The Nepali Response

Sorry that it's been a while. May was a busy month at work. I've got a few that I'm hoping to post here in June. First off comes this long overdue post. After I wrote about Indian Call Centers, my brother who lives in Nepal sent me a long e-mail response. Jen and I enjoyed it so much that I asked him if I could post it here. Below are two photos taken from his balcony. Enjoy...and thanks Josh for entertaining us.

I step through the door to the balcony of my flat, a cool breeze carries the scent of imminent rain and hits my face. I can’t help but smile. My belly is full from dinner just 40 minutes earlier and my kids, by some miracle, play soccer quite nicely together within my view, making for the perfect moment to wind down. Relax. I gingerly dodge across the terrace and manage to block an attempted goal into the guest room door before climbing the black iron spiral staircase to the rooftop. As I ascend, the kids’ laughter fades and my gaze shifts to the city, my city, sprawled out before me. The setting sun is now faintly lighting the bustling streets below which results in one last rush of errands before darkness takes over and the electricity is shut off for the day. The man who sells potatoes and garlic from his bicycle yells out trying to make some final sales as he pushes his bike home. I watch the exchange as a young girl from a house across the street races out and buys a half kilo or so of potatoes. He pulls out his handheld scale and rummages through his inventory knowing the exact size and number of potatoes needed to make the scale balance. She pays him what must be 50 or so rupees and scurries back to her house calling out to her mother who is waiting by the gate and watching the whole transaction. As the potato man walks out of sight, I can only imagine he is off to the butcher shop to surprise his family with a little bit of meat that he can now purchase with the money from his last sale of the day. I look to my left to the patch of road near the brick pile and smile as seven children play a little game of cricket. A boy is wielding the bat shouting out a mile a minute, pointing this way and that most likely giving a little coaching, or perhaps explaining to Sangita, the new girl, about how ghost runners work.

I set my Sony Digital SW-33 pocket radio down on the ledge and tune it to 103.1 FM, the BBC World Service just as Gareth Mitchell wraps up his live report from Mexico City on the economic toll of the swine flu pandemic. I shift the radio to the right, then a little more, forward a little, just to get the reception clear enough.......oh, there it went, back left a little.... perfect. "And now a world sport update. The Bayern-Munich Football Club has just sacked its head coach after only 10 months at the job."

I didn't know Bayern-Munich had fired the last coach.

The sky quickly changes from orange to peach to light blue to purple as night settles in. Slowly the lights of those lucky enough to have battery back-ups pop on and light up the valley as though I am looking down on the starry sky. The scent of rain becomes overpowered by the smell of smoke from a fire in the field just to the south of our gate. Not that plastic smell of a trash fire, but the woodsy smell of a brush pile burning. The neighbors have been clearing that field and tilling it for days getting it ready for planting corn as well as preparing for the monsoons that are just around the corner. Three men are working diligently to get all the brush they had cleared that day into the fire. As one man deposits another handful of dead branches and grass into the fire, their tall shadows cast by the sudden flare of firelight dance on the walls surrounding several of the nearby houses.

I take a long sip of my iced-mocha and savor the scene. Now this is no Starbucks Cappuccino by any means. One-and-a-half packets of Cappa Roma's Mocha Cappuccino powder mix and a spoonful of sugar stirred together and left in the fridge for 14 hours. Not perfect, but it beats that Sanka crap the guys are drinking on their breaks at Indian Call Centers.

The sound of the city is quickly overpowered by the roar of a Beechcraft 1900DS turboprop, operated by Buddha Airlines, on its final approach to Tribhuvan International Airport located approximately 1 mile directly southeast of our flat. I follow the plane and watch it until it sinks out of sight below the horizon of shanty shacks and crumbling buildings just before touchdown. Moments later I catch glimpses of it between buildings as it taxies to the domestic hangar. The sounds of the city return. The faint horn of a taxi honking, the chatter of people, cows mooing, and from a nearby house the din and racket of dinner being prepared as a pressure cooker lets off a spray of steam for the third time.

