FEBRUARY 4, 2013
Our little ghetto. |
Our campus shrine |
Home. Now there’s an
interesting thought. In the past fifteen
nights I have shared a grass hut with the same two guys with essentially the
same set up, though it was in two locations.
The last time I spent that long in the same bed was August. It’s an odd thought. I’ve been gone for five months now. Still no return flight booked. Tentative plans for Nepal in mid-March are
being kicked around with a friend, though anything is possible. The thought of moving around from guest house
to guest house every other night going forward does not appeal to me. Appealing to me even less is the thought of
returning to the US where dirtbag travel is less exotic, less acceptable and
much less affordable.
The day ends in a humorous scramble in our hut. The culmination of our yoga practices and
spiritual journey was marked by <pick one:
God/The Divine Mother/Mother Earth/Allah/Tom Cruise> deciding to dump
a pile of rain on us. Keep in mind that
the average rainfall in this region this time of year is 0.0 centimeters (that
converts to approximately 0.0 inches, by the way). Brooke and Meg were outside dancing in the
rain. Steve and I stood in the doorway
watching the electrical storm taking it in.
It was sublime. Well, right up
until the grass roof on our hut started to leak, water ran downhill and under
our front door while simultaneously swelling up through the hay and astroturf
floor.
In a mad scramble we moved beds, packed and elevated our
gear and put buckets under the leaks. It
was functional, but our room looked like a post-Godzilla Tokyo. By the next morning we couldn’t stop laughing
about it and all was well as I left my roommates, who were staying on for
another month of yoga, and boarded the bus.
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