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.