A cigarette. Well, I don’t smoke, but if I did, this would be a perfect time to smoke it. Something about Nepal just makes one want to smoke. Maybe it is the fact that literally everybody is doing it, even kids. After reading statistics about how the air quality in Kathmandu is equivalent to smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day, I can't help but think, "Hey, what’s one more cigarette?" I am not a smoker and I do consider myself somewhat health conscious, nevertheless, I do see how a cigarette has the potential to elevate good moments into great ones.

The cricket game by the brick pile has just about run out of light and run out of steam. The streets are all but empty and the hush of evening that falls like dew on the valley is beginning to settle, broken only by the occasional bark of a dog on the street excited about a discovery he made in a trash pile: a shoe, a bone, a discarded apple, a scrap of meat. All the while, not a soul has noticed me above the scene watching it all like an unseen deity. I can't help but to put myself in their shoes for a moment. To imagine what they have done today, or will do tomorrow. To imagine what they might be doing in those houses where I hear the sounds through open windows, but see nothing through the curtains. The boy getting yelled at for not doing his homework. The wife asking her husband how his day was, and his half-hearted response. The family dinner. The brother and sister arguing. The wind rustling the tr.......oh wait, those are my kids arguing. The pleasant aforementioned terrace soccer game has turned into something more akin to a bar room brawl and....uh huh, just as I thought the ball just got thrown off the roof.

So also the scene wraps up below me. My moment of relaxation has passed. I turn off my radio, take the last sip of my now luke-warm mocha, descend from my sanctuary and think, "Some poor schmuck on the other side of the world is just now beginning his Thursday sitting down with his morning paper and getting ready to wash down the bad news to a breakfast of 2 eggs over-easy, 2 sausage links, 2 buttermilk pancakes with extra syrup, a tall glass of OJ and a cup of coffee - cream, no sugar."

"Americans."

No automated sprinkler system are seen from my perch. No manicured lawns or shiny new business parks anywhere in sight. But this is my life, my paradise.

-Joshua Wilson, Kathmandu, Nepal May 2009

What Will Become of the Hobo?

(I have always wanted to hop a ride on a freight train but have never had the courage to attempt it. I made passing reference to this desire about a year ago in a post and my Uncle Randy left a comment asking if I had ever heard the story of his freight hopping experience. Well, this was too good an invitation to pass up so I asked him if he would write it out and send it to me. Last month I received a package in the mail that contained this story and a cassette tape by Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt and Dolly Parton singing an old Jimmie Rogers song called Hobo's Lamentation, the perfect musical accompaniment to this story. Everybody has a crazy uncle, I was blessed with two, and I admire both of them a great deal. Uncle Randy, the older of the two, is a man of great tenacity and courage. Here is his story.)

Riding the Rails

A true tale by Randy Bender

In the spring of 1966, I was a freshman at Abilene Christian College, in Abilene, Texas. I know not whence the notion sprang – but, there it was; “wouldn’t it be a great adventure to hop a freight train and ride the rails to home in Tulsa?” The idea took root and began to germinate. In the fertile mind of an eighteen year old, a spectacular brainstorm does not languish.

I promoted the idea, and two friends decided to join me. It would be a weekend trip. We would cut Friday morning classes, but would have to be back by Monday. The first task was to assure that we would have a ride back on Sunday. That need was satisfied by an acquaintance who would be returning from Bartlesville, OK.

With a date and a secure return in place, the next task was to obtain train information. I called Santa Fe [Railroad} and told them I needed to ship a refrigerator. I got the approximate time the freight train would come through Abilene and learned that in Ft. Worth we would have to change from the Santa Fe to the Frisco RR.

We packed clothes and toiletries the three of us would need for the weekend into a medium sized suitcase and a tote bag and on Friday morning went to the place where I thought the train would stop. Then we waited; and waited, and…….waited, and ………………….waited.

Questions and doubts began to knock at the door of my mind. Were we in the wrong place? Had I been given the wrong time by Santa Fe? Was the train merely late? Could it be possible that it just would not come through today? Then…, is that the thunderous rumble of a mighty diesel engine I am hearing/feeling. Is it? Is it? Could be. It just might be. …………It is, it is, IT IS!!! Louder and louder; closer and closer. Our great adventure was about to begin in earnest. Then, ……..shouldn’t it be slowing down? If it’s going to stop it has to start slowing down really soon. Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity-clack, right on by us. Now what do we do?

