Managing Expectations

I’m on a quest for silver linings, lights at ends of tunnels, and a pair of clothes that doesn’t look like I bought it in Thamel or at a country fair; I don’t need the pot of gold at the end, but I’d take the rainbow. Only when I found out that, as part of a protest in the far-west of Nepal that is now in its 18^th day, some people had cut the power indefinitely in Dang (the district Tulsipur is in) during a heat wave of 108-110 degrees was I able to say that I was glad I at least wasn’t there. Otherwise I try to tell myself that this will be a great story someday, and it will be better told and easier for people to listen to if I haven’t pulled all my hair out.

We’ve been stuck in Kathmandu now for 11 days. This was supposed to be a very short trip. A jaunt, really. It’s silly to think that at the beginning our irritation lay in the fact that we were going to be on the bus nearly as long as we were going to be in Kathmandu. The purpose of coming here was to extend our visas for three more months, but for reasons I won’t go into at the moment this did not happen. Instead we have only a few weeks left in Nepal and as the days continue to pass, and with the political situation growing increasingly precarious in the lead up to the May 27^th “final” deadline for the constitution, it seems less and less likely that we will be able to make it home to salvage any of our things.  Bandhs (closures/strikes) are scheduled for everyday leading up to the deadline, in various parts of the country, and for a variety of different reasons. The major questions of what structure of federalism the country will take and how many states there will be is one of the most contentious issues. There are those that want ethnic federalism, those that want caste based federalism, those that want federalism based on dal recipes, eye color, gender, or metabolic rate. There are frictions between the different groups, as well as different factions within groups. There are too many ways of how people identify and not enough ways to turn those differences into a cohesive structure. From where I sit (currently mostly in a hotel room) all of the frustrations that people have felt for so many years, and what seems to be their intense fear of not getting adequate representation, being forgotten and undermined by the governments, as well as sidelined and taken advantage of by the historically powerful societal groups is at the heart of the problem. The constitution is more than just a constitution. The symbolic weight it carries for the possibility of equality and prosperity makes it clear why its promulgation has become a forum for the airing of grievances. As an outsider it seems that people fear that if all issues aren’t intimately addressed in the initial constitution then they never will be. But a constitution is not a magical solution. Yes, it is essential feature for the functioning of the country, any country, however much more than a constitution is needed to actually mitigate the damage that has been caused by decades of inequality and discrimination. All of those problems will not go away on May 27^th or whenever a constitution is finally in place.

There was a day at work a few months ago when everybody seemed to be leaving in droves at around noon. On his way out, one of our coworkers said that we should join in the activity. Neither Scott nor I understood what he was saying the activity was. It sounded like he said everyone was going to the market to weed, and his accompanying hand gesture seemed to resemble pulling weeds. This didn't make much sense, but even when he repeated what people were going to be doing that's still what it sounded like. When we asked again where, it again sounded like he said the market. Tulsipur is small, but we were still unsure of where this so called "market" was. By the time we had gathered our things and were heading out the door everyone had already left. Those that did not have any transportation other than their feet carpooled with those that had motorcycles. Given the few options of where people could go in such a town, we began walking up the main street thinking we would catch up with them. It was hot. We did not find them. I started to think that what he said was that BASE was having its annual hamburger cookout. As we continued to search my understanding of what we were missing out on continued to grow. Not only was it a cookout, but there was obviously also a pool. Prizes for sure (not like the juice boxes or packs of cigarettes you could win at the ring toss at the carnival we later went to, but real prizes - like bonus hours of electricity or over-sized stuffed animals). I'd be able to wear shorts and a tank-top. There were probably cold drinks with non-diarrhea inducing ice, pineapple slices, and bendy straws. I was reasonable, I never assumed there'd be umbrellas. 

We never did find out what people were actually doing. We were too freaked out to push the matter when a few hours later we got a phone call that we needed to return to the office because there was a policeman there who needed our passport information and travel plans. The lesson learned was not a new one, but just a reminder of one that we have known since the day we stepped off the plane in Nepal for the first time. Manage your expectations. And by manage, I mean don't expect anything, or more obnoxiously "expect the unexpected." Both the good and the bad are unforeseeable. It's a good game to think of a scenario and what will happen, but for better or worse, you will always be wrong. It's important to remember not to expect too much, or anything for that matter. Often you will be pleasantly surprised. Sometimes, not so much. This doesn't mean to lay down your Kukari knives and give up, but keep things in perspective. The Nepali constitution could turn out to be the most amazing document ever written, one capable of automatically fixing every problem in the country. But, like everything else, I wouldn't put much stock in it. It seems like just another case of needing to manage expectations.

I hope that I will be able to get back to Tulsipur so that I can pack up my things before leaving the country, but I am finally at the point where I truly accept that I cannot expect that to be the case. Today is another day that we will stay in Kathmandu and wander around without a destination, stopping at a travel agency at some point to find out if our bus will be running. Tomorrow we will go to the zoo.

The highway home

Pokhara is a magical place with serene lakes, stunning views of the Himalayas, snapdragons and palm trees, an abundance of non-poultry birds, showers, hot water, electricity, washing machines, pickles, and salads. It is bustling but not chaotic. It’s tropical but temperate. It is a hard place to leave.  As we were there over the new year (happy 2069 everyone!) there was even a carnival, complete with pink cotton candy (identical tasting to the brightly colored spun sugar that one would find at any carnival), rides - including a non-functioning Ferris wheel and a manually turned merry-go-round with plastic off-brand plastic peddle cars instead of horses, and stalls selling everything from galvanized steel doors to water filters to top of the line generators.

Our official reason for going to Pokhara was to extend our visas, though we could have done this in less than the 9 days we ended up spending there. Being that we waited until the last day we were legally allowed to stay in the country to get the visas I was relieved at how simple the process was and how nice the people at the immigration office were. We filled out the appropriate form, giving the answers we assumed were most appropriate - even if they weren’t exactly accurate and despite the fact that no one probably cared (yes, we had a confirmed mode of transport out of the country on the required day, yes we were just in Nepal to travel, do touristy things and spend money - $4000 seemed like a good figure to write down and it’s not like they were going to check our bank accounts, no we most certainly wouldn’t be doing any kind of work – volunteer or other – while we were here).  After happily taking our money, photocopying our passports to put on file in the junk drawer, and writing our names down in a ledger book marked USA (from one of about 8 bearing different country names stacked in a pile on a desk) we were all set to go.

The rest of the time we spent relaxing, dreaming of defecting to Pokhara permanently, and rationalizing/debating how many extra days we could prolong our stay. First we decided that one day seemed perfectly fine, but as that extra day quickly approached, we figured one more really wouldn’t be a problem either. It felt a little harder to justify the last additional day and although we were going to do it anyway, it turned out that there was a transportation strike and we wouldn’t have been able to leave anyway.

