Two posts in one day! I know what you are thinking: who are you and what have you done with Maria? Well, the truth is that I am a little bit bored. Last night we were informed that our flight would be at 8:30 this evening, instead of 4 pm as we thought. So here I sit, with bags packed and gifts bought and goodbyes said, and I thought I would fill you in on what has we have been doing these past few weeks (since I have been such a lousy blog-writer). I admit I also wanted to bump Anna and Andrea away from the computer, where they sat youtubing insanely annoying Hindi-songs.
Lately we have spent quite a bit of time with our “bosses”, or three Nepali ladies who love to giggle. Our Nepali has actually improved a lot over the past few months; they no longer let us speak English, but enjoy very much our imperfect Nepali. Our times together mostly involve large amounts of rice, talk about boys, talk about saris (they once dressed us up and had us waddle around the room like penguins – saris are evil!), and a lot of laughter. Yesterday was our last daal bhaat on the roof with them; and it was definitely a melancholy one.
With our endless lists of places to go one last time, friends to see and last gifts to buy, we have been hopping around Kathmandu at high speed for about two weeks. Many goodbyes have been said. I hate goodbyes. Still, as usual, they have involved a lot of cozy time with friends, with cozy gifts exchanged and cozy plans to meet again. When you are leaving a place you realize how fortunate you have been, how much you really like the people around you and how much you will miss them.
A few days ago I came close to stepping on a baby. Walking on the sidewalk along a wide road with heavy traffic, I thought it was just another pile of garbage; I had to move my foot just in time as I realized I was seeing a woman curled up on the ground, arms wrapped around the little bundle that was her baby. They were both asleep, heads directly on the dirty ground, flies buzzing.
This is not an unusual sight in downtown Kathmandu, along with crippled beggars and groups of ragged, glue-sniffing kids. Sometimes, at the end of the day, I wonder how I can calmly see these things and keep walking. Did I really see that? Was I really so close? How did I not scream? How did I not cry?
It is so close. It is the well-known image on the TV-screen of war and poverty, but brought to you with sound and smell and touch; inches from your own face. And there is no switching the channel; you have to either give the little girl 2 rupees or ignore her tugging at you arm and her “please. Please miss”. And after a while you end up not thinking and not feeling, because you can’t possibly give to all of them, and you have to start ignoring. If you let the intensity of the real sadness and suffering of all the people you pass get at you, you will end up confined to your own house. The feeling-button simply gets numbed. Then sometimes it hits you, in the stillness of your own house, and you feel cruel to have walked past without doing more.
I see this post is moving in a rather depressing direction. I will return to the slightly less depressing goodbyes; as I said, I am realizing how much I will miss life here. This may sound mushy, but I really have met many wonderful people this year. We may not have had electricity, water or a few other useful things, but they, along with the kids at ABBS, have made it all worthwhile.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Last post from Kathmandu
We have now been in Nepal for over 8 months, have made it through the cold and are back to the heat in which we arrived last September. Rain is coming to Kathmandu these days. The clouds of dust are being turned into rivers of mud, which (if you could see the choking, eye-stinging, fog-like dust) is quite an improvement.
With each new season here arrives a wave of different smells, sights and feels; and I am hit every time by the fresh wave of old memories they bring. Like when a hot day with a burning sun is suddenly interrupted by booming thunder, dark, swift clouds and a heavy rain shower… which passes in a few minutes and leaves the world smelling like pure humidity and asphalt (refreshing in its own way). The smells are particularly effective. I have flashing memories of riding on the back of a motorbike through the muddy rivers of road, feet held high; or of splashing around in brown puddles (attired in boots and shorts) to catch frogs; or just listening to the splattering and whooshing of the rain. It’s the kind of rain that you hear; the big, heavy drops that splash and beat on the ground. And always there’s the smell of wet asphalt.
Some of you may have been following the recent political unrest in Nepal. A few weeks ago the Prime Minister and Maoist leader ordered the Nepal Army Chief to step down. The Army Chief, backed by the President, refused to go. I might add that the Maoists have their own army (not the one led by the Army Chief), and that both armies are close to Kathmandu. Cozy!