As the caboose became even smaller, we decided we would have to hitchhike to Tulsa. As we started walking toward the highway, I looked down the tracks toward our missed opportunity. Something was different. The caboose, now seeming to be about the size of a book of matches, was no longer shrinking. The train had stopped. I told Ron and Danny to look and they agreed with my assessment. New hope arose.

We began alternately walking, walking fast, and trotting down the tracks. As we went, we traded off carrying the luggage so that at any given time, one of us had the suitcase, one had the tote bag and one was recuperating. As we got closer, anticipation and excitement were rekindled and began to grow. When we were within 100-200 yards of the caboose, the train began to move forward. Digging deep within and summoning every last remnant of strength and will, we sprang into a sprint. Just by chance, Danny, who was scrawny and the weakest of the trio, was carrying the suitcase. Fortunately, there was a flatcar just ahead of the caboose. Ron and I were able to mount it. We were almost completely spent but turned to encourage Danny. Unfortunately, the gradual increase in the speed of the train combined with the extra weight and total exhaustion did not leave enough in Danny’s tank. We regretted that he had been unable to join us but we were happy to be on our way. Incidentally, the suitcase contained our clean clothes and underwear for church.

The next few hours were awash with a feeling of unbridled freedom that is rare and uncommon. The afternoon was warm enough that we were comfortable in t-shirts. The sky was pleasantly and refreshingly overcast. So that flatcar provided an idyllic perch from which to watch the West Texas countryside flow by us. Our only responsibility was to enjoy the ride and we fulfilled that responsibility in a magnificent manner.

We arrived in Ft. Worth in the late afternoon. When the train stopped in the yard, we hopped off, determined the general location of the Frisco Rail Yard and started off in that direction. As we neared it, we happened upon a greasy spoon diner. We had not eaten since breakfast, so, in we went. To our delight we discovered they had a home-style cooking menu with entrée such as fried chicken, meatloaf, chicken-fried steak, vegetables like peas, mashed potatoes, carrots, bacon seasoned green beans, and cherry pie, devil’s food cake, apple pie a la mode for desserts. The prices were good and the portions were generous. It was an ideal eatery for hard working rail yard employees, or a couple of hungry teenage boys out on an adventure. I don’t remember what I had, but, to this day, I believe it is in contention for the title of, “Best Meal I Ever Had.”

With bellies full, we set off to find a ride for the next leg of our journey. When we entered the Frisco Yard, we saw two or three trains that seemed to be linked up and ready to go. There was no way to determine which one was headed for Oklahoma City. We would have to ask. Seeing a man who looked like he belonged there, we went up to him and I asked. He said it was the nearest one. We walked toward the first boxcar with an open door. The man yelled to us, “Try to find a clean one, if you can. “If” was the operative word. You see, there is really no reason to sweep out a boxcar. Everything that is supposed to be in it is boxed in a crate, which is on skids, so that a forklift can get underneath it. Before long, we made our choice, climbed inside, and settled in to wait.

If you drive on the highways, it’s about 30 miles more from Ft. Worth to Oklahoma City than from Abilene to Ft. Worth. So we figured we would probably get to OKC about midnight, or shortly afterward. We could hardly have been more wrong. It was after 1:00 a.m. when the train pulled off on a side rail and stopped in Ardmore, OK which is about the halfway point. After the sun had set, and as we traveled further north, it grew chillier and chillier, until it became down right cold. So the train sat on the side rail, and we sat inside our car shivering for hours, literally. At some point we had been there long enough to realize that we probably were going to be there for a good while longer, we decided to dismount and search for a place nearby for a good cup of coffee. As I remember, it was an unfruitful quest. But I think we did go into a railway office where one worker was stationed, and that enabled us to warm ourselves. Of course, that just emphasized the cold when we went back out to get in our boxcar. I believe it was after 4:00 a.m. when the train resumed its movement.

