With a smile...

It is fast to get used to easy life. After the "cultural shock” of returning to a developed country, the worries of buying a train ticket vanished. Calmly, I went to the station in Ayuthaya. A village in an island of a river. The crossing was made by boat. Time to enjoy the wooden houses, and the serenity. The sunset reflected in water and painted everything around it. I smiled at my luck.

Just before reaching the station I'm greeted by the strong smell of food. My stomach opens his mouth and orders me to stop for a sticky rice and mango. With this boss of mine satisfied, I went to the little station in Ayuthaya. The white walls make me remember my country. And the order - and disorder - almost takes me back home. Only my eyes and smell the food - there are stalls everywhere - tell me otherwise. From question to question I reach the ticket office. In less than a minute I already have the ticket.

The next day - and with more 18 kilos on my back - I return to the train station. The letters written on the information board tell me that my train is on time. Of course this was only a matter of hours until “on time” became late. So the train arrives with a Thai punctuality. An hour after the scheduled time I board this metalic animal.

As I enter the hallway I feel a chill ... not of cold but of astonishment. I wasn't used to comfort and cleanliness anymore. It felt like a luxury hotel. Inside the compartment my traveling companions had taken their place. My astonishment became curiousity. Seeing the size of the bed, I didn't understand how I could fit the backpack. In that a pristine white room, it seemed that my backpack had no place. Seeing my inability, one of my colleagues points out the place of the backpacks. After India, I forgot where was the normal place of them: just above the door. Between smiles,II put my heavy companion to rest.

Time to relax and enjoy the trip. In the middle of this comfortable train, the landscape becomes even more beautiful. The journey goes across the mountain and through the typical jungle of this region. I can not help smiling as my eyes are intoxicated from the green trees, my ears filled with the symphony of the rails and my thoughts drift into the world of dreams ...

The streets of Bangkok

"Unique" is the word that I find to describe this city. By itself it means nothing. This is one of those adjectives that attach themselves to many different realities. The problem is that I can not understand very well what makes it unique. It's just a feeling I had while walking through the streets of Bangkok.

The people are the ones that make a place what it is. And the first thing you notice here is beauty. It's amazing how any woman puts a model in check. Typically wear short dresses to highlight the linear shapes of their bodies. Many with an umbrella to cover themselves from sun. And men don't lag behind. With more informal style in appearance, they cultivate the good taste of this city. Here I am like a homeless person.

But it's not only how they dress. It is also the way they walk. Certain of its destination without weights, they transmit a security that the city knows where it's going. And if you look at the sidewalks, it is going to heaven. There are many skyscrapers or mega-malls.

At each end of the metro the same feeling. A cosmopolitan and free city. A site which becomes independent of the country where it is. Here I enjoy a freedom that I already missed. As with everything, here and there we realized that this is not really deep, but the most apparent. After all, Bangkok is also the capital of Asian prostitution and right next to the night market - a set of street stands that sell a little bit of everything - is one of the oldest places of prostitution.

But this is not a city of unique realities. Upon entering the Chinatown Asian confusion finds its space on what seems a huge Chinese store. Here we can lose a lifetime. It took me half an hour to cross it in a straight line. In between, are the faces, almost all Asian, looking for a little bit of everything at the cheapest price.

In the meanwhile we can feast on any of the street food. And how the Thais know how to cook. My favorite is a simple one: a sticky rice with mango and coconut sauce. But not just here. The street food stalls are another iconic image of this city and you find them everywhere. From the most local place to the area of ​​the temples. The latter is the center of all tourism in Bangkok. A clean space touching the river. Any city in the world would be happy to have a space like this. The pagodas tell me I'm in another world, the rules have changed and now it's all about the tourist.

Not strange that here I am approached more often than any other place of Bangkok. The Tuk-Tuk's drivers try to convince me I need to go to some place. But I don't need. To feel the city it is only necessary to walk through its streets ...

Le moi errant: A Lucky Bastard ... or after six months

It has been six months since I left Portugal and I don't know what to feel. I look back and see the common thread that led me to this moment. Inside I'm torn between how much I've changed, and how much is going to change.

The question mark and exclamation continue to guide my life. A child's amazement I insist not to leave. My emotional yo-yo is also continuing, and I don't run away of my sorrows. The void exists, but I understand that it gives us space to fill in something.

The way I feel the trip has changed. Today the world is also my world and it changes everything around me. I don't look for the exotic but for the beauty. Wherever it may be. I try to feel the emotions of where I am. Recognizing that it will be more mine than of the places.

