In the Galilee

Part of the beautiful mosaic floor at Tabgha

On Friday in the Tel Aviv airport I caught up with my co-leader Jane Larsen-Wigger and the twenty pastors from the Louisville area who are traveling with us. We are now at Pilgerhaus beside the Sea of Galilee in northern Israel. On Saturday, Sunday, and Monday we did not travel far—the first day we visited Tabgha, the place of the seven springs (Heptapagon), where a Byzantine church was built commemorating Jesus’ feeding of the five thousand with two fish and five loaves of bread. This church was destroyed, possibly  by the Persian invasion in 614 C.E., or possibly by the Muslims who came later in the century. After that it was forgotten until the 1930s, when the mosaic floor was found by archaeologists. A new church was built on the site in the 1980s, incorporating the ancient floors. 

At the Primacy of Peter

The modern church in Capernaum

Looking down at ancient house, house church, and octagonal church

We also visited the church of the Primacy of Peter which is nearby, then drove to Capernaum, the town Jesus moved to from Nazareth as a adult. The house of Jesus’ disciple Peter is close to the sea. It became a worship site: first a “house church” was built from his home, then over this in later centuries another, octagonal Byzantine church was built. Like the Tabgha church, it were destroyed and forgotten until the twentieth century, when a flying saucer-shaped church was built on pillars over the whole thing, so that visitors can still go underneath, and look down through glass windows inside, to see the ancient ruins. Nearby is a large fifth-century synagogue, probably built in the same place where the synagogue would have been in the first century.

What is striking in Capernaum is the proximity of Peter’s home (and later the church) to the synagogue, reminding us that the earliest Christians were Jews, and that for them as well as for Gentile Christians, early Christianity were not so much a different religion as a sect within Judaism.

Capernaum synagogue

I’ve been to Capernaum many times, and I told the group that it is one of my favorite places. Capernaum reminds me of the concreteness of Jesus’ life—he wasn’t a figure in a fairy tale in some non-existent place, but a historical person who walked and ate and slept and worked and tried to do his best with the vocation and circumstances he was given, just as we do. There were four Jewish towns in the northwest corner of the Sea of Galilee—going from south to north they were Magdala (south of Tabgha), Capernaum (north of Tabgha), Bethsaida (further north, where the Jordan River flows into the lake), and Chorazin (in the hills behind Capernaum). It was a very small area that could easily be walked. Jesus expressed frustration with three out of four of these towns because they didn’t listen to him as he thought they should (Matt 11:21-23). It’s a relief to know he could feel frustrated and thwarted as we do.

The group by the Sea of Galilee (minus one)

Yet connecting this minute beginning with what I saw in western Turkey three weeks ago, eight or nine Roman cities in which churches were established and grew in a land relatively far away, and what I will see in Greece next month, Athens and Thessaloniki—a city in northern Greece, true Europe, which became the recipient of the earliest letter of Paul—I am inspired to think Jesus’ efforts bore fruit far beyond what it must have seemed was possible on the day he became frustrated with Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum.

The group is keeping another blog at: www.louhlp2012.blogspot.com. 

Leaving Pokhara

Claire thought there might be a “bund” on Thursday. That’s a strike. I don’t really understand how it works, but whenever someone is unhappy with the government (and there is a great deal to be unhappy about these days, I’m told), they call for a bund. No one goes to work, no one opens shops, no one drives. The town stops. Power to the people, but I had a plane to catch. Claire suggested we get up early and take our morning walk to the airport, pulling suitcases, about an hour and a half. So we did get up early, but I can’t say I’m too sorry the bund didn’t happen. It would have been a bit much at the beginning of a two-day, four-country, four-plane trip, especially one through Delhi.

The Sthapit home

Instead I had time for a few pictures and many goodbyes. Then Claire and I drove to Lakeside and drank coffee and watched the fog over the water, wondering why this day of all days the visibility would be so bad, and whether the airport would shut down. The planes to Pokhara fly by sight rather than instruments, and the mountains are so close that they can’t fly in and out with fog. This could have been a problem—last time I came, we ended up having to drive to Kathmandu in a van. It’s only 120 miles but it takes all day. Planes were delayed, but not badly enough to miss connections this time. I made it fine to Kathmandu, collected my luggage, dragged it down the dirt hill I had dragged it up two weeks before, and into the international terminal, while an airport official walked beside me telling me how corrupt the government is and how little gets done there. 

 

And then to Delhi, where I joyously passed up the international transit wardens and the detention center I’d had such fond memories of two weeks before. Picking up luggage and exiting the airport is actually much easier than being a transit passenger. Outside I met Sajal’s dad Bhuwon. We had dinner and wine and talked about Nepal (also about government corruption and the infrastructure that could have been built if parties weren’t bickering all the time) the families, and work. He goes all over—two trips to Rome in February, then to Thailand and Tamil Nadu in March. He works with indigenous farmers all over the eastern hemisphere—in Africa, Southeast Asia, the “—istan” countries—promoting biodiversity and sustainable farming practices. It’s all extremely interesting. The downside is that he is hardly ever home, and has to maintain an apartment in Delhi. It’s a lovely home with five balconies—but it overlooks Delhi.

The Himalayas from air

I slept about three hours before getting up at 2:00 for coffee and a trip through quiet, smog-filled streets to the airport. I think must reward bad behavior with detention hall duty—all the officials I dealt with at the check-in counter were sane and reasonable. Nothing bad happened, and the plane left almost on time. I’ll change planes in Istanbul and, God and Turkish airlines willing, land in Tel Aviv shortly after the group flying from Louisville does.  

