Conversation overheard on the tempo this morning*

Little Old Man hits the roof of the tempo, “let us off here.”
Tempo Driver, “I will let you off in a minute.”
Little Old Man, “I said let us off here.”
Tempo Driver, raising his voice, “we are in the middle of the road on a bridge. I will let you off on the other side.”
Little Old Wife, also with voice raised, “we can’t get off here. We will get hit by a car. Why must you always be so obstinate?!”
Little Old Man, “nothing will happen. Let us off.”
Tempo Driver, “I can’t, in good conscience, let you off. Pay now and it will be faster when we get to a place that I can safely stop.”
Little Old Random Passenger Woman, “Listen to your wife and the driver. They know best.”
Little Old Man, “I will jump.”
Little Old Wife, “Geesh. Good Riddance. Trying to get me killed. If you do jump have fun making your own dahl bhat tonight.”

Traffic starts moving again, Little Old Man huffs, and we drive to the other side of the bridge where they slowly climb down from the tempo and hobble on their way.

*The entire conversation was in Nepali so I don’t actually have any idea if this is what was said but I find comfort in thinking that little old couples are the same the world over.

Wedding Season

I am quickly learning that the best thing for me to do while here in Nepal is to just go with the flow. And by flow, I mean doing whatever it is that my host mother suggests I do. I was nevertheless pretty excited to learn that I was going to have the opportunity to go to wedding festivities during my stay here. Last week, the same evening that I was presented with my dance slippers, I was informed that I was not to make plans for Monday or Friday as there were two weddings for me to attend on those days. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to go to a Nepali wedding yet, but I sensed that it was not so much an invitation as it was an announcement of how I would spend those evenings and I didn’t feel comfortable saying no. Don’t bite the hand that force feeds you an unnatural amount of food in a single sitting is what I always say.

I came home at 5:30 on Monday as instructed. I wasn’t told very much about the wedding, and didn’t really have any idea what to expect. All I knew was that I could choose my own outfit and that the wedding was of a somewhat distant relation - my host mother’s sister-in-law’s nephew’s aunt’s brother’s son’s ambidextrous lactose intolerant agoraphobic third cousin twice removed. Or something like that.

The car that was meant to pick us up was late, and as my host mother and I sat outside waiting I tried to ask questions that would give me a clearer sense of what to expect. Somehow the entire conversation seemed to be misinterpreted on both sides and by the time our ride came I was even less sure of what I was walking into. Five minutes after leaving we pulled up to a house where a well dressed family of seven was standing by the side of the road. They all seemed a little put off by my presence and when I realized that they were all planning on getting in the car with us I understood why they might be irritated about the unexpected extra body that was taking up precious space in the car. Somehow we all managed to get in: two people in the trunk, a child on a lap in the front, and four and of us and a toddler in the backseat.

The reception was being held a little out of town, and for the first half hour or so I enjoyed the view of Kathmandu from the window. We drove out past Pashupatinath and the burning bodies. Maybe because it was so hot and I was already starting to feel a bit clostraphobic sitting scrunched and contorted to the point where my shoulders almost met in front of my body, between two middle aged women sweating on me, and the constant stream of drool that was falling into my lap from the toddler who had fallen asleep in the arms of my host mother, but I felt a little overwhelmed.

We turned down a hill and followed a road into an area where none of the houses were completed. Dozens of homes were scattered about with metal beams extending out of concrete poles, and it appeared that construction had been halted some time back. It soon became apparent that we didn’t know exactly where we were, and somehow the hand drawn map that had accompanied the invitation wasn’t helping us very much. We pulled over and asked someone on the side of the road for directions. “Straight” they told us, pointing, and we continued on. A few minutes later we pulled over again, and again were told to continue straight. We repeated this process a number of times, always being told to go straight. The road went from being reasonably well paved to a little rough and a little narrower to gravel and about the width of a single car till we were driving along a dirt “road” that was really only suitable for ATVs.

Eventually, although I still can’t totally figure out how, we found ourselves in the middle of a field face to face with a cow that stood chewing its cud and eyeing us suspiciously as it stared into the front window of the car. The driver slammed on his breaks, and it was at this point, 45 minutes from when we had asked for directions the first time, and after the map had been passed back and forth in front of my twisted body countless times, that my host mother turned to me and quite seriously said “we may be a little bit lost.” I bit my tongue and nodded. Two teenagers hanging out listening to music in the field finally pointed us in the right direction. Apparently the place was in fact on the main road, and had we stayed on it, what took us 45 minutes would have taken about two.