I don't know if I'm more adult or childish. I would say both. I learned to live with this duality. Ever present in me. I am often something and its opposite. Gradually abandoning the prison of being and transform me into what I was.

The journey follows its path. Never know where to go. I depend on what my "inner self" tells me. I hear that voice more clearly, though sometimes still I don't follow at the first word.

And, despite the time travel, I feel that I have not seen, done or learned anything. There is so much around me. So many experiences that go beyond me and make me humble. Today I am more ignorant than before, even of myself. I found that I have a long unknown road ahead of me.

And this is what the trip gave me in these six months. But most of all, I met many fantastic people that luckly crossed my path and that I learned to call friends. Unique and special lives. So special that make me be sure that I am, and perhaps always will be, a Lucky Bastard!

Story of a Picture: A simple photo

This is one of those photos that would be impossible a few months ago. This is because it was taken from a private dock at the end of a street of warehouses. Those that when we are alone in a strange place we don't like to venture.

At the beginning of this journey wouldn't think of putting there my feet. But now, that the streets of the world are also mine, this was just another one and I was curious to know what I would see on the other side of the river. Around me people were following their normal life. Loading goods, pausing for a meal or just relaxing.

In the end of the street is a market. Possibly a morning one because the stalls were already closed. When I cross it, a woman in her 60 years called my attention to something in Thai. We try to understand each other the best we could. After all we could only share a few common words. I realize that is private property and I ask to take a picture. She accesses with a face of rigor. It was the last step I had to overcome after months losing inhibitions and fears. So many to take a simple picture.

Women

A mere chance determined that instead of two X's I had an X and a Y. And because of this detail, doors opened, my life was easier and I walk through this world without the worries of many people. Nobody wants to touch me, spend hours staring at me or invite me to a "quickie". A reality so completely different that would change my trip.

That's what I felt while sweating profusely at two in the morning and chatted with Shyla. I knew her in Bangkok. We were at the door of where we lived - fruit of my addiction to nicotine - and the words flowed endlessly. Ironically, I got to know better a reality that I had physically abandoned: India.

And there - that little couch on the sidewalk of a Thai street – I recalled other places of the trip and my own country. I saw how the reality is still so cruel to women. A world of privileges for those lucky enough to have a Y in the genetic lottery. Another very different for those with X. More struggle, sorrow and disappointment. Even in Europe, the fight is still uneven. In the rest of the world it has just begun.

Traveling is also thinking about the reality that surrounds us. Today I dedicate this post to all women. At that, with a courage that I never needed, travel like me through this world. And to those who fight the hardest one: the struggle of daily life and of their dreams. They fight for a life they are entitled to, making sacrifices that I never even had to consider...

Welcome to Bangkok

Welcome to the organized airport, heat and air conditioning. To the flawless and cold metro. The directions everywhere so you won't get lost. Welcome to the smell of food everywhere.

Welcome to the mini-skirt and freedom. To the sexual and assexual tourism. To androgyny and transsexuality. Welcome to the waiting in the sideways until the pedestrian signal turns green. The wide avenues and skyscrapers. Parks within the city, trash bins and massages.

Welcome to the sympathy and the market. To the gentle negotiation that makes you quit the hard bargaining. Welcome to fashion, stress and the suit-and-tie. To the make-up and diet problems. Welcome to Facebook, tweet, iphone, ipod and others alike.

Welcome to the smile, gentleness and shyness. Welcome to a city that walks with pride to have a strong personality.

Welcome to Bangkok!

Lang Tang Trek

Between a rock and a hard place. An expression that I like, but not to feel it. But here I am. In that awkward position. Trying to find the best words to describe the trekking. I know, by the teachings of Katya, never to criticize a trip in a chronicle. Or rather, it is possible to do it, but it requires a good dose of humor.

There is nothing false in this rule. It's just a way of saying that "if you don't have anything interesting to write, then don't do it." The problem happens when having nothing to complain about - except my own stupidity - I cannot say that the trek itself was phenomenal. But the best is to explain what it was rather than what it wasn't.

In the Himalayas there are several circuits that you can do. By areas, the most popular are: Everest, Annapurna and Langtang. Of the three, my choice fell on the latter. Driven by Isabel Braz valuable tips and adjectives that seduced me, I didn't care much to see which was the best treks for me. For each region you will find many paths you can choose. In my case I ended up doing a little research on the net, to see which route best was more known (← the first of a few errors). The decision fell on the route that starts at Syabru Besi - a village near the end of the road coming from Kathmandu - until Kyanjin Gompa - the last village before we venture to the mountain peaks.

