Anticipation… Arrival

Posted by Amisiyah | With 7 Comments | In Support Nepal

Airports are giant waiting rooms, filled with more than man could ever need to ease the interim. How much of our life is spent in waiting? Sometimes it seems that it is all I ever do. I wait for questions, I wait for answers, I wait for love. And then there are those rare and wondrous moments when I dare to be. When I just walk with faith. In these fleeting moments I truly feel my self. A self that does not question. A self with no doubt. A self that knows that life MUST have a profound, ineffable meaning beyond what seems to be. I don’t see many of these “selves” here. I don’t feel like this “self” either as I submit to the overwhelming powerlessness of this air-conditioned limbo. This giant waiting room, cold and sterile. 

Bright green men and women move to and fro on the other side of the glass in their monotonous labour to ready an airbus. They are dwarfed by the aeroplanes, vast runway and huge twisted metal structures. Fluoro ants on a sea of stone. Some are driving luggage vehicles, some are moving bright orange witches hats into position, some walk with purpose and some in circles, but one man holds my attention. He sweeps the runway at a pace much slower than one would expect considering that the concrete stretches out to the horizon, its surface streaked with rubber tyre marks, oil stains and painted lines and markers of red and yellow. His job seems infinitely pointless and it seems my tiny friend shares my sentiment. There is no method to the madness as he sweeps multiple sections without order or structure, drifting to the areas that his attention is drawn to, distracted by others that seem to work with purpose.

Time stands still without purpose. The mind and heart wither without purpose. A man is plagued with doubt when life has no meaning but when there is reason, there is the fire of inspiration and it burns bright for a moment or dimly for an aeon, but for most it is always extinguished by our deepest fears. Purpose needs reigniting, it needs nurturing and it needs fuel. I think about purpose a lot. Sometimes I wish I didn’t but for the most part I no longer view it as a cross to bear but as a blessing. The burning of becoming as David Zindell would put it. My partner and I have recently reignited our sense of purpose, journeying to Nepal to assist the children in the earthquake-devastated area of Sindhupalchock. Our family, friends and friends of friends have supported our endeavour to the extent of bringing this idea to fruition and here we wait for a plane to carry us to our purpose. To carry a collective vision of unity across 7,985 Km of ocean, and into the lives of 600 children in the remote village of Talamarang.

“Please put on your seatbelts as we prepare for decent.” The lush green vegetation of the mountainside triggers my excitement. The underdeveloped metropolis and dirt roads make my heart skip a beat. The sun shines through the sparse clouds and soft mist, giving the mountainside a mysterious silhouette, making me strangely emotional. And then I see the REAL mountainside. The ancient snow capped mountains of the Himalayas, towering high above the highest cloud. They speak to me. They tell me that I am meant to be here, an overwhelming feeling considering that I rarely “know” anything. We fly over farms and villages of humble one-story buildings all miles apart from each other. I wonder what it would be like to wake in this pristine haven, untouched by mans ambition and surrounded by the deepest of green. My favourite green. The green of the forest. The green of malachite. The green of the heart. We land but a part of me still fly’s.

I’ve never experience a culture like Nepal’s. The contrast of dilapidated buildings bustling with life in the most serene and beautiful landscapes I have ever seen seems odd at first. I look closer. I activate my other senses. The smells are foreign to me and yet their strange sweetness is somehow familiar. The air is thick and hot. The narrow dirt roads are swarming with movement. Droves of motorbikes and small cars weave around each other in a rogue frenzy with more near misses than I can count. Pedestrians walk fearlessly through the chaos. Motorist’s beep to warn of collisions. Stray dogs bask in the sun. Chickens scurry about in laneways. There is a cow standing in defiance in the middle of the road, hundreds of electrical lines intertwine and meet in unorganised heaps and knots, children are playing, local merchants serenade tourists with promises of fine bargains, farmers sit on woven fabrics laden with their product. Locals sit and chat outside their homes and shops. Men hold hands and embrace in a manner foreign to western customs. The women wear colourful clothing that falls loosely over their smooth, dark Nepalese skin, their faces often decorated with nose rings, ear piercings and red dots on their third eye. They are beautiful. Delicate features, infectious smiles and deep, dark eyes. With all the hustle and bustle, somehow there is no sense of urgency. No routine. Apparently the Nepalese don’t wait for Friday afternoon to be utterly alive.

– James