Thursday, June 4, 2009

Goodbye, Nepal.

I’m sitting in the Doha airport in the Gulf State of Qatar, absorbing camel-shaped magnets and carpet-shaped coasters in the souvenir shop next to me, turbans and burkhas all around and the loudspeaker lady paging Muhammads and Abduls and Tariqs to Please Make Their Way to their the Gates Immediately.

I sit here, under-slept and over-tired and under-deodorized. Indulging in my second cup of coffee and thinking about my past month. A blessed month… first I trekked in the Himalayas (where a nighttime thunderstorm lit up 360 degrees of Himalaya snug tight around us – the most beautiful scene I’ve witnessed) and then I learned about Buddhism at a Tibetan Monastery (where I explored un-explored and under-explored nooks of my mind).



The monastery!





The mountains!


This past month I also said goodbye to my life in Kathmandu. The goodbye rituals started weeks ago and culminated in tearful embraces with my Nepali family. I had a walnut lump in my throat as I hugged them. They’ve given me the most, by any measure – kgs of cooked rice; distance reached across The Cultural Divide; smiles induced through stories and tickles and bowls of from-the-earth-to-the-pot lentils. This lump came from a painful awareness that I’m unlikely to see them again. (All they have to communicate is one unreliable mobile phone. How will I reach them when, or if, I return to Kathmandu? What if their number changes? If they move?)



Mama Anu (Kicking myself now, as I realize I have no good pictures of the whole family together.)



Papa Namaraj



Nisha, elegant oldest daughter



Anisha, the smiley-quiet middle daughter and I




Anish, wily youngest son


But I’ll leave mountain-buddha-family images for now, shelacking them on my mind rather than paper. And will begin from here. From now. From the gritty and soft and slippery stuff that’s floating in my sentimental mind this moment. Reflections. (Did high school and college teachers program me, my generation, to automatically-like-tying-shoes, ask that ubiquitous essay question What Have you Learned from this Experience?) Yes. Reflections…

* * *

11 months and 12 days ago I sat in the same shiny wooden seat in the same eerily Starbuck’s-esque coffee shop in the Doha Airport. I was on the same layover, but in reverse…

Like before, men in white turbans shuffle past, followed close by figures clad in floor-length black burkhas, slits in the eyes revealing beady glances but no skin. Like before I’m bleary-eyed from latenightpacking and goodbyes and travel. Like before, I…

…I’m tempted to launch into an exposé, a sequence of what’s-different about me now. One year later. Because sitting here in this same-same place, I notice how not same I feel.

And I will. With a caveat though, an awareness that I can’t, I’m not, perceiving the deepest tectonic plate shifts. Not yet. Over the next weeks, months, years, as I meet objects and situations from my Pre Nepal life, Ah-Has will happen. I'll think, I would have done that differently before and Wow – I remember I used to have this attitude about that but now…

So before I plunge into my former life – a cozy bubble of family, friends, coastal towns, familiar dogs and routine – what I write is un-tested, wobbly. But it is real hereandnow, as I sit in My Coffee Shop in the Gulf (Ha! What would the stern waiter say to that?), sipping a latte (my first in a year).

I feel older. No gray hairs... yet. But in the bright bathroom airport lights I did notice cracks, hair-width, sprouting from my eyes. Their seeds were likely planted long before Nepal; while scratching my temple with an eraser during a college final or dashing to catch the subway in New York.

Seeds already planted, during the past year they began to sprout. Each time I shuffled past a street beggar and told myself don’t feel bad you work for a humanitarian organization so I didn’t have to look him or her in the eye, the cracks deepened. Every time I sat in Kathmandu’s constipated traffic and let it bother me, let the dust and soot and rotting trash fumes seep in the window and into my brain, igniting the I’m late and I Blame it On the Traffic tension that drips down to my shoulder muscles, the cracks spread. Ice cold winter showers wedged them open, and so did long sunshine-less days behind a desk, days when I stood and my knees cracked. They’ll continue to deepen, and (though hopefully not for some decades) the same causes will turn my hairs one by one, from brown to silver.

