Three months ago, I would have told you that I hadn’t had a truly good spill in years. The most recent injuries I’d sustained involved high heels and cobblestone paving in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico on New Year’s Eve, which, relatively speaking and considering all the sequins involved, would look somewhat glamorous to me now. But aside from that mishap, the last time I skinned my knee or took a truly, point-and-laugh kind of fall was probably back in grade school. Since the clumsy days of dodgeball and flag football in PE class, I’ve stayed careful and in one piece, with few tumbles, cuts, or bruises to my name. Nepal, however, changed all that.

The first month or so in Kathmandu, my eyes were constantly glued to the uneven pavement, scanning for ankle-twisters, toe-stubbers, and possible ACL dangers. The ground here is a mixture of bricks, dirt, broken pieces of cement, and rocks. It has no classification, as I wouldn’t quite call it asphalt but it’s definitely not an unpaved road. It’s more like the more sophisticated cousin of the rural dirt road speckled with potholes that winds through farming areas worldwide. What’s more, as well as being aware of potential injury sites, one has to constantly be aware of an entire animal world at shin-level: the street dogs who see no better place to nap than the middle of the sidewalk, the stray chickens that will tonight be on someone’s dinner plate, the goat population (living and dead), and of course, the occasional lounging cow that draws far less attention than any Westerner walking down the street.

Alex Kryz looking up in the Himalayas

Needless to say, with all these obstacles, those of us who are, kindly put, coordination-challenged, find life below the knees very tricky in Kathmandu. Add sandals to the mix and it takes some serious effort, which I quickly acquired, to keep from faceplanting every ten feet or so in the city streets. I spent my first month with healthy, undamaged feet, toes, and legs. I was proud that I sustained no bruises, no skinned calves, no twisted ankles, and poop-free shoes. It was one day, while I was exiting a microbus, that I heard a telltale splash and my heart nearly sunk as I plunged my entire foot, ankle, and half of my calf into something warm, wet, and smelly. When I looked up, the boy taking my money was laughing, with his head thrown back in a way that let me know, no, he was not laughing with me, he was laughing at me. That was when I started to laugh too, and as I squished my way home and tried hard not to think about what the street concoction might have contained, realized it was about time I stepped in some crap. I’d been looking down for too long.

As time went on in Nepal, my clumsiness on the streets or in the backcountry began to amount, but so did everything I saw. Yes, I fell down the stairs in my village homestay, and yes, I fell down some more stairs in the village, and tripped over countless rocks in the mountains on trek, and slipped on some rocks in the river we were bathing in, and tripped over tent stakes, and tripped on city curbs, but all of the sudden I was seeing about 50% more of this country than I had been seeing before.

As my guard came down, my confidence in my feet went up. After all, it’s hard to look at mountains in the most beautiful mountain range in the world when you’re so focused on not twisting your ankle. My legs may have a few (or a lot) more scars than they did when I came to Nepal, but they’ve been worth it. I just needed to trust that they’d get me where I needed to go, and the bumps and bruises along the way were all a part of the journey.

I ended up falling more than I have in years, but it wasn’t the same as falling down. I fell all the time because I actually started looking at this country, instead of keeping my gaze down, always anxious about what lurked on the ground below. The day I stepped in who-knows-what, and we all know it was bound to happen, I started falling up. And that’s what I’ll continue to do, to look at the world straight on, even when I’m not sure where (or in what) I’m about to place my feet.

Insignificant.  There is no other word to describe the feeling of entering a place where the sky and the earth meet as one.  Here, above the tree line, where colossal cliffs draw ragged lines in the ocean blue sky, an uneasy stillness floats across the uninhabitable abyss.

Figures move up ahead, a stark contrast to the ancient landscape.  They walk with caution into the dream-like immensity before them, speechless and mystified.

So it is when entering the land of Na.

At 14,000 ft, delusion begins to set in.  Walking towards the tiny Tibettan settlement, tattered prayer flags wave violently in the gusts that speed across the plateau, the only sign of life coming from the aching cry of crows up above.  Each step pushes the body to exhaustion; resting against a rock pillar allays the pain before movement begins again.

In this far-flung corner of the globe, a strange and forgiving calmness arises.   Remote and primitive, aged and pristine, spirits seem to whisper stories amongst the still solitude.

After a sleepless night, we push our bodies higher, towards the glistening white snow and rougher, steeper terrain.  Hours in the penetrating sunlight and thin air add to our trance as we traverse, the aroma of incense radiating from the low-lying bushes, until, finally, it appears. A mirage of light, blinding us.

Hundreds of tiny rock statues surround the sacred lake.  The icy cold air swirls off its translucent, placid surface.  Rising majestically in the background are a gathering of glaciers and peaks, higher, rougher, and harsher than before; yet the shimmering lagoon holds a divine presence all its own.

It is said that more than just the mountains are reflected in this high altitude wonder.  Padmasambhava, the “second Buddha”, resided here, meditating for years in isolation, amidst the vastness and deep rock fissures, before crossing the lake and passing into Tibet to spread the dharma.