Here is one last shot of the Himalayas from the Kathmandu-Delhi plane.

Bhat Kuwaii

                Tuesday evening Sajal returned from Kathmandu and we all went out to eat Italian food in Lakeside. 

                On Wednesday the Sthapits’ relatives who live around the corner, Shanti and Gotham (the owner of Almond’s) had a Bhat Kuwaii celebration for their six-month-old son. It is his initiation into solid foods, a huge ceremony and party with family and friends. 

We all got dressed—but just as we were leaving the house Sworupa noticed that one of her shoes was broken. No matter—Rajya scooped it up, along with one of Sajal’s shoes, and took them across the street for quick repair. (I later took my little purse over to have the strap repaired in three minutes for five rupees—less than a dime.)  I had noticed this little lean-to building before. Not much to look at, but he repairs shoes there all day, and couldn’t be handier.

 

The Shoe Repair Shack

Gotham, Shanti, and baby

Sajal offers the baby rice

An expert Nepali squat

We arrived as the festivities were beginning, just in time to see the baby front and center dressed like a little prince. His mother held him while his father put a tikka on his forehead (made of rice, yogurt or banana, and red powder) as a blessing. Then he put gold bracelets on him, and a grass necklace, and then he fed him a little rice on a coin (not sure how much went in the mouth). Then he put his forehead to his son’s foot to honor him. 

Then each relative in turn, beginning with the closest and oldest, had their turn to tikka him, give him gifts, and feed him a little rice. It was more elaborate than a baptism and not as painful as a circumcision. Rajya and I had our turn as well, and Sajal and Claire and Sworupa. This went on for quite some time. Each gift of clothing or jewelry would come with a few rupees and a piece of fruit. A lot of attention for a little baby, but he bore it with dignity, mostly. It was good preparation for his Nepali wedding in a few years, which has many similarities. Though there was no band or dancing.

Then everyone went outside for lunch on the patio. After that, the immediate family and close friends went to a nearby temple. There was a close friend who is a Nepali movie star, and he went too. 

The movie star

It was my last day, so when we went home I packed, and Claire and I went for a last long walk across the Seti River, past the hospital, and to the overlook where we had gone the first day. When we got home Sajal was making homemade salsa, which we ate with chips and a big homegrown salad for dinner.

Sauna and Boat

As best I understand it, the water is piped to the house, but the city only sends it for a couple of hours every other morning. When it comes, the Sthapits turn on a pump to take it by a garden hose to the water tanks on the roof. This depends on electricity, and on Saturday the power was off the whole time the water was on. So Saturday and Sunday we were short on water and had to use it conservatively in the house and cut back on laundry. This is not on the tourist itinerary, but it does put things in perspective.

Laundry day

        This morning, Monday, the power was off from 6:00 to 9:00. So the instant it came on, even faster than I could jump up to turn on the coffee maker, Rajya was outside making the connection and getting the pump started, and now, hallelujah, it is flowing. 

Chauteri around a banyan tree in Lakeside

        The weekend’s shortage gave us a splendid opportunity yesterday. We walked to the local gym a block away (not the Louisville YMCA, but it does have a tennis court and exercise floor and some machines), where we met two friends of Rajya’s, and locked ourselves in on the third floor to enjoy the sauna and hot showers for an hour or two. With skin softened, exfoliated, oiled, and refreshed we stood on the balcony to dry our hair in the sun while admiring the mountains. I am sure tourists do sauna, but not in a genuine Nepali gym.   

Rajya, with rower behind her

Then Claire and Rajya and I went to Lakeside, the tourist district where we shopped on Saturday. I took a photo of one of the older chautaris (see yesterday’s post), and then we rented a boat to row (or actually be rowed) around the lake for an hour. We went around the island temple in the middle of the lake and past the “Typical Restaurant” at the bottom of the climb to the Peace Pagoda. It was late afternoon, the paragliders were  jumping off the hills, and as we were returning the birds all appeared—swallows skimming over the water for bugs, ducks and what looked like cormorants flying in formation. Our rower said the migratory ones were coming from Siberia Definitely a tourist activity, but there were more locals out than westerners.

Notice the layers of hills

The island mandir (Hindu temple)

Claire says Nepalis understand "typical" to mean "unique"

Claire Willey Sthapit Onassi

Then we shopped for a gift for Gotham Daai’s baby’s rice-eating celebration on Wednesday. When a baby is six months old there is a huge celebration and they eat rice for the first time. (In the west “bread” is a synonym for food, but here when you inquire about someone’s well-being you ask, “Have you had your rice today?”) We found a nice warm winter jacket that said “The North Face” on the front (which North Face is another question). Rajya picked out two more, and then started the bargaining process. The storekeeper looked a little helpless and said in an aside to me, “There’s not much I can do—she comes in all the time.” We did quite well—less than $10 each. I am sure some tourists try this, but it works better if you have Rajya with you. I always feel bad and want to leave extra tips, pay a little more, etc., but Claire says, “MOM! Don’t drive up the prices!” Okay.

        The shop was beneath Gotham Daai’s restaurant Almond’s, so we stopped and drank coffee and folded napkins with the waiters. Not a tourist activity, but a lot of fun. They gave us some more superb tempura and paneer as take out. Then we stopped in a sandy, dusty district where the butchers are to pick up some meat for Sworupa, and went home to make chapattis, eat dinner, and play cards: Chakacha (almost like Michigan Rummy) and Rajya’s new favorite, “I Doubt It” which Rajya calls “DOUBT!” (I learned it from my mother, but most people know it by a name my mother never uttered, even in extreme circumstances.)