Getting back to Tulsipur from Pokhara was not the simplest journey. I can’t imagine why, but not many people are trying to leave paradise to go to Tulsipur. We had a few options of how we were going to travel. The most direct choice would be to take the overnight local bus that went “straight” from point A to point B. Then there was the option of going way out of the way and return through KTM which would involve a seven hour bus ride one day, followed by a 12 hour ride the next. The third option also involved two buses, this one a more direct route, but with only local buses as options. We weighed the best and worst case scenarios of our choices. If we tried to do the third option in one day the best case would be that would get home around 8pm. If we arrived any later, which we most certainly would, there would be a good chance that we would not be able to get into our apartment as they lock it from the inside at night.  So that didn’t seem good. Night bus - best case scenario we would get in at 6am the following morning; worst case would be that we would go off a cliff in the middle of the night. We considered this option for much longer than we should have. The KTM option just felt annoyingly out of the way and though we would get to be on tourist buses the whole time, it would end up costing a lot of money that we didn’t really have. We eventually decided on a compromise of the two local buses, but spread out over two day. The city where we were supposed to transfer, Butwal, is a dusty hot mosquito infested place close to the Indian border. The reviews of hotels were not glowing: in one someone found a used bandage in their bed (this person felt "unsafe and disgusted"), in another the person didn’t feel too unsafe. Someone got food poisoning and they didn’t even eat. There may have been bed bugs in a guest house without beds. We chose instead to go a few kilometers/hours south of Butwal to Bhairahawa (the jumping off point for Lumbini) and stay there. It seemed like the best choice based on the information we had been given.

The Siddhartha highway winds its way from Pokhara through Butwal to Sunauli on the Indian border and is the most direct route, though whenever we asked we were told that this wasn’t an option, and trying to Google it rendered only newspaper articles about bus accidents and a link to someone’s blog describing  their personal hell. To Google transportation options to many places in Nepal feels like Googling your health symptoms. If you find anything the outlook is akin to a brain tumor. As such we were under the assumption that we would have to take a more circuitous route. Despite all   of this the bus we ended up on at 6:30am did take the beautifully scenic, less-treacherous-than-expected-as-long-as-you-didn’t-look-down-or-focus-on-the-people-bent-over-with-their-faces-in-plastic-bags direct highway. One amenity that it seems all buses have is a supply of plastic bags for the weary traveler. Comforting. The bus was mid-size, and extensively decorated with various deities. I always find this disconcerting. It shows a lack of confidence that the bus can make it to its destination without relying on an extensive variety of things that can channel the correct overseer of our safety. I prefer seatbelts, well paved roads, sober drivers, and railings as back-up plans, but whatever.  At the same time, the old colorful hanging decorations, and the bus’ worn out interior and exterior, serve as reminders to me that the bus hasn’t crashed yet which is reassuring, though similarly irrational.

So there we were, making pretty good time heading down through terraced hillsides away from Pokhara. As we wound our way around a corner the driver slammed on the brakes. Clearly we had hit something. I asked Scott, who was at a better vantage point. He said it was a man in a wheelchair. I didn’t initially believe him, though my reasoning was more based on the detail of the guy being in a wheelchair more than anything else. I’d rather not explain this reasoning.

He was in a wheelchair. This could take a while. A long while. I looked out the window to see a man on the other side of the road walking by with his arm raised, his hand wrapped in a bloody cloth from an unrelated accident. I turned back and focused on the head of the person in front of me. Luckily, after only a few minutes assessing the situation the man we’d hit was helped onto the bus, and his wheelchair strapped to the roof.  The driver, more frustrated by the paperwork he surely knew was coming than shaken by the fact that he had just hit an old disabled man, sat back down behind the wheel and began to pull out onto the road as the man who’d been hit sat to his side, eyes reddened, his thoughts seemingly asunder, shaking his finger and giving an impassioned lecture to the driver and anyone else who cared to listen.

We didn’t drive far before we stopped in front of a pharmacy that was conveniently next door to a bicycle repair shop. The man was helped off the bus but refused further assistance in crossing the street, instead choosing to pull himself dramatically by his arms. The first stop that he, the driver, and the ticket taker/plastic bag hander-outer made, was to the bike shop. It didn’t appear that they were going to be able to help repair the chair. Next they all went to the pharmacy. At this point most of us got off the bus, knowing that we might be there a while. At the pharmacy the old man was lightly wrapped in a few bandages.  It seemed like he was being humored the way one humors a child by putting a band aid on his psychological boo-boo. He was clearly shaken up, but it was apparent that his physical condition had unfortunately deteriorated long before our bus came along. 

We were there about an hour. Not bad considering such an offensive could have led to a shutdown of the highway. The police showed up. They talked to the man, who continued his rant, and to the driver. Eventually we all boarded the bus again, including the old man and with a cop as an additional passenger. A few minutes later we stopped again, this time in front of the police station. The driver and the ticket taker got off. There was a lot of walking back and forth between the bus and the station. More than one officer took the man’s statement. He was increasingly obstinate and clearly staying put until all was sorted out in his favor. He had demands, or he was coming up with them as he went along, and he wasn’t going anywhere till those demands were met. An officer took his age. Sixty-four. He didn’t look a day younger than eighty-two. An agreement was at last reached. He was given 500 rupees for his trouble, a ride to wherever he was going (I tried to squelch thoughts of premeditation on his part), and his wheelchair would take a trip atop the bus to Sunauli, hundreds of kilometers away and apparently the closest place it could be repaired. The following day the driver would bring it, fixed, back to the man.

Being that we were going to be passing through Tansen, a world heritage site, on our way to Butwal anyway now that we were on the Siddhartha highway, Scott had suggested, prior to the incident, that we spend the night there instead of going farther out of our way. Six hours and 50 or so miles from where we’d started the bus stopped and it seemed that we had made it to our destination. The assistant confirmed that we were in the right place for getting off in Tansen. As we started walking away he called out and indicated that Tansen was to our right. We walked on, and on. Up and up. As we began our assent up the hill a sign confirmed that we were going in the correct direction, though it failed to tell us how far we were from our destination. It turned out to be about 5 miles up. In good form I reminded Scott that this had been his idea. For better or worse I didn’t want the blame falling on me. That happens enough when I suggest dinner and we sit for 45 minutes while the rice we don’t necessarily even want gets cooked. As we trudged up the hill buses and jeeps passed us letting us know that there were ways to get there, we just weren’t aware of them. Ultimately Tansen was lovely though, and Scott gets full credit for us ending up there, though in my defense it was not directly on the highway as I had suggested, and his patience and zen-like manner on the following day’s bus ride evened the score a bit.

As is often our style we saw none of the sights, but the hotel room was comfortable.  We talked to a kid who told us his parents owned a restaurant. When asked if he worked there he was quick to reply that ‘no, I only study. I know my child rights.’ We saw dogs on leashes. People wore seatbelts. On our way out of town the next morning our driver pulled over to answer his cell phone. I considered taking pictures. It seemed awkward.

From Butwal to Tulsipur was the local-est of local buses. Smaller than the others we’d been on but at times with more people.  And for some reason it always seems that on local buses the people going the shortest distance have the most baggage. Plenty of people who traveled all the way from Butwal carried seemingly empty backpacks, whereas those traveling distances of 5-10 miles tend to carry bags and livestock that at least equivalent to their own weight and mass. Our two seats were really about the size of 1 and ½, but at least we had seats. We stopped every few minutes for someone to get off, get on, pee, strap a goat to the roof, eat a cucumber, or just to sweat it out on the side of the road for an unknown amount of time. Sometimes the driver disappeared for 20 minutes, but not knowing when he would return and well aware that no one was going to wait for us we were forced to stay close. With no warning we would be off again, twice jumping onto the bus as it had already begun to move despite having not strayed more than two feet from it.  On the other hand, the bus did not stop for the kid working on it to jump on in time and he had to latch onto the back climb over the roof and then down the ladder on the side next to our window and hop through the door.

