Dehimundu

Three to four hundred water buffalo wait, shaking, foaming at the mouth from the exhaustion of their arduous journey. The temple sits along a high reaching ridge in these western Himalayas, the far west corner of Nepal. Dehimandu is the destination. The land is terraced mountainous landscape, steppes dropping away from the Hindu sight’s sacred grounds. The quivering beasts wear red tikka powder and orange flower necklaces. Women walk by showering them with more. Each new water buffalo arrives with an entourage of men holding tethers tied to him. Thousands of people from the area dress in their finest clothing. People are playing drums and singing. It is festive and we dance along with them while taking in the grand mountain views, not paying much mind to the centerpiece of the carnival.

Broken

They come to broken schools from broken homes.
They know only fear and intimidation;
Mistakening it for respect and strength.
They fight amongst themselves
Battling for their lives.
Knowing somewhere deep down
That they are the forgotten
The poor,
The minority,
The lowest rung in our class society.
They’re fed sugar, caffeine and logos.
Then expected to focus on content
Increasingly disconnected from their lives.
Drugs are used to placate them.
Soma
Images of a “Brave New World”
A factory with its bells, whistles and clocks
Training workers
Not thinkers
Students push against the walls
Fight the only way they know
Pleading for help.

Afternoon Clouds

The streets are empty, but a car, door open, left abandoned in the middle of the street. The stray fire hydrant made it about two feet into the front end of the car slowing an errant driver the night before. Through fogged vision, he must have driven a few moments before his transport surrendered to the crushed engine. The car is facing downhill, so the driver may have been coasting, thinking he was still in control. The assumption is that it was a man, just because, well, men tend to be more idiotic than women in that regard. The local police barracks is only two blocks away. It is the early afternoon. No one has reported it, nor moved it. The engine is cold. I think one of the credos at the police barracks is vigilance, but, then again, there are much worse things happening in Bushwick. At least that is what the Daily News would try to tell me.
“I should take a picture of that.”
“Nah, there will be another one like it soon enough.”
“True.”
We continue walking down the street, late summer storm clouds fill the sky over the baseball field opposite the police station. Our conversation veers toward cops, corruption and nepotism. We make no moves to curb or quiet our chat as we pass a policeman taking a belated coffee break. He pauses, looks up at us with an indifferent expression then returns back to his own thoughts.
Beyond the park, the streets are lined with barren shells of industrial buildings, brick or cement, covered in various layers of graffiti. Block after block, we walk the mile toward Williamsburg. The industrial buildings give way to vinyl sided, dilapidated row homes with caged windows and cable wires running between the windows. With each block the décor improves. Fresh planted saplings line the streets, and then grow incrementally with each passing block.

Casa del Mundo

The water laps onto the shore caressing the mind to rest from a long days journey from the bowels of LaGuardia. The wind fetched from across the lake and down one of the brilliant volcanos lightly rattles the windows. In the morning light before the sunrise, there are lone fishermen in small canoes juxtoposed next to a steep cliff. We awake briefly to take in the sight, the air and the serenity of Lago Attitlan.

Our travels from Brooklyn to here were nearly flawless but definitely not direct. After a wait for the wind-delayed regional flight, we got the last two seats on the plane. Luckily a few of the standby passengers had left or were not waiting at the gate when their name was called. In Richmond, the Day's Inn provided a clean drab bed to sleep on. The middle American street lining the perimeter of the airport is wide, impassable for a pedestrian and provides a seemingly endless chain of chain hotels and Waffle Houses. There is a pool but the miles of concrete and lack of green living things makes it uninviting to those with sight.

At the airport we get confirmed seats to Charlotte and on to Guatemala. Guatemala City's airport covers the only flat portion of the gargantuan sprawl of Central America's largest city. With a fresh cup of the omnipotent NesCafe (If you are wondering, Guatemala does grow wonderful coffee but it gets exported!), my friend and her canine meet us at the airport.

Our vehicle winds through familiar countryside before we drop down the few thousand feet to the majestic Lago Atitlan, a lake reminiscent of Titicaca in Peru and Tahoe in Nevada for its granduer. After a light, though heavily buttered, cena tipico we get an overpriced lancha ride across the lake under the umbrella of every star in the northern sky. On the dock, the quiet of night envelops as the lancha returns from where it came. We stumble up a steep stone staircase to the sound of glasses clinking and pleasant after dinner conversation in the main dining room of the Casa del Mundo.