Thursday, July 31, 2008

IRC blog link

IRC recently published a series of articles I wrote last summer, when I worked for their school for newly arrived refugee children in New York City.

You can find them here, on the organization's blog.

(They should have been published last summer, but a steam pipe blast disrupted IRC’s headquarters, putting the communications/website team in disarray. When I was recently in New York training for this job, the IRC's website lady encouraged me to re-send the articles. She just emailed me this morning to say they’ve been posted and that they’ll be featured in IRC's Monthly Update newsletter!)

Scribble-scrabbles

My parents and I keep a blog to stay in touch. In it, we write sloppy, reference our pets, talk about the new paint job on our neighbors’ garage and write about other things no one else would care about.

This week dad recommended I post some of my family-blog writings here. I hesitate because they are mostly about me (ie boring) and poorly written (ie confusing). But maybe, like he says, some of you are interested in messy, stream-of-consciousness stuff. Below are a few entries from this week. You've been warned ☺ (I’ve added some parentheses to clarify things that might not be obvious).


July 28, 2008

Met a lot of “humanitarians” tonight. I went to a birthday party for the director of OCHA (UN Office of the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs) with Christina (IRC’s outgoing Country Director), Denise (IRC’s incoming Country Director) and Christina’s fun friend Layla. The youngest and least experienced at the party (by far) I noticed absurdities and quirks that I wouldn’t have as a seasoned “insider.” I felt like an anthropologist…!

The party is held at Club 1905, a remodeled old palace in Downtown Kathmandu. On the outside it has a lagoon with swans; on the inside, white tablecloths and expensive art.

It is raining when we arrive. We run from the car (Christina drove the IRC-mobile), across the bridge and into the club’s restaurant. I feel sorry for the swans (soggy feathers looks miserable).

The only Nepalis at the club/restaurant are men in pressed white uniforms serving pieces of chicken on toothpicks, mini quiches and glasses of wine. The attendees are all Western. (I hear mostly British, American and Australian accents.)

Three minutes in, the old British guy I met on my first day in Nepal buys me and another lady a drink. Nice of him, but now I’m stuck, obligated to talk to them for a while.

Both him and the lady have gray hair, well into seemingly successful careers. She heads the UN’s Political Such-And-Such Unit here. He is in charge of “turning out the lights” on the UN mission in Nepal. (Which is due to phase out in the next six months.) He talks about his time as a commander the British Army (where he “did quite well” he says) and the lady and I nod, “ooh” and “ahh” on cue.

Beneath my nods, my attention drifts to the conversation behind me.

“When I was in Darfur…”

A lot of tonight’s sentences start this way. Darfur. Chad. Somalia. Liberia. Most have lived in places I’ve only read bad news about.

Since Nepal is now peaceful, humanitarian workers are becoming redundant, unnecessary. A lot of talk at the party is about looking for jobs, next assignments: “The world is actually quite calm now,” the British guy says to the old UN woman and I. He sounds bored, or disappointed. “Just Darfur as usual – but I’m not going back there – 4 years was enough. And then of course there’s Iraq and Afghanistan. There’s always Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Rodolfo, a burly Spaniard who pops multiple mini quiches in his mouth at once, tells me how bored he's been in Nepal. He works for the UN Mission as well. “There’s no action here anymore,” he says. He’s headed to Chad in two weeks, where he hopes to find more excitement.

* * *

Stuffy British guy could afford to buy me a drink because there is civil unrest in the world. He (and everyone else at the party) makes his living from conflict. Not all are as bold as Rodolfo, but I think many of them get a thrill, pleasure, excitement from being near conflict. (Can I exclude myself? I’m not sure.)

What motivates Alex and Lief [two people I hit it off with – young, sarcastic, but didn’t seem to have lost all their idealism & hope] might be different from what motivates Rodolfo and British guy. The latter seem more motivated by action, money, prestige than a desire to “help.” But at the end of the day, all of them get paid, put food on the table, because there continues to be suffering in the world. When conflict is minimal, the job market is tough.


July 29, 2008

Lying on our burgundy couch (looks like something from one of Ames' old lines - department store-print, made-in-china-feel to the upholstery), I can feel my upper back muscles call out to me. "Rub me!" "Soak me in hot water!" "Take me to a yoga class!" they say. "Anything but another day behind that god-fersaken desk."

Sorry guys, hard to escape the desk this week.