But the cracks are just the surface. Under the cracks, wisdom happens, too. As does stupidity, but I’ll get to that. There’s new clutter in the top of my brain… skills and knowledge that isn’t broad or deep enough to be called wisdom yet. But precursors maybe. Unlike the me who sat in this coffee shop 11 months and 12 days ago, today’s me can speak basic Nepali. I know how to balance budgets and write proposals. I can manipulate language, and this is my one marketable skill – a skill that I can take pride in when the ends (projects) justify the means (proposals and reports). And when the ends are worthy. I wish I’d seen more of the ends.

Plunging deeper still. (Am I at wisdom yet? Or still just brain stuff?) I can look a taxi driver in the eye, connect with him (I’d say “or her” but never met a woman taxi driver in Kathmandu), get underneath that thin protective barrier we arm ourselves with (especially in taxis) and tell him, No, that’s not a fair price. (Or, Hoina, dherai mahango cha, dai.) I can be direct and honest without wincing because I’m more confident about right and wrong and even if someone has a million times fewer rupees than I have, I will tell them when I believe something is unfair. That’s new.

Deeper still, another layer underneath. My mind feels looser, less wound, better able to breath and say ke garne ('what to do?') when something bumps into My Plan. More a product of the past one-month than the past 11, after 10 mind-altering days at a Buddhist monastery.

This self-reflection, navel-gazing could go on pages more. And it will in my mind. (It continues now, as I write this…I’m more cynical. And more hopeful. My lungs are sootier. I am more patient…my mind continues.) But my flight boards and in 30 minutes I’ll be hurtling through the sky in a metal tube, catching up with the sun’s spreading clasp around the world. Racing towards a country I feel unacquainted with. A country that’s been through a lot since I last saw it. Its economy burped and hiccuped then fell ill. And a new leader took power who's steering the big, vague, red-white-blue blob that we call America in a direction we’re all meant to feel better about.

Most of you are in that country and I’ll see you within days (parents), weeks (most family), months (most friends). I’ll save the mind searching, the reflections for when I meet you all soon. Over a cup of Nepali tea and a vein-popping hug. (I haven’t hugged – really hugged in 11 months either. Only Namastes and head bows. Pent up hug energy – watch out.)

I can’t wait to see how you’ve changed, too.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Cloudy Times

For Nepali politics, that is. While I was trekking, Nepal’s Maoist-led government dissolved. Tomorrow I leave for another week out of touch. (Taking a course on Buddhism here.) I’m nervous for what kind of country – and government – I’ll find when I return.

Here are my first impressions on the news:

Red hammer and sickles sprinkle the country, reminding Nepalis of the 10 years when the Maoists ran the jungles and bullied the Powers that Be.

Now the Maoists are the Powers that Be. 13 months ago The People, or three million of them (a plurality), queued and fingerprinted and cast their votes to deliver an outcome no analyst or expert or Kathmandu pants-suit wearer foresaw. The red jungle party, the party of Mao and Marx and Castro won the country’s first fully democratic election. In this country of monarchy and caste hierarchy, the Maoists won on a simple but powerful message: Power to the People.

I arrived in Nepal two months after the Maoist's victory. Now, ten months later, I’m in the woods, tucked close to a Himal, and a Nepali I meet on the trail says, by the way, Prachanda, the Maoist leader and Prime Minister resigned yesterday did you hear?

Walking in the woods that day, I wondered what it means for the Maoists and The Peace Process and Nepal. I wondered what those millions who voted for the Maoists think about their party now. What happened to the hope and jubilation that exploded in the streets in straight marching bands and flags and tears after The People’s Party won the majority of votes?

Democracy takes time. This would be a marketable bumper sticker here. But it’d be a tough sell. Like democracy, bumper stickers are new to Nepal.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Trekking - then and now.

Leaving tomorrow for TREKKING. Very last minute. Very excited. Headed for the Everest Region. For 2 weeks? 3? Unsure. Off to buy granola bars and toilet paper.

And here are pictures from a trek I did with two friends in October. Never uploaded them!