In Pokhara or Kathmandu no one gives us a second look and couldn’t care less who were are. But about three hours from home a kid got on the bus and as he walked by he said my name. I had never seen him before in my life. That is not unusual in Tulsipur where we are never anonymous. It was clear we were on our way home. 

Hospitality

A work meeting was scheduled for Saturday morning at 8am. From my understanding we were told that we would meet at the boss’ house. It seemed odd, but not too out of the ordinary. And really, why not meet at his house. Having never been there, and not entirely sure of the location, we were happy to spy his distinct car parked behind a wrought iron gate in front of a modest home. The gate was closed, which indicated that we were likely the first ones to have arrived. Not surprising since we were just on time.

We knocked. A teenage boy came out, opened the gate for us, and turned back towards the house. We followed and on approaching the front door we took our shoes off and set them outside before stepping into the house. The boy had gone into the first room on the right which appeared to be a sitting room, however as we slowly walked by and peaked in he made no indication that we were to make ourselves comfortable on the sofa. After a mildly uncomfortable, but luckily short, walk through the house in search of our colleagues or boss, we turned around at the back door, where a woman was kneeling outside beside a fire, and headed back towards the front porch.

As we were about to sit down on the front step three plastic chairs were brought out and a gesture was made for us to sit. We sat. I took out my notes for the meeting, Scott took out his computer. We looked busy. It didn’t really make anything less awkward. Soon the boss showed up. Walked through the front gate, approached us nonchalantly, did a quick look up and down at us, said “so you found my house.” We quietly groveled a shame filled, he’s-on-to us answer (based on our failing to show up for a cultural event at his home a few evenings prior with the excuse that we did not know where he lived).

In his way, he moved right along and asked “what’s the plan?” I proceeded to gesture at my chicken scratched papers and tell him that I’d made some notes in preparation for the meeting. This was my not so subtle way to show I’d done some homework and make it seem like I was well equipped and prepared to lead the organization to a funding source in this dry Tarai climate – all this to cover for what I felt like was my complete ineptitude and lack of qualifications (the kind of lack of qualifications that would end up disqualifying me from the unknown blindingly bright future that would otherwise overwhelm me in the near future – before my visa runs out). He said, “you are always welcome to come to my house for dal bhat. Just let me know 2 hours before you want to come.” Odd, but we said, “ok, thank you.” His daughter then came out and was on her way out to see some friends before he called her back so we could have another awkward conversation before she could make her escape as she surely wanted to, but had stopped to go through the introductory motions that she clearly was used to enduring with a father of such stature. Daughter, eyebrows raised, gripping and looking down at her phone, made her escape. Father wandered off to talk to someone else who had peaked into the gate. It was approaching 8:30. It was starting to get uncomfortable again. A woman brought us tea. It at least gave our hands a distraction. Then my phone rang. Churna, the ED who had initiated the meeting in the first place, was on the other line. “Where are you?” “We are here” I said. “We are waiting. Ok, see you soon.” “Ok.” No wait. Waiting where? We are here alone, painfully awaiting everyone’s arrival. Anyone’s arrival. This quickly prompted me to call back. “Where are you?” “In Dilli-ji (the boss’) office.” “Ooohhhh, I thought when you said at Dilli’s you meant his house.” Laughter. Repeat in Nepali what I said. More laughter. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.” More ‘Americans are silly’ laughter.

Tea cups were set on the floor. Being my mistake I set mine down, unfinished, faster than Scott who felt comfortable enough to keep drinking – in a breathy yet determined to finish manner – before we headed out towards The Road of Tulsipur that, depending on the direction, will lead us home, to work, or to eat (our three destinations). We took the road to work. Everyone was there when we arrived, and the meeting went on as planned.

I like to think that I try to avoid making broad generalizations about an entire population, but really I probably do it quite often and I am going to again here. In attempting to understand how this, and other events have played out, I feel that part of it has to do with – at least in my experience - Nepalis never ending, stomachache inducing, exhaustingly interactive, and genuinely warm hospitality. As someone who has literally dropped to the ground and crawled across the floor to avoid detection after spotting someone I know approaching my door (there is no justifiable excuse for this) I admire this hospitality and even the lack of a sense of ownership over one’s space. I am totally into my space. But in this case it would have been nice if someone had at least hinted to the fact that perhaps we weren’t meant to be there. Or at least asked us why we were. But (and here I go with generalizations again) people here seem to go out of their way to be friendly and are cautious not to offend. Part of this, as I have seen many times, is that people are likely to give you an answer to any question, regardless of whether they know the answer, or will instinctively give the most pleasing response, the one they think you want to hear even if there is no way that said answer is true. “Will we be leaving soon?” I might ask. “Yes, just a few minutes,” will be the reply. Four hours later it doesn’t seem worth asking again. “How hot does it get in Tulspiur?” “Not too hot.” It’s hot. And it’s not even hot yet.

We could have sat on that porch for hours, never being told to leave, and with no indication that there was anything remotely weird about two Americans showing up to sit on the boss’ porch, not socializing with anyone. And from the moment they saw us they probably expected that at some point they would feed us. They had already brought us tea. Because no one would come out and tell us that we were not expected at 8am on a Saturday morning, or, for that matter, even bat an eye at our presence, it didn’t occur to me to ask, “are we supposed to be here?” Though , given the track record of responses I’ve been given, I wouldn’t be surprised if a person I didn’t know, while internally asking themselves who the hell are these people, would have said, “of course.” No, we weren’t. I should have known better.

Winter is Gone

The seasons are changing here. Winter has given way to spring; the dry season has given way to the drier season. Each night the low is a little bit higher, and the noise level a little bit louder. Everything stays up later, wakes up earlier, is generally more active, and announces these daily changes in whatever manner is most fitting for its kind. Dogs bark and whine, people play music, have lively discussions, or chop wood, mosquitoes and flies buzz, crickets chirp, goats bray, motorcycles rev their engines, birds relentlessly sing their 4am songs, and roosters do their thing (regardless of the hour). The pigs stay mostly quiet; the cows, stoic. They shouldn’t be so indifferent. They have it better than most here. I have a tendency to judge animals. They judge me too.

Generally there are more of all kinds of creatures everywhere. As the earth continues to dry out, the lack of stereotypical bursts of spring flora growth is made up for in explosions of fauna. Gangs of new puppies roam the streets, loitering on corners or in the middle of roads tempting us with their cute, wiggly, flea and mange ridden selves. Bats whiz by in the evenings. Chicks peck at the ground. In pursuit of newly hatched mosquitoes and other insects spiders have woven their webs everywhere. Many collapse or get stuck to themselves leaving dark silky clumps on ceilings and walls. Young goat kids stumble around following their mothers or rubbing up against walls. Some are scooped up by children who clutch them in their arms like babies being smothered, four small, hoofed, legs sticking jointlessly straight into the air and gathering to a point in front of the children’s faces. There seem to be an abundance of new children between the ages of 4 and 8.