What I expected was a few days of climbing mountains and nature. And I cannot say I didn't have it. For I Had it. But I also had much more than that. This whole trip was more than just trekking. It was a huge challenge, and above all, a life lesson. I had to fight everything. The physical exhaustion, illness (did the whole route with paracetamol because of an infected throat and a fever which stubbornly refused to disappear) and above all against discouragement.

This appeared on the first day. To my surprise the trek wasn't easy. The route followed a himalayan logic that often consists of inclined uphills, to follow the subsequent drops that will lead us again ... yes, you guessed it ... to other sloped uphill. In between, the route follows the river which descends from the mountain. And although beautiful, there are two details that cause much impact: (a) the mountains are steep and close the landscape and (b) we never really move away from the river so we do not have the sensation of altitude.

So our physical fatigue tells us that we are going up, but never reach the notion of the altitude that we are. For someone with management background, it all seems too costly for the beauty that we behold. Oit is worse when you don't have a sporty profile like me. At the end of the first day - which I only reached half of my goal - my whole body was telling me that I was a masochist. Everything hurted and I was really tired. And this was just the first of the days that lay ahead.

And with the tiredness came the disease. At the first chill of fever, I knew what to expect: some long hours with the body shaking violently. I was a human blender. This made me fear I could not continue my journey. The higher I climbed, the further medical care would be. If anything got worse it would mean I had to walk all the way back and with no medications that were being depleted by the hours. If I had a crisis on the way, this could mean that I had to stop wherever I was.

It is easy to imagine that everything in my body told me to come back. Of course, if this had happened - or if the trek was only a few aches and landscapes – you wouldn't be reading these words.

The reality was very different from mere pain, an unmotivated mind or some tired legs. It was the company of a special person named Hannah. The motivation that came from America by the force of Miranda. Or the magical moments like the one where a crow landed on the wings of a flying eagle. Was overcoming our limits and continuing on. The certainty that, however much we go up, we would find one more peak to climb just to get a better view. It was the small details of Himalayan life camouflaged by villages that exist for trekking tourism. It was a small child who stole a piece of my heart and gave me moments of fun and wisdom. It was being in the middle of nowhere, without a single sound of civilization. Having respect for yaks and monkeys that were on the way. It was to go up just to get down again. Follow another path in the way back and seeing what I expected to see from the beginning.

By those paths, stayed another stranger. Something that went up didn't return. Something that was only possible by following this path. With the people I met and the effort that I took. I may not have had the best landscape in the world. Not have risen to the highest peak or choosen the worst way. But now that everything has been surpassed, I wouldn't change it for another route.

I conclude this chronicle in the same position I started. Still between a rock and a hard place. Not knowing whether or not I will recommend what I did. I think it's something I'll never know. Even to myself. I am sure that Iwon't recommend this route to my future self - maybe do the villages route or venture to the west of Nepal – I also know I wouldn't say to my past self not to do it. What I got was too precious to change for a more enjoyable trekk...

Le moi errant: Everything is lost...

It was so easy. A few weeks in Nepal and it seemed that I hadn't learned a thing. Little remained of the confidence gained in India. I felt frustrated, restless and discontented. I felt again a tourist and not a traveler. All I had done had been reduced to ashes. It was then that I realized that was my lesson. I had become too cocky and thereby lowered my guard.

Only after one exhausting week I understand that. I noticed that my anxiety stemmed from this lesson. One I had to learn before moving on. Everything in this life is lost if you do not do anything to hold it. And it happens very fast. Without notice.

In my case, just took two weeks. I was lucky to learn this lesson still on the road. I know how this is likely to happen when I return. A body used to adapt will have no difficulty in doing it when I return.

But now I realize that the struggle is endless. Will always be inside me. And if I give it for granted what I have, is will the moment I lose what I've gain. I had to take a few steps back. But sometimes that is the way that we can move forward...

Story of a photo: Kung Fu Master

The photo is not well taken. But this is the most precious one of Nepal. When I arrived at Lama Hotel I was exhausted. It was the second day of trecking and my body was starting to break into disease.

Time to decide the hotel but first we had to find our backpacks that we ship by porters. Coincidentally, they were in the same hotel as this child. Immediately she greeted us with energy and smiles.

And this was only the beginning. As I had to stay another day - a sudden fever forced me - I ended up finding the perfect companion. After all we shared the same mental age and I was fascinated by her imagination and boundless energy. She played with everything and everyone. Anything was a source of smiles. Among them, shouted a few words that only she could understand, but that made all sense.

