touts throwing offers to take us on their rickshaw (a three-wheel pedal cycle). We had no choice, but to accept. What would have been a twenty-minute taxi ride then instantly became a two-hour journey through the appalling squalor of one of the world's poorest countries. As we bounced along in the cramped rickshaw, I felt like I did the first time that we visited Bangkok when pure culture shock held us tightly in its powerful grip. There was no escape, no hiding from the stinging vision of poverty as we could only go as fast as our driver's legs would take us. I felt suffocated, I desperately took deeper and deeper breaths in an attempt to calm myself, but the sheer force of these oppressive images strangled my soul. In Thailand, the poverty seemed controlled by a people who seemingly walked with a purpose, yet here in the midst of this back-alley view, the people wandered aimlessly, almost without reason, they just wandered. I cringed at their dusty trail, their seemingly hollow life, for it stood out in profound opposition to the way of life in America. This place—what could I call it, for it failed to meet any definition I knew—was virtually incomprehensible, and my brain boiled simply trying to meagerly wrap itself around this haunting vision. Yes, these were the same souls that roamed American soil and yet painfully, they lived so palpably different.

At times, our driver struggled terribly peddling us, the two well-fed Americans and our massive bags of goodies, and so in fighting off my lingering paralysis I jumped out to help—by pushing the cart from behind. It then became amusing to the locals, who rarely see foreigners in these parts of the city, let alone one pushing the back of a rickshaw with two hefty backpacks and a western woman in it. A soft murmur weaved through the throngs as we approached and many turned to stop and observe this seemingly bizarre sight. I didn’t know why it was odd, although indeed, I felt odd, so far from home, so out of place, so ashamed of the lavish being I was and that I now walked among them.

How would I feel if I was one of them? I was haunted by this steely apparition—I was among these gawking masses—and I knew that I would resent this image of golden fortune ambling through the poverty of my streets. With this thought plainly visualized, I pushed even harder, I pushed that rickshaw as if my life depended upon it—which of course, unlike the people I walked amongst, I’ve never experienced such desperation. This was their home, and for the first time in my life, I felt that my mere presence, the fact that I existed was utterly disrespectful to another. I was a brazen fool, for what have I done here I thought to myself. I bring myself and arrogantly sweep through their city displaying the fruits of a labor they’ll never touch in their lifetimes. Worse, there was nothing I could do, I couldn’t give all we had to them—for what would a few items do for the thousands, I couldn’t provide any immediate service to them; no, I only took from these people a piece of their dignity, a piece of the pride they had by showing them what they had so little of.

We came to the corner in the middle of this destitute land and stopped. The driver could pedal no further and needed a break. As I bent over with my hands on my knees attempting to catch my breath, beads of sweat covered my face and dripped to the dirt road below. I quickly turned as an elderly man stood before me in his bare feet, torn rags hung on his frail, skinny body, and his grayish hair disheveled. He gave me a fragile toothless smile as he extended his shaking hand offering me a bottle of water.

"He wants to give you the water for helping me...he saw you," our driver said as the man stood undeterred still holding the bottle outward to me.

"I can't take it," I returned to the driver, not knowing really where the water came from—if it truly was bottled water.

The old man held it out further to me, and his gaze caught my eye. Much to my surprise they glowed, there was much to this old man and I could see it plainly. I couldn't help but return his gaze with a soft smile.

I looked over to Bren, who shrugged her shoulders not knowing what to say.

"Well, ask him how much?" I said to the driver.

"Nothing. You take. He sees you helping me. He sees you pushing cart." My stomach turned, my heart ached. I couldn't fathom the gesture. It stripped me whole, and left me in pieces. He was the poorest person I’d ever seen in my life, and yet here he stood offering me a bottle of water, a person he could rightfully resent, all for helping out a guy he probably didn't even know.

I glanced to Bren. Tears were flooding her eyes, and she quickly looked up to the sky to prevent shedding the tears.

I gingerly took the water from his trembling hand, smiled once again, bent towards him in a gesture of thanks, and began drinking the water. He patted me on the shoulder, bowed, and walked away melding into the throng of people surrounding us. I stood lost, confounded by that man and all he represented, awash in colorful confusion staring at the cow in the middle of the street.

***************

We got settled into our hotel located in Thamel, a small section of the city considered the touristed, backpacker hangout. Contrary to most other places in the world, this section of the city is actually one of the best. It's centered on tourism and trekking, so the fight for the tourist dollars creates a frenzy of activity. One that isolates Thamel from the rest of the city, because the influx of dollars keeps it well above the standards of the rest of the people living in Kathmandu. In fact, the standard of living in Thamel is not much different than in Bangkok or Kuta in Bali. By contrast, however, here it's an artificial ball of commercialism, one that buffers the tourists from the ugly reality that grips this part of the world: the mind-numbing poverty.

Bren and I wandered through Thamel and found a restaurant away from the bustling crowds and oppressive confusion. We perused the menus in silence, having said little since our rickshaw ride from the airport. Both of us have remained consumed by the "golden" man offering the water, and undoubtedly, it has torn at the essence of both of us. To see how they live, to see the hand they've been dealt, to see the utter paucity, the deplorable conditions they live under on a daily basis is one of the most heart wrenching experiences of my life. And from this revolting mass of deprivation comes a saint offering the most precious substance on earth.

