Home?

Prius filled concrete capital covers my culture shocked head ache. Billboards advertise with money signs, eyeing for blinded minds. I avoid it all. Inside I hide. Assembling another round of chai for my family.

How the hell did I get here? I was just meditating in the Himalayas and now I am inhaling LA traffic, sitting beside a plastic bag of constant confusion and subdued depression.

Let’s backtrack a few weeks to Nagarkot, a small mountain village where I stayed with Suman, a free-spirited musician and painter. I found a haven in his incredible restaurant/bar/hang-out spot where I was well-fed, taught Nepali, and inspired to write even more songs. Everything was free. Everything was fine. I was set to teach English to Nepali kids and receive a stipend in return. Classes would resume in a week, so I seized the opportunity to travel.

I ventured six hours to Pokhara, sitting backwards between locals in the aisle of another hellacious bus ride. When I arrived, I had no plan. Dressed in loneliness  I wandered the streets and mingled with other white faces, sharing cold beers while shooting pool. A mild-mannered Frenchman mentioned he would play a round of golf the following morning. My ears shot up like a street dog’s.

Albeit poorly maintained, The Himalayan Golf Course was gorgeous. Set in a gorge beneath stunning mountains (the largest in the world), we tee’d off with a caddie boy and hopefully enough balls to get us through 18. The course was completely ours.

But… I struggled….bad. Sickness weighed on me like a rock. My stomach ached, and my head was heavy with dizziness beneath the blistering sun. 9 holes later we sat alongside the green, peering out in sheer silence. Then, it happened.

I ran to the river, desecrating the rushing waters with diarrhea and vomit. It was up-down-up-down before I returned to my partner. I struggled up the gorge before I had to throw up again. I could barely stand.

Three days ill. Shut off from the world in my overpriced hotel room. Pale faced and lonely. It was awful. I never felt so sick in my entire life. My heart slowly shrank in my pain-stained chest. Moreover, my grandma had recently passed away. It was no shock. She had suffered from Alzheimers for many years in a slow descent towards death. I contemplated a return to the States, yet it seemed so abstract, far away. I couldn’t fathom it. Furthermore, my opportunities in Asia were growing. I was set on working in Cambodia, where I had a good job lined up on the south beach as a bartender. My family encouraged me to make my own decision. And it wasn’t until I fell into a haze of gastric confusion that things became crystal clear.

When you know – you just know. It was my time to go home.

I surprised my family with a Thanksgiving miracle and attended a beautiful memorial service for my grandma. I wrote and recited a poem, and it was nice to remember the old times – and have some closure. I am very glad to be back with my family, recharge my batteries, and cook some mean Indian meals. I lost 17 pounds in less than 3 months traveling India/Nepal and have been eating vegetarian too. Things here are…. different, but I am enjoying the western luxuries: hot showers, clean water, electricity, yada yada. However, cabin fever is creeping in and my rambling shoes are still tied tight. I better make money fast if I want to conquer Mexico by bike and take a ferry to Cuba. Call me a dreamer, but anything’s possible.

My home is in my head.

Shanti.

 

Me and Suman

The golf course I desecrated

Flying over California

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One comment on “Home?

  1. Dykra says:

    I read your travels and I feel a little more brave, thinking about do it someday. And your blog reminds me a poem of Antonio Machado , in english would be something like this:
    “Wanderer, your footsteps are
    the road, and nothing more;
    wanderer, there is no road,
    the road is made by walking.
    By walking one makes the road,
    and upon glancing back
    one sees the path
    that must never be trod again.
    Wanderer, there is no road
    Only wakes upon the sea.”

    I think you home is the road , miss you a lot David! Miss your point of wiev , here in Spain they just talk about crisis , the big crisis is that we don’t have dreams anymore. Give to California a second chance!

    Dykra

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