My job is exotic. I sit in a chair tucked into a little nook besides shelves of white ceramic mugs and metal water cups. I can see the booths and tables when I peak over the partition counter, but prefer to let my gaze open, meditatively, as I face the bar and sip my bottomless mug of chai. American families and young couples are in my peripheral vision, eating their Vegie Chow Chow, Chicken Jal Fregi, Saag Paneer, Tikka Masala and Lamb Korma, content for now. Outside the large windows, snow blows sideways, pelting the entire little town of Nederland. There is just enough light diffusing through the thick sky that the town glows blue.
Wind here is merciless. If you cannot muster the strength to howl back at it, it will blow you away until you settle down in milder climates. I have heard quips from long time residents about how often couples move here in the summer and are happy in their mountain chalets, until they meet an alpine winter. Then they move away, back to California or down to Boulder. Just about everyone who lives here seems proud of Nederland's harshness.
Several times, walking home at night under bright stars or heavy clouds, I have crossed the bridge on Bridge Street, over Upper Boulder Creek. The wind concentrates along the creek bed, rolling downhill like water. The ancient wind is furiously surprised when it reaches the bridge obstructing its path. The blast has pushed me sideways. In those terrifying and icy cold moments, I must yell back at the wind. I yell like a Vikinga, a warrior-woman, so that if the wind where to pick me up into the air, it would be a great ride; I would fly like a Valkerie.
The wind comes to town just after it skirts over the Continental Divide. The Indian Peaks, over 13,000 ft. in elevation, rise up from behind Katmandu Restaurant. It is no coincidence that families from Nepal and Tibet, countries, monarchies, nomadic zones around the Himalayan Mountain Range, and the Guruk family of restauranteurs from Nepal's capital city, Katmandu, have settled here. There is a link between high-country cultures. Imported, colorful prayer flags are everywhere, releasing their prayers to the wind. Tattered thin ones hang from the flagpole up at Caribou Excavation, besides the fence of old skis. Another garland of flags drape over the entrance of a large orange home on one of the unpaved backstreets of town. (Rumor has it, that house was a whore-house for miners passing through during the gold rush.) There are even more flags above the doorway of the old hostel in the center of town.
And of course, the prayer flags drape over Katmandu Restaurant. The sign bearing the restaurant's name has a background of cartoon-ish blue and white painted peaks. It is hard to be sure if the mountain range depicted on the sign is the Himalayas or our local Indian Peaks. In addition to the similar dry, cold, high-elevation climates, there are two other easy reasons for the merging of our cultures.
Strongly influenced by neighboring Boulder, just down the canyon, we Nederlanders, a.k.a. Ned-heads, are the funkier, small, mountain-town version of what Boulder once was before it evolved into the full-on, progressively green city it is today. Boulder has been an American hub for Tibetan Buddhism since the 1970's. For hippies seeking inner-peace, Tibetans have imported a style of meditation and ceremony fulfilling an American fascination with the exotic and oriental.
Naropa, the Buddhist University founded by guru-monk Chogyum Trungpa Rimpoche, is one of the core institutions of Boulder City. Tourist shops on every major thoroughfare in Boulder sell imports from Tibet and Nepal. One can buy religious statues, mala beads, tonkas, insence and, of course, prayer flags. Up a little further into the mountains from Nederland is the Shoshoni temple, a stuppa. When Beshall, the restaurant owners' son, turned four, everyone at the restaurant was invited to a ceremony at the temple. The proud family came back to work with tikka, red powder, on their foreheads. A tray of marigolds was layed out on one of the tables. Later, we ate birthday cake together.
Mountain climbers join American Bhuddists in creating a bridge between these Colorado Mountains and their larger Himalayan siblings abroad. Boulder has world class climbing, the Flatirons, REI, hundreds of other outdoor-adventure-type sporting-goods stores, and, well... lots of climbers. These climbers, the ones who are die-hard enough or rich enough, leave their Boulder County homes for overseas expeditions, sometimes for mountaineering expeditions in the Himalayas. Some Sherpas, those famed guides who carry the heavy equipment of the lesser American climbers who hire them, have followed their clients home to Boulder, setting up import shops or restaurants. For example, "Sherpas" in Boulder has both delicious Nepali-Tibetan cuisine, and an interior decorated with retired mountaineering equipment, some used on Himalayan expeditions by the restaurant owner, Pemba Sherpa.
For the Boulder-based adventure seeker, the highest mountains in the world are a must-do hot spot. There are plenty of climbers here in Ned, too. They just usually come across as a little less flashy than Boulder fitness-types. Boulderites are easy to stereotype. They spend more time in climbing gyms than on real rocks. Climbing indoor fake-rocks is quite the social scene in Boulder, where the spandex-clad go to flirt and show off their muscles. Boulderites tend to wear new, expensive down and high-tech, synthetic jackets from Montbelle and Patagonia. Ok, I am re-enforcing stereotypes, which are shallow and get boring. Just visit Boulder if you really want to know.