All of it was a character taken from a kung fu movie. And in this film she was a master. At first sight, one of those who seem mad by years of isolation. But that surprises us with the wisdom of their madness. Each chunk of time was a lesson. There I learned how you need little to play with. As a smile is stronger and more powerful than any accurate punch. Or how even with nothing, anyone can be so happy and make others as happy.

When I took this picture I was crushed because she had given me so much. I felt like a student, who still has much to learn, to bid farewell to his little crazy master. And inside I shed a tear. One of those that leave a trail in our hearts...

Once again a student...

It's a cliché to say that we are always learning. Even more - and more true - when we refer to travel. But despite the constant learning we are not always students. India has given enough confidence to forget what is being a student of life. Lucky I found in the way Nepal. And I learned great - and sometimes harsh – lessons here.

I realized that I am as ignorant as the day I was born. Or that it isn't the age that gives us something to teach. I could you explain this country, and what I felt, by the fatigue of India. An exhaust of emotions that makes us recollect into the sweetest idleness. But that would be too easy and not very loyal to this unique country. I know I leave Nepal without actually knowing it. Something that can say to any country that I have passed.

Here I recovered old vices. I felt defeated by the situation and came back to the state of mind I had before. And here it is easy. With a massive tourist industry, and few alternatives for those who want to be lazy, I can only feel that this country was a break in my trip. One I needed to relearn how to learn. To look deeper inside me than I thought possible.

Nepal imposes by its softness. By its own gentle character. Teach us, without us imposing anything. And turns us all into its most humble student...

What a Ride...

We arrived from India convinced that we know everything. And with reasons for that. It is one of the most demanding countries. In this case I thought that littlewould suprise me in a bus ride. How I was wrong. Any trip in Nepal, makes a trip in India look something luxurious.

The best of all, was the journey from Kathmandu to Syabru Besi in Lang Tang region. As every trip this begins with the purchase of the ticket. A small wood stall next to a bus is the official ticket office. The bus park is huge and almost seems to be a small city of bus, market and dustiness. With ticket in hand I enter one of those multi-colored bus that constitutes an iconic image of this country. My place is just behind the driver's and his age destroys my maxim that "if the driver does this for a long time and is still alive is because he knows what he is doing." Nothing I worry. After all, I know that I have no choice if I want to go to Syabru Besi.

The adventure begins just outside of Kathmandu, where the serpent we call road starts. You never reach a lot of speed, but our senses say otherwise. A hill that seems to begin under the bus and the bumps of the road is enough to trigger any heartbeat – even the most insensitive one.

Inside, people take their seats, built to the size of Nepali. It is the first country where I feel like a giant and my knees compete for space with the front seat. If there is a lack of place, there is always the roof. Which can carry bags, people and animals.

The soundtrack will vary between Nepali and Indian pop music. Or at least that's what my imagination tells me. My ears cannot distinguish the difference. The body becomes used to the bumps and the rest is food for the senses.

And when I thought that this would be like this until our final destination, a smoke comes from the engine and a driver yells something I do not understand, launching more excitement on the trip. And don't need to understand Nepali to know what to do. If a driver in the midst of smoke, stops the bus and gets out shouting something, I do exactly the same (without the shouting, of course). Like me, everyone does it and quickly the space isn't enough to all get out at the same time. Nothing that a little practice and pushing around woun't help to solve. Within 5 seconds we were all out of the bus, wondering how long it would take for the problem to be solved.

But since some good can come out of something bad, this short break is enough to get some fresh air. We are already high enough to get a sense of the mountain. In between cigarettes, small conversations and confirmation that the problem is not resolved, the time passes quickly. And when a queue starts to form, our bus roars again and we resumed our journey.

Then came the curves and counter curves. By the middle of a stop at the request of a flat tire. This time nothing that took a long time. And while the bus continues I'm amazed by the landscape. Sometimes it seems that we fly. In my mind I keep the image of the ticket collector. He grabs in the open door and just hangs outside. Behind it is impossible to distinguish more than the air and the mountains on the other side of the hill. He looks like a hawk that comes by magic besides this bus. With this, I doze off until I reach my final destination. With the smile of someone who made a difficult but unforgettable journey.

Chitwa and Pokhara's emotions

Life is easy. Between the Internet and guidebooks, there is little in this world that is not covered. We can figure out what to do at each location and even what it contains. We prepare the trip to the rhythm of our imagination. But if one day we go to the place we planned, we found that it is much more than that. Beyond what is written, there is a unique world that is ours. The trip goes beyond what we see and becomes what we feel.