Outside of work, it's been quiet. Tienle and Jenny are on vacation. And even Boo has stopped barking. (Although he'll probably start soon now that I've written that.)

The first few days alone here were nice. I like time to myself - I can walk around in my underwear and leave the cutting board unwashed cuz I know I'll use it again in the morning. And I like evenings without noise from the TV. (Tienle always has it on, even when she's doing something else.)

But I've had plenty of alone time now. My needs for pantlessness, messiness and quiet have been met and now I have new needs: conversation, laughter, noise.

I'm anticipating Jenny and Tienle's departure at the end of August. This week has shown me that however nice living alone might sound in theory (although actually it doesn't sound that nice at all now that I write it out), I will need roommates.

I met a few potential future roommates this weekend at the OCHA birthday party. Most of the people I met were older and NOT potential friends. But a few were - in particular a girl named Alex who works for UNCDF (I think it stands for UN Capital Development Fund - so many acronyms) and a guy named Jarrod, who works for the NGO Mercy Corps.

By the end of these days, I don't have the energy - or desire - to be social, to meet up with people I don't know well. But I also don't like going home to an empty house. When Jenny and Tienle are around, they provide enough social interaction to satisfy that need after work. We're comfortable enough around each other that it's not exhausting. Having them away this week has reminded me they won't be around forever. And that I'd better start preparing for their departure now. Jarod and Alex might be a start.

On that note, it’s off to bed for me. Tomorrow - my night, your morning - might be a good time to try and talk, no? And, the elusive morning in Nepal. There's always tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up in time to call you. He! We'll see...


July 30, 2008

Good day; really fun night.

Good day because I received more positive feedback about the DFID proposal (Someone in NY sent an email saying we have the go ahead to submit it – without any changes or concerns; Charlotte in UK sent her revisions saying she thinks it looks really great; I overheard Christina say to Denise “Rosie is so on top of DFID – she’s got it all under control.”)

I finally feel proud of this grant. For weeks this DFID proposal has hung on my shoulders like a dead weight. But the feedback from the past few days has been encouraging, surprisingly positive. So that feels good. And just the relief of being (essentially) done with it puts me in a good mood, too. Ready to move on to other things.

Which brings me to dinner.

(Some background: This month I'm going to design a curriculum for a report-writing training program that I'll give to senior IRC Nepali staff over the next several months. Christina suggested I talk with Deepak, IRC Nepal's Deputy Director, to understand what staff writing needs are and to work out the logistics of the program.)

First, I need to describe Deepak.

Few Nepali have pot-bellies. (The nation's diet (rice and lentils), geography (walking intensive) and poverty (limited money for food) are not conducive to weight-gain.)

Deepak is an exception. His belly is the size of a large couch pillow and he carries it with pride. He struts about the office (or does he swagger?), his chest erect, swinging his belly from side to side. Confidence and authority ooze.

Despite my natural aversion to people with swaggers, I really like Deepak. He impressed me from the first staff meeting I attended.

“Shall I take notes?” he said before we began. Christina laughed, “Oh boy, Deepak’s back. Now we’ll get back in line.” (He had been away for a month helping his family move to Canada. He will join them in three months.)

After every discussion he asked, “so what will the action point be on this? I’d like to assign someone to take the lead on that or else it will never happen.” He was right.

Five minutes after the meeting he sent out draft minutes. They were well written and next to each point he'd written who would follow up and by when. In his email, he welcomed feedback on the minutes and said he’d finalize them and re-send them out by days end tomorrow.

Efficient. Action-oriented. Well organized.

He’s also surprisingly nice. (Again, with his swagger and belly and official-sounding title, I’d expected his demeanor to be more severe, distant.) When I asked him if we could talk about the report writing training, he said, “why don’t we talk about it over lunch sometime – that would be fun, no?” When lunch didn’t work out today because he had to return home to pay his plumber, we agreed on dinner.

Getting sleepy so will cut this short. We went to Thamel and ate at a (ready for this?) Indian/Mexican/Continental/Nepali food restaurant. We got dumplings for appetizers and he popped them like M&Ms.

I learned a lot from him. We talked about the report writing training, but also about the other places he’s lived and worked (Laos and Zambia mainly), about his feelings on the school systems in Canada versus US (his children will be starting school in Canada in September), his analysis of the IRC’s big problems in Nepal (a topic for another time) and his analysis of Nepal's political situation (he's an optimist).... I’m fading so fast now I’m about to drop. To bed!