When we finally pulled up to the entrance of what appeared to be a converted barn we pealed ourselves off of each other and the upholstery. I guess I hadn’t zipped my bag because as I climbed out of the car its contents spilled out all over the ground, leading to another round of sideways glances from my companions, especially those still in the car who now had to wait even longer before getting out. It was then that I realized I didn’t know how to say I’m sorry in Nepali.

The rest of the evening was pretty awkward, and I definitely stuck out, but it was still an interesting experience. I spent most of the evening just trying to figure things out…. Who were these people and whose wedding was this, who touches whose head, who was I having my picture taken with, were the bride and groom happy, how do I politely back away from the dance floor before being forced to dance to another song, how does all that red paste stays on the brides forehead and how many bobs of her head would it take before it started falling off, how do I successfully get a french fry off the tray and onto my toothpick and if I get that far do I dare try dipping it in ketchup. This last one I never really figured out. If all my food was brought to me in tiny pieces on trays carried around by children who appeared to look down on my inability to get anything to stay on a toothpick long enough to get it to my mouth I would probably starve to death. This method of serving food adds a certain level of pressure and inefficiency to eating that fascinates me, but also makes me feel a little panicky. With every failed attempt at stabbing a fry or momo I felt a combination of frustration and that specific form of embarrassment I get when I wave at someone I think I recognize only to realize that I don’t in fact know the person and have to quickly draw my hand to my head as if I have hair in my eyes. Except with the food this process was on repeat, and I felt like I was much less able to pretend to be doing something else. I don’t think I was fooling anyone that, despite the aggressive stabbing motion I was making at the tray, in the end I was really only interested in the toothpick because I had something stuck in my teeth.

The wedding on Friday was for a closer relation, and I was told I would be wearing a sari to that one. Putting on a sari is a somewhat intricate and complicated process, and from the looks of it takes a lot of practice to get it right. By Friday I had been wrapped and unwrapped three times already, each time having to give up any sense of modesty, and each time holding my breath as cloth was being pinned to me at a frighteningly quick pace. Because I am completely incapable of putting a sari on by myself I think my host mother got the general impression that I also might struggle with taking my clothes off and so took on the task of handling all things clothes related. And because my will to argue has been weakened by the heat, and because she came at me with a fist and mouth full of open safety pins I let my arms be lifted above my head as she took my shirt off. While I was a little taken aback the first time, by the second time she told me to take my skirt off I was less resistant. I did draw the line when she came at my chest to fasten all the clasps on the under shirt, saying I could get it. Turns out I was wrong, and it didn’t take long before I was admitting that I needed some help.


It took me awhile to adjust to wearing the sari, but after a few initial trips and stumbles I was managing ok. The only thing I was uncomfortable with was the bindi that was stuck to my forehead before I could figure out what was coming at me. I tried to devise a plan of how to make it fall off somewhere, getting it wet and practicing wiping sweat from my brow so that it would be lost somewhere in the shuffle. But those things have surprising staying power. In the end I just told my host mother the truth and took it off before leaving.


I don’t know if it was because of the sari, that people were just generally friendlier, that Cecilia and other foreigners were there, or because I had been through one wedding already, but I felt so much more at ease at the second one, and I even found myself enjoying parts of it. I still couldn’t manage to successfully skewer a french fry but I still have a few more weeks and a few more opportunities to master the art of appetizer eating. In the meantime I will practice my dance steps, study the family tree, and accept that I will probably find myself in an endless number of awkward situations before I leave Nepal but should take it all in stride because chances are that in the end they will make my best memories.

Intangible Cultural Heritage

I figure that while I am in Nepal I should really make an effort to do and try as much as I can, so when my host mother suggested that I accompany her when she went to her aerobic dance class I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no. I accepted her invitation not knowing exactly what sort of commitment I was making. Our initial conversation happened over my morning cup of Nescafe and when I returned home that evening I was presented with a pair of purple Nepali dance slippers. While I know that they weren’t a huge investment of money, I did get the feeling that I was somehow already involved in something more than I had anticipated. Once you get gear it usually means more than a one time affair, and I can’t help but think that this point was not lost on her either. As it turns out the class meets 6 days a week, and unless I have other pressing things to do at 6:30am I now know where I will be spending almost every morning during my time in Nepal - in an overheated “dance studio” in Kathmandu with a dance teacher so small I could fit her in the palm of my hand, my 58 year old host mother in trousers and kurti, and a twenty-something guy who is, according to my host mother, the team leader. Based on his overwhelming enthusiasm for The Dance I can see why he was appointed to this role. The past two mornings we have walked into the room to find him thoroughly engaged with his reflection in the tall mirrors as he practices rolling his entire body while maintaining eye contact with himself. And his high kicks are something to behold; what they lack in control they make up for in gumption. Very reminiscent of the way Shelley Long and her scouts do the Freddie in the 1989 classic film Troop Beverly Hills.

