Mental Escape Hatch

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: We’re on a random little tour of a few random spots in Kerala and Tamil Nadu (the two southern-most states of India). Today we’re in the town of Kodaikanal—don’t worry, I had never heard of it either. I believe we’re spending tonight in a bubble tent. Perhaps there will be views; perhaps there will be only mist. Either way, tomorrow Princess gets a real bed in a proper hotel, so it’ll be fine.

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago, in Kathmandu, but last night I found a gecko living in the curtains of our room, so it still applies.

Mental Escape Hatch

We’re going to Dubai in February; we’re planning to stay for about three weeks. I’m quite looking forward to it—so much, actually, that I know exactly how long it will be until we get there (36 days). I lull myself to sleep at night by visualizing clean floors and windows that close properly. I’ve studied the map so that I know what’s around the hotel we’ve booked—where’s the nearest Starbucks, the nearest mall. I’ve made a mental list of things I want to do, places I want to eat, how I’m going to spend my days, where I’m going to go for long solo walks. I want to gaze at pretty things: clothes, buildings, art, flowers.

Dubai is the kind of properly modern city that makes things like long solo walks easy for me. I’m not worried about being run over by motorcycles. I don’t have to dodge unpleasantness at every step. I don’t even have to watch my feet with every step; I can put in my headphones, look up and around, and let my feet move.  I can go to a glamorous mall, order an expensive drink from Starbucks, sit on a pristine patio in the shadow of a glittering skyscraper, and watch the pretty people carrying Chanel bags. It’s an easy city for someone like me, both physically and emotionally.

I can’t wait.

I struggle with poverty and developing countries. I don’t enjoy them, I don’t want to see them, I don’t want to be there, & that is difficult to know about myself. Because the people who live there have no choice. A big part of me would prefer to not know—it’s easier that way.

Nepal is exhausting (as was Bangladesh)—both physically and emotionally. The air is bad, the streets are absolute chaos and walking requires constantly dodging motorcycles, broken pavement, and every kind of refuse you can think of. I can watch my feet, or I can watch the traffic—not both. I get very short-tempered.

Lee wanted me to write a description of everything we saw, smelled, felt on a four-minute walk—any walk—in Kathmandu, but I told him it was impossible to convey in writing. It’s an intensity that doesn’t come through in words or photos. It has to be felt to be understood. The neighborhood around our hotel is a labyrinth of ten-foot-wide alleyways, shadowed by walls of handmade bricks. It’s random lengths of rebar poking straight up out of the ground. It’s streams of liquid from unknown sources, a one-eyed beggar, hungry dusty children, stray dogs barking at each other, a man banging pot lids to tell people that he’s there to sharpen their knives. It’s three women in saris, squatting on stools for a chat and a laugh. It’s dodging motorcycles on one side and hot tailpipes on the other. It’s schoolgirls in uniform, walking arm-in-arm in the too narrow space. It’s dogs pooping and people spitting and coughing and a woman pushing a cart on which she roasts corn over an open flame. It’s men popping their heads out of shops to invite us in for a look, just a look, please take a look lady. The occasional small truck flattens us all against the walls, even as motorcycles zoom around the sides, unwilling to wait while the driver honks his horn at a one-legged beggar. It’s the smell of roasting meat, of cake, of coffee, of garbage, of spices. The concrete blocks that cover the sewers are wobbly; I try not to step on them because I have a profound fear of falling in, but often have no choice.

The short walk to lunch is exhausting, and by the time we reach the Buddhist restaurant we’ve been enjoying, I need its sanctuary.

I value being fully present, wherever I am, but I also value my mental health, and unfortunately, I haven’t yet learned to square those two values. My Christmas Day treat to myself was not leaving the hotel all day. What does that say about me? Have I failed as a tourist, a westerner, a witness, a person? Perhaps I am not a good person, but I am an excellent ostrich, with my head in the sand of my comfy hotel room.

Perhaps that is part of the enlightenment that all these westerners are seeking in Kathmandu.

We met a couple from Burlington, NC, who’ve been here for 10 years, working in a hospital. I resisted the impulse to shake them by the shoulders and ask, “Whhyyyy??” I think their belief in what they’re doing them keeps them going, and more power to them, but honestly? That’s some emotional strength that I just don’t have.

Take care,

Lisa

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