"What do you think about it?" I asked Bren knowing that even hours later she would understand what I was talking about.

"This whole day's been crazy, the poverty, oh God, how poor those people are, they have nothing," she cried out, "but that man, that man just blew my mind!"

"I just can't come to grips with it."

"I could cry right now," Bren said as tears did crease her eyes.

"I know. I want to run out and give them everything we have...it's all so overwhelming."

"Maybe, it's like you said in Bali, some things we'll never know the answers to, we'll never understand why he gave you the water."

"Yeah, I guess—I mean we've seen a lot on this trip, but this, this sticks in my gut and twists; God, it hurts so much!"

"I know, I know," Bren said drifting off in thought, "why do we have so much?"

"That's it, I don't think about how lucky we are to be Americans, I think about the disparity, I think that they have nothing. What gives us the right to live so differently...our birthplace?"

"Bri, stop it, I'm going to bust out crying. It's just not fair," she said as she dropped her face into her hands and somberly mumbled, "Dammit, it's just not fair."

"I don't think I can sit in this restaurant right now, order from a list of foods, and eat their food."

"I can't either, let's just go back to the room," Bren said choking back the tears.

As we walked back to the room hand in hand, Bren suddenly stopped in the middle of the street and said, "One thing I can tell you for sure...you have been looking for Mary Matthews' faith, and I think you've certainly found a piece of it!" Bren said emphatically, her eyebrows arching accentuating even further the point.

"What...what do you mean?"

"Well, you've been searching for faith in another human being, like the faith she had in you, well one part of that certainly has to be faith in humanity, right?"

"Yeah..." I said trailing off in the thought.

"I think you'd be hard pressed to find a better example of faith in humanity. A person with nothing giving one who has everything a bottle of life's most precious element, all because you showed some small act of kindness."

"Yeah, then he turned and walked away...he didn't even do it for money, a reward, or some personal gratification," I said putting my face in my hands as tears flooded my eyes. I couldn't control it.

"Really, who are we in comparison to this man?" Bren proffered.

"Ironic isn't it. We have everything, we're given every opportunity in life, and yet, we pale in comparison to the purity of that man," I reflected.

"I feel so little," Bren said through the tears, "and I just can't stop crying."

"Yeah, I've never felt so humbled in my life..."

That night I drifted off uncomfortably wondering: Is this our skeleton ship sailing the rolling seas ignorant of our heavenly destination—trapped within this unyielding snare and our Neanderthal ways only conceal our chosen course? Because my primitive mind and limited reasoning fail to comprehend the parameters of this giant rock, I do feel a sense of unbridled freedom, but is this brazen world merely the cage to imprison my maladroit soul? Does the Old Man laugh from this altar at my vanity in a world of such simple beauty; is the blood flowing through my veins, merely a tear from His eye as I walk so helplessly amongst His giving sands; am I merely a carrion amongst life, the cancer that infests this blue and green planet of peerless purity? However, to take me from this fortress would now be to steal the heart from its arteries, for I am the soldier wounded and left to die upon this field of life.

Sleep consumes my physical canister and I dream. My weary body walks through the dry desert without water for my peccant birth, and I then see above my slouching body fallen in the sand the vultures circling overhead, their shadows cast from the blood-filled sky. I close my eyes and the blackness consumes, and I fade away for my insolent audacity in even breathing in this watery world of white. My spirit separates from this sandy death hole and the old man again appears with a bottle of water in his outstretched hand, I drop to my knees and beg for my existence for this penniless man offers a piece of his soul. I am undeserving, for I am merely the spume left by the raging sea upon the sands of earth. As I painfully acknowledge this—my true birth, my spirit is sent back to its body, and with a flash I lay again lost in the sand of this massive desert, alone, fatigued, naked and filled with fear; but within my shaking hand was the bottle of water—and with it I woke.

***************

The plan was to spend a few days in Kathmandu, and trek the remainder of the time in Nepal. So, we spent most of the day figuring out which trekking route we'd take. Most who come to Nepal to trek decide between two regions, the Annapurna and Everest. We were told that the Annapurna range was actually more picturesque than Everest and took less time. Since we only received a 15-day Visa, we decided on the Annapurna Circuit, which required 10-12 days to complete. We paid for our trekking permits and were set to trek in a few days from Pokhara, a city in the central part of Nepal and the gateway to the Annapurna Range.

We had only one task remaining before leaving for Pokhara, and that was to receive our Visas for entering India in two weeks. So, late the following afternoon we walked to the Embassy on the outskirts of town and walked in with an Australian who was applying as well. He was handed an application and as he began filling it out next to us, we moved up to the desk where a middle-aged Indian man sat before us. I nonchalantly handed him our passports and requested a Visa application. He took our passports, stared at them intensely, looked back up to us and instantly flew into a tirade.

"Why are you showing up so near closing....this is no good. Why do you wait so long?"

I looked at my watch, which by my accounts gave us nearly twenty minutes before their scheduled closing time. I was slightly befuddled.

"Well, come back tomorrow," he said.

"What?" I said shocked, "We have at least twenty minutes before close, and you didn't say anything to the guy before us," I calmly pointed out.

He stood up, violently thrusting the chair up against the back wall. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and stared. He pointed his finger directly into my face, "You Americans are all the same!" he yelled with vehement disdain as spit flew from his mouth, "You aren't going to run us, this is the Indian Embassy!"