I know that the heat and humidity of summer is just a few months off, and I’ll probably be dreaming of the cold, but for now it’s just nice to be consistently warm again.

Try Try Try 10,000 Years Nonstop

Life is often mundane no matter where you are or what you are doing. For me it is a struggle to not let myself get taken over by the ease and banality of routine. So many parts of the day become a series of habitual actions. I recently read that habits, once formed, are incredibly difficult to break because once they have been established they require very little brain activity. This doesn’t just apply to “bad” habits but to anything that is done consistently on a regular basis. If, like me, you’ve ever had that moment, upon reaching school or work, where you somehow don’t even remember the process of getting there, perhaps this science on habits can help explain why that is. At least I hope so. You know you drove, walked, or rode your bike, but where you turned or stopped have become such second nature that your brain has decided that it doesn’t really need to pay much attention. And there is something comforting, reassuring even, about having a particular cadence to your day. To your life. A steady rhythm to exist by. It is nice to not have to think all the time. Your brain clearly agrees with this, as it has apparently figured out how to half-ass its way through its central function. But daily, or perhaps even lifelong habituation can have its drawbacks. Being a cog in the machine of your own body has its limitations. It prevents you from seeing. It prevents you from doing. Then again, sometimes it can make things easier. Just go through the motions. Sometimes what you see sucks. Sometimes you lose a lot through the act of doing. In which case maybe life as a series of habits, whatever they may be, allows people to be, to exist, even if not to live in the fullest sense of the word. But who does that anyway? What does that even mean?

I was trying not to take you all down my own slightly solipsistic, overtly self-indulgent processing but I’m just going to tell you now that I can’t seem to change directions. I’m just going to go ahead and let my internal monologue escape through my fingers. There is a story in here somewhere though, I promise. But first, forgive me as I work through a few things. For me right now this involves my struggle with trying to understand the injustice, sorrow, hardship, and downright unfairness of what goes on in this world and how people manage to continue to keep on keeping on. Life, under an endless number of incomprehensible conditions, continues to be lived, even when I want to stick my fingers in my ears, scrunch my eyes tightly shut and hide under the covers and pretend that it doesn’t. But for whatever reason I can’t seem to do that. To return to the idea of habits, maybe it is this habitual nature of existence that allows people to endure lifetimes filled with hardships. A life of hardships. In which case maybe our brains are doing us a favor.

In working on an expression of interest in the hopes of securing funding to implement an HIV/AIDS program I found myself reading about the Badi community in the western Tarai (plains) region of Nepal. The Badi are a Hindu Dalit (untouchable) sub-caste. They are untouchable except in one incredibly disconcerting way; Badi women are essentially hereditary prostitutes. Sadly, over the years this practice has only become more entrenched, particularly since the 1950s due to various social, political, and economic changes. What I ended up writing about did not relate to this community. But now I know about it. I will always know about it.

The situation for women is but one of many areas that I find myself thinking about frequently these days. Last week, after being accused of being a witch, a woman was burned alive. The tradition of women not being allowed into the house when they are menstruating continues in pockets throughout the country. For that week they must live without adequate provisions in a tiny hut, often barely big enough to lie down in. During a cold spell this winter one teenage girl stuffed her blanket under the bottom of the door to keep the wind out. There were no windows. She died of suffocation. These are just a few of the stories that show up in the paper regularly. And for whatever horrific tale of injustice makes it into the national media, the injustice filled realities of daily life for so many people are just that. Life. Nothing newsworthy. These things are sad. I’m okay with being sad. And I don’t want to belie the fact that much is being done in this country, and that there are many people who dedicate their lives to end these archaic practices and work towards social justice and giving people agency in their lives. I also don’t want to give the impression that Nepal is particularly backwards or barbaric. It’s just got its issues, as do we all. I suppose for some reason I’ve just been compelled to seek these issues out here instead of at home or somewhere else. Maybe part of me thought it would be easier to keep myself at a distance because it is foreign to me. And to some extent that may be true. But in the end people are people. Suffering is suffering.

I came here with the intent to work on issues of education, but I find myself pulled in so many directions. In a country facing so many problems it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain focus and not become overwhelmed by the sheer vastness and depth of the palpable suffering, struggles, and discrimination that define so many people’s lives here. It is thick and dense and suffocating at times. But their weight is not my weight. Their story is not my story. Their life is not my life. I can only soldier on and help fight the battles that I am asked to help fight. Help share the stories I am asked to share. My own personal burdens are of the privileged kind. They are born out of a good education, the encouragement to question and think critically, and the knowledge that has been instilled in me of my own value. I of course have my limits. I belong to a short, neurotic, over thinking, anxiety-ridden clan. But unlike the situation for many people here, with proper therapy, obsessive self-analysis, and the option of medication I can cast off my dental floss shackles. So, in what is certainly not a purely altruistic way, I feel like I have to at least try to work towards some sort of positive change and do what I can to not make too many mistakes along the way. I will always try to be culturally sensitive, but I can’t buy into blind cultural relativism. There are some things that I refuse to say are okay, no matter the context.

I have recently found myself regularly thinking of the First Noble Truth in Buddhism that life is suffering. It most certainly is. But I have also been thinking about a saying that I happened upon by Zen master Seung Sahn Sunim. “Try try try 10,000 years nonstop.” So I guess I will keep trying. Maybe I can make a habit out of it. Try for myself. Try for others. Try for 10,000 years. It often feels like trying to sweep a dirt floor. But if you’ve ever seen a dirt floor that has not been swept you realize that it is not futile.

Okay, let me now return to where I started. So, as mentioned, breaking habits is hard. Taking yourself out of your comfort zone is hard. Made harder still by the fact that your comfort zone eventually modifies to your new surroundings, and your mind seems hardwired to gravitate towards forming new habits. But if you don’t let yourself get too comfortable, don’t let yourself be lured in, to relax into new habits, you may stumble into some interesting situations you would never have before. Maybe even start thinking in new ways. (Sorry brain.)

Even in Nepal – where entire villages could be built with the cast off stones that failed plans had been set in – I have still managed to establish a set of habits and routines that I mindlessly go through. But, as the only way to survive here is to go with the flow and allow for changes in one’s routines, I sometimes find myself in completely unexpected situations. Such was the case last Saturday.

After agreeing to come in to work on our day off to finish up the expressions of interest, we showed up at the office at 7:30am. We were then informed that a field trip had been arranged and we were going to go to Nepalgunj, a border town 3-5 hours (depending on the driver and road taken) southwest of Tulsipur. I would not describe my initial reaction as being one of excitement. More of a mild irritation that I often get when I have not done the appropriate mental preparation required to handle the different cultural idiosyncrasies I will inevitably face throughout my days here. Once I had a moment to accept the altered plan I was fine with it. In fact, the idea of getting out of Tulsipur for a day was actually kind of nice. And I very much appreciated the effort made by BASE’s executive director on our behalf. The whole trip was planned for the sole purpose of helping us gather more information and contextualize our research.

And so we were off. Over the hills out of the Dang valley, and down to Nepalgunj where the air is so dry that the earth seems to suck the moisture from your every part of your body - from your eyeballs down to your toes - in order to replenish itself.