We leave the house no later than 6:45am, making our way down the hill, past people crouched down in their front yards brushing their teeth and the woman hanging clothes out to dry as chickens and babies circle her feet. Past the banana trees and gardens protected by broken glass, all the way down till we hit Ring Road where we cross over the River Stink and the slums and oddly healthy looking patches of corn that line its banks. Past where the cows and people sleep on the side of the bridge. Under the monkey traipsing on the power line. Past the guy refurbishing shoes and the lady with her sewing machine waiting patiently for a customer, dodging the pubescent boys who lean out of the open doors of the micro buses calling out the names of various destinations around the city. By the time we enter the unadorned little doorway sandwiched between storefronts and have climbed the stairs to the floor where X-Pose runs its talent training operations my senses are exhausted and my teeth are gritty and coated with dust.

Because I have joined the class late in the term I don’t receive much help, and have instead been instructed to just follow the lead of the teacher, which I do with a remarkable lack of grace and poise. Because both the Hindi and Nepali dances that I am learning are very gestural, frequently requiring me to flick my wrists and flap my arms while doing 180 degree turns on one foot, I have to be very careful that none of my limbs accidentally make contact with anyone else's head or stomach. The first half of the class is time for warm-ups, and we do the regular preparatory exercises of jogging in place, kicking in various directions, and hopping back and forth, but there are other moves that are a bit less traditional than what one does in western dance classes. Part of me wishes that I could share this experience with someone with whom I could later process, but I also know that if I had a companion I would most likely not be able to control the fits of laughter that I constantly have to swallow when the three of us are trying to perfect moving our heads from side to side with attitude while our shoulders and bodies remain stationary. If nothing else I will be an expert at walking like an Egyptian by the time I leave Nepal.

I read in the news today that Nepal has ratified the UN Convention on Intangible Cultural Heritage and I feel that by learning the craft of modern Nepali dance I am doing my part in spreading some very intangible cultural heritage. I only wish I could do it with a little more flair.

Dear Mr. Fruit Seller,

I’m not sure exactly why you find 6am to be the best time to come sauntering through my neighborhood shouting aap, aap, angur, aap but I gotta tell you, it is totally uncalled for. And why is it that you walk past more than once? If no one rushes out to buy your mangoes and grapes the first time, don’t you think you should suck it up and move on? When I heard you the first day I was sure you were calling out for someone, a lost love or child perhaps. On day two I thought you were some strange neighborhood wake up call… I mean I heard that people here tend to all get up early so a communal crier didn’t seem so far fetched. By day three I finally identified at least part of what you were saying. Mango? Really? I am so disappointed. I just can’t find anything endearing about the tone of voice you are using to announce the fact that you have fruit for sale. This is Nepal. There are mangoes everywhere. Couldn’t you try some other sales tactic? A silent one perhaps.

Thanks,
Katie

P.S. Could you please tell the garbage guy, that while I don’t want to discourage him from his collections, maybe he could consider setting up a scheduled pick up time instead of blowing a whistle at dawn. Thanks again!