I stood silent, bewildered in shock wiping his saliva from my face.

"We don't make you stand outside in the pouring rain, we don't make you get here at seven in the morning to get your Visas, we don't do that here. You Americans are all the same. No respect."

"Well, then you're the better for it, aren't you? Your country has shown itself then to be dignified and honorable," I offered diplomatically.

He grabbed the displaced chair and plopped back down in it taken back with my patience. He shuffled some papers and sternly said, "Yes, but we're still closed!"

"We still have fifteen minutes," I stammered.

"We are closed, come back tomorrow."

I knew no matter what I said the answer would be the same, they were closed. I took Bren by the hand and we turned and quietly left the Embassy as all eyes stared at us, the Americans with the Plague.

"I can't believe that, what a jerk!"

"Well, we don't have much choice, we have to kiss his ass. The flight to Kenya leaves from Bombay, so we have to get into India, remember?"

"I know, but the whole thing was humiliating, Bri, it really was. He couldn't control himself, and honestly, I didn't know what he was going to do. He was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog," Bren continued astonished.

"Tell me about it, I took the brunt of it," I said, "obviously, something we don't know about is going on here. He was bitter about something, pure and simple."

"Yeah, he despises Americans that's what it is. To think he had that much hate in him, and we have to go back and kiss his ass. Whew, that's scary."

"God only knows what will happen tomorrow?" I said still thinking, "This really puts a dent in our plans, and now we'll have to spend another day here Kathmandu. So, there goes our extra day."

We returned the next day and the same man, the deputy consular, gave us the application and abruptly asked, "Do you have the application fee?"

"Yes," I said trying to say as little as possible.

"You understand the fees have been raised, Americans must now pay 1500 rupees ($25 U.S.) for our Visa," he said proudly.

"Yes, we understand, but why do Americans have to pay so much more than any other country?"

No answer. Silence, as a broad smile lit up his round, brown face.

Ignoring his boastful pride, we then took the application and passports around to the back of the embassy for payment.

"Oh, now he wants to keep his mouth shut," Bren whispered to me.

"Yeah, he's like a little kid."

As we handed our application and fee to the smallish, elderly Indian man slouching in a wooden chair, I asked, "Why do we have to pay so much?"

"What you do to us, we do to you," he said caustically as he counted our money for the third time to further make his point.

"What assholes! This is really getting on my nerves," I said as we walked away.

"I know. Did you see the payment board? We pay something like $25 while the next closest country pays $4. Is that ridiculous or what?"

"They have some kind of beef with Americans, and I really don't mind paying the fee, but their haughty little attitude is really pissing me off. It's so blatant!"

"I know, they're all so bitter."

"Let's just hope we get our Visas," I said with a tinge of sarcasm and fear.

We spent the rest of the day wandering casually through the streets of Kathmandu. The street life of the city is a chaotic congregation of unrefined purity. The penetrating truth of everyday life of the people grips you, it touches your shoulder; and you have to turn around and acknowledge it. You have no choice; you're sucked under and into their provocative world. The unpaved, dirt roads are lined with street vendor stalls instead of sidewalks, selling anything from spices to books. Clouds of choking smoke swirl in the air from the restaurants and small shops, and the smells of decay, fresh bread, squalor, and spices, all sweep arbitrarily through your virgin nostrils. The narrow streets are crammed with people, dogs, chickens, and cows, while rickshaws and cars fearlessly whisk passed with their horns a blaring. Like in Bali, you have no option but to move or be hit. The barrage of slurred whispers float through the stagnant air toward you from every direction, "You buy carpet, change money, marijuana, hashish." It's a constant assault of sights, smells and noises that make it all uniquely Kathmandu.

We finished our stroll around the city at Durbar Square, a compound of ornate, but tattered temples. We climbed the steep steps to the top of one of the temples and observed the insanity of the sane. We sat relaxed, our minds wandering anywhere away from the Indian Embassy, when three young local boys approached us, in dirty, torn rags.

"We show you the temples?" the oldest who was about ten said.

"Yes, we give you tour," the second said in remarkable well-spoken English.

"No thanks, we've already seen many of them," Bren said.

"We know very much about them, this not in any book," the second one continued.

"Really, give me an example," I said taking an interest, "What do you know about that building," I said pointing to a temple far in the distance.

"Oh, that's monkey temple, I take you there?"

"No," I said with a chuckle about his persistence, "I just want to know about it."

"It's very important Buddhist temple, but not as important as Bodhnath, and it's real name is Swayambhunath. Many monkeys, mean monkeys, but good place to see Kathmandu, you see much, but not very....ah, exciting. I take to exciting place, okay?" he said gripping my hand wanting me to stand.

"Hold on there chief," I said, "I'm impressed, but let's see, how much do you charge?"

"After, after, we decide," the oldest chimed in.

"No way," I said laughing, "you guys are smooth. C'mon how much?"

"Oh, you travel much," the second one said, "you very smart."

"Boy, they really don't hold anything back, do they?" I whispered to Bren.

"They’re trying every angle," Bren said with a smile drawn to the spirit of these kids.

"Okay, I'll tell you what, we don't have any money on us right now, but we will return tomorrow and you can take us for a tour. By then you should have a price for us."

"No! You will never come," the oldest said starting to walk away.

"What time," the second one said, "what time?"

