The following two anecdotes are from my travels to Nepal in the summer of 2013.

June 22, 2013
It was apparent that the humble mountain folk of Dhading, Nepal had never seen a skateboard in real life. Their faces lit up as two 6’5” white men stormed the city’s main drag, avoiding the dodgy patches of asphalt, smoking motorbikes and honking rainbow cargo trucks.
A crowd accumulated as Richard Lawson and I skated on a broken blacktop street.
At first a host of Nepalese children approached us and convinced me to loan out my skateboard. The children would stand on it for a brief moment and slip out, jettisoning the stunt stick into the gutter. A new child would then acquire the board and repeat the process.
I saw many children fall the same way in the United States and
respond by crying. The Nepalese were filled with myrrh and continued to fall with laughter.
We continued down the broken Himalayan street, drawing hosts of Nepalese from store fronts and homes. The party peaked with nearly a thousand onlookers at the main city intersection. All traffic was halted.
The two’s elementary skate maneuvers caused the crowd to cheer loudly, granting them the dream sensation of being professional skaters.
Lawson and I continued on and out of the town, attempting to escape the crowd. The original band of children followed us up into the hills, refusing to leave our side. We sat together on a mountain roadside and watched a crescent moon rise over the valley.

June 18th, 2013
In transit to Nepal, comrade Stephen Lindburg and I had a 10- hour layover through for a night in Mumbai.
We hopped off the plane around midnight, rode a packed bus over tarmac and stood in a long security line. The airport officers wore shiny black shoes and khaki outfits. Berets sat on their heads. Their skin was dark, and their superbly barbered hair and moustaches were darker. They didn’t smile.
The same night Lindburg and I had split with our travel partner, Lawson, something went awry at the Bangkok airport and we headed to Nepal without Lawson. None of us had cell phones.
Lindburg and I wandered around the Mumbai international terminal. There turned out to be no wifi and no dark corners for sleeping in. I bought a six-inch chicken sandwich from Subway, handing the clerk a twenty dollar bill and receiving a fistful of rupees in return. The bills were bright orange, green and red, covered with images of Mahatma Ghandi, Tigers and other wild animals.
We laid paper thin sheets on cold concrete and wrapped t-shirts about our faces, shielding their eyes from bright fluorescent lights. I inserted orange ear buds and laid my hands atop my valuables bag. Next to us, over 250 men and women sat in Muslim garb, talking. I presumed the majority to be 60-80 years old. Their bodies were thin like sticks, they carried no bags, and wore frail robes. Their plane had broken down on its way to Mecca, and were stuck in Mumbai for the night.
We laid on the concrete, falling asleep to the murmur of the men and women. I awoke routinely, slipping the t-shirt off my eyes to check the windows for morning light.
We arose at 8 a.m. and stuffed the sheets in our bags. Lindburg’s legs and feet were covered in a mysterious rash. The men and women still sat in the chairs, chatting as though the night had never come.
Lindburg and I hopped on the plane and flew to Kathmandu, unsure of Lawson’s whereabouts. When we arrived, Lawson was sitting in the airport lobby, smiling.