Chitwa

It is small and you can do as much as you wish. Between doing nothing or a filled the day, the choice is yours. But everything will revolve around one thing: the jungle. I ended up arriving as a tourist. This meant that everything was included. In this case: a jungle walk, canoeing (which really means going on a cannoe), Elephant Ride, museums (which the greatest interest is the strange things you find there), and a show of traditional dance (whose rhythm is different from what I was used and it).

In all activities, there is no doubt that it was the Jungle walk that caught my emotion. Not that I have encountered dangerous animals ... far from it. On the way the only thing I saw were insects, deer and ... wild chickens. But there is no escaping the vulnerability feeling. You walk in a place with a 3 meters visibility. The only sounds you hear are the wildlife, your footsteps and your breathing. All your instincts are alert. And the simple idea that the track sounds - real or imagined - can be of a bear, a rhino or a tiger, makes your heart race. You know which part of the food chain you are.

And nothing was more real than when I started hearing the sound of dry leaves being trampled. The sound was a growing pace and came towards us. Surrounded by dense vegetation it was impossible to know what it was. Between accelerated heartbeats, I tried to remember what to do for each animal - zigzag or tree for the rhinos, keep still for the bears, look in the eye of the tiger and run like hell for the elephant. Of course, everything goes too fast, and when the animal presents itself, is a relief to see that it is a simple deer.

Pokhara

Pokhara has a lake. A beautiful lake. Has a Peace Pagoda where we can admire the landscape around us. We arrived there on foot or by boat across the lake. It has many restaurants and some shops. It has the main street of tourism - lake side. A wide street with the type of business that fits the tourists and travelers who pass through here. Pokhara has also a peace of mind of a very beautiful landscape.

But my Pokhara has a street. One that leaves the Lake Side. It has asphalt through the holes and is flanked by two ditches that serve to drain the rain. The streets has no sidewalks. But there is shops. It has small grocery stores where the owners wait patiently for customers. Whenever a tourist passes, they greet them with a friendly "Namaste." Ask if they want something. A "something" that goes from a simple bottle of water to laundry. It has barbershops where tourists and locals let the owners do its magic. These, with a sharp blade, turn a bearded face into something presentable. It also has small travel agencies, cyber cafes and inns.

And my street has people, laughter and emotions. Has a family that nurtures people with his sympathy. There are children playing in the street with the little they have - a basketball - and much they possess - joy and imagination. Among them are tourists, neighbors who exchange words with their parents or cows with a zen spirit.

And amid this calm spirit of being I find my Pokhara. Not a tourist one. But one of the emotions it conveys. The quiet of a life where you don't feel the lack of visiting a highlight of any travel guide. A simple way of living. I learn to stop and contemplate the wealth around me. An emotional space where I keep the people laughs, talks and looks...

Le moi errant: And the struggle continues...

She is hurt. And like any wounded animal, she fights back. I feel her infecting all in me. My writing, my good or ill feeling. As I write, there is a war within me. It is an all in contest. There is no doubt or margins for error. She pulls me and I push it back. Around me everything seems to be equal and serene. I'm traveling. Walking across the lake, a bit indifferent to my surroundings.

Inside, a voice says to me: "you see ... you are not normal ... you are not like the others enjoying this place... nobody cares about you ... you're going back to the same ... you cannot enjoy life ... "

But another voice, more mine, replies immediately: "But that's what I'm doing ... I came to set me free ... to get rid of you ... "

The first voice is offended. She reminds me that she was my companion and brought me here. She is right. But I remind her that she led me to my being here. At this time and how I feel. She cowers and does not know how to react. Shuts up and moves inside by the means of fatigue and frustration. Strikes me in my writing.

With great difficulty, my fingers write the words. The voice returns to the charge: "You see ... No longer can you write ... really, you never could... another one of your illusions... you never knew what was real ... what was an illusion created in your mind to run away from the sorrow of your life... "

Now I do not answer her. I have that look of whom waited for this very moment. That was exactly what I wanted from her. That she would start exposing my deepest and greatest fears...

... Check!

Story of a photo: Between the photo and reality

In this picture you see a person, a moment of reflection or the colours of a special festival. To the most experienced you see the shadows, light and framing. Everything is frozen at the sound of a click. There is no before or after, only the image.

In reality there is more than that. There are two paths that crossed each other. Different decisions that made that moment. There is the photographer and the photographed. Several lives, words and emotions.

But still, there is much more than that. There is overcome. Of the barrier of age and moment. The will to be there and live. The smile amidst a serene face. One unique person. There is the past and the future.