There were two objectives to our trip. The first was to go to a Community Care Center (CCC) for people living with HIV/AIDS and the other, much less assured (but way cooler) objective, was to visit a prison. We arrived in Nepalgunj around 12:30 and parked on the side of the main road while we waited for further instruction on how to get to the CCC. We sat on a bench trying to shade ourselves from the hot southern sun. The dust on the road was kicked up in flurries that never had time to settle back to the ground as cars, rickshaws, and horse drawn carts weighted down with people constantly streamed past on their way to and from the India Nepal border.

It wasn’t long before we were back in the jeep for the two minute ride down a small side street to the CCC. Inside the center we learned about the work they did and the services they provided. With so few options, the work they do is incredibly important. I had already read about the lack of treatment and testing facilities for people with HIV/AIDS in Nepal, and this was only made clearer during our visit. Overall, the experience was interesting, heartbreaking, educational, and frustrating. About what I was expecting.

As we got back into the jeep it was looking less and less likely that we were going to make it to a prison. As networks were being mobilized and favors called in we drove around town a little bit before stopping again on the side of a road to wait for a final decision. Waiting is an activity in and of itself in Nepal. Probably the most popular one. It spans all ages, genders, and classes. It is also a skill. I’m not good at it. It’s as if I don’t know where to put my hands. But I am practicing. And so we waited. We stood under an awning. We were the entertainment for some local children. They were waiting too. We aren’t very entertaining. Before leaving a girl ran up and gave us each a piece of gum. That gesture was just what I needed at that moment.

To my amazement we were eventually told that we had been given permission to go to the prison, and the prison was awesome. Upon arrival we were led through the front gate to a little open air waiting area where we were told to wait. We waited. A bubbly woman wearing white capri pants and a t-shirt came in and sat down. She spoke with our companions in Nepali for a minute and then said something in English. Wonderfully understandable English. It turned out that she was a prisoner there. Had been for the past five years. She has one more to go. Only had a three year sentence, but four more were added on because she couldn’t pay the fine. She told us about prison life. Mostly how it was for the women. How she was allowed to go to the market and shop for herself and the other women using the 45 rupees per day that the government provided for them. How they cooked together. How she had taught them to bake. How much they liked Chinese food and soy sauce. How when her back was hurting she managed to get a chiropractor to come to the prison every Wednesday and give them all massages. How some inmates saved the money they got from the government so they could send it to their families on the outside. At some point she excused herself for a moment so she could answer her cell phone, her mom was calling.

I had imagined that the prison was going to be fascinating. I hadn’t anticipated that I would have left happier than I had come in. This isn’t to say that the prison conditions are great, or even good for that matter, especially for the men. Only that you never know what are going to be the experiences that will stick with you forever, but so far it seems that many of them happen when you allow yourself to be taken in unanticipated directions. When you break your habits or let them be broken for you.

With These 250 kgs of Pork I Thee Wed

It is one of many wedding seasons in Nepal, and with wedding season comes the opportunity to really experience Nepali culture and hospitality. Over a period of five days the much anticipated wedding for the brother of BASE’s founder and president took over the lives of many, including myself. The office was essentially shut down as people participated in the festivities. Having no knowledge of Tharu weddings I was interested to see how they differed from what I had experienced last time I was in Nepal. So much happened during those five days that I am not sure where to even begin. People went missing. Rice was consumed. Hooch was drunk. Animals were slaughtered. Instruments were played. Vehicles broke down. Shame was thrown out the window. Saris were worn. And what is sure to become a timeless Nepali television program was recorded.

We were first introduced to a group of Tharu drummers on Wednesday, the first night of the wedding. It is this group of drummers that traditionally would lead the procession of the groom’s side of the family from their village to the bride’s in order to pick her up and bring her back to enter into the groom’s family. In an attempt to learn more about the drummers and the role they played in the wedding we were encouraged to ask them questions. Following a short round of Q&A, made possible by the help of a translator, we found ourselves unable to say no to the opportunity of trying the drums out for ourselves. There were three of us: Scott, Caroline (the really awesome, super helpful, couldn’t-imagine-trying-to-figure-things-out-in-Tulsipur-without-her intern that is also at BASE), and myself. Through a series of gestures and nods we tried to follow along through imitation as a few of the drummers attempted to teach us how to play. We did our best. It wasn’t very good. We made for good entertainment. As a point of clarification, all seven weren’t confined to just playing the drums. Some also played different horn and flute like instruments. One instrument sounded like a snake charmer, if the snake then came out of the basket and was trying to swallow a cat. In any case, it was on this night that I first developed a fondness for these seven(ish) old men who would play an integral role in the events that followed a few days later.

The actual ceremonial components were only a small part of the wedding experience. Because the bride was from Kathmandu a contingent from the groom’s side (and the groom himself) needed to go there to participate in certain ceremonies and to pick the bride up and take her back to Tulsipur in a modified version of the village to village march. I’m not sure if we were told that we could come or that we were supposed to come, but either way I wasn’t going to say no. It is a 12 hour journey to Kathmandu. We were given instruction to show up at 7:30 in the morning on Thursday in order to witness another part of the ceremony before boarding the bus which was scheduled to leave around 10 o’clock. Knowing that nothing starts on time, and not wanting to get up so early, Caroline and I showed up at 9:30am. We were there with plenty of time to spare and didn’t miss any of the rituals. A man wiggled his ears for us. This was not part of the ceremony. The bus did not leave at 10. After insisting that we were not hungry at least three times we ate a hearty breakfast of dal bhat and little dried fishes.

At around 2:30pm we boarded the bus. The drummers also boarded it. The drummers got off. We were somewhat relieved. Our relief was short-lived. It turned out that they just had to march us out. And so we were off, slowly. The bus crept along after the drummers down the alley we started on and onto the main road. They then re-boarded and it seemed like we were really off. There were handles on the seatback in front of each person. I did not find this comforting.

Shortly after departing the girl two rows up put her head out the window. The man in the row between us shut his just in time. This man liked to clap. Sometimes he got people to join along. At some point her stomach luckily settled, and she was fine for the remainder of the trip. After an hour of driving we stopped for snacks. 45 minutes later we were back on the road. 10 minutes after that we stopped on the side of the road for a bathroom break. The next 12 hours followed a similar pattern. There was a good deal of revelry throughout the night which included lots of dancing (some of which involved the pole in the center of the bus), clapping, egg eating (because, really, there couldn't not be boiled eggs), and many bathroom breaks. A few people danced in the aisle. After what was apparently an exhausting hip shaking session by one of the drummers, he sat/fell to the floor and proceeded to stick his finger up his nose. This revived him and soon he was back on his feet dancing away to the classic Nepali hits that were being blasted from the bus speakers throughout the night. He later could be found splayed out in the aisle, lying atop a bed of discarded peanut shells and orange rinds, napping.

With each bathroom break I found myself getting off the bus just in case there weren’t going to be any more stops. There always were. I still always got off. When we stopped for dinner Caroline, Sunita (a lovely woman who took us under her wing and ensured we made it through the trip), and I went in search of a secluded spot. We settled on someone’s driveway across the street from the restaurant. It was not secluded. By the time we had returned to Tulsipur I had gone to the bathroom on more roadsides than in all my previous road trips combined, once behind a bus on a major thoroughfare in Kathmandu, and apparently in front of someone’s house. To be fair it was dark and we did not know there was a house there until a light came on and we had to run away. We threw caution, and shame, to the wind.

