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.