For every person who crosses your path there are several worlds. Some exploited, others to be exploited. Time and reality are always different. One is frozen in its own frame - like a picture, a place or a time – the other goes its way.

When I look at this picture I see my privilege to meet special people. I see a timeless beauty. I see the joy of the day, every day, in which we live and overcome ourselves. And I see the smile of someone who walks the path of living.

Holi Mess

I awoke to the sound of children. The screams, laughter and footsteps running didn't deceive me: Holi had begun. The child who is in me jumped out of bed and went out to see it. When I looked at the set of colors that flew I couldn't believe. Although it was something that always wanted, I didn't thought I would have the opportunity to enjoy it.

Holi is celebrated with colors, water, and occasionally eggs. With great joy and smiles. It is a multicolored mess and wasn't different in Pokhara. There is something in this festival that appealed to me immediately. The colors are the most iconic. But they are colors of emotion. All share the joyful spirit that the festival brings.

I prepared to get into this mess. I buy ammunition - a pack of each color and a bottle of water - and join this Holi mess. In each "Happy Holi", a color is placed on my face and in the one who crosses me. For the main avenue there is a parade in celebration. People dance, colors fly and we get wet from the upper floors. That day, all is confusion, all is joy.

In the end, I'm a multicolored thing. Like all the others around me. There are no nationalities, ages or genders. This confusion is about sharing a sentiment common to all: the joy. And what better than mirroring the joy of it in blue, green, yellow or red that makes up the whole scene around us?

From error to error to being a tourist

A journey is also made of wrong decisions. The errors abound. This had many reasons. The fatigue of a journey, an empathy and a rather early and unnecessary yes.

When I sat down, next to my "Nepali friend" – a tourist agent – I wanted to give him a little business. I think it is important to choose whom I spend money. So it didn't seem bad to discuss a package tour. And my tiredness pushed me to that conversation. After months "on my own" I didn't remove the possibility of having a package that included everything down to Pokhara.

Of course, such feelings should pull all the alerts that my body has, but I was numb with fatigue. When my "friend" gave me the brochure, my great interest was whether the trip to Pokhara was included - and if it was worth giving some business. I looked at the prices, did a little mental calculation and it seemed to me a price more than fair. Didn't cost me anything to say yes... Well actually it did, and a lot. Once again, all in me should have said that something was wrong. At least all the accumulated experience should warn me not to anticipate a yes without knowing everything.

As might be expected, the price I had seen wasn't correct. It was the Nepali price. Mine was slightly more expensive - almost the double. The fatigue came back and won. I did not argue and my final thought was that the damage that wasn't that bad.

All this ended up transforming my trip. Without noticing it, I just went from being a traveler and became a tourist. With all the flavors and disappointments that this implies. Chitwa was seen differently from the other places. I ended up doing everything I wanted and didn't wanted. But I think my soul wanted to be one of those tourists who don't need to care about anything. And when I left Chitwa I regain the strenght to continue the trip. Perhaps more than before. I knew again the importance and joy of doing a trip like I'm doing. In a strange way, it was necessary to go to the other side of travelling, to see a little more of my one trip...

Kathmandu - A strange familiarity

I need to make an introductory note in this 'travel article. " Walking also means learning our limitations. One of them became clear. With each passing day, I withdraw more from the "travel article" style. I still don't have complete mastery of my writing to be able to take this space to the destination I want to lead it. However, because I believe to be important to show the places where I've been, I don't stop this rubric. But it will be more to the flavor of the moment of imagination than of a certain style - indeed increasingly I think my style is not having one. I hope you have the patience to follow the evolution and different facets that this space will have.

I decided that because Kathmandu proved an obstacle impossible to transpose. I couldn't get it in the format of this rubric. To this, it contributed the change in me. At first, the place was the most important. Today I haven't such interest. I still “wow” myself to the surprise of a large landscape or monument. But my focus has shaped itself to the people around me and the unique emotions that every place gives us.

Rather than describe the Pashupatinath (a very nice area of temples), Swayambhunath (aka Monkey Temple) or the Durbar Square, my interest is explaining the feeling of being in Khatmandu. Maybe you'll find it strange the word I will use, but what I felt was: familiarity. I don't know if this happened because of the dream I had years ago - and that materialized when I arrived - or because it is the feeling of this place.