Lena, Katherine and I, Day 1. Slightly excited. Good stuff ahead.



Off we went. Little Hobbitses.



We stayed in tea houses. Cozy.



Inside.



Lots of Buddhism.



And tea breaks.



Lena developed a fetish for floral teapots. Contagious.



We stayed in this village for 3 nights. High and cold and utterly surreal.



The glacier is coming. The view from our bedroom.




Few things would pull me out of a warm sleeping bag at 5 in the morning. This is one.




This is perhaps another: yak cheese.



Sun + fuzzy chairs = great nap station.



Sun + mountain top = even better.




We did.








The. Future.

Yesterday was my last day at work. Surreal. What’s next? No answers yet. But here’s a journal entry I wrote last month, when I was starting to reflect on that question.

I was biking down my alley towards my house when I passed a man selling Tupperware on his head. The plastics were all colors and sizes – large maroon bowls for washing babies, rounded turquoise ladles for serving dal (lentils) and every plastic kitchen utensil in between – all balanced improbably on his head.

I wanted to stop and talk to him. I wanted to ask him how many bowls he’s sold today, how he became a bowl seller, and how many children he has. What is it like to carry bowls around on your head all day? and Does your neck ever hurt? I might have asked.

I might have followed my impulse but I had a report due in two hours. A report on how IRC is teaching business skills to Nepalis. If the man were a number in my report, I wouldn’t know.

I wanted to work abroad because I love to steep myself in a foreign place and to discover that it’s not so foreign after all. But traveling and working abroad are two very different things, I’m learning. I can’t talk to the plastic utensil-seller and meet work deadlines. I might choose to work abroad again. But over the long run, I think I'll choose the plastic seller.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

It’s spring and…

…the mosquitoes buzz at night and I have not touched my bag of wool socks in weeks.

…the tourists are back with their dog-eared Lonely Planet guides and European accents and expectations of snowy peaks and cheap cashmere and elephants and 'culture.'

…the electricity is on 12 hours a day instead of 8, thanks to the week of pre-monsoon rain. (Despite the improvement, grumbles continue and they’re getting louder and It's the Government’s Fault they say.)

…the days are longer and that means the restaurant that serves slimy garlic fried mushrooms stays open an hour later which is great because its not just next door.

… I only have 4 days left of work. And that’s crazy because I’ve been here 10 months but sometimes it feels like only 10 minutes.

… my mind is set on May and mountains. And the next 30 days when my main responsibilities will be to drink yak milk tea when I’m thirsty and lean my back against a sunny rock when I’m tired.

… I’m wondering where ill be next spring. I’ve sent out a resume or two but most of my attention is not on the next but on the now. Because now I can say “now or never” and mean it. I'm trying to choose now.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Eat us we're noodles.




My mom recently unearthed a photo of a plate I made for my Grandma when I was 5. My dad emailed me the picture, and raised the following thought-provoking questions that deserve a larger audience than just me:

  • Why are the horse and the llama in love (note hearts)?
  • Is it a llama, or is it a camel (note two humps -- dromedary)?
  • Why doesn't the horse fall over (note two legs -- other creature has four)?
  • What is the nature of those orange things above the hearts; vegetable, mineral, or animal?
  • What is the meaning of the yellow popcorny stuff the two creatures seem to be floating in?
  • Is 'Grandma' protecting the horse? If so, why not the camel?
  • Why does the horse have a red shield over itself (note -- same color as hunter's pants)
  • What exactly is the hunter carrying?
  • Why is the hunter frowning?
  • Why is the sun frowning?
  • Is the hunter looking for noodles?

Profound stuff.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Sometimes I wish I were a Monkey

Here's one reason why:



I've yet to see a sign like this for humans in Kathmandu. And it's getting hot.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Tradition

Yesterday was New Year's in the Nepali calendar. To usher-in 2066, I went to my friend Yamuna’s house in Bakthapur, an ancient town outside of Kathmandu famous for its Newari culture. (Newars are the indigenous people of the Kathmandu Valley.) I met her large, jovial family and ate round after round of meat and boiled eggs (Newari festival food). After lunch we went to watch the celebrations in the center of town. Nothing could have prepared me for what we saw. Here's my account:

We walk downhill with a sea of Nepalis in their holiday clothes. (Sparkles and colors for the ladies; ironed grey and hats for the men.)