Living in a country with a recent history of civil war, and being thrown into a situation of such tension and uncertainty, was for us surprisingly uneventful. The PM resigned and we stayed at home for a day because of demonstrations in town, but after that the entire valley seemed to be simply sitting and waiting. Well, not sitting; life in Kathmandu rolled on as normal, but uncertainty and confusion ruled. No one seemed to have the slightest idea what would happen next or what was really happening, and they didn’t appear to mind much. What to do?
So while our imaginations jumped to riots and coups and sieges and armies in the streets, people seemed to shrug their shoulders and keep living until the next turn of events should make a real difference. It occurred to me how differently people would react to a similarly absurd situation in Norway; it’s amazing what a country can get itself used to.
Last Friday we said our last goodbye to the center and “our” kids. I always knew it was going to be horrible, but it did still manage to hit me as a shock that this was really goodbye – for good. I may be back in a few years, but there isn’t much hope of finding them all again. They may move, their parents may stop bothering to bring them, or they may not be alive; none of them are exactly healthy.
Saying goodbye to someone who doesn’t understand what you are doing isn’t easy. When they giggle and drool on you affectionately one last time and then wander off distractedly, or follow you to the gate and wave happily, just as they would on any other day; you feel a nagging sense of frustration and guilt. Some of them will have forgotten about our existence by next week (which is comforting, somehow), but I’m afraid some of them just won’t get it.
It is, as Anna puts it, like leaving a puppy dog behind.
With each new season here arrives a wave of different smells, sights and feels; and I am hit every time by the fresh wave of old memories they bring. Like when a hot day with a burning sun is suddenly interrupted by booming thunder, dark, swift clouds and a heavy rain shower… which passes in a few minutes and leaves the world smelling like pure humidity and asphalt (refreshing in its own way). The smells are particularly effective. I have flashing memories of riding on the back of a motorbike through the muddy rivers of road, feet held high; or of splashing around in brown puddles (attired in boots and shorts) to catch frogs; or just listening to the splattering and whooshing of the rain. It’s the kind of rain that you hear; the big, heavy drops that splash and beat on the ground. And always there’s the smell of wet asphalt.
Some of you may have been following the recent political unrest in Nepal. A few weeks ago the Prime Minister and Maoist leader ordered the Nepal Army Chief to step down. The Army Chief, backed by the President, refused to go. I might add that the Maoists have their own army (not the one led by the Army Chief), and that both armies are close to Kathmandu. Cozy!
Living in a country with a recent history of civil war, and being thrown into a situation of such tension and uncertainty, was for us surprisingly uneventful. The PM resigned and we stayed at home for a day because of demonstrations in town, but after that the entire valley seemed to be simply sitting and waiting. Well, not sitting; life in Kathmandu rolled on as normal, but uncertainty and confusion ruled. No one seemed to have the slightest idea what would happen next or what was really happening, and they didn’t appear to mind much. What to do?
So while our imaginations jumped to riots and coups and sieges and armies in the streets, people seemed to shrug their shoulders and keep living until the next turn of events should make a real difference. It occurred to me how differently people would react to a similarly absurd situation in Norway; it’s amazing what a country can get itself used to.
Last Friday we said our last goodbye to the center and “our” kids. I always knew it was going to be horrible, but it did still manage to hit me as a shock that this was really goodbye – for good. I may be back in a few years, but there isn’t much hope of finding them all again. They may move, their parents may stop bothering to bring them, or they may not be alive; none of them are exactly healthy.
Saying goodbye to someone who doesn’t understand what you are doing isn’t easy. When they giggle and drool on you affectionately one last time and then wander off distractedly, or follow you to the gate and wave happily, just as they would on any other day; you feel a nagging sense of frustration and guilt. Some of them will have forgotten about our existence by next week (which is comforting, somehow), but I’m afraid some of them just won’t get it.