But the unpaved streets, dusty aspect or the mixture of different traits were not strange to me. Being in Kathmandu is to be in a cradle of humanity. From here we follow a line that leads us to anywhere. And Nepal has much of India as has Portugal. Yes, here and there, you recognize the hand gestures similar to those of the Indians. And there is no escaping the "Namaste" that accompanies the exchange of greetings. But these traits appear by fusion with other cultures. You have the temples that are already closer to China than from India. In some houses you will find the smell of Western architecture. You are enchanted by a song that does not deviate much from the Andean South America. And every trace of the face of a Nepali can escape to a different continent.

Perhaps this familiar feeling appears because you see a little bit of everything in everything. Or by the returning to my youth. In my neighborhood. When I went to the Monkey Temple - which sits atop a hill – I couldn't predict what to expect. I left Thamel - a main district of tourism, trade and confusion - and ended up in an unpaved road. My senses told me I was correct, but between houses that seemed I was in a street of my neighborhood. Of course it was only a brief illusion. But when I crossed the river - and got lost looking for this temple – I could be back in my childhood walking by the stream - what was more a sewer - among reeds and gardens.

When I finally got up the hill, everything was behind. But this magnificent place also didn't seem strange. The Stupa, with eyes that see everything, become warm. And the wheels of the prayers, that I had imagined for so long, were already part of me. Combining with this long walk, was a talk with Kash - a friend of the friend who helped me unlock this country - that led me to discussions about religion and ways of life, and above all, to the common thing of all humanity: feelings.

Kathmandu is a place of narrow streets, beautiful squares and friendly people. Tourist center and political capital. But most of all, is a familiar place. Where I don't mind getting lost and floating in my imagination. Here I always end up finding the smile, the beautiful detail or the necessary help. I do not know if you will find the same city. But if this happens, send greetings, such as when delivered to a common friendship.

Le moi errant: Something more...

I walked slowly. A step at a time. Each one more secure than the one before. I know that this moment was coming. And just as I left India, every cell of my body said: “It's now!”

All this time I escaped myself. I knew that understanding of myself was superficial. Inside me there was a part that has always been well protected. It was too strong. I never felt the courage to face it.

When I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist, he told me that it wasn't the time to face the crocodile (or put in another way, of doing therapy with a psychologist). It was time to create the weapons before facing him. I've always loved this image. And symbolized what was inside of me. So years passed, depression came and a life-changing experience before I could face my crocodile.

Now the waiting time expired. While starting another leg of this trip, also my inner journey was going to another destination. A deeper and stronger one. It was time to confront myself. Take up my weapons and remove surgically the part of the Self that wasn't mine. Accept what is and free myself from my shackles. I don't do it lightly. Everything in me tremble to think what I am doing. The same one that smiles while imagining what is to come...

Story of a picture: Through your eyes

I notice you and see a life. A vacant stare fills my thoughts. I know I cannot access yours. I'm just here, in the distance, trying to capture your beauty.

Through your eyes I try to walk in your life. I try to understand what motivates your look. I wonder what you see when your eyes cross mine... Will you see a person, or just another tourist that can give some of your food? A stupid tourist who ignores the harshness of your life?

Did you see me? Or the habit of spending a day in the same place makes you blind to what is around you. I was not indifferent to you. Your eyes told me that your life wasn't easy. Your wrinkles follow the beauty of your eyes. Confide in me that you never surrender. That even today you look around and admire your surroundings. You try to capture a future client while savor the time that your job allows you to.

In this square you can see the world. You can admire the Europeans, Americans and Chinese. In between you see your fellow citizens. In the traces of the architecture you can travel between the east and west, and perhaps you are proud of being a daughter of this place that is a world of civilizations...

Moments without place

Throughout the trip you will find them a lot. A variety hard to match. And if the word "place" is something that pops up when the subject is travel, the reality is that it will lose its initial strength. And sometimes - almost by magic - it disappears from the vocabulary. It was in Kathmandu as a physical location. We had around us the Nepalese and its monuments. The air was definitely from this city, but we were not there. We were in a moment without a place.

That day I spent with Nuno Cruz – that I already talked about here - was passed in many places. Was passed in emotions and dreams. In the present situation and future projects. It was a magical moment, hard to put into words.

The curiosity was too much. I have followed his steps through this world on his blog, and now I was curious to meet him. Of course I met the traveler. But more than that, I met a human being with tremendous depth. Those ones that are able to change the world with their actions (or as Ben Harper said, with his “own two hands”). And between a cod fish, a park bench and a room, the time fled to the rhythm of the words that brought us many worlds.

When I left him at the airport, I was longing for the future times and the joy that you feel whenever you cross with a special person. Now our paths unfold in different directions, but always in the same world. Not a physic one, but one of emotions and dreams.

