December,
30 2006
Updated January 8 2007
Paragliding
in Nepal
Part
2
The
Morning of the Jump
The guy who sweeps the leaves in the morning has a
mud and thatch house located on the lane. The morning
I leave for my jump, he is playing with his child
on the road. The guy must be in his forties, but his
teeth are yellow and rotten, and his face looks weathered
and wearied. But he has a gentle countenance. His
child is about four or five and has gold hoops earrings
and a chubby round face with a rice bowl haircut.
The father says, "Namaste" and I say "Hello,
what a pretty girl." And then from a beard stubble
face, the man corrects me, "Boy, not girl."
I apologize and apologetically offer, "But he
has earrings." But instead I get an education
in local culture and he half speaks and half pantomimes:
"That's how it is in Nepal”. And I half
speak and half pantomime, "Okay, dude whatever.
I am off to paragliding...
Paragliding
in Pokhara
When I arrive at the designated meeting point, there
is a guy with waist long hair originating from a south
of the equator hairline. His hawk like face sits on
a wiry, bird-like frame and his skin is craggy and
lined like a latter day Mick Jagger's He is alternately
sucking deeply on a cigarette and playing with a young
child.
Fewa
Lake
We introduce ourselves and I learn that this French
dude is my instructor and his name is Pierre. "Oh
shit", I think, wondering if there is way I can
avoid admitting I am American but it is inevitable.
I try to the soften the damage by explaining that
although I am American, I do not live there, I live
in Thailand." Pierre replies sympathetically.
"Many Americans live in Thailand". Trying
to get on his good side, I say, "Perhaps there
is a reason" and make a penetrating and meaningful
look. "I think there are many reasons."
he chimes cooperatively. Perhaps we have formed some
bond in understated anti-Americanism. Or maybe he
doesn’t give a shit and I am just another ticket
to meet some of the costs his expensive hobby.
Nepalese Chidren
We
get into the passenger van and begin the drive to
the top of the mountain and a paranoid monologue invades
my thoughts: I am going to jump off a cliff. All of
my natural instincts of self-preservation will warn
me not to jump of the mountain because to do so would
mean dying. This monologue translates into fear. But
I will disregard this fear and continue with my plan
to jump off a mountain cliff with some dude I don't
even know. Holy shit. How safe is this exactly? In
a third world country with no insurance? Is my instructor
a drunk, or a junkie or worse, suicidal? Is he so
anti-American that he will kill both of us? I weigh
the possibilities. If I die, he dies, so no need to
worry. And I did see him playing an infant child before
we left. Probably his daughter. That is one more reason
for him to want to live. That and cigarettes and paragliding.
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