It is, as Anna puts it, like leaving a puppy dog behind.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Trekking
Here I sit, back in Kathmandu after 8 fantastic days of mountains and fresh air, roaring rivers and howling winds, chilly lodges and crackling fires, yaks and monkeys, tea and daal bhat, rocky cliffs and steep valleys. I could go on and on with this list of delights, now all fresh in my mind, but I’m sure you get the point: trekking in the Himalayas is wonderful.
However, be warned! It comes at great cost. And if you think I’m referring to the absence of phones, running water, roads, news, electricity (well, coming from Kathmandu these days that’s not much of a shock), or mirrors, you are very much mistaken. No, the 9-hour long drive in a local bus from Kathmandu to the trek’s starting point in Syabru Besi, along the steepest ridges, biggest rockslides and worst dirt roads you can imagine, I now count among the worst experiences of my life. Note the term ‘local bus’: these buses are for the most part wider than the road (that’s how it felt, anyway) and in equally bad shape, loaded with people both inside and on top of the roof; which of course adds to the already dangerous swaying… Every few minutes I knew without a doubt that I was going to die, and made desperate attempts to claw my way past the unfortunate Anna, who was seated between me and the window. I hope you get the general idea, because I’m going to stop writing about it right now before I have a heart attack. I’ll just say that we rented a jeep on the way back down, which (apart from being the smartest thing we’ve ever done, in hopes of surviving the trek), saved me a lot of stress and the others several scratches.
I guess I should mention the members and the destination of our little trekking party: our friend Ben, our guide Kushal, Anna and I headed to the Langtang Valley, which is situated north of Kathmandu, towards the Chinese border and in the middle of the Himalayan peaks. Andrea stayed home with her new boyfriend Jakob (for those of you who know him: yes, Anna’s-older-brother-Jakob, the very same. And we thought we were avoiding all potential intrigue by moving to far off Nepal!). Our trek got off to a late start due to the festival of Holi, which (if only I were a more organized and efficient person!) really deserves its own chapter, being a huge nuisance as well as a lot of fun, and the source of many vivid childhood memories. Holi involves intense public water and/or dye-fights, with the participation of everyone from little kids and families to great mobs on motorbikes that roam the city. Foreigners are popular targets, especially girls; for a few days we only left the house very reluctantly and only returned very wet, the time outside mostly spent sprinting or darting in and out of shops (to the delight of many a teenage boy). One of this year’s highlights was the massive rooftop water fight where Ben, Anna and I got thoroughly clobbered by our neighbors; the most feared of whom was mama with her sturdy water pitcher… But I’m getting quite sidetracked, and must return to the tale of our trek.
I believe I was about to start bragging. So, Holi gave us a late start, which meant we needed to catch up, which meant that on the first real day of walking (with backpacks containing everything we needed for the week) we climbed from about 1700m to Langtang village at 3500m, in about 10 hours. This, if you’ve never tried doing it before, meant that we were nearly dead by the time we arrived at the lodge, and had to crawl up the remaining 3 steps. Whimpering. On top of it all it was absolutely freezing cold; the rustic Tibetan cottages with cracks in the walls the size of your arm may seem charming in theory, but I assure you there comes a time when you do not appreciate it. I believe we only survived that evening because we could, already then, see the humor in our pathetic state, and because our guide kept bragging to everyone we met how far and fast we had walked. There is something very satisfying about pushing yourself; I don’t think I have ever been so close to my limit.
The next day we hiked up to Kyanjin Gompa, the highest point of our trek, at 3900m. From there Ben and Kushal went exploring a glacier, and Anna and I enjoyed the spectacular view while fighting headaches and nausea. When it was time for the hike downwards, Kushal performed a small miracle on us which consisted in garlic soup, aspirin and a magic foot-lotion, and we trotted happily down to Ghora Tabela.
