Today I woke up an hour later than usual to darkness. I popped my head out from the warmth of my blankets into the crisp air of my room. My eyes darted to the light switch, no glowing light, the power is out again. During the winter, Kathmandu steadily increases its daily load shedding (power cuts). Now we’re at 6 hours a day, one hour in the morning/ five in the evening. It’s as if they know when I could use power the most so they flick it off right as I wake up and just as I’m getting home from work. Jerks. I shimmy out of bed and quickly throw on a few layers of the closest clothing I can find. It doesn’t matter what I wear, I won’t be taking my jacket and scarf off all day. In fact I’m still wearing them, they’ll be hastily removed right before slipping under the covers. The steamy heat that greeted me when I arrived in September has been replaced with a chilly, shivery, deep inside kind of cold. At home, in Vermont, it will get much colder than Kathmandu, but the warmth of homes and buildings offer an escape. There is no ‘inside’, no escape here. Houses and buildings don’t have heaters or fireplaces, its arguably danker inside than out. Once I’m as bundled as possible I take a shadowed look at myself in the dimly lit bathroom mirror. Hmm tired eyes and jungle hair as usual. I smooth my unruly hair into a somewhat presentable ponytail, swipe a few layers of mascara on my lashes, quickly brush my teeth, grab my bag, and head out the door. I stop at a street shop for sugary, scalding hot Nescafe coffee. I thank the owner hand him 20 rupees and head to the bus park. Recently I find I repeat a single phrase over and over as I walk the streets of Kathmandu- “just give me some space”. It takes so much energy to walk here; it’s a bit like that ancient video game Frogger. You have to dodge humans, animals, cars, bikes, and numerous other strange obstacles. Some times I just refuse to move and make others move around me. I inevitably feel rude after doing this and have to remind myself to be nicer. It’s getting harder and harder for me to be nice and I have to tell myself more frequently than I’d like. Maybe it’s because I’m always cold-it’s making me grumpy.
Last Wednesday I went to Badare. Pampha, Purnima and I took a trip to Purnima’s mother’s home; a village called Nalang. I knew it was going to be a hike but I wasn’t prepared for a trek. We walked 4 hours up a few mountains. I’m not sure why but people in Nepal don’t seem to think I’m strong, they’re always suggesting that so and so way will be too tiring for me, or so and so method will be too uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s this perception that Westerners are used to very easy, comfortable lives. This of course irritates me to no end, especially when the person who says it is a bit soft round the edges and probably hasn’t ever worked up a sweat on purpose. Whenever this occurs I defiantly chose whatever path it is they advise against, who cares if they’re right, it’s time to break some stereotypes. Pampha and Purnima know full well I can hold my on a hike but they still refused to allow me to carry our extra bags. After a few refusals I somewhat sheepishly gave in, in fact, I was grateful. My lungs burned and my head was light from the elevation. When we reached Nalang, we were greeted by the shy, quite smiles of the villagers. It’s a beautiful place with a fantastic view of the Himalayas. It’s quite and clean and reminded me of why I love Nepal. I needed the reminder, Kathmandu is killing me. After roaming around for a bit Purnima’s aunt gave us steaming cups of homemade coffee from beans found in the forrest (planted there of course). The grounds floated on the top giving the nutty drink a hearty, utterly delicious effect. That night we played cards with Purnima’s cousins in the glow of a lantern until we felt sleepy. Nalang was absolutely freezing in the morning but we drank multiple cups of coffee and tea until our fingers began to tingle with life again. We splashed icy mountain water on our faces at the village tap and I watched the mother beside us vigorously scrub her naked snarly-haired daughter. I suppressed a smile at the girls trembling, gasping grimaces while her mother told her to buck up and pushed her under the tap. Pampha has this thing for fresh picked fruit so we climbed a few orange trees to collect snacks for the way down. Last summer when I visited she convinced her boyfriend to risk broken bones and climb a giant leechi tree. He shimmied up that tree like a monkey and snapped branches that were heavily burdened with ripe leechis, throwing them down to outreached hands for us to gorge on. I can’t quite describe how delicious leechis are. (I also haven’t the foggiest how to spell the plural of leechi, it can’t be leeches). After we collected our orange bounty we ate a heaping pile of rice and waved goodbye to Nalang. The way down was just as tiring as the way up and when we reached the bottom we were covered in dusty red dirt and exhausted. We stopped for a soda at a local shop and lying on a mat in front of the outside table was a new mother and her hours old baby. I’ve never seen such a tiny, new thing. I sat slowly sipping a Sprite from a thin glass bottle and watched somewhat transfixed as the mother and child got to know each other.
I am frequently reminded of how delicate life is here. Every single day I see something dead in Kathmandu; a rotting dog on the sidewalk, a bloated buffalo half buried in a rubbish heap, the face and toes of a human swaddled in white cloth being carried to his funeral prier. If it’s not death I see then it’s the purgatory of sickness and poverty. But just as death is seen out in the open so too is life. Perhaps in defiance of this overt death, life seems to be lived for the here and now and with exuberance. True, I’d never see a decaying buffalo on the streets of Chevy Chase but I’d also never see a newborn baby or get to ruffle the downy heads of a five day old calf and the week old water buffalo tethered outside of a house in Nalang. Seeing this death and being part of this life that presents itself to me here in Nepal makes me acutely aware of how absolutely lucky my life is. In a somewhat corny twist that day just happened to be Thanksgiving. While lying in bed that night, wordless images and memories meandered through my brain of all the fascinating, sometimes completely normal, and great people that have made my world rich. I can honestly say I’ve never had a more thankful albeit somewhat lonely Thanksgiving.