When we finally arrived in Kathmandu at 3 o’clock in the morning it appeared that nobody knew where we were supposed to go. On foot, and in the darkness of post-midnight load shedding, we wandered down a number of side streets, gaining encouragement to continue on by the barking of the dogs that hid out in many of the doorways. After standing in one spot for a while we finally heard the creaking of a metal gate and we were ushered into a guest house that seemed to appear out of nowhere. In 3 hours we were woken so that we could have sufficient time to wait. Women dressed me in a sari. For once I wished more pins had been involved. On the way to the ceremony we stopped and a marching band got on the bus. The Tharu drummers did not.

After about 5 hours at the ceremony - that included stopping traffic as we marched and danced along with the wedding procession, the consumption of paan (a betel nut concoction that I still do not like despite encouragement from others that I will), and a pretty tasty buffet – we headed back to the bus for the return journey to Tulsipur. I marched right onto a rat. It was squishy. It was nearing six when we got on the bus. We sat down. Some of the drummers were there. Some were not. We continued to sit. Many people got off the bus. Eventually we learned that 2 or 3 drummers were missing; lost in Kathmandu with no phones, no money, no knowledge of the city. And most likely they did not speak much Nepali, if any. The police had been mobilized and some of the people on the bus had also gone to search the city for an unspecified number of old men in traditional Tharu clothes wielding drums around their necks. Kathmandu is big; the men were small. It didn’t look good. It was explained to us that the drummers had never been to Kathmandu and had only come on the journey in order to see it. Caroline and I laughed. It wasn’t funny. An arbitrary time of 11pm was given to us as when we would start to head back, even if we hadn’t found them. At 9 it seemed that we were on our way. The drummers remained lost. I guess we’d waited for them long enough. We laughed again. It still wasn’t funny. The bus drove a bit, but it was another two hours until we were actually headed out of the city.

At around 2am the bus broke down and many men got out to scratch their heads and stare at the engine. It took an hour and a half, but eventually the scratching and staring worked. The smoking and spitting probably didn’t hurt either. The next stop wasn’t for another hour, for what we thought was a bathroom break. An hour into the bathroom break it became clear that it wasn’t a bathroom break. Our tired driver had decided it was time for a nap. After another hour, at daybreak, in a roadside shack/restaurant, we sat on the edge of a bench which we shared with a sleeping man and drank tea. The sleeping man was not the driver. Not long after the driver stumbled out of the luggage compartment in the back of the bus, eyes half open and filled with sleep, clutching a pillow in his arms. Now moderately rested, it was not much longer till we were on the road again. It took over 19 hours to get back to Tulsipur. We were dirty. We hadn’t slept. We were cold. We were missing two or three people. We were still laughing. We might have also been crying. I’m not sure. No one else seemed to have had the same bus ride as us. They appeared rested and continued to sing and dance till the end. The missing drummers were there. They had somehow finagled their way onto a public bus back to Tulsipur, despite having no money, and beat us there by a solid 4 hours.

After lunch we were finally able to go home for a few hours before needing to return for more festivities that evening. It was now Saturday. On Sunday there was the actual reception part of the wedding. I tried to dress myself. I still can’t wrap a sari. Everyone in Tusipur was ready to help me. As I was buying bangles on the side of the road a woman took my chosen bracelets out of my hand, pointed to another color to show that I had not picked the right ones to match the sari. I obliged. As we walked past Sithals (the restaurant where we can often be found eating dinner) on our way to the reception, the mother of the establishment pulled me inside and attempted to re-wrap me. It was a common occurrence throughout the day, until finally, as we took a walk to break away from the party, I was pulled into the back room of a roadside eatery/home where four women I had never seen before again unwrapped me. As they laughed and spoke Nepali at and around me an unforgiving string (the kind used to seal industrial sized sacks of rice or radishes) was tightly cinched around my waist. One woman came at me with a cleaver and sliced off the remaining string. I stood with my arms out as I was wrapped again, pinned, and sighed at. At the end of it all I said thank you. I didn’t entirely mean it. They walked away. It seemed that it was not their home or restaurant. No one tried to completely re-dress me for the rest of the day. Only a few more minor adjustments were made. That was nice, though the tight string made it extremely difficult to eat any of 1000 kgs of meat that had been prepared for the celebration. Or breathe.

While I am glad I took part in all parts of the wedding I am not sure I would want to relive the experience. Unfortunately the entire 5 day affair was recorded and is apparently supposed to air on Nepali television in a month or so. I think I'll pass on attending the screening.

The party bus

All the drummers together in one place prior to their adventure

Caroline and I with the bride and groom - day 5

New Digs

It turns out that I misunderstood the email regarding the generator in the guest house. Had I read it more closely I would have noticed that it was clearly referring to there now being one in the BASE office. In the end that makes much more sense; all that generating would be wasted at the guest house. Having it at the office, where we will spend most of our days anyway, is a much better place for it. Our accommodations are pretty much what I was expecting, and I am perfectly happy to be there. BASE rents out two rooms on the second floor of an apartment building that also houses a Dalit (Hindu untouchable caste) NGO on the ground level. In the front there is a small courtyard where meetings are held, soccer balls are kicked around, clothes are washed, fires are lit, and Styrofoam burned. Sometimes there is a small horse tied up just outside the gate.

Much of the building is open to the outside, making balconies out of what would otherwise be hallways. Our room itself is basic, earthy even. There are two beds, a chair, some spare parts that belong to something we haven’t figured out yet, and a TV that picks up a few staticy channels. We haven’t really explored the television offerings but we’ve been told that sometimes it picks up one or two English language channels. The cable line runs from the street to the back of the TV through a hole in one of the window screens. There is a grey institutional rug covering most of the concrete floor, the kind one finds in schools and, well, institutions. The windows, of which there are many, all have wooden shutters which are smaller versions of the padlocked double door that leads into our room. The bathroom is just outside and a few steps down. It too is basic. There are no mirrors. This is a good thing. When running the tap the water drains under the door and is sort of funneled through a small arch cut out of the solid adobe banister to a small, mote-like ditch on the ground floor that most likely leads out to the larger ditch on the street. The squat toilet, like a cement throne with a porcelain hole and foot markers, is set up a few stairs. From there you can look out onto the courtyard. We need a curtain.

From the guest house it is about a twenty minute walk to the office. We pass a police station cordoned off with barbwire where idle policemen hangout and try to look official in their blue camouflage uniforms. We pass the little box shaped shops that all sell the same few things and somehow stay in business despite being set up directly next to each other. We are passed by people riding bikes and motorcycles. We pass livestock – cows, goats, the occasional rooster or hen. We pass the Tulsipur Airport which appears to be just a fenced in pasture. There are no planes. There is no runway. If it weren’t for the sign on the road that says airport, and the few armed guards that stand watch I would have thought it was just a well-protected soccer field. Apparently there is a flight about once a week to and/or from Kathmandu. There are 187 miles between Kathmandu and Tulsipur. The flight makes three stops along the way.