Did I say spectacular view? Let me elaborate. Actually, there are no words. To quote my friend the lonely planet: “the Langtang trek (…) gives you the opportunity to get right in among the Himalayan peaks and to walk through remote, sparsely populated areas. (…) the trail passes through an ever-changing climate and offers trekkers an exceptional diversity of scenery and culture.” But this does not even begin to cover the feeling you have when you are standing at the edge of steep, narrow valleys overlooking wild rivers, and at the same time the highest peaks in the world are so close above you that you want to reach right up and touch them; or where the vivid colors of fluttering prayer flags stand out against the rocky, windswept, desolate plains, dotted with stone villages, and the ever-present white peaks are all around you… sigh. No, I will have to show you some pictures:
After our uphill marathon, we took it easy on the way down; stopping to explore caves, climb boulders and soak our feet in the icy river. Evenings in the lodges were devoted to many cups of hot, sweet, milk tea and large portions of rice and daal; intense card games, stories, songs and other cozy activities around the warm wood stove. From Ghora Tabela we went on to Rimche, and the day after that we trudged into Thulo Syabru Besi in an approaching thunderstorm and spent the evening listening to the drumming of rain on a tin roof. The following day the world smelled fresh and earthy, and for the millionth time I seriously considered staying up there forever. From Thulo Syabru Besi the path took us to Dhunche, where (there is a road!) our trek sadly ended in the jeep.
So many sights I never could have imagined, fascinating people we met along the way; and a sort of peaceful slowness of life in which to process it all. A week such as this leaves so many impressions. I feel more than ever the limitations of words when trying to record the memories, and even sort through the thoughts that turn up along the way. But at the end of the day, when my head is swimming with images of unbelievable beauty, I think the strongest impression that is left with me is that of being so small. And that there really must be something infinitely bigger than myself out there.
However, be warned! It comes at great cost. And if you think I’m referring to the absence of phones, running water, roads, news, electricity (well, coming from Kathmandu these days that’s not much of a shock), or mirrors, you are very much mistaken. No, the 9-hour long drive in a local bus from Kathmandu to the trek’s starting point in Syabru Besi, along the steepest ridges, biggest rockslides and worst dirt roads you can imagine, I now count among the worst experiences of my life. Note the term ‘local bus’: these buses are for the most part wider than the road (that’s how it felt, anyway) and in equally bad shape, loaded with people both inside and on top of the roof; which of course adds to the already dangerous swaying… Every few minutes I knew without a doubt that I was going to die, and made desperate attempts to claw my way past the unfortunate Anna, who was seated between me and the window. I hope you get the general idea, because I’m going to stop writing about it right now before I have a heart attack. I’ll just say that we rented a jeep on the way back down, which (apart from being the smartest thing we’ve ever done, in hopes of surviving the trek), saved me a lot of stress and the others several scratches.
I guess I should mention the members and the destination of our little trekking party: our friend Ben, our guide Kushal, Anna and I headed to the Langtang Valley, which is situated north of Kathmandu, towards the Chinese border and in the middle of the Himalayan peaks. Andrea stayed home with her new boyfriend Jakob (for those of you who know him: yes, Anna’s-older-brother-Jakob, the very same. And we thought we were avoiding all potential intrigue by moving to far off Nepal!). Our trek got off to a late start due to the festival of Holi, which (if only I were a more organized and efficient person!) really deserves its own chapter, being a huge nuisance as well as a lot of fun, and the source of many vivid childhood memories. Holi involves intense public water and/or dye-fights, with the participation of everyone from little kids and families to great mobs on motorbikes that roam the city. Foreigners are popular targets, especially girls; for a few days we only left the house very reluctantly and only returned very wet, the time outside mostly spent sprinting or darting in and out of shops (to the delight of many a teenage boy). One of this year’s highlights was the massive rooftop water fight where Ben, Anna and I got thoroughly clobbered by our neighbors; the most feared of whom was mama with her sturdy water pitcher… But I’m getting quite sidetracked, and must return to the tale of our trek.