I see old lined faces leaning out of second and third story windows – windows framed by intricate wood carvings. Not a 90 degree angle in sight – the tiles in the street, the beams holding the roofs, even doorways are crooked and warped from centuries of recurrent frost and soggy heat.



Windows and watchers

We descend with the crowd. Steel symbols and wooden drums beat behind us and I hear shouts and murmurs and hushed conversations all around. They’re speaking Newari and I don’t even know the words for excuse me. We squeeze our way down – hands held, then pulled apart, held, then pulled apart. We round a corner and see The Spectacle below: a pole, the height of a pirate ship’s mast, erected at a slanting angle to the ground.



The pole from our vantage point

I focus my eyes and see a man clinging to the side of the pole. He is three quarters to the top. I gasp. I take three pictures. I watch the crowd watch the clinging man. Old men squint, small children stretch their necks from their father’s shoulders, faces stuff out of every window in the square, like clowns in a VW. Everyone is focused on the pole.



The man next to me



(A small part of) the crowd.

Before I can ask, ‘Why is he climbing the pole?’ and ‘What’s his aim?’ I see his ant-sized figure detach from the pole and free-fall to the ground. The crowd nearby rushes to where his body would have landed. The old men squint harder; kids strain their necks higher; the faces push farther out windows. And the murmurs grow louder.



The man on the pole, seconds before he fell. (He's on the left side. Blue-ish shirt.)

Is someone at the bottom to catch him? I ask.

No, Yamuna says. His only safety is the dangling rope. If he catches it on his way down, he lives.

He didn’t catch it. I imagine the thud of his body on the cobblestone and the shatter of his bones. I hope I’d misunderstood.

Do you think he’ll be OK?

No. He most probably died. Many people die each year during this festival.

Images from history books flash my mind –witches burning at the stake; Jews marching into gas chambers; villagers stoned to death. Encouraging men to climb a slippery pole without safety feels on par.

I learn later that it’s an honor to climb the pole. If you reach the top, you communicate directly with God. You come down a hero and God will forever protect your family.

When I ask Yamuna what thinks of the event, and whether she supports it, she says, It’s our tradition. And then, Ke garne? meaning What to do?


Other random photos from the day:



Sanjeev and Dil! My co-guests at Yamuna's family's house.



Round one: Boiled eggs, papadam, prawn chips and... Red Bull!



Yamuna and younger cousin in front of their home



Chickens! Bound for the pot...

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Walkie Talkies and Duffel Bags


Orange tents staked to frozen fields. Snow whipping off steep cliffs. Sir Edmond Hilary with his goggles. Tattered prayer flags flapping in the wind. My images of Everest.

Now I also imagine duffel bags, walkie talkies and my friend Linden. This spring, Linden is helping coordinate an Eddie Bauer-sponsored trip up Everest. From what I gather the company formerly known for it’s high wasted khakis and boat shoes wants to be known instead for gortex vests and polar tec gloves. It wants to move away from golfers and tea to skiers and Red Bull. So they’ve gathered a team of professional climbers, a film crew from National Geographic and Linden’s guiding company (RMI) to launch a new “Expedition Line” with a summit of the world’s highest mountain.

Linden is coordinating the trip’s logistics. He filled out paperwork for their satellite phones and escorted 17 duffel bags of cheese, Snickers bars and other high altitude essentials to Nepal. Now he’s spending the next two months at Everest Base camp.

Infinitely jealous, I’ve been watching his team’s dispatches every day. Linden debuted in yesterday's (April 7th) with some serious walkie talky talk. Not to miss… Over.



Its a little bit hard to look at pictures like this from an office in Kathmandu. More drool-worthy photos on their website.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Colors!


STATEMENT: Nepal is colorful.