I don’t know if it was in Ft. Worth or Ardmore, but somewhere along the way, we learned that the Frisco Line went straight north out of OKC, so we would, again, have to change lines, this time to the Katy RR to get to Tulsa.

It was after 8:00 a.m. by the time we got off the train in Oklahoma City. In only about 32 hours, our ride would be picking us up for the trip back. We knew not when the next train would leave for Tulsa, nor how long it would take to get there when it did. We had a decision to make. We determined the best course of action would be to hitchhike the rest of the way.

The last leg of our journey brought us within four blocks of home. I looked at my watch as we exited the car and made an observation. I told Ron and we decided to act upon it. We adjusted our gait, walking faster, trotting for a bit, slowing to a walk again, and then picking up the pace a little, so that we walked through the front door 24 hours to the minute from the time we had climbed on board the flatcar in Abilene.

Ron and I had a spectacular weekend adventure. On an adventure, you must accept the unpleasantness along with sheer joy. Poor Danny [remember Danny?] had just another average, dull weekend in the dorm. C’est la vie!

A Walk Down the Hall

Feels Like Years...

Placid
Here she is. I cannot tell you how much peace this little girl brings to me. Amidst moving (twice), starting a new job (sort of), and Margaret's birth, the last four months have been crazy. But this sweet little package of grace and love has flooded our souls with a sustaining peace and surprisngly, rest. We had initially been planning on calling her Charlotte, but as I told friends, she looked much too regal for that when we first saw her and so out of the blue she ended up as Margaret. I have received quite a bit of gentle ribbing about this, but scoffers take note: in our house, we play an endless procession of music cds and Margaret has no reaction to any of them except for the visible reaction she shows to classical music. Unlike Willie Nelson, it never fails to put her in a great mood. Told Ya!

Ramblin
We are now located in Des Moines, Iowa - one third of the way between Canada and Mexico on Interstate 35 and almost halfway between New York and San Francisco on Interstate 80. I am enjoying being at the crossroads of two great American highways, but still wish I was further south at the crossroads of I-35 and I-10. Although it is a slightly different string of pearls than I-10, I just love heading West on I-80 knowing that Cheyenne, Salt Lake, Reno and San Fran are all just sitting out there in the setting sun waiting for me.

Unbecoming
In the course of my work, I run across quite a few men in their 50's and 60's. I look up to and enjoy being around older men and so I am always excited by these brushes with wisdom. Probably more so because of the initial burst of anticipatory excitement, I am always extremely let down when they turn out to be more like a 30 year old than a 60 year old. I've got to say that one of the saddest sights in this world is a dirty old man or a bitter old woman. Old age should be a glorious time. So many battles behind you, so many rivers crossed, valleys endured and peaks enjoyed. It is a time to pass on lessons learned to those in need of your wisdom, a time to slow down a little and enjoy the world with your knowing yet grateful eyes. I am so thankful that I have grandparents who are people I can look up to.

From the Mighty Mo' to the Mighty Miss
I've been to Omaha four times now in the last few months and I've got to say that it is such a great town. The Missouri River runs along the eastern edge of town and the wide and sandy Platte River runs just to the south of it. It is a town with a great railroading heritage that is celebrated by the two locomotive engines permanently parked on the river bluff just above the highway as you come in from the east on I-80. You can feel the history in the air, the stories of both hard working men of the field and of free living hoboes riding by on boxcars heading from one great city to another. Like Des Moines, it is immediately and completely surrounded by fields full of grain, corn and beans as soon as you get out of town. Sitting on the edge of Omaha gazing west gives me a similar feeling to the one I used to get as a teenager when I would stand knee deep in Atlantic staring out into the darkness at the great emptiness between me and Europe. As you sit there can feel the vast and wonderful nothingness between you and the mountains of the West, and out of the dark, a siren song wails, tugging, tugging at you till you can barely stand it and almost give in.

