The Yeti Dispatches: 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.