"Let's go, let's go, forget it," the oldest kept telling the second one.

I looked at Bren, "How about two o'clock?"

"Two," the second one said as he turned and grabbed the hand of the youngest boy.

"Why do you do that? They'll never come," the oldest scolded the second one.

Late that afternoon we returned to the Indian Embassy once again to pick up our visas when inauspiciously, it began to rain, then pour. We were told to go around the side of the building, where we waited, ironically, in the pouring rain without cover. We stood soaking in the rain and the deputy consular's words were not lost on me, "What you do to us, we do to you."

The man finally arrived and gave us our passports and Visas.

"We got it," Bren said in relief as we stood underneath a tree to examine our passports.

"Oh, I don't believe this," I cried out.

"What? What?"

"Look at the date. It's good only through the 8th; they've given us two days. They started the Visa today. Oh, this is bullshit!"

"Oh my god, they did this intentionally too, I know we specifically stated that we wanted the Visa to begin on the 6th."

"No doubt about it! I cannot believe this, I really can't; those bastards."

We returned to the entrance where I asked to speak with someone in charge. The deputy consular appeared, "I am in charge."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," I said staring at his cold black eyes.

"They put the wrong dates on our Visa," Bren calmly attempted to explain.

"Let me see," he said taking her passport.

"We wanted it to begin on the 6th. It has started today by the looks of it."

"It has indeed," he said smiling.

"We must have it changed, otherwise it gives us only two days in India."

He stood smiling. Proud.

"Well, you can leave Nepal now," he said defiantly.

"We couldn't even if we wanted, our plane reservation is for the 6th."

"There's nothing I can do," he continued pointedly.

"It was a mistake, I clearly printed on the application when it was to begin."

"No, your mistake," he said glaring.

"Okay fine," I said calmly still desperately trying to rationally resolve this, "Simply get the application, you'll see."

"Application gone. Nothing I can do."

I was seething. I quickly glanced at Bren, her teeth clenched, her jaw taunt, her eyes narrowed, focused. "Look it's very important, we'll get a whole new Visa," I said desperately attempting to remain calm, composed.

"No. No new Visa."

"We'll pay again," I pleaded.

He just continued smiling. "No. Nothing else I can do for you!"

He moved to his chair and sat down, put his hands behind his head and drifted cockily back. I knew this wasn't a battle I was going to win, I couldn't. My mind raced, I wanted to reach across that desk and strangle him, I wanted to wipe that smile off of his pudgy little face. At least, I wanted to say something. Something personal. Anything. My lips pursed, and "Let's take this outside!" was desperately attempting to claw its way from my tongue. I was on the verge.

I looked him deep in the coals of his eyes. I recalled the incident on the group trek in Thailand just the other day, where we were as Americans besieged. I felt it within, and I knew I had done the right thing then, and likewise, I knew I must do so again. I bit my tongue...literally. I knew he wanted to see me explode. He wanted to take away our dignity, our pride. He wanted it bad, he kept taunting us, rocking back and forth in his chair, smiling. He loved our desperation, he waited for us to strike back, he longed for it.

Bren and I turned together as if we were in some kind of telepathic misery, and simply began walking away. I pivoted back around toward him, the smile was already gone, he was clearly disturbed by our patience, I smiled and said, "Thank you."

His lip quivered uncontrollably, his eyes became fiery and he began exploding, "Get out! Get out! You're not welcome here. Get out you Americans, get out!"

As we stoically sojourned from his office and into the courtyard of the Embassy, Bren jumped onto my back for a 'piggy back' ride threw the pouring rain and said, "That was awesome, Bri, just awesome!" she screamed hugging me around the neck.

I galloped through the puddles of water in the courtyard with Bren on my back, her hands waving in the air as she let out a piercing cry.

"God I loved it, the way you said it, 'thank you'," she went on imitating me, "it was just awesome, baby."

"Yeah, it was," I said laughing.

"I can't believe you showed that much control, our Tioman monk really did change you."

"Well I know I wouldn’t have reacted that way two months ago, but I know I still have a long way to go, because I still have the nagging urge to tag that prick!"

Bren roared with laughter; we both did, and the laughter seemed accentuated knowing the personal inconvenience and misery the Indian Embassy had caused us and would continue to do so.

"As good as we feel about the end result, we're still screwed. We are seriously screwed. This is going to cost us time and a ton of dough. We may have to change our trekking plans, God, all new fees, and a whole new plan. This is really going to big a problem and a major hassle."

"You know what, though I'm glad we aren't going to be spending that much time in India, I really don't even feel like going to there at all now, to tell you the truth. I'm not saying that all Indians would be like the ones at the Embassy, but it certainly has tainted my feelings on going there..."

"I know what you mean. Wow, this is going to be a mess.... but did you see his face?" I said as we both howled with laughter running deliriously through the pouring rain.

***************

"Bri, we're not going to be able to do the trek you wanted. It's just not feasible," Bren said from the bed in our hotel room.

We were both going over the trekking routes, the calendar, our money, and our options.

"Oh, yes we can."

"C'mon, Bri, be realistic. How?"

"We'll have to complete the trek in 9 days. That's all."

"Oh, that's all. Well, that's ridiculous, Bri. The book says 10-12 days. We've agreed that it will add to the experience to go without a guide or porter, but that makes it so much more difficult. We'll be on our own. I know this means a lot to you, I know you've waited the whole trip for this, but it's impossible. It really is. If we had done it before, I would say maybe, but that's just not the case."

