After the glory of walking in the Himalayas and eating at all of Pokarha's bakeries, we decided to head off to Bandipur. A ridge top village in which the Lonely Planet dubbed a wonderful out of the way place where you are more likely to experience real culture of the Newari people then the typical Western travel culture. As expected, it was full of young travelers like ourselves toting their Lonely Planets looking for the recommended place to stay.
Side note here... As I write this, the club song "Shaking That Ass" and other great club favorites are blaring from the massive speakers above my head making it difficult to recall all of the intricate details of the timeless ridges we spent three wonderful days on. For more on this see the section re: SE Asia party scene...
As usual, Suzi and her savvy ways brought us to a small guest house without much traffic and good for the pocket book, less then $3 a night. Bandipur is situated on a broad ridge line overlooking what many Nepali people call the best view in all of the Himalayas (not sure how many of those people have been atop Everest). Unfortunately for us, we saw nothing but L.A. style fog and clouds with a visibility of possibly a half a mile.
As a result, we spent less time exploring and more time relaxing, reading, writing, and eating. Pretty much anything that required the least amount of effort to move in the thick hot air. We did however make a journey to "the biggest cave in the Himalayas where we sang and chanted in the real dark of a silent mountain. We also spent a fair bit of time eating across the slate stone road from our guest house from a man who had the smile and heart of a giant radiating from his 5 foot 2 inch frame. It was here that we did a few of our 5 and 3 minute writes....
From Suzi
Chicken chasing children cause turmoil in the tiny lives of their offspring. Sun rays poking though the dense, dusty air welcoming the brick building painted white and blue, green and gold. Shutters open to greet the morning. Slate streets gently leading tourists and locals through the bazaar. Men resting on plastic round tables outside the local lodges. It's Sunday.
From Jared
Swallows swallowing mosquitoes, weaving through a tangle of power lines overhead. Barefoot man, unkempt with a massive scrape on his leg listlessly wanders the streets all day long with an odd smile. Flowers pink and orange adorn verandas and balconies. A village from another place it seams. Four older men talk about something with Nepali or Indian music drifting from a half closed door and past the steam of their glasses of tea; Tea the color of mute clay. Children chase chickens around dogs that lie uninterested in the morning sun.
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