Some Truths I've learned in Nepal so far

1. Nepali people are, on average, a lot shorter than me. Doorways reflect this. I’ve bonked my head on three occasions. (Last time left a bruise!)
2. Kathmandu was not modeled after NYC. An aerial shot might look something like a Jackson Polluck; chaos and squiggles.
3. My favorite thing so far is to wander the squiggles. I get lost in their crooks and then ask for help to get home. Everyone I’ve asked has been really nice. One guy even gave me an orange.
4. When it rains in Kathmandu, it pours. It’s monsoon season. It’s only rained twice, but both times rivers appeared in the streets that weren’t there before.
5. When Nepali people shake their head (American for NO) they mean YES, or OK. They do it all the time. I hope I never get used to it – it keeps me on my toes and causes some funny misunderstandings.
6. “Buff momos” are the best. They are dumplings stuffed with buffalo meat and they are my favorite Nepali food so far.
7. International NGO language is as foreign as Nepali language. I’ve learned how to say “thank you” and “hello” in Nepali but I still don’t know half of the acronyms in a report I read yesterday at work.
   

A note about my job

An explanation of this sort feels in order. I didn't know much before I left; I now know some more.

I’m working for the International Rescue Committee, an organization that provides support to people affected by war. The organization works in 25 countries, including Nepal. Last month a reporter from the IRC’s communications department traveled to Nepal and wrote some good stories on what the IRC is doing in the country. You can read them here.


I work in IRC -Nepal’s main office in the capital Kathmandu. My title is “Grants and Information Fellow” meaning my job consists of writing, writing and writing.

My first project is to write a grant for a Community Driven Reconstruction project in a region of Nepal called Bardiya. It’s in the Midwest, near the border with India. The 10-year civil war between Nepal’s government and Maoist rebels impacted this district more than most – although the war is over, many in Bardiya are still displaced from their homes and infrastructure remains in rubbles. Bardiya’s average life expectancy is 40; in Kathmandu it’s around 70.

The upside of all this writing is that I get to travel, too. In order to design grant proposals I need to meet the people they will affect. Tomorrow I will travel to Bardiya, an hour plane flight from Kathmandu on Buddha Air. (The Gods are with me!)

I’ll be there for five days. The first two days I will go with Virendra, the head of IRC’s field office in the area, to visit some of Bardiya's remote villages. To get to them we will:

• drive for two and a half hours
• take a ferry boat (monsoon season cuts these communities off for three months of the year)
• then walk for a bunch of hours.

I’m excited to get to know Virendra (he’s from the region) and to see some of the countryside that I’ve been reading so much about. After that, I’ll spend three days in Nepalganj, a hub city near Bardiya, to meet with some official people from the UN about this project. I’m also to meet with two of our “partner organizations,” local NGOs who work in the area.

After this trip, I’ll supposedly know enough to write this grant proposal. I feel a little silly doing all of this, like a kid dressed up in grown-up clothes. The grant is for a lot of money and, if the IRC gets it, it will affect people I have never met. I’m not sure I feel qualified and that makes me nervous. But I’ll put on my mental high-heeled shoes and pink lipstick and try my best.

First moments

As soon as I place my hand on Ratan’s shoulder I remember the first item on the Lonely Planet’s list of “Dos and Don’ts” for Nepal:

“Don’t place your hands on Nepalis’ shoulders, as it is a sign of disrespect.”

The first of many cultural taboos I will break during my ten months in Nepal, I’m sure.

Ratan is the driver for the International Rescue Committee (IRC), and has picked me up from the Kathmandu airport on this humid Saturday morning. He is, like most Nepalis I’ve seen so far, short and very smiley. He wears a British-style plaid cap and a bright yellow t-shirt with the IRC insignia.

My first moments in Kathmandu are vivid. Bold yellows, oranges and pinks jump out from women’s dresses and coffee shop signs and doorways; smells of sun-baked tarmac, musty cigars, ripe armpits and leaking diesel storm my nose; and the sound of incessant horns, mopeds with muffler problems, loud flute music from store-fronts and roosters crows clatter against my ear drums.

On the 20-minute drive from the airport to the IRC guesthouse (my new home) Ratan tells me that there’s a big strike today over rising fuel and transport costs. Public transport is grounded and in the center of town, students are burning tires and throwing rocks at government offices.

“That is why the streets are so empty,” he explains. Meanwhile I see mopeds, goats, cows, walkers and bikers weaving to avoid the potholes and each other. I try to imagine what it would be like with buses and taxis added. Yikes. Empty is relative.

I see a line of mopeds on the side of the road. It is at least 200 meters long.

Ratan motions to the line; “they are waiting for gas.” Today he says, the line is short – usually it is twice as long and people have to wait hours to fill up.

I ask him if the lines are new. “Oh no – not new at all,” he says, as he turns off the main road into a narrow alley lined with high walls. This puts America’s four dollar a gallon gas “crisis” in perspective – at least we don’t have to spend half a morning waiting to fill up our tanks. (Yet.)

In the alley, Ratan honks his horn at every turn to alert the oncoming walkers, goats, mopeds and bikers. Fifteen minutes and many honks later, we turn off the narrow alley onto an even narrower, ruddy path.

My new home.

Ratan insists on carrying my two elephant-sized packs into the house. I say “Namaste” and bow my head, relieved I've remembered to not shake his hand or put my hand on his shoulder.

Robes, dust and veils

Cafe-mates in the Doha airport.

Doha, Qatar

The sun is setting as we fly in. The captain announces our descent and the plane tips down, poking through the blanket of white cloud. All white outside for a minute. Then, slowly, it turns to brown and I see outlines of sand dunes. My nose steams to the cold window. This is what soldiers who fly into Iraq or Afghanistan must see – the brown, the dust, the emptiness.

More shapes appear. First, a row of tall metal structures – oil wells. Then a few buildings, all sand-colored, flat. Soon we pass rows and rows of California tract houses grafted onto a true desert and lacking the lawns, SUVs or pools I've seen flying into LAX. Even as we reach the city, everything is the same color – brown, faded, obscured by dust and the dusk’s creeping cover.

Inside the airport is a sea of robes and veils and headdresses and facial hair. What is the difference between the black robes and the white robes? And between ones whose pants match their robes versus ones whose don’t? Does the variety signify different degrees of religious faith? Or different regions? How little I know.

The variety of women’s veils also impresses me – some are colorful, with sparkles or lace or other flashy features. These are usually draped loosely around the woman’s head, sometimes revealing (intentionally?) pieces of hair sticking out. Others are austere – black, simple, covering all but the eyes.

I feel like I’ve landed on another planet, whose creatures I’ve only seen on TV - riding camels in Hollywood movies or posing austerely on CNN's terrorist watch. I’m almost surprised that they, too, have arms and legs, drink coffee (I’m in a coffee shop now), and use the same sign to find the toilets.

Then I see a man pick his nose at a table across from me. I smile. Underneath our veils, robes, jeans or down jackets, how human we all are.