Feeling: FLIGHTY (in a plane, not a skitty sense)
Fly out day.
I awoke at 5am, managing to hustle back to sleep for another 50; I then got up, donned my disgusting New Balances (binned as soon as I was back) and banged on my Beats. Then I walked around Thamel for an hour giving my goodbyes.
It was pissing down so the beautiful guard from the hotel lent me an umbrella. I circled and circled the centre, just drinking it all in for the last time this trip. It’s weird; I wasn’t necessarily sad, just sort of resigned.
Every morning when I’ve been out early, what I’ve thought was rubbish collection has been going on. Prongs of people parading about the piles, this morning all wearing ponchos. I always found it really heartening to think how they were keeping it clean – then this morning I realised that no; they are actually the very poor, dissecting through the discarded and taking to claim anything worthy of an inkling of wealth.
There was a little group of about five young boys sitting on a stoop. The first time I trekked on by, one was showing off a little padlock he had found. The next, another had lit up a half cigarette and they took turns excitedly smoking it.
It killed me a bit.
During the “norm” hours of day and night it’s all fairy lights and festivities and fun; when it’s the “anti social” times of morning twilight, it’s the reality of poverty and poorness and a deep deposit of desperation.
I’ve got a lot of guilt on me at the moment. In Lukla I saw a little puppy with a gammy leg; I think it was broken. When I walked past the first time I covered my face and looked away. The second I felt all suffocated. I didn’t see him again, but I vowed that should our flight not get out the next day I would find him and find a vet and get him better.
Our flight got out.
And he’s been on my mind ever since.
I’ve agonised over the idea of asking the lady we met at the teahouse half an hour away from Lukla to go and find him for me. To take him to help (I just want to clarify; he did seem happy. He wasn’t wincing or weeping or anything) and pay for his care. And then yesterday when out walking in Thamel, I saw another dog hobbling along with a wounded leg. And another with a rash all over his torso (is it a torso on a dog?).
And yet I’ve done nothing.
I don’t want to be someone that does nothing.
Back to hotel for breakfast and last masala chai, into taxi to airport, bye to Craig at entrance (in most povertal countries you are only allowed into the actual departures building if you have a ticket; I think it’s to do with the so many people and also the amounts of those homeless), bags checked in and on the conveyer (only 36kg between them – could’ve hustled SO many more owl dream catchers) and now I’m in the out-of-here arena waiting for my gate to be called (they don’t display it and only tell you about ten minutes before. Then it’s into yet another little waiting room, onto a bus, then a trot across the tarmac to a plane. Honestly, if I hadn’t done this many times before there’s no way I’d feel comfortable with the set out).
Sad? Yes. But not heart breakingly, not-wanting-to-go like last time. I’ve loved my fortnight flit, got a lot of stuff done in both writing and mindset, and I’m ready to slam this life into the next step.
It’s a funny thing, this life stuff. I’m definitely not the person I thought I’d turn out to be. I’m extremely happy with my life, what I’ve done and where I’m going, but there’s definitely bits and moments I would love a redo on. Not regrets, just redos. And when I get back home, I don’t want to get sucked in and overloaded and in time tizzys like I so often do to myself.
Goodbye Kathmandu. Good bye Thamel. Goodbye mountains and Namche and Lukla and Nepal as a whole.
But not good bye to this Poppy who has emerged again – she’s coming back with me and she’s going to stay.