Goodbye India, Hello Nepal

I wasn't used to it anymore. After three months in the same country, here I am. Preparing another trip abroad. The nervous niggling feeling in my stomach returned. Almost like butterflies when you're in love. As a gift I bought a plane trip to Kathmandu via Delhi. Which is why I was at the small airport of Dabolim in Goa.

I like small airports. They give us a feeling of travel. The international ones are too hygienic and belong to a world of their own. Few differences exist between them. The little ones have more character but also less things to kill time. This only offered a cafe and a small bookstore to get me distracted. As I looked at the small collection of books, my mind wandered through the feelings of a hard farewell to India. A trip as intense as the Indian one doesn't disappear with a simple border crossing. So I was preparing my body to receive Nepal.

But it was still far away. Before I had to go through bureaucratic entry into the travelers area of the airport, arrive at Delhi, wait eight hours to repeat the red tape again until I could get to Nepal. From day one – the only I used the plane - that these procedures amazed me. For a country as "organized" like this, it was impressive how many steps you have to pass through a single checkpoint.

You check in as any other country. Wait ... I forgot to say. Before this, you have to pass the bag through a x-ray machine - that "conveniently" is in another location. If you're lucky - and have nothing to disturb the security guards - then you get a stamp of approval. Of course it was not my case, and when my backpack was set aside, I knew that life wouldn't be so easy.

"No lighters ..." tells me the security with a sympathetic smile. I was already waiting this after losing mine when I got to India.

"Is it ok now" I asked, just to be sure they did not commit any mistake taking in hand my backpack. He looks at the the other guard, and although I don't understand Hindi, I can understand that not yet...

"Do you have cameras?" Question that I feel like a dagger in my back. "Yes ..." I reply hesitantly. "... But I have not the slightest idea where ... omg, I'll have to take everything out of the bag ... "I think, while the other part of the brain tries to find a solution.

"Can I see the picture?" I ask and pray that this was not the worst place: the middle of the pack.

"Yes of course" I smile with the sigh of relief when I notice that it is on top of the backpack.

With this problem solved, I go to the check-in. Something that is not complicated. With the backpack on the weight limit - to my astonishment – I give my passport and receive the boarding pass. Time for one more bureaucracy: pass into the passenger area. Nothing special ... Well it wouldn't be if the person at check-in has given me the paper to be stamped by the security check point. I find that out after spending 10 minutes in line. Time to return to check in, get the label and back in line for another 15 minutes.

Finally I'm in the waiting area for my plane. From that moment everything was simple. When the plane took off, part of me was already saying goodbye to India. I was only one night at the airport of Delhi away from Kathmandu. But as it was in India, I still a small surprise to come...

Just outside the plane I had a strange feeling. A mismatch between what my mind had imagine and what my eyes were seeing. Something that I confirmed when I left from the domestic airport. I couldn't believe ... All neaty and tidy. Everything so ... perfect. After three months my body reacted violently to this dose of Western normality. It seemed that I had returned to Europe.

With the late hour I was looking for a place to sleep. My original plan was to stay in the waiting place inside the airport. Of course making plans here only serve to fail, so I was barred at the entrance of the international airport. "Too early" the guard tells me while suggesting me to go to another waiting room in a corner of the airport. I try to follow the suggestion, but before entering the room I see a sign informing me that staying in that place cost 70 rupees each hour. In a fit of greed, I think the spotless floor of the airport is a great bed.

Once I've found a nice place, I lay down. I choose a place near other passengers trying to do the same. Unity is strength, and in these things I don't like to be alone. After a while I already felt like in a real bed. It was time to dream ...

"Excuse me ..." I wake up to this startling comment. He was a cop. By now I could read in his face what he wanted to transmit. First with a rude face - perhaps thinking that it was Indian - then with a kinder one when he understand that I am from abroad. And in a very polite way he tells me to get out and go to the waiting room. I explain I don't want to pay money, and he tells me, to my astonishment, that I only need to show the ticket.

Back to the place that I had been an hour before, my astonishment doesn't end. After wandering in search of a place I notice they have chaise lounges to rest. While I put my body to rest I have my last thoughts. I smile imagining how the tourists have the wrong image when they arrive in this place. A so clean place before facing all the incredible challenges that India has to offer.

The next day was more mechanical. Perhaps the anxiety overcame the farewell feeling. With everything set, I quickly found my seat on the plane. I looked around me, and the faces of people didn't deceive me. I was going to a new country. Traces of eastern asia already penetrated the faces of the passengers. When it was announced that we are arriving, I feel again that thrill of a new adventure. It was time to greet this new country.