I sat stunned by her knock of logic, and I couldn't speak.

"We can find a shorter, easier trek. It's not so bad, Bri. Oh, don't look so glum," she said tackling me onto the bed, "It'll still be fun."

I still sat silent. Thinking.

"C'mon Bri, speak, speak boy," she said holding the piece of a stale cookie above my nose, "Speak."

I snapped at the cookie and nipped her finger, "We can do it. We will do it."

"Oh, don't start this shit up again, and if you even mentioned that stupid Pemberton Tree, I’m clipping you with this, and I mean it!" she said holding up a strap from the backpack.

"Now, that might actually be fun!"

"You're a sick puppy," Bren said chuckling as she crawled on top of me straddling my abdomen.

"Look, Bri," she said turning things more serious, "I know you really want to do this, I really do know how important it is, but it's impossible. We have to be realistic now, especially with the time constraints the Indian Embassy has placed on us."

"I am. Okay, you definitely make sense, except that it's not impossible. I've looked at the books and maps. We can do it. We can."

"How many hours of hiking each day?"

"About ten."

"You're nuts, Bri, we've never done anything like this before—ten hours of solid non-stop hiking, that's pushing it. Especially in the heart of the Monsoon season, you know it's going to be wet and cold, you know it's going to be miserable."

"Bren, we must push on, we must push ourselves."

"Bri, this isn't the roulette wheel. There's a huge risk involved here. If we don't get back in time, we miss our flight into Delhi, we miss our connection to Bombay, and we miss our flight to Nairobi. That asshole at the Embassy isn't giving us another Visa into India, you can bet on that! We could be stranded...we'd have to buy another plane ticket from here to Africa, and you can only imagine how much that would be? In fact, we don't have the money for that and the trip would essentially be over. We'd have to go home! How's that for risk?"

"I know babe, I know. But we must challenge the unknown, challenge ourselves—that’s what this trip is for us. Let's look at the opportunity here. I'd rather strive for something more, even if it seems impossible, and come up short than I would take the easier route. It would kill me everyday on that easy trail. It would eat me alive. The physical part of it, the pain, I can deal with."

"I know it would kill you," she said twisting off me and flopping to her back on the bed with a deep sigh, "but the risk, Bri, what if we can't get back in time? God, Bri, this is just too much, we have to be smart about this...there's too much to lose."

"We'll know after the first few days if we can do it or not. We can cut it short and turn back," I pleaded.

"Oh c'mon, you give up? You'll kill us first. If we're to do this, you have to promise me that if it doesn't look like we can do it, you'll turn back, no arguments?"

"Yeah, okay, agreed," I returned reluctantly holding out my hand to shake.

"God, how'd I get hooked up with such a gung-ho radical boyfriend, that's what I want to know?"

"You love it, and you know it!"

"I do," she said trailing off, "I do. Okay, I know I'm going to be sorry for this...but let's do it. I know that you're philosophy is right; we have to push ourselves to confront the unknown. See, I learn my lessons…eventually."

***************

We wallowed in sheer misery attempting to resolve the problems created by the Indian Visa. We shook the hand of Third-world bureaucracy, and it practically brought us to our knees. No one accepts responsibility, no one knows what her responsibility is, and no one is willing to move an inch to assist us. This combined with breaking the language barrier and the lingering frustration from the Indian Embassy has both of us pulling our hair out. It was the ugly side to the "reality of life" here, and it couldn't have come at a worse time.

It took us three hours to check our plane reservation to Delhi and we were the second ones in line. The grinding wheels of bureaucracy squealed and shook wildly when we asked a simple question, could we leave Kathmandu any sooner than the 6^th? It turned into a twisted tangle of madness, our patience ran thin, and frustration mounted.

"Bri, I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"I know, I'm getting the feeling that they're just jerking us around because we're foreigners," I said as we waiting in our fifth line with no results.

"Somebody has to be in charge, somebody has to know what they’re doing."

"That's not something I'd count on actually," I offered slightly sarcastically, but even more seriously.

"C'mon, they can't be this inept."

"I don't think it's ineptitude as much as they don't give a shit."

"Well, when I start strangling one of them, they're going to care!" Bren said her nerves completely frayed.

And so the day went, taking turns on being on the verge of an emotional outburst, and the mental warfare raged onward.

We couldn't get out of Kathmandu any sooner than the 6th of September, so we changed our reservation to the 7th, giving us one more day here, but only a single day in India which increased our risk in getting to Nairobi. However, the most aggravating part of the ordeal was trying to change our flight from Bombay to Nairobi. We had yet to get a Kenyan Visa however, the one we were going to get in Bombay—which was no longer an option, and there wasn't a Kenyan Embassy in Kathmandu. Naturally, we ended up at the U.S. Embassy.

I explained the dilemma, and added the behavior of the Indians at their Embassy.

"Well, that sort of thing has happened before," the lady at the counter nonchalantly informed us, "They treat our drivers who are Nepalese the same way...and they only drive our cars."

"Is there anything you can do about the Visa; can't you call over there because this is turning into a major problem, one that's going to cost us a ton of cash?"

"No. Not really," she sternly replied.

"Wait a minute, you can't have a consular call over there?"