We meet a lot of people as we walk, all of whom look at us and most of whom we share a “namaste” with. There are three (including us), soon to be two (including us), Westerners in all of Tulsipur. Everyone is curious about us and everyone is nice. Kids wave, say hi and bye, and ask our names. The greetings are drawn out and they sometimes continue to call to us until we’re out of sight. On our way back to the office yesterday a group of about four kids walked by us and said hello. We exchanged quick pleasantries and continued on our way. A minute later - after someone probably dared someone to do something - we heard the pitter patter of eight small feet running. We turned around to see the kids pull up behind us. A linguistically challenged conversation ensued as we all continued to walk down the road. Various children along the route joined or broke away from our entourage. By the time we turned onto the road our office is on there were seven children tailing us, all of whom followed us into the BASE parking lot. They proceeded to make themselves comfortable, sitting in the plastic chairs that are always out front, and picking up and pretending to casually read the newspapers that were strewn about. At one point a boy turned to Scott and astutely stated “You, very white.” There's no blending in here. Eventually we had to say goodbye and leave the kids to wander back from whence they came. I’m sure we’ll see them again. In a town this size you see everyone again.

I have no idea who these children are

Again, no clue

The shortcut from Nepalgunj to Tulsipur

From Kathmandu to Tulsipur

After much delay we finally made it to Tulsipur. Our most recent plan had been to take the bus, but due to uncertainties about potential strikes blocking our path on what was already going to be a 12 hour journey we chose instead to take the flight to Nepalgunj where we were greeted by the driver from BASE in what I had been told twice while making and finalizing our plans was a very old but sturdy jeep. Keeping in mind the lessons we’ve learned individually on our previous travels, and in preparation for what was sure to be a long and bumpy journey, a yellow tinted Nalgene bottle had been purchased. Despite not having to make use of it on this leg of the trip I have a feeling that over the course of the next six months it will come in handy on more occasions than I would like to admit to at present.

One of the main reasons that we were not able to take the bus was that we could not get to the bus park to purchase the tickets the day before because of the city wide bandh that was in effect. The last time that I was in Nepal I didn’t get the chance to experience a full-fledged bandh. I mean there were little strikes here and there, and we did get stuck on the highway on our way to Pokhara - forcing our group to march on the side of the road, wade through feet of mud, and ride in the back of some stranger’s dirt encrusted truck which had a tarp covering the bed rendering it an overheated sauna for those that had to sit inside, while the rest of us hung off the back of the truck. That was a good day.

It was on that day that I learned that it’s not a real bandh unless there are sticks involved. Or was it a table? Hmm, now I’m not sure. In any case, on the day of the bandh I remembered it being sticks, and so had I not learned that lesson I may have been confused by the man on the side of the road selling what I am sure were bamboo bandh sticks. Overall though, as we wandered the streets, there was not much commotion and I did not see any sticks being used. Instead, the day and atmosphere were quite pleasant. With the city shut down - all shops essentially closed and no traffic to speak of, save for a few brave motorcycles - kids were free to play soccer and badminton in the street without fear of being run over, the police rested on their rifles while they texted their friends or ate popcorn, and people of all ages casually strolled up and down the roads chatting with each other. Instead of honking there were the murmur of voices and the creaking of rickshaws, the drivers making the most of the open streets and lack of taxis. The guy renting bikes was also making out pretty well.

Other than the guy selling sticks, there seemed to be an odd number of people selling wooden recorders off of what appeared to be recorder parasol. There also seemed to be a lot more people selling hard boiled eggs. Though, with my history of hard boiled in Nepal, I might have just been extra sensitive and aware of their presence. Either way there were a lot of eggs and recorders on sale.







Two days later we boarded the flight to Nepalgunj. The domestic section of the Kathmandu airport is basically one large open concrete floored room with a few benches sparingly spread around. There are a few windows near the top of the high ceiling, many of them broken. Perhaps the way the room is built makes it cool and nice in the summer, but at 7am in the winter it was pretty frigid. At the suggestion of the women working at our hotel, and not wanting to repeat the stress of cutting it too close like we felt in Bangkok, we found ourselves at the airport two hours early. In most places this wouldn’t be a problem. Just check in and hang out near the gate, maybe get a cup of coffee, pick up a magazine, that sort of thing. In Kathmandu, though, we were unable to check in and hand over our bags until 45 minutes before the flight was scheduled to take off. Not that we would have fared much better had we been allowed to go wait at the gate as it was essentially just another big, rather cold waiting room. In the end we did find the airport restaurant and were able to get a cup of tea, but there was still more than sufficient time to sit and ponder the various things listed as restricted on Nepali airplanes. In Thailand the list was self-explanatory and included hand guns, anything highly flammable and/or combustible, and durian. In Nepal there were things like infectious substances and magnetized materials. Considering that the power goes on and off in the airport, security consists of a quick pat down (on running her hand over the pocket of my jacket the screener asked “camera?” I said no but as I began to unzip my pocket to show her what was inside she just waved me past), and there is a reasonable chance that the bus you take from the gate to the plane may very well break down on the way across the tarmac, I couldn’t help but be a bit concerned that someone with a moderately well hidden set of alphabet refrigerator magnets could successfully carry out a plot to take down our plane.

Luckily, no one seemed all that interested in sabotaging our flight and we made it safely to Nepalgunj. We got stuck in a bit of traffic on the way to Tulsipur as we were stuck behind some people making the road for us to drive on, and I regretted not having worn a sports bra as we bounced down the road, but for the most part it was an easy journey.

Having only been able to find a few pictures of Tulsipur prior to arriving here I wasn't really sure what to expect, other than knowing that it was going to be small, and the accommodations basic. It turns out that the few imagines that have made it onto the internet are pretty representative of the whole town. There is one “main” drag lined with little stilted box huts out of which people sell a few little packaged things. Then there are the people selling oranges and bananas off of carts, or store fronts with piles of potatoes and onions out front, and the one store that sells toilet paper. Other than that there are some pharmacies, sweet shops, small menu-less restaurants offering dal bhat or chowmein, an occasional barber or beauty parlor, and a few places with clothes that seem to be hanging off the rafters. The side streets are essentially the same. A little quieter perhaps, although the main street isn’t exactly bustling with activity.

Since it is winter it is very dry here at the moment. On the drive from Nepalgunj we crossed a number of bridges, all of which passed over dry river beds with not a drop of water in them. A thick dust hangs in the air, stirred up when a tractor or bus drives down the road. Goats wander the streets and either lounge on, or eat, plots of dried grass or garbage piles. Sometimes they munch on grass or trash while they lay basking in the sun. There are, of course, stray dogs, but not nearly as many as I was expecting. Or maybe I just haven’t seen them yet. We’ve only been here a little over a day and already I’ve begun to lose track of time. Driving into town, time seemed to simultaneously go backwards and slow down. I am interested to see how I adjust to this way of life. At the moment I am looking forward to it. After being in school and feeling like there was always something hanging over me, something that needed doing, having so much time to just be sounds pretty appealing. Who knows, I may even make some great lifelong imaginary friends while I’m here.

Bandh it is?