A person's appearance, weather Boulderite, Nederlander or tourist, matters to me in so far as the details help me play a game as I waitress. Between fetching food, fetching dirty plates, and re-filling the oil lamps, my mind is searching for some interesting idea to play with, and so, my game: I anticipate what kind of a tip a dinner guest will leave based on the details of their initial appearance. I only have a short time to assess each dinner guest. I am sure that there are many rich layers to their being. They are much more complex than the brief impression they make upon me as I greet them and hand-out menus. Still, I have to occupy myself somehow. Guessing what kind of tip they will leave is a practical way to direct my thoughts. I always calculate what percentage of the bill is left at my tables.
Nederland men usually look a bit grungier than the out-of-towners. They wear what I would call "work clothes." Coming from a family of manual laborers, I consider work clothes to be worn, maybe dirt-stained, thick cotton, like Carharts and blue jeans. The men are often bearded or long haired. Despite the fact that they are not wearing glossy, high-tech, maximum performance fashion, they tend to tip better and be less fussy. I guess it is because they might know someone who works as a waitress, or can imagine what it is like to run around serving people. They tip better because Nederland is a small town. People who live here expect to see me again somewhere, outside of the restaurant.
I dress up for the young mountain men who come in here for dinner, especially the ones who are eating alone. I wear beads in my hair, trace my eyes in the kohl I brought back with me from Morocco. I wear my peacock feather earrings. One dinner guest, a woman wearing a flowing dress and quartz crystal necklace, complimented me on my peacock earrings and asked if I was wearing them with the intention of creating prosperity. In Japan, she explained, peacock feathers are a symbol of prosperity. Then, she asked me if I meditate. I wear the earrings for oriental flair. I dab on my neck essential oils imported from Madagascar, musk from Egypt.
I look for clues on the dinner guests: a wedding ring, rough hands. A carpenter, rock climber or mountaineer? Windburned cheeks, a skier? Well-worn hiking boots, a world traveler? I have met several "trekkers," people who walk for months with heavy backpacks. There are two men who come in regularly and speak to the restaurant owners, Resham and Malla, in Nepali. One of these two American men has been on an expedition to Mt Everest. I will go to Nepal too, and even up to base-camp.
Lately, the restaurant has been slow. We are waiting for the ski season to start. The local ski resort will open in a few weeks and we will have a dinner crowd passing through town on their way back down to Boulder. In the mean time, I have brought with me to work two library books, "A Course in Nepali" and the "Let's Go Guide to Nepali." My co-worker, Shanti, teaches me a few words. The running joke at the restaurant is my reply to "How are you." Instead of saying, "I'm fine" in Nepali, I mispronounce the tongue-twister and say, "I'm having sex." Kali, the cook, is so embarrassed that he will not ask me how I am doing in Nepali anymore.
My nickname at Katmandu is Maggie Chow Chow because "Maggie" is the name of a popular noodle dish in Nepal. We serve the noodles under the other name for the popular dish: chow chow. I practice the few words I know: Danibat. Suva Ratri. Ramro. But sometimes, on a busy Friday night when there is no time to study Nepali, I start to feel like I am really just a waitress. I reach up to the rack above the bar for a wine glass, hold it to the light and polish out finger prints and water streaks with a paper napkin. Then, tired, from a delirious frenzy of orders to take and dishes to deliver, I start to daydream about Marion Ravenwood's scene at the start of the movie Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.
The heavy wooden door with iron hinges swings open to a tavern in Nepal. You can tell there is a blizzard outside because Hollywood snow blows into the fire-lit room. Large Nepalese mountain men in traditional fur hats and coats and sit at rough-hune tables. Marion is their waitress. Indy has abandoned her there. She makes a living serving cocktails and winning bets, out-drinking the patrons. She slams down her empty shot glass, victorious. It is only the start of the movie. Soon, Indy will return. She will curse at him and another adventure will begin.
with an epic, off-road shuttle drive, then a hike. We carried our kayaks and gear on our backs, down a mile-long trail into the Gunnison Gorge. The gorge is a delicate, wild place: desert cactus and pinion junipers up-high, lush riparian grasses and willows down-low along the river. About halfway down the 14 mile stretch of river, we spent our nights camped in a teepee on the sandy beach. Shooting stars were frequent and dazzling. With the coming of autumn, the numbers of fisherman began to dwindle and the timid desert big horn sheep came down from their rocky cliffs to drink from the river as we floated by.
colors were unlike any I had ever seen: pale golden greens, red rocks under a double rainbow. As a novice rock climber, I had some important firsts with my climbing guru, Neil Backstrom: my first multi-pitch climb in the Black Canyon and my first lead sport climb. I have not yet ascertained Neil's secret recipe for his healthy, morning greens-shake, but I am working on re-creating the elixer.
dojo with whom I trained for nearly fifteen years, and the river guides at Whitewater Challengers, I realized how similar the two groups are. They really ARE tribal families; they work hard together and play hard together, often at the same time. They inspire me to keep up the shenanighans... I plan on living and working in Telluride this winter and hiking up Palmyra Peak every day that the ropes are open. Once I am settled in, I hope many of you, my friends, will come to visit. See you on the slopes!
Posts