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

New President

Addendum to last post:

New President today... finally.

The headlines and news reports are worrisome. And hopefully wrong.

The next few days will be interesting.

More later. Bedtime here.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Political Fragility and Chocolate Milkshakes


This weekend revitalized me. Highlights included a yoga class taught by a giggly British woman, a double-thick chocolate milkshake, and my first Nepali language class.


Saturday night was also a highlight. My roommates and I went to Thamel, the nightcluby/expaty/cover bandy/knick-knacky part of town where you can get a good salad and expensive beer. I’d avoided it until now. But Saturday was indulgent and fun. We saw a cover band that played all sorts of awful 80s music (including “Play that Funky Music White Boy” and “It’s Raining Men”). I bobbed my head a bunch, laughed and drank a couple of "Everest" brand beers. I want to write about the taxi ride home from that night. I’ve been thinking about it.

* * *


It is raining, a downpour in Thamel. After a night of giggles and screaming to hear ourselves over the tinny live music, Jenny, Tienle and I make a run for the corner where taxis wait down the street.

Screaming over the pounding rain, Jenny lowers her head to the first taxi driver in the line: “250 rupees to Sanepa?” This was 50 rupees more than we’d paid two weeks ago for the same distance. The fuel shortage and rising prices continues to push taxi prices up.

The driver shakes his head, says he’ll do it for 400. As we walk away, he calls out to us, “OK, 300, get in.” I am relieved to put my soggy body somewhere dry.

The driver is young and chatty and I’m in the mood to engage. He’s from Western Nepal but came to Kathmandu four years ago for work. Kathmandu is bad, he says, hard work. Taxi business has been especially tough recently because of the fuel prices.

We pass a line of parked cars – the petrol line, easily 400 meters long. He nods to it, says he will wait in the line tomorrow. How long will you wait? I ask. If he is lucky, a day. But more likely he’ll have to wait two. I see shadows of heads in the cars lined up, leaning on their car seats for sleep.

He shakes his head, sighs. “Things were better under the king,” he says. He goes on to explain that when Nepal had a king, gas prices were stable.

This is the first time I have heard someone attribute the recent fuel crisis to Nepal’s political changes. But I have heard increasing grumbles about the new government’s capacity – and will – to affect change.

In April, Nepalis voted in a historic election to disband their 200-plus year old monarchy and elected a Maoist majority to lead the new government. After the elections, the mood was hopeful, jubilant. The Maoists Party won a legitimate majority on a campaign to uplift Nepal’s disadvantaged and marginalized.

But now, three months later, the government is still “sorting itself out." Each of the main parties in the new coalition government - the Maoists as well as the National Assembly and Communist Party Nepal-UML (more old-boy, status quo parties) - claim they should hold the posts of President and Prime Minister. None will budge. Everyday the newspaper headlines reflect the political stalemate: “Maoists threaten to back out of government talks;” “Dozens hurt in Maoist-NC Clash;” “No Consensus Yet.”

While this happens, people are becoming impatient. Most political talk I hear these days – in the office, at the vegetable stand, in taxis - involves grumbling, frustration. Why cant the government act as adults? Will the losers ever accept defeat and bow down?

If the new government takes much longer squabbling over who gets what seat, more and more people will come to the conclusion of our taxi driver – that life was better under the king.


Saturday, July 19, 2008

Neighborhood Tour



These are my two roommates, Jenny and Tienle, outside of our apartment in Lalitpur, Kathmandu. I did not expect my home in Nepal would have potted plants, big wooden doors or a patio. I can't complain. But I do sometimes feel cloistered living here, removed from the "real" Nepal.

If this pictures had sound, you would hear:

  • A chorus of dogs barking (including Boo, our landlord’s shiny black dog who was not present for the picture taking)
  • Construction sounds - hammer clanks and large pieces of wood hitting the ground (a house is going up across the street).
  • An imperfect, off-tempo rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on the piano. Over and over and over. Last week's song was "Twinkle Twinkle." I don't know the culprit but I have a feeling it's the little girl who lives across the alley.
  • Distant car horns.






Intruders beware. I love this sign outside our gate.



The main intersection by our house that I pass when I go anywhere. A gathering point for bored taxi drivers and ladies who sell peppers and spices on blankets. To get home from here, I turn right, walk for 15 seconds...