Prophylactic Pepto and iPood: Preoccupations in Bodily Functions

When traveling in poor or developing countries the amount of time spent thinking about, contemplating, and analyzing bodily functions increases significantly. There is little attention paid or concern over how much information you are sharing with friends, family, colleagues, or respected elders. Ego seems to wash away… or at least priorities change. Dinner conversations regularly involve some sort of discussion of how things are flowing, or projections on how well the current meal will sit. It is common to evaluate and rate the conditions of a given bathroom upon returning to the table or activity in progress, as well as answer questions such as “how’d that work out for you?” “any better?” or “success?” Upon a thumbs up or sheepish smile there are offerings of congratulations all around. Approving nods and “well dones” are given as if any of us really have any control over the success, failure, or form of our bowel movements.
I was happy to find out that I was not the only one to employ a method of prophylactic Pepto usage when concerned about an upcoming meal or beverage. So far I have not had any problems, but there is a good chance that I may be putting too much stock in this defensive strategy. The other day Aya and I tried something called paan, though I still can’t fully identify what was in it. As we consider ourselves to be reasonable and responsible with our willingness to try new things we each downed a Pepto before committing ourselves and our stomachs to the strange “treat.” It was purchased from a roadside stall and I believe it is some sort of digestive (though in all honestly I‘m still not sure I have fully digested it). We watched skeptically as they were assembled. It contained what I think were candy coated anise seeds, along with a sprinkle of small red bits of something, a dash of a little more crunch, an extra dollop of chewy, a drizzle of a thick sap like concoction, and a few dustings of some colorful powders. All the ingredients are then wrapped up in what I understood to be a betel nut leaf. The entire package is then skewered onto a toothpick with a small red thing at the base that I thought was a cherry but wasn‘t and handed over. After a strategy discussion of how best to eat it, we decided to follow the advise we were given and consumed the entire thing in one bite. The one bite method may have been the best option for cleanliness and logistical reasons, but it did not make the experience pass any faster. There was an excessive amount of chewing required, and minutes passed before we were finally able to swallow it; enough time to change our opinions from thinking it was weird but not so bad to oh man, this is gross, you've all got to try it. In retrospect, it seems pretty amazing that the only consequences were feeling like I had ingested Vaporub, and a sense that my entire mouth was going to go numb at any second.

*thanks for the photos Ceci!

Later that afternoon, when we no longer felt like we were battling a cold in our stomachs, we were able to appreciate a shirt spotted in a window while exploring Kathmandu that had a picture of a girl, next to which were written the words “cute girl” (in case you weren’t sure what to think of her). The girl was wearing a pair of earbuds and since the shirt was clearly trying to state that the cute girl was listening to music, down the side of the shirt was written “iPood” in large distinct letters. Not only was the shirt funny in and of itself, but we were quite pleased that "iPood" had not been something we had to say after our earlier food experiment.

While I am perhaps overly confident in the ability of my body to fend off parasites, I remain cautious and regularly repeat, as a mantra, a warning that was once shared with me. A warning that I have since passed along to my fellow travelers: when in doubt never trust a fart.

Yak noodle soup and other snapshots from Tibet

From Curry to Cremation: A Conniption of the Senses

It has now been four days since we crossed the border into Nepal, and while it may sound like a hackneyed or romanticized tale of travel in a far away land, the drastic change in smell and surroundings that happened on crossing the Friendship Bridge between Tibet and Nepal was striking. After coming from the high altitude of Mt. Everest I was surprised to find that I still couldn't seem to fully catch my breath. The thin air of the Himalayas was replaced by dense humid air, further thickened by a combination of exhaust and curry.

Most of the Tibet side of the Friendship highway is paved, but there is a 1 km stretch that is unfinished. Between the truck in front of us that seemed to be on the verge of tipping over, the shear drop off, and the fact that the rain coming down had turned the road into a muddy mess, there was a good chance that someone was going to have an accident in their pants before we reached pavement again.



We were sorely disappointed to find that on the Nepal side a much more significant part of the road was not paved, but at least the landscape was interesting to watch - even if Nepal thinks it's too cool for guard rails. As we went bouncing down the road we watched as vertical corn fields, terraced rice patties, jack fruit and banana trees, emaciated cows, ducks, and trash seemed to appear and disappear in fitful waves. And as we got closer there were the brick factories. I'm not sure if we were supposed to ooo and ahh or gasp and shake our heads in disapproval when our guide pointed them out. Luckily, the unevenness of the road made the question of the head shake moot as they were already bobbing up and down, and in the end I think we all settled on an ahh, except instead of it being a statement of wonderment it was expressed more as a question... "ahh?" The involuntary head bobbing turned out to be good practice for when we arrived in Kathmandu as it is an important part of communication here.



The first thing I came to terms with after walking half a block in Kathmandu was that there is a realistic chance that I may loose some toes. I feel pretty resigned about this as long as I keep enough to maintain balance. I figure the baby toe is really just for show anyway, but please spare me my big toes. I think I need those.

A few days into my time here I am still struggling to understand why people are trying to sell me Tiger Balm on the street. I mean I can kind of understand the little chotskies, but Tiger Balm? Never in my life have I been walking down the street and thought to myself "gee I could really go for some Tiger Balm right about now." I guess in retrospect I do have aches, and it would help in covering up some of the other smells, but still, I can't imagine that it's a very lucrative business.