"I could but--"

"But what, you know I getting sick and tired of the Embassy of the United States treating its citizens this way. It's absurd."

"He's a very busy man," she told us.

"Translation, this is an important enough matter, I guess. Actually caring about a citizen and making a simple phone call on their behalf is just too much," I said losing my patience.

She stood staring at us, indifferent, detached.

"Besides, this should be an issue of principle, you know something that is done because otherwise an ideal is distorted…"

She remained impassive and silent.

"Look," Bren said slithering by me and pointing a finger at the glass, "Get the consular out here. We want to speak with him personally."

"I--"

"Now!" Bren demanded clearly filled with frustration.

After five long minutes his assistant appeared. We discussed the problem and he diplomatically said, "Well, I'll look into it for you."

We realized at that point just how useless the American Embassy is. They have bigger matters to oversee than assisting its citizens in any way, and it became more obvious with each passing minute.

"We have a serious problem here, we need a Kenyan Visa," I asked the assistant.

"Well, I can only suggest that you go to the British Embassy, they may be able to help you."

"Do you think you may be able to call over there and find out first, so we aren't back here in an hour with the same problem?"

"Look its not the mission of the Embassy to..." he said trailing off.

"No, go ahead, finish that one, I think we deserve to hear the truth at this point," I said anxiously.

"I misspoke. Just walk over there and if you have any problems after that, come back and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh, that's very gracious of you," Bren leaned in and said through the small hole in the glass. We grabbed our backpack and left for the British Embassy.

As it turned out, the British Embassy couldn't have been more helpful. We had to come back later that afternoon with the money and they would give us the Visa, and in addition, they gave us written warnings on the fighting that is currently going on in Mombasa. The U.S. Embassy had not even a shred of such information.

We walked back to the American Embassy where we stood staring at the flag waving in wind. It was a stark fortification of what we already learned in Bali, the U.S. Embassy is not concerned in the least with its citizens. Only in the movies can you go to the Embassy for help—unless they have a personal stake in the matter, your cry will echo fruitlessly through the deaf ears of the hollow Embassy. It's a ringing declaration of America, and what it's becoming. It burns in my belly and numbs my heart. It hurts. They turned their backs on us, twice. I knew at that point, as I stood in front of the Embassy in Kathmandu, that for so many reasons, this was no longer our America. Now, this was the shining example of it all.

"I want to go and rip that flag down!" Bren said through her clenched teeth.

"Yeah, and march into the consular's office and tell him where to get off!"

"I don't understand it," Bren said flopping to the ground in front of the Embassy, "I've never felt that way about America, I've never wanted to rip the flag down, or burn it like the hippies in the '60s. I couldn't even imagine it before. Am I wrong? What’s wrong with me?"

"Babe," I said stroking her back knowing so much has happened to her since our arrival here in Nepal, "I know how you feel and you're not wrong and there’s nothing wrong with you."

"America has given me so much, that's what the flag means to me," Bren added passionately.

"It's because the flag does mean that much to you--"

"Yeah I guess," she said in an excited huff, "I understand it now, they are tainting my image of America, I guess that's why I'm so damn mad."

"Yep. Those Americans who burned the flag, well most of them, were doing it to show that the government was tainting our purity, they were destroying it. The burning flag was a symbol of what the government was doing...burning America."

"I know," Bren said lost in thought, "It's just hard to think that it's come to this! That the reality within America has reached this point, just how can so many of us be this blatantly blind?"

"Bren, we are mere contributors to their GNP. We mean nothing beyond this purpose. We represent nothing. We are nothing to the government of the United States. America is merely a place where they want men to become silent, stable, and efficient cogs in the economic wheel. We are taught early on to reap the benefits of being such, again within the realm of economics. We are taught to believe in that distorted ‘American Dream’, where money is the ideal, and possessions are the path to happiness. We are taught to be dependent instead of independent because it creates a more stable environment for the economic empire to continue to build and amass its wealth. We are supposed to be good, little nameless and faceless robots instead of independent and thinking individuals attempting to become better human beings. Sadly, it seems that we want it this way."

We stood up and silently stared at the Embassy, the American flag waving subtly in the wind.

"I know, I know now what you're saying about America is true. Really, I wasn’t sure before; I mean I couldn’t relate to your perspective. After the stuff in Bali though, I should have known you were on to something. But I guess I just didn't want to believe it. I still don’t want to believe it, but now I feel it so strongly, it's so clear, almost like the fog was removed or something...God, it just hurts so much."

And with those painful words, she began to weep.

"We're really doing a lot of crying here," I said trying to lighten the mood.

Bren chuckled through the tears, "Yeah, we are."

"Bri, what are we going to do, what can we do about this? It's our home, Bri, it's our home!" she said her voice crackling with each word.

"I don't know what we're going to do. But America is no longer a country ruled by the people. America is no longer a country by the people, for the people. It’s an economic Empire designed to place its awesome power into the hands of a few. We are merely the blind souls who are manipulated into believing that we matter, that we actually make a difference on a level of humanity."

"I know," Bren said completely bewildered as she plopped back down once again into the street, "What are we going to do...it's gone, America is gone, the heart of our home is gone."

"No, babe, it's not," I said sitting down next to her in the street and putting my arm around her, "It's not gone, just lost. America's just lost."