The other night we left our hotel a little after six and made our way out of our dusty, dark, and relatively quiet ally onto the dusty, dark, and relatively loud road. From there we set out to find ourselves a cab to take us to Scott’s former host family’s house for some snacks and whiskey. As we stood on the side of the street in search of a cab the rumblings of drums and brass instruments began to close in on us and within a minute our efforts to find a taxi were put on hold as we stood on the sidelines as a wedding procession made its way past us. In the front was the marching band, all in seemingly secondhand red uniforms that were slightly too small for their non-teenage bodies, their jackets complete with coattails and chin strapped hats. Directly behind the band was the car with the bride, decorated with yellow and orange marigolds glued on all sides, followed by a gaggle of sullen looking men dressed in dark suits who seemed like they were waddling to a funeral instead of skipping to a wedding.

At the same time, across the street a man was slowly pushing a bicycle that was loaded down with giant plastic woven bags that could have contained anything from rubber piping to bricks or cloth. The load was at least 4 feet across and 3 feet high, and set atop it was a small boy who straddled one of the bags, his torso swaying back and forth, as if he were riding a horse. All the while motorcycles, cars, and rickshaws wove their way through these obstacles kicking up dust and leaving noise and all other forms of pollution in their wake.

It is hard to really explain the level of commotion and chaos that exists here. To walk down the street requires a constant vigilance and hyper awareness of one’s surroundings if you hope to make it to your destination in one piece. Besides needing to constantly remind myself to look right, then left, I also have to watch out for the uneven terrain and possible cow dung, brick pile, bubbling sewage, or dead rat that might be in my path. At night, the streets are incredibly dark due to the excessive load shedding, which is now up to almost 14 hours a day, making it even harder to get around.

With the cold and constant blackouts it becomes even harder to take in what is going on around every corner. Women hold small babies approach and plead for milk for their babies, something that seems innocuous but is really just a scam. A particularly heart breaking scam. Kids stumble through the streets as the bags from which they are inhaling glue crinkle and expand, crinkle and expand. A few feet away a dog climbs over and around a boy no older than ten who is passed out in a doorway. Back on the road that leads to our ally we can just make out the silhouettes of three cows, a stray dog and a woman scavenging for whatever they can find in a giant heap of trash on the side of the road. The only light coming from a few fires people have lit in large shallow metal bowls on the sidewalks and are crouched around trying to warm themselves.

There is a fuel crisis in Nepal and over the past few days students have been taking to the street in protest. Many shops seem to be closed today, and though we didn’t notice it at first, it became clear after trying to knock on the door of the shop that is “repairing” my phone so I can use it here. A man selling fruit was standing in front of the closed door. He turned to me, pointed at the lock and said “bandh chha.” As there are still some cars on the road and shops open I have a feeling that this strike may be lackluster enough that I will still get my phone back today, in whatever shape it may be in.

I've been trying to think of a positive note to end this post on, but some days I just can’t think of a sweet cream cheesy frosting to put on this vegetable loaf so I guess I’ll just leave it at that for the moment.

Some Practice Required

On the morning we left New York we received an email from an intern currently working at BASE. She had been tasked by her home organization with putting together relevant information for future interns and sent us what she had compiled so that we could come as prepared as possible to Dang. Her email opened with expressed excitement regarding the newly acquired generator that was now at the BASE “guest house” in Tulsipur. Nevertheless, she advised us to enjoy whatever hot showers we could take now. Since there is not even an actual shower but only a tap and a bucket, the temperature of the water will likely be the least of the challenges I face. The few attempts at bucket showers I have had in the past have so far been fruitless endeavors, rendering me a cold, soapy, and still remarkably dirty mess. As I don’t foresee that I will become a master of the bucket anytime soon I imagine instead that others will have to adjust to my developing, growingly complex, and nuanced smell. I’m totally cool with the squat toilet though.

From what I can gather Tulsipur seems to be the ideal place for a rugged and rustically inclined Luddite seeking sanctuary off the grid. We have been advised to bring along plenty of reading material to fill the many idle hours of we are sure to have. I have a feeling I am going to wish I knew more games that are played alone and require only sticks, rocks, and perhaps a tire for special occasions. It is somehow surprisingly hard to mentally prepare for boredom, though I’m glad to be focusing on that instead of all the possible situations in which I will be thankful to have had so many shots in the past few days. I suppose now I’ll be able to harass wild animals with confidence and step on as many rusty nails as my heart desires. I also need to focus more on honing my skills with using my right hand in hopes of increasing my dexterity and comfort because it sounds like utensils will probably be scarce when we take trips into villages and I already miss the mark on too many occasions when I try to shovel food into my mouth with my dominant left hand. Because I know that I will be inadvertently offensive on enough occasions I would like to avoid doing anything that I already know is inappropriate.

To be fair, though, I’m sure that hiding behind the malaria, rabid animals, 5am wake up calls, child slaves, and dysentery will be splashes of color in the dust incrusted picture that has been painted for us.

And Here We Go, Again

After a week in Thailand I felt ready to move on to Nepal, though I was glad to get the chance to finally see Bangkok, as well as take a trip south and see the ocean. The train ride down the coast was long but easy, the hours filled with the sounds of venders advertising their food and beverage options in repetitive high pitched calls exaggerated by long drawn out vowels as they strolled up and down the narrow aisles. As we rode out of Bangkok the banana palms turned to coconut palms and the clustered corrugated tin roofed houses that hugged the train tracks gave way to farmland dotted with egrets.

It was nice to spend a few days on the beach, even if the “town” we went to was more catatonic than sleepy. I guess in our pursuit of trying to find a quiet place off the beaten track where we could comfortably embrace our lethargy we may have over shot our goal a little. Our hotel was only ten minutes from the train station, but about a thousand conceptual miles away from civilization. The room and grounds were lovely, but I felt as out of place as the cows seemed to be as they listlessly wandered under the coconut and papaya trees. Besides us, the few other tourists on the beach were either French or German and mostly in the later stages of their lives. The comfort they felt with their bodies was made clear by the way they unabashedly lay splayed out under the sun. Other than the retired couples and a few families with children there was a man whose shadiness was made obvious by the glasses he donned on the first evening that had one lens darkened out as well as his use of the more classic eye patch on the second night. The man in the eye patch seemed to be traveling alone, as did the long-haired, denim-clad, slightly manic Frenchman who had either recently been released from a Thai prison or had come to Bang Saphan to evade capture. In the evenings many of these people could be found chatting it up at the aptly named Why Not Bar where, with few other options and no reason not to, we too found ourselves.

We returned to Bangkok for one more day before boarding a plane to Nepal, the only country I know of where on the immigration arrival card your options for why you are visiting include to raft, trek, take a pilgrimage, or "other." Once through immigration one proceeds to the baggage claim area where I wouldn't be surprised to find that the turnstile was operated by a little old man cranking a wheel.

Driving to our hotel through the city brought back the familiar smells of burning trash, incense and car exhaust as well as the sounds of tortured dogs, generators, cooing pigeons, and incessant honking. We passed monkeys walking on entangled power lines, groups of people huddled over small fires to stave off the cold, the garbage clogged Bagmati River, stray dogs, cows, rickshaws, tiger balm sellers, glue kids, and all the wonderful chaos that is this place. When we have power, which isn’t often considering the nearly 11 hours of load shedding a day, I often find myself sitting bundled up in the hotel room in front of a heater that has the appropriate reassuring light that suggests warmth, though there isn’t actually any heat coming out of it. Despite all this, I am incredibly happy to be back here, where the people are warm, the streets lively, and the hospitality endless.