Our days here have been packed with activity. Between roundtable discussions on contemporary politics in Nepal and intensive language classes we have gone on a number of sightseeing excursions. I'm learning that nothing seems to say you’re relaxing in Nepal like harassing monkeys and taking in a few public cremations as you wander through a UNESCO world heritage site does. There is also a lot of give and take… I feel like I am giving by leaving a trail of sweat in my wake, but I also feel like I am gaining because I take with me bites from the fleas that have found a hospitable host on the backs of stray dogs.

As I do not feel like I have been here long enough yet to be comfortable leaving my trash in the neatish heaps that line the streets on one particular excursion I somehow found myself reluctantly carrying around a hard boiled egg in fear of being smelled out by the beady eyed devout monkeys that seem to worship at a number of temples around the city.

I’m not exactly sure how this trip has come to involve so many eggs, but it is fast becoming a theme that I am a bit weary of. No good can come from this. I’ve come to realize that there is no point at which pulling out an unpeeled egg from your purse and eating it feels right, especially when walking around ancient religious sites. As a result, I have now, on more than one occasion, had on my person something that would most likely lead to a very unpleasant afternoon spent in the bathroom. And if that were to happen, I would have a very hard time explaining how, despite having worked around food long enough to easily be able to identify when my food has entered the “danger zone,” I still thought it was ok to eat a day old egg out of my mary noppins bag. A bag so named because while I can, similar to Mary Poppins, pull out a ridiculous amount of stuff from my purse, unlike her I have absolutely no control over what I find, and I always seem to find the lamp when I’m looking for the pen.

Similarly, I feel like Nepal is going to be like dipping my hand into an unknown bag of tricks. There is no doubt that this place is as overwhelming and unpredictable as I was warned it would be, but I must admit I am looking forward to seeing what I pull out. Even if it turns out to be an old forgotten egg, at least it will be the egg that I can say I discovered during my summer in Nepal.

Babies, Base Camp, and Breathing

Above 17,000 feet everything becomes a photo op or a time for serious reflection.  That rock... amazing. The back of someone's head... stunning.  And I swear, the view of Mt. Everest when I have my head between my knees really is the perfect angle.  Each step becomes a time for deep contemplation.  It may seem random to stop, hands on hips, in front of a port-a-potty, and gaze up to the sky, but at such high altitudes there are so many things to reflect upon.  This wheezing and these gasping breathes I'm taking are really just because I'm in awe of where I am... err, um, something like that.

Being able to visit Mt. Everest really was something special.  Weaving and climbing up a 100 km unpaved road, our micro van bumped slowly along through the mountains.  At about the 20th km we turned a corner and there was Mt Everest, growing out of a sea of hills.  It really was beautiful. Cold and windy, but beautiful.

Having no real idea what we were in for in terms of accommodations, or pretty much anything, we were relieved to find that the tent we were staying in was warm, fully furnished, and included entertainment in the form of a one and a half year old child named Karma who was as frightened of us as we were fascinated by him.  He looked at us with that "what the hell are you doing in my house, and why are you cooing at me like idiots" expression that young children so often have.  His judgment of us must have only grown as he watched his mother literally tuck us all in, piling blankets on top of us and folding them under our bodies (until we were completely incapable of breathing or moving) as he continued to play long after we were put to bed.

By morning he seemed resigned to us being there and a bit more willing to engage with us, although he did continue to eye us suspiciously from across the room.



I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to experience Mt. Everest base camp, despite lacking pretty much all skills and knowledge that I would have thought necessary to equip and prepare a person to be exposed to such altitudes and extreme conditions.

Looky, Looky, Cheapy, Cheapy, Grabby, Grabby

Tibet: a highly contested region where Buddhism runs deep, the yak is king, and beggers make change.

We are staying one more night in Shigatse before heading to Mt. Everest tomorrow. After a sleepless night Ceci and I were able to switch rooms to one that is much better, but we carry with us the scars from last night and are still unable to lay on the beds without a layer of protection between ourselves and the blanket. While I have really enjoyed Tibet, I'm not sure how many more monasteries I can handle. Not that they haven't been amazing to see, but once you've seen 10,000 incarnations of Buddha you've pretty much seen them all. But I really appreciate that you can use the same thing to butter your toast and make an offering to Buddha. That saves me the embarrassment of accidentally eating something meant for an alter ... again. 