...then turn left down this alleyway. I walk for about a minute (minding the puddles after a rain) then turn right into our driveway. I hear Boo at this point and know I'm home. (His bark is higher pitched than the other neighborhood dogs).

To get to work in the morning, I walk past the intersection pictured above and head down the street pictured below. Motorbikes, chuk-chuks (three-wheeled vans stuffed with people), school buses, and large white UN SUVs usually fill the street, all jostling to make it in time for that 8 o'clock meeting, or the first bell or the next drop-off. I walk defensively.









Once I've reached Red Rose Newari Cafe, I'm getting close. This is my favorite spot for fresh buff momos. I don't have to tell them what I want anymore. (I need to learn how to say "I'll have the usual" in Nepali.)




5-7 minutes after leaving home, I come to the end of the street. I follow the IRC sign to the left...




...and a minute later, follow another sign and turn left into the driveway. I'm now at work. I'll try to post pictures from the office this week.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Tough Week

Sunday night before bed I get an email from my dad:

“Rosie, we need to talk NOW. If you don’t get this, we will call you.”

Before I finish reading the message, my cellphone rings. Dad’s voice: “Rosie, can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

I can hear him fine, and tell him so, but he continues:

“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Rosie?”

After a few more frustrating hour-long seconds, the connection settles and we can both hear each other, in real-time.

“Rosie – Pop passed away last night in his sleep.”

My throat goes lumpy and my eyes well. I’ve been half-anticipating my grandfather’s death for the last 5 years. He was 95 this year; anything can happen at that age.

But half of me thought he’d never die. Two years ago doctors diagnosed a tumor in his lungs as fatal and gave him a few months to live; six months later, he was still alive. The doctors scratched their heads and took it back. And so many times I have said goodbye to him thinking it might be the last – before I left for months in Ecuador, then Switzerland, then Ghana and New Zealand. But he was always there when I returned.

This time though he really is gone. At first I was pretty shaken up. On Monday, I jotted these notes in my journal:

“…It’s been strange to feel this here. In Kathmandu. Light-years away from family and home and Pop’s little apartment in New Hampshire. Far from his cupboard full of oatmeal and prunes, the dandruff on his blue armchair and the stacks of Wall St. Journals that clutter his coffee table.

I want to talk to someone about him. But with someone who knew him. Explaining Pop to friends here would be like explaining “green” to a blind person: hopeless and exhausting...”


That was four days ago. I’m feeling much better now. Talking to friends here has been surprisingly helpful and I’ve been able to talk to my parents a bunch, too.


This morning I looked at a picture of him and instead of crying, I smiled, laughed, remembering the moment: I was sitting next to him on his hard couch (close enough to feel his bony elbows in my side), showing him my new computer and its built-in camera. He was fascinated and the picture reflects that – he looks confused, curious, his nose right up to the lens. (Internet's too slow now to upload it. Darn.)

And now I can focus on the comforting, rational thoughts that didn’t get through the emotions a few days ago: He lived a long life (he was 95); he was happy, extremely loved and remained sharp as a pin until the day he died. He died peacefully, in his sleep.

In other news, this week has also been tough because of the grant proposal I've been working on. It’s big, and has been hard to do with a distracted mind that’s halfway in New Hampshire.

But even that is looking up. Last night I sent the Second Draft (duh duh duh) to IRC’s Technical Units –senior staff in UK, Thailand and New York who are “experts” in programming related to governance and rights. I feel relatively good about what I've done and now I have a little breathing room until they send comments back. Next week I'll finish the final draft...and wipe my hands clean.

Tonight I’m going to a yoga class that I’ve heard wonders about from a friend of a friend. Afterwards, my roommates and I are going to a restaurant that specializes in milkshakes. Supposedly they have the best ones Kathmandu. (Perhaps the only ones? Unclear.)

Things are looking up.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Some pictures from my trip to Bardiya


Buddha Air over Kathmandu (ie temples)


Buddha Air over Nepalganj (ie swamp)


Driving from Nepalganj City to Bardiya District (rice paddy central)



2 hours later, we reach a river. What to do?...


Take a boat!