***************

"I don’t think we can go Bri. We still have so much to do and if we don't get it done by tonight, we won't be able to leave for Pokhara tomorrow."

"We have to go back to the Square. We have to find those boys."

"I want to go back to see the boys too, but if we don’t get this stuff done, we could be pushed back another day and then your trek would be out for sure. You understand that, right?"

"I know, but it's something we must do. I know it."

"I know it’s something we should do too, and you know how deeply I feel about children—especially those boys, but they probably won’t even be looking for us."

"Yeah, they will."

"Okay we’ll go, but you’re the one who has to live with it if we can’t get the other stuff done, and remember all the problems we’ve been having getting anything done here. It’s all on you, this one."

We left and took a cycle rickshaw to the square and climbed the stairs to the same temple. But there was no sign of the boys. After waiting for a few minutes, we wandered through the Square...

"There he is!" Bren cried out to me pointing across the square to the middle boy. He stood talking with bunch of other kids his age. Bren and I stood side-by-side staring at him. He turned, looked up and saw us. His eyes lit up, they glowed, his white teeth shining through his giant smile.

"Look at him!" Bren said to me literally bursting with excitement.

He came charging toward us, his little legs churning and his smile seemed to grow with each step.

"You came, you came," he yelled out grabbing Brenda's hand, "I knew you'd come back, my friends!"

He was so excited he could hardly speak. Bren stood staring at him completely enthralled with his glee, she bubbled, she was completely immersed in his world. It was a romantic connection, and it was sheer joy to witness this simple touch of humanity. I felt then, as Bren must have felt watching the old man offer me the water. I was indeed immersed in their world, the bond, the touch, the simplicity of the act, which brought such a profound joy.

He took us to the first of the temples where some of the other kids joined in following along, and much to his dismay. They wanted a piece of the action, and he was too small to fend them away.

"Will they take what we give you—your payment?" I asked him in a whisper.

He gave me a grave grin of despair, and I knew they would.

"Don't worry, little guy, you are our guide—they won't take anything from you, we'll work it out. I promise you."

It was like a spark was ignited, his smile returned, and he bounced along reaching out for Bren's hand and began telling us about the Square and its history. His older brother saw us and immediately ran over. "I can't believe it, you returned," he said with a grin of suspicion.

"Yes, we returned."

"People always say, 'we come back', but they never do. They never do. They lie. But you come back. I don't understand, why?"

I couldn't believe how the realities of living in such poverty, such squalor, had tortured his spirit. It was shiny blade of soured progress because it was we, the adults—the supposed responsible ones, who truly crushed his hope. He was now a ten-year-old man, the head of his household and every day, he scrounged for food to help feed his family. He had no expectation of his fellow man, and he had learned to expect none because none was ever forthcoming. His faith was broken, stripped, and it ripped through my body like a tornado. I knew as surely as that elderly man had touched me in the back streets of this city that I had to reach out to him.

"You know why we came back?" I asked him. He nodded his head side to side, anxiously awaiting the answer.

"We came back to show you that not all people are like that. Not all people lie. Some people really do care."

He stared pensively into space, and after a pause said, "You are very nice man."

He grabbed my hand and the four of us walked through the Square for our tour, as he continued mumbling to himself, "They came back, they came back," still completely amazed. If my heart could ever be broken, it was in that moment. It tore at me on an incomprehensible level, and left me in emotional tatters. He was extremely bright, he knew four languages at the age of ten, and was obviously clever. However, he was forced to worry about the most basic elements of human existence every day, something I have never even come close to experiencing. Something I wouldn’t wish for any human being, and yet this young boy with so much to offer the world, was bound in shackles and forced to confront some of the revolting realities that this world has to offer. And he had to do it every single day. It broke me down, and I knew that within this moment, that no matter how far I drifted from this place, that boy would never leave my spirit. He would, just as Aponu and the Tioman Monk did in an opposite way, eternally endure within me.

I picked him up and slung him upon my shoulders and the four of us ran through our tour enthralled with the simplicity of this grand moment. As we completed our unique and special tour of Durbar Square, it finally came down to payment for their services.

"Well, how much do we owe you?" I whispered away from the other bigger kids.

"Do you think you could buy milk instead of giving us rupees?"

"Yes, our sister is very small and she needs the milk," the oldest boy informed us.

"Of course," Bren said sympathetically, "let's go to the store right now."

"How much for that box?" Bren said pointing to a box of dry milk on the shelf of the store. The owner wrote the price down on a piece of paper for us—since he couldn't speak English. Bren turned to me and said, "Let's just get them the large box, babe."

We came up a bit short in rupees however. The middle boy then told the shopkeeper that the milk was for him, not us, and he agreed to accept the money we had for the box.

"Thank you, thank you very much," the middle boy kept saying.

"Yes, this will last my family an entire month."

"We are going to take this home to our mother now," the oldest said excitedly, "she will be so happy." Bren and I stood watching them disappear with the dry milk into the crowd beyond, smiling. My gut was hopelessly twisting with emotion, utter remorse and guilt for their daily predicament, but tempered joy knowing we did something. I glanced at Bren’s profile and the tears were swelling yet again when she said softly still watching the boys bounce through the crowd, "I will never forget them."