Those who you passed days before, in frayed clothing and fatigued eyes, will tell you the powers of this place are undeniable and unexplainable, all in one infallible glance.

And, as a creature in an unfamiliar land, you will, undoubtedly, believe them.

Lucky for me, I had an insider’s perspective.  A few weeks of Nepali language lessons and a sweet host family helped me to, rather than stumble upon, be pointed a few blocks down to the best momo’s in town.

Never did I think I would put so much thought into the texture and elasticity of a dumpling, the freshness and flavor of its filling, and the spicy contrast of its accompanying sauce.  But then again, never did I think I would be living in Nepal.  When your Nepali aamaa is force-feeding you daal baaht (the national dish of lentils and rice) twice a day, you crave something, anything else.  Thanks to the Tibettan influence in this primarily Hindu city, the dumpling made its way down the Silk Road and has been transformed into the “momo”, another popular Nepali favorite.

Like most stores in Nepal, the shop has no name, and is simply identified by the color of the curtain hanging in its storefront.  Part of a three room house, sitting at the table gives you the feel that you are eating in someone’s kitchen, precisely because you are.  The only difference is the massive, steaming pot sitting on the gas stove, cooking a days worth of the delicious, juicy little mouthfuls for the neighbors and loyal customers like me.

Don’t be fooled, however.  Although the momo’s are the family’s livelihood, they don’t go above and beyond for their customers.  Veggie momo’s and a sauce no less then HOT on my spice-o-meter are the only things on the menu, besides a lukewarm Coke.  And in true Nepali fashion, it doesn’t open until 1 p.m., so don’t think it’ll substitute for morning daal baht.  Nevertheless, the momo’s speak for themselves, and the good news – they have take out, so dinner is another story.

Wetness drapes the early morning air in Kathmandu as the buzz of activity begins.  Shopkeepers throw open their storefront shields, squinting their eyes in the bright light.  Bicycle tires slice the wet pavement as they are pushed aside by the roar of passing four-wheels, suffering from heavier loads.  Blank faces stare out from buses, unconscious of the familiar portrait painted outside.  A soundtrack of dogs, staking out their daily kingdom, interspersed with the humming of pigeons nesting above in the tangle of telephone wires, drifts throughout the streets.

My stiff body relaxes into its cold pavement throne, thankful to not be participating in the surrounding movement, aamaa’s chipati still warm against my lap.  I contemplate the stares I am receiving, but loose interest long before they do.  My whiteness blares.  Even dogs come to investigate, circling a few times before their analysis is complete.  Westerner, they blink.  The farther from home you travel, I now realize, contributes to the strong stench of foreigner you carry with you.

A break in the traffic and settling of dust reveals a pyramid-shaped woven structure directly across the empty void.  Movement underneath catches my sleep-filled eyes and my curiosity sparks.  A red beard pokes through the slates, diving into a blue bucket of seed before being jerked back inside.  Trapped in their airy confinement, a soft, lazy rustling suggests the chickens are quite content with, or just used to, their mobile home.

And then I see it.  Hanging from a metal hook only a few feet away is the lifeless body of their headless, featherless friend.

Destiny.  Something we all wish we could predict, get a glimpse of, or by some ounce of luck, even change.  We are uncomfortable that the future is a mystery, forgetting the gift of “now”, too content with trying to cultivate our psychic abilities.

Yet here, staring her dark future in the face, knowing the precious gift of life will flash by in a wink, not only for her, but every brother and sister she’s ever had, she sits.

Just a tiny push and her caged home would be teetering on the edge of the curb, a nudge of a passing tuk tuk equalling the chance of freedom.  Yet she dines with her friends, entertained by the feet of passersby, pausing for a mid-morning stretch in the soft rays of light.  She breathes, in and out, her soft cooing verbalizing her sense of peace.  And she watches, unconcerned with the future, taking her life one peck at a time.

I think about how the rest of my day, week, and month will unfold, slowly realizing my admiration for a chicken.

My lovely home in the Bansbari neighborhood of Kathmandu

Ring.  Riinnggg. I am welcomed into consciousness by the sounds of aamaa’s daily worship floating into my room.  My feet touch the uneven mud floor as I wrap myself in yak wool  and climb outside, greeted by the sun peeking over the monastery high on the hill.  Brushing my teeth at the tap, I offer my daily greeting to Kali the cow before pausing to listen to the soft hymns drifting from the nearby temple.  In Nepal, it is not 6:00 a.m.  It is simply time for the day to begin.

Hearing my footsteps, aamaa lights the gas stove, her sari peacefully gliding around the kitchen.  I sit down for breakfast, a steaming cup of buffalo milk and biscuits, as baa carefully watches the clock.  “Dilo!” he winks, ushering me out of the house at quarter til, but not before I can steal one of aamaa’s famous embraces.

The morning sun hits familiar faces and loud chatter fills the program house courtyard.  We unwind from morning yoga before diving into language class with Rajesh-ji.  Today we are learning the present progressive, but before we can moan, Rajesh-ji presents a game of charades.  We keel over laughing, none of us being able to accomplish the task without blurting out something foul or uncomprehensible.