The smell of yak butter and incense is everywhere; it sticks to the walls and permeates every crevasse. The yak itself turns out to be a very tasty beast, although the yogurts and cheeses made from its milk are overly sweet in a way that seems to contradict their natural gaminess instead of complimenting or counteracting it.

  
Tibet is indescribably beautiful; the mountains seamlessly roll into and over each other, and the colors here are like no others I have ever experienced. The blues and greens of the sky and water appear to be alive. Crayola would kill for these colors. I can’t help but be in awe every time I look up or out across the land. Every town and city we have been through is surrounded by the mountains of the Himalayas. Look down and see a rickshaw pulling a monk, or a donkey and cart carrying a load of fresh yak butter for candles or tea; look up and see a snow covered peak.

It is also a very intense place to be a tourist. The military presence is strong, especially in the larger cities, and there is a palpable tension in the air. Young Chinese soldiers wielding semiautomatic weapons are posted on every corner of Lhasa while others march up and down the streets and squares. Apparently it's been this way since the riots in 2008. We also don't have much freedom of movement. Beyond the permit to come to Tibet, we have had to acquire many more along the way, and have had to turn over our passports so many times that I am pretty sure the authorities have grown attached to our faces and, while they probably don’t realize it yet, will miss us when we're gone. 

Since we don't have much say in our itinerary, we've found ourselves wandering through local markets, where we are attacked on all sides by aggressive peddlers trying to pique our interest in whatever it is they have on offer. While this is not anything unique to Tibet, there seems to be a level of aggression here that I don't seem to remember elsewhere -- evidenced by the bruise on my arm where I was literally pulled by a woman trying to sell me jewelry. I've also had an earring inserted into my earlobe without permission, been scoffed at, followed, yelled at, licked, yanked, urged to bite a bracelet on more than one occasion, and become more intimate with a woman’s cold sore than anyone ever should. The script is always the same. “Heelllooo. Looky, looky, cheapy, cheapy” comes at me from all sides. I find myself going back and forth between pretending I don’t speak this language of tourist trap and keeping my eyes diverted, or falling into a pattern of speech similar to theirs. Before I realize it I’m responding "I looky, I looky",  "me likey, me likey",  "no wanty, no wanty” -- or when they have worn me down, “how cheapy?” 

I have found that I am generally not well liked by the stall owners. I don’t have much interest in shopping nor the money to spend, and despite their commendable efforts I don’t end up buying much. By the time I have made it to the end of a row of stalls I have to find another row to walk back up because I'm certain that if I were to turn around I would find 15-20 Tibetans staring me down, prepared to pounce the minute I step back into their territory. They may be small, but they are solid, and I am not above admitting that they would crush me so fast I wouldn’t even have the time to say “ok, ok, I’ll takey, I’ll takey.”

The Glad Game

The Young House Hotel

Shigatse, Tibet

1. I'm glad that it's the sink and not the toilet that drains straight onto the floor of the bathroom.
2. I'm glad that I have enough clothing to cover myself from head to toe before laying on top of the bed.
3. I'm glad flies don't bite.
4. I'm glad I have rubber flip flops.
5. I'm glad the ceiling is pretty to look at.
6. I'm glad that after running the water for enough time it only has the essence of poop and sulfur now.
7. I'm glad the water's not brown.
8. I'm glad I don't have to look at the crushed moth that met its end somewhere between Ceci's fist, the blanket and the wall.
9. I'm glad that if we spend the night wide awake in a defensive stance against the wildlife in our room we don't have to operate any heavy machinery tomorrow.
10. I'm glad I'm not facing any major LGI issues that would require me to make frequent trips to the bathroom.
11. I'm glad for DEET.
12. I'm glad that there were only a few cigarette butts on the floors.
13. I'm glad the rest of our party is probably sound asleep in their clean room and will be able to welcome us with open arms when we come knocking at five in the morning requesting to use their shower pod.
14. I'm glad we have a view of the nightlife on the outskirts of Shigatse and that when people pee they turn away from our window.
15. I'm glad for Chinese-dubbed Mexican soap operas and learning how to teach manners to 11 year old girls in order to prepare them for domestic labor.
16. I'm glad for a roommate.
17. I'm glad that morning will come.
18. I'm glad there's a list of how much everything in the room costs, so if I am forced to use a piece of furniture in battle I will know how much I owe.
19. I'm glad nothing is on fire.