***************

It was those boys and within those grand moments of time in the Square that seemed to distort my sense of reality and grossly contorted any sense of equity in the world. It brought me to my knees, and once again the struggle with my human imperfections ensued but this time included the imperfect, and oft times harsh and even cruel, world we live in. I glared up at the heavens, to life beyond, and wondered why, why must such gross inequities exist. My privileged life rang distinctly through my soul and I saw those boys’ beautiful smiles in my mind’s eye so clearly, and I felt like my heart had been ripped right from the arteries in my chest. Still beating, I held it in my hand. In that moment, I wanted to throw it, throw it as far as I could away from the body that gives it life. I just didn’t deserve it.

"This place is killing me, Bren," I casually said as we walked under the blanket of stars back to our room in Thamel, having prepared to leave for Pokhara in the morning.

"I know, I know what you mean," Bren replied solemnly.

"I really mean it, it’s torturing my soul, everything in me feels totally out of whack!"

As the words were leaving my lips, I felt like I did in Bali when so many of the oddities were continuing, when I felt on the fringe of insanity. I inherently seemed to question reality, what was it, was I existing in this "reality"? Was I truly going insane in a sane world, or was I merely sane in an insane world. Perhaps, this feeling of craziness now was my first taste of sanity since my birth into this realm. How would I otherwise know the difference? Maybe this painful compassion, this torturous dagger deep within my bowels, the stinging in my pounding heart was my first taste of the sanity; maybe this is my true existence. It seemed crazy, the thought seemed bound in a state of madness, and yet it held some basic "truth." That within the suffering, the pain, was the spring of liberation.

I thought back to our Tioman Monk and I can see this from the Buddhist paradigm, that by conquering one’s ignorance daily, you experience less suffering. After today however, I know that with the initial strip of ignorance removed like with the boys in the Square, there is an overwhelming amount of pain involved. The suffering is unabated, and indeed, it must continue onward forever because I never want to turn my back on the overt suffering, the inequity, the brutal reality that others in this world must experience every day. It is a necessary suffering, one that must be experienced within, and one which cultivates compassion. And yes, from this compassion, I can see, even feel, the liberation, the freedom from the suffering. The pain exists, it always will, but there is an emotional and spiritual release that arises naturally from being "aware" of the world around you, even when it’s so deeply painful.

This state of sanity, or "awareness," I’ve felt here in Nepal serves as a daunting reminder of my insane state back in America. It’s a dark-mirrored reflection of the inner blackness that roams my being in the States. It’s liberating here even in a horrible state of poverty, within the oppressive walls of paucity. Naturally, I can escape these hazily lit streets of squalor and chaos, but still, I feel the depth of my being touched by a binding that lay within us all—the mojo of the human existence. However, shedding this ignorance from my being is merely eradicating those corrosive toxins, the fear, doubt and anxiety from my thinking, from my existence. For Buddhists, as our monk said, it is eliminating cravings, hatred and attachments. However, why do we hate or crave in the first place? Is it not because of some underlying fear or doubt that lay within our psyche, making us feel in essence insecure? Yes, our "significance" in this world is threatened, and from this we strike out, we naturally seek to destroy that which threatens us.

I think back from this experience today with the boys, to the Pemberton Tree, the storm in Thailand, and in particular, those fleeting moments where I was "living life." I understand that now, for the human spirit was unbounded, and the liberation from the daily, primal suffering during those moments was palpable. Yes, for when I see those boys in my mind’s eye, I feel the sense of agapē, and I know that I must return to this sense of “innocent love” to find the spiritual inner self, and even faith. This agapē is an underlying component to discovering unbridled “faith.” For me, this was the ringing freedom from the suffering in American society caused by our explicit cravings and attachments, from living in a material, superficial world. I touched for a brief moment that “purity” within our existence, a moment when the pain subsides and our body feels a deep, penetrating sense of “peace.” Those moments of “living life,” for me, become therefore a fulfillment of our divine purpose as human beings.

For the Buddhist, this is it: eliminate the suffering by stripping the ignorance and displaying compassion, and this will lead to the ultimate goal, “happiness.” Indeed, it is a sound philosophical practice, which will lead to a more stable mind, a calmness of body, and spirit that will then enable one to feel compassion and be “happy.” However, I wonder now is this the ultimate purpose of our lives? Is this culmination of being human? Is that it? Is this our divine purpose?

I see those boys and their distinctive smiles lighting up their dark world and I wonder, I wonder if this is it, and upon seeing the inequity and palpating the injustice, I know that this cannot be our sole purpose.

They stared back, this cow, this old man, the Nepalese boys, and Mary Matthews. To just learn “compassion” from these seemingly celestial beings wasn’t enough; to look upon their souls and simply conquer my own personal suffering was profoundly not enough. The search had to continue, but now with more focused direction and intensity. I held the bottle of water in my hand, I held the palladium the strange man in the “haunted hotel” had mentioned to me in Australia, and now the question clearly confronted me, what would I do with it.

Would I accept this responsibility that came with “awareness”? Would I change my life for it? How much would I give up to maintain its integrity?

I knew that the only way I would see myself clear this suffocating snare of human existence was through the application of these lucid moments of learning.

In this insane world, I held the water bottle. It was my choice to break through to this side of life, to take the negative, incisive biting teeth of this world, and alter its fraying effect.

The door was plainly before me, and as I stood at this dangerous precipice in this land of eternal disorder and with their eyes burning upon my soul, I understood that the end was near.

Copyright © 2000 PbFisher. All rights reserved.