Lots of reminders of the war still:



Left: The town center of Rajpur - when the Maoists captured the town, they tried to hack the center pillar down. Instead they made a nice dent and put up a big red flag.
Right: A former police station in a small town we drove through. Again, Maoist attack. Ruins like this dotted the countryside.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Curry and Rickshaws













Left: The Nepalganj Airport. Makes Maine's Bangor Airport look like The Ritz.
Center and Right: Meeting with a group of Badghars, traditional leaders in Bardiya's Tharu Indigenous communities. Needed more estrogen under that tree!!

* * *

“As the main administrative centre for the Mid-West region, Nepalganj is a popular target for rebel attacks. The center of town is heavily fortified and it’s wise to check the security situation before attempting to cross the border here.”

Fortunately my Lonely Planet is out of date.

This past week I traveled to Mid-West Nepal to gather information in order to write a grant proposal for a “Community Driven Reconstruction” project that will, pending funding, take place in Nepal’s Bardiya District.

Jungley, inaccessible during monsoon season, and far from the capital Kathmandu, Bardiya was a hub for Maoist rebels during Nepal’s 10-year civil war. More people were killed here than in all but three of Nepal’s 75 districts. Two years after the war has ended, hundreds are still displaced…

…Darn. I wanted to write more but I realize I don’t have energy. My spine is drooping and my eyes hurt from too much computer time. (This grant is sucking my brain juice this week.)

Below is an excerpt from my journal though. Its raw and mostly unedited, but it gives a snapshot from my trip. More next week.

And I'll try to add more pictures later. Internet is slowwwwwwwer than usual tonight.

* * *

(Remy is a co-worker – IRC Nepal’s newly hired “Protection Officer.”)

From July 2nd

Tonight Remy and I have curry from the Kitchen House, a bright restaurant in the middle of Nepalganj. We eat from a tin bowl of “vegetable curry” – a few peas and some diced onion sitting in pool of orange, oily goop. The Kitchen Hut’s yellow walls and tinted windows hide the fact that it is raining with ferocity outside. We dip pieces of garlic naan in our spicey, oily goop and forget what we’ll soon have to face – a thunderstorm, a long ride home and no umbrella.

After we wipe our greasy paws, sprinkle some of the anise seeds and sugar crystals into our mouths (sanitary? probably not. but at this point as long as I haven’t seen it touch a dirty floor or poop, ill eat it), we pay the measly bill (200 rupees or $2.50) and step outside. Wet. Dark. Wind. Thunder. Lightening.

Where have all the rickshaws gone? On our way to the restaurant, swarms of them seemed to occupy and jostle every inch of road. Now their numbers have thinned – only the strong, or the desperate, or the adventurous rickshaw drivers, I imagine, remain.

After a few unsuccessful minutes of waggling our arms at the passing shadows, one finally stops.

I wish Remy goodnight as I get in and inside cheer when she agrees not to accompany me (her hotel is in the opposite direction – she has an umbrella and was going to be “nice”). I like her but I am ready to be in Nepal, just me, experiencing it without the barrier or the cloud or the distraction of another westerner to filter and analyze and discuss and color what is around me. Just me and my rickshaw driver. By the time I sit down my linen pants are already clinging-to-me-drenched. A blessing, really – drenched, I can let go of any attempt or desire to remain dry. Acceptance.

As we wobble and weave the rutted streets, his legs pumping, my abs clenching to keep my body upright, I smile, want to laugh, pinch myself. The lightening and occasional headlights light him up and I can see his bandana flapping in the wind, see a soggy cow pick up his head to look at us.

‘No ride at Disney world could bring me this feeling,’ I think.

As we near my place, I pull a soggy 50 rupee bill from my bag and cradle it until we stop. I usually resist paying more than the going local price for services, but he deserves it – I’ve paid taxi drivers in New York 20 times as much for driving the same distance on a street in New York; my rickshaw driver just pulled a belly-full-of-Indian-food girl on a wobbly cart in the dumping rain over rutted streets avoiding animals and carts and vehicles all while a lightening storm was taking place above our heads.

I hand him the crumpled, drenched bill and practice my newest Nepali word: Dhanyavat, or thank you. He holds it up to the flickering fluorescence of my hotel sign to see the number. I await his response, not knowing. His face lights up, the look of a man who’s just been told NO, you DON’T have cancer. Thanks me many times and then bows the ritual “namaste.”

As I walk back to my hotel, I feel soggy and alive. I hope my rickshaw driver has a dry place to spend the night and that he buys himself something yummy or crucial or indulgent with the 50 rupees I’ve given him.