EVIDENCE
:





Doors



Street scenes



Teapots
Teapot and door photos taken by the illustrious Ms. Lena Bean(a) Neufeld



Temples





Tikka powder (used during worship)



Carrots



Cloth



Columns



Food



Roommates (on Holi, a Hindu color festival)



Trash



Flowers


Happy Spring.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Potbellies revisited

I felt mean after I posted the last blog entry. I was unfair to the government men. I portrayed them as all belly and appetite and nothing else. I hate that. They are human.

This guilt surprises me. To overcome it, I’m writing about it. To understand The Minister better, here are some questions I might ask:

  • Why doesn’t he give a crap? Would I give a crap in his shoes?
  • What does he give a crap about?
  • Why does he work for the government? (For the pension? Access to a shiny car? Commitment to public service? It was that or the mafia?)
  • What keeps him awake at night? (Fear of exposure? His baby crying? Cockroaches scampering?)
  • How does he stereotype my kind? (Ignorant foreigner? Fresh meat?)
  • Has he always driven around in a shiny black car or did he grow up riding rickshaws and rickety bikes?
  • If he steals money (as the stereotype suggests), what does he spend it on? (Cuff links? Shoes for his children? Hemorrhoids cream for his ailing mother?)
  • What does he talk about with his father? (Indian Idol? The fluffiness of today’s rice? The impact of global warming in Nepal?)
  • How many NGOs does he visit each week? (Two? Twelve?) Does he get tired of finger sandwiches?
  • How does he regard his potbelly? (With pride? Affection? Disdain? Loyalty?) Did he work hard to grow it? Or is he trying to lose it?
I don’t know the answers to these questions. But I bet more than one would surprise me.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Pot bellies and Wusteetees

Here's a snippet from my work-life and one from my play-life:

Dear pot-bellied minister who doesn’t give a crap,

That’s how I want to start the report I’m writing this week. It’s for The Government, to update them on our work.

Every few months they come around to check on us. Last time, a car-full of pot-bellied men with sweat stains under their armpits shuffled into our conference room. The Big Man, a Minister of such-and-such, sat in the largest chair and read questions from a sheet he’d pulled from his leather briefcase. Our director answered while the other men quietly stuffed finger sandwiches into their mouths and asked for seconds on tea. Tuna and breadcrumbs stuck to the mustache of the man next to me. 45 minutes and three platefuls of sandwiches later, the Big Man cleared his throat. The suits stood up, shook our hands, and screeched off in their shiny black vehicle.

If reading the report I'm to write would result in free tuna sandwiches, someone might read it. But it won’t. The Big Man’s secretary will tuck it into a manila folder which she'll stuff into a crooked cabinet in the corner of her room. Dust will settle, its pages will turn yellow, and one day it will rot in a pile of stinking trash by the river.

This image in mind as I write the report, I take a lot of tea breaks. I clean the dirt from my nails; I watch the lady hanging laundry on the roof next to ours; I organize the paper clips and papers on my desk. I need to breath deep, wiggle my fingers over my keyboard, and Just Do It.


Wusteeteee

That’s the French word for a kid’s climbing harness, as pronounced by Isa the 3-year old. Here she is with her harness:

Isa is a new friend. As is Wendy, her mom. I met Wendy because we went to the same college. (Though 20 years apart.) Wendy wears scarves and boots for her UN job. On the weekends she wears sandals and dirt on her knees though, which is probably why we’re friends. We go climbing and sometimes eat meals together.

Isa says things like: “Guys, I’m not vewwy happy wid you” and “I need to go Ka-Ka…NOW!” When she feels like being a tiger, she crawls on her knees and roars. If allowed, she’d eat only potato chips and strawberries. She ignores questions like, What did you do at school today? and Where are you going tomorrow? But if asked Whats the name of that plastic cow over there? she’ll explain not only his name, but also his entire family history, what he wants for lunch and how he feels about the plastic horse next to him.

Isa helps me focus on what’s in front of my nose – things like plastic cows and potato chips and spring blossoms. Things I’d otherwise miss.