The mood in the room shifts an hour later as Sita Ram Baba enters, and we all bow in front of the holy man.  Peacefulness and clarity exude from the enlightened yogi, and we sink deeper into our cushions on the floor, stoic like Buddhas, as we ask him how it feels to fast and how the 78 year old man knows he will live for another 15 years.

Delicious smells fill the classroom and we know our superb Sherpa chef, Pemba-dai, has accomplished yet another feast in the kitchen.  Souls and faces stuffed, we relax before spending the afternoon getting lost in the city, squeezing into tuk tuks and locating the sweetest banana lassi.  A trip to an Ayurvedic clinic reveals a foreign belief system and during a trip to Asan to locate saffron, nutmeg and something I can’t pronounce, I exhaust myself in the evening market crowd.  As the sun begins to set, I am lured back to my quiet street, warm smiles and my awaiting mountain of dal baht.

Later, my full stomach groaning in pain, I lay down, stars bright outside my window.  Serenaded by an escalating dog chorus,  I close my eyes, visions of the day vivid in my mind, and as the last bark fills my ears, sleep erasing my thoughts, it hits me.

Here I am in Nepal.  Here I am at peace.

A recent trip to the International Center for Photography in NYC put this back into perspective.  The exhibit “Dress Codes” showcases the work of 34 artists all over the world and pays tribute to fashion, costume, clothing and wardrobe as an important form of social communication.   While we attribute certain outfits to various cultures (whether its Gucci or Vans for Westerners, Hello Kitty in Japan, or beaded neck rings among the Maasai), seldom do we consider how much of our own identity is shaped through our closets.

By twisting and tweaking old photographs and capturing new images, these artists show the power we invest in our clothing, and, as a result, the power it invests in us.  This shines throughout the exhibit, but is truly summed up in Julian Rudelius’ short film entitled Tagged. The protagonist, a young Turkish boy living in Germany, dons his wardrobe for the camera, giving light to its underlying social significance as he compares himself to the locals.  ”I look better than them.”

Below are are a few of my top picks from the exhibit:

The Ark Collection, Wangechi Mutu

Various postcard-sized collages of images of women taken from pornographic magazines and a National Geographic type book called “Women of the African Ark.”

Invasion, Martha Rosler

A from-the-frontlines photograph of the combat in Iraq in which  the American solider are replaced with Dolce and Gabbana models.

Mumbai: A Laundry Field, Kimsooja

Four videos playing simultaneously: the first showing the alleyways of the slums of Mumbai colored with hanging laundry, the second showing the strenuous process of washing clothing, the third showing commuter trains packed with people in hued garments, and the fourth shows the unused scraps and textiles strewn in abundance around the city streets.  All of these shots encompass a city that, while poverty stricken, is animated by color and the rhythm of life.

For a more detailed summary of this exhibit, visit: Dress Codes

In preparation for my upcoming semester trekking in Nepal, I was assigned a Hindu deity to research.  Not having the slightest understanding of the Hindu religion, I was excited to become acquainted with at least one of the many figures in they worship.

Mine is Vishnu.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like we have much in common.  For one, he is male.  He also has four arms and is cloud blue in color. Sporting his treasures of a conchshell, ceremonial club, chakra (a discus-like weapon) and flower of liberation, he typically hangs out on a lotus flower all day, tricking evil spirits and taking occasional rides on his eagle-like creature, Garuda.

As the Supreme God of the Vaishnavism, the most popular tradition in Hinduism, his meaning is massive.  Coming to Earth on occasion in avatar form (not James Cameron’s Avatars, although he does seem to resemble one), he brings back dharma, or social and cosmic order.  Like many other forms of God, Vishnu has an all-pervading essence found in everything in the material world.  Master creator and destroyer of the universe, he encompasses supreme powers, some of the most important being, but not limited to, omniscience, energy, strength and splendor, as well as holding the power to free beings from sin.

In other words, although hard to relate to, he’s one pretty cool dude.

In doing my research, struggling through the intensely complex names of forces, creatures and deities, there was one myth about Vishnu that seemed to stand out.  During one of his most famous journeys to Earth, sporting the avatar form of a dwarf, he makes a deal with a greedy demon in an effort to save humanity.

The dwarf simply asks the demon for the land he can cover in three steps.  Assuming this can’t be much for a dwarf, the demon foolishly agrees.  Vishnu then takes his three steps: first covering the earth, then the sky, and with his third, the heavens, taking back the universe and saving humanity.

While this may seem like quite the feat, in retrospect, it’s symbolic of our own inner abilities.  While we may sometimes view ourselves as dwarves, not until we are challenged do we become aware of our ability to overcome monstrous feats.

Perhaps this story seems to resinate with me most as I consider my upcoming journey: the miles of earth I will have to cover, the vast sky and thinness of air I will encounter and the extent of my own spirituality I will be forced to discover.  Whatever the steps may be, each person finds there are ones that seem larger than life, and while it may take a little more effort than it did for Vishnu, taking these steps will help us take hold of our own universe, a feat that is nothing less than God-like.