Also had the chance to visit Dubuque, Iowa on the Mississippi River, a town where you feel like at any minute the ghost of Johnny Cash is going to float by, feet dangling off of one of the many barges moving either north or south as he soaks up the sun. Really, the Mississippi is stunning from St. Paul all the way down to at least Davenport ( that's as far as I have been up to now). The river runs through a deep valley surrounded on either side by towering river bluffs topped with tall and leafy trees.

The corn was 6 to 7 feet tall and green as grass when we got here and it now a bleached tan just waiting to be harvested. I am so jealous of the farmers running down miles of corn in their green John Deere combines from well before sun up to well after sun down. That has got to bring such a great feeling of accomplishment as well as a connection to both the past, and the rhythms of life and earth.

Fellow Sojourners
Before we left Texas, Jen and I were able to catch Patty Griffin live in concert in Austin. While waiting for the show to begin, we started talking to the couple next to us. I love Patty Griffin, but I've got to say the highlight of the evening was getting to meet this couple. They were so much fun to talk to. He is a scientist/conservationist type guy who was in Kileen, TX studying birds and has since moved to Florida to work on another project. I would like to point you in the direction of his blog which is filled with tons of great wildlife pictures like this one. You can get a better look at the photos by clicking on them which will enlarge them. Check out the amazing colors in the coral snake.

Iraq
My buddy Scott has one month left in Iraq, after being there for 15 months. Would you please pray for his safety during this last month?

God Bless Texas.

That's Right

Uno, Dos, TRES!

From the Archives - July 2003

Man's soul leaves body, photographed outside Boston church.

My favorite photo for so many reasons. First, just a great father son pic, second; a great representation of my inner man. So often internally I feel like Calvin, full of joy to the bursting point, but outwardly look just like I do in this photo; semi-catatonic. Third, the red bricks, white window frame, and green hue from the tree reflected in the window make this picture absolutely pop. Kudos to the hot wife for sneaking this one in from across the street.

Cal Bob Gets After It

Here is a picture of Calvin with his trophy, a log he cut into thirds with a hacksaw. I was so proud of him, especially for his perseverance to stick with it till the job was complete and his enthusiasm while working. The kid flat out loves to work.

Some Pics for the Rellies & More Helprin

Got to see Jay, fresh in from South Africa, while we were in Oklahoma City. He brought a disc with about 200 pictures of Anna on it and we all crowded around Josh's Mac (he brought the whole thing) ooohhing and aaahhhing. Cute kid. Melani was sorely missed, only a few more months until that wonderful accent is heard on this side of the Atlantic. Jay had tons of great stories and plenty of thought provoking insights, he was very homesick though and ready to get back to his girls. The entire family had a great time, Granny Betty, my grandparents on my dad's side, mom and dad, and all the brothers, wives, and children were together once again. I don't think we've had that much fun since Brad's wedding. Thursday night we played a great round of Loaded Questions and laughed till it hurt. With all the fun memories lingering in my head it was, for the first time in forever, very hard to get back to work on Sunday night. I just wanted to savor it a little bit more.

More Helprin, this from The Pacific and Other Stories and very appropriate considering the great picture of Anna: "I think we are in a lost age, in which holiness and charity have been traded for the victory and penetration of knowledge, though all the knowledge in the world has not brought us any further than where we can go without it even in the outermost halls of grace. I believe that more is to be known and apprehended from the beauty of a face than in delving, no matter how deep, simply into how things work, no matter how marvelous that may be. The greatest substance of the world is immaterial; the province of the heart, and its study cannot be forced or reasoned. Merely to touch upon the edge of things in parsing their mechanics is to forswear their fullness, for the entry to this fullness lies not in science but in art."

Saved by Grace

The youth pastor of our old church in KC had a gift for designing really great t-shirts and logos. One of my favorites was a black t-shirt that said Naughty by Nature in small white letters on the front and Saved by Grace on the back. It was one of those fits-just-right shirts that I ended up wearing so much that Jen called it my uniform. One day as I passed a coworker he took a look at the shirt and called out, "Grace...is that the name of your wife?"

Never have truer words been spoken. Jen has truly been a salvation, saving me from myself time and time again. Like a dam channels and makes useful a wild untamed river, so is Jen to me.

I live with my head lost in the clouds about 90% of the time so it would be really easy to have this blog be a boring exercize in belly gazing narcissism. Actually, that was my plan. I wanted a place to put my thoughts in black and white and maybe slowly invite 1 or 2 people to read them. That all changed when I checked our e-mail this morning I saw quite a few e-mails entitled RE:Blog. Sweet Jimmy, Woman! Sooooo.... although I will be writing about things that excite and interest me I would like this blog to be primarily about other people. If you have a blog send me the address and I'll link it on my site. For some reason I'm having a hard time linking to Mac sites but I'm working on that. I had actually been planning on writing today's blog about Jen and perhaps that's why she wanted all the witnesses.

Chaco, mi sweet Chaco

I first saw Jen in the spring of 1988 in a small 2x3 photo on a page filled with pictures of the teenagers we would be going to Kenya with that summer. They say that people with goals succeed and those without goals fail, so I quickly made it my goal to make out with her sometime that summer. Some people go on mission trips to help people in distant lands, I went on mission trips to make out with chicks in distant lands. Although we never did kiss that summer, she caught me hook line and sinker. Over the next 8 years we wrote, visited, ran up enormous phone bills, crossed wires, stopped writing, stopped calling, went out with others, couldn't forget each other, started writing and calling again and eventually completey smitten, I moved up to Minnesota and we got married a year later. Jen is a realy hard person to forget, she gets under your skin and before you know it she's there for life.

The first thing that gets you is her gorgeous face; big expressive brown eyes that seem to be lit from within, a disarming smile full of perfectly aligned bright white teeth and all those cute little freckles. As if that weren't enough throw in her strong jaw line, dimples and a never ending procession of the cutest haircuts and we are talking about one hot i-talian mama! And she is so versatile, she has so many looks depending on time of day, hairstyle, makeup, lighting, etc that it is like being married to five women at one time. The beauty I have seen in her face has been burned into my mind in a thousand little snapshots that would be sufficient to sustain me for a lifetime were I to go blind. The world is full of beautiful women but there is only one whose face I cannot forget.

Jen has this gift of disarming me when I am full of fury and attacking her with my verbal six shooters. I can rant and rave and she can respond as if I had just asked her to pass the butter. In the face of such grace it is hard to stay angry for long. I have never figured out how she does this and I have never managed to return the favor, but she keeps at it after all these years. She also has this rare gift of keeping me grounded when I get to big for my britches. "Hey Mr. Full of Yourself, you're not as hot as you think", she can say in the kindest and funniest of ways that usually ends up with both of us laughing.

Jen is unmistakably feminine but she is not girlie and I love that about her. Growing up with 3 brothers and very few female relatives (love ya Julie!) left me pretty clueless about how women operate. If Jen were any daintier I probably would have bulldozed right over her and we would have both been the worse off for it. She can hang with the best and roughest of em and dish it out too.

Jen is old fashioned in all the right ways too, she'll sit with me on the front porch in the dark and listen to the night noises, she'd much rather play cards than watch tv, and she bakes bread. Let me say that again, she bakes bread! In fact there is nothing Jen cannot bake or cook. I keep waiting for the day she plants a vineyard and starts making wine. It's terrible, but I get this smug pride walking down the grocery store aisles, spaghetti sauce...puhleeazze my wife makes that; cookies, no thanks Keebler, my wife will make them; store bought bread?, I wouldn't feed that crap to the the birds. It's horrible, I'm an elitist! People who are over the top and obsessively committed to excellence in their particular field or hobby get two enthusiastic thumbs up from me. Jen is such a person when it comes to the kitchen. There is no method too difficult, no act too time consuming, no amount of sacrifice too much to get things just right. I love it!

Although there are times she can drive me right up to the brink of insanity, she always has the right touch and knows when to back off, when to throw in a joke, or when it's best to just look cute. Jen can walk into a grocery store and stop right in front of the entrance and look around in a state of confusion as if she had just landed on Mars while shoppers pile up in a bottleneck behind her, but she moves about my life with a deftness and grace that keeps me coming back for more.