I believe I was about to start bragging. So, Holi gave us a late start, which meant we needed to catch up, which meant that on the first real day of walking (with backpacks containing everything we needed for the week) we climbed from about 1700m to Langtang village at 3500m, in about 10 hours. This, if you’ve never tried doing it before, meant that we were nearly dead by the time we arrived at the lodge, and had to crawl up the remaining 3 steps. Whimpering. On top of it all it was absolutely freezing cold; the rustic Tibetan cottages with cracks in the walls the size of your arm may seem charming in theory, but I assure you there comes a time when you do not appreciate it. I believe we only survived that evening because we could, already then, see the humor in our pathetic state, and because our guide kept bragging to everyone we met how far and fast we had walked. There is something very satisfying about pushing yourself; I don’t think I have ever been so close to my limit.
The next day we hiked up to Kyanjin Gompa, the highest point of our trek, at 3900m. From there Ben and Kushal went exploring a glacier, and Anna and I enjoyed the spectacular view while fighting headaches and nausea. When it was time for the hike downwards, Kushal performed a small miracle on us which consisted in garlic soup, aspirin and a magic foot-lotion, and we trotted happily down to Ghora Tabela.
Did I say spectacular view? Let me elaborate. Actually, there are no words. To quote my friend the lonely planet: “the Langtang trek (…) gives you the opportunity to get right in among the Himalayan peaks and to walk through remote, sparsely populated areas. (…) the trail passes through an ever-changing climate and offers trekkers an exceptional diversity of scenery and culture.” But this does not even begin to cover the feeling you have when you are standing at the edge of steep, narrow valleys overlooking wild rivers, and at the same time the highest peaks in the world are so close above you that you want to reach right up and touch them; or where the vivid colors of fluttering prayer flags stand out against the rocky, windswept, desolate plains, dotted with stone villages, and the ever-present white peaks are all around you… sigh. No, I will have to show you some pictures:
After our uphill marathon, we took it easy on the way down; stopping to explore caves, climb boulders and soak our feet in the icy river. Evenings in the lodges were devoted to many cups of hot, sweet, milk tea and large portions of rice and daal; intense card games, stories, songs and other cozy activities around the warm wood stove. From Ghora Tabela we went on to Rimche, and the day after that we trudged into Thulo Syabru Besi in an approaching thunderstorm and spent the evening listening to the drumming of rain on a tin roof. The following day the world smelled fresh and earthy, and for the millionth time I seriously considered staying up there forever. From Thulo Syabru Besi the path took us to Dhunche, where (there is a road!) our trek sadly ended in the jeep.
So many sights I never could have imagined, fascinating people we met along the way; and a sort of peaceful slowness of life in which to process it all. A week such as this leaves so many impressions. I feel more than ever the limitations of words when trying to record the memories, and even sort through the thoughts that turn up along the way. But at the end of the day, when my head is swimming with images of unbelievable beauty, I think the strongest impression that is left with me is that of being so small. And that there really must be something infinitely bigger than myself out there.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Load-shedding
The other day I came home, switched on a light absentmindedly and jumped when it came on. It was quite the experience; I simply flipped the little switch on and – the room was filled with light! All by itself!
A few mornings ago I got up, found matches in the dark, lit a few candles, and started making breakfast. Lalala. Everything was as it should be. And then – (hold your breath) someone came in and informed me that we had electricity! I was lost in my routine and hadn’t even thought to check.
You may be wondering what my point is. Well, these experiences led me to realize that one can get quite used to the most incredible things, for example 16-hour power cuts. And no, that’s not 16 electricity-free hours a month, or even a week. It means 8 hours of electricity a day. Which means about 4 hours of electricity in the middle of the night and 4 hours sometime during the day; which does not mean 4 hours in the afternoon/evening when we are at home and in need of it, oh no. Are you getting the idea? Sometimes we go for days without experiencing a light switched on at home.
I'm not quite done complaining. No power does not simply mean no light. Candles are the least of our inconveniences. Let me write you a nice little list. No power means:
- No light
- No charging of cell phones, cameras, computers etc.
- No music (cd-player)
- No movies (you have the choice of sacrificing your computer batteries to a) an hour or so of music OR b) half a movie)
- No internet
- No using electronic cooking devices (no grinding coffee beans, no whipping, etc)
- No washing machine
- No leftovers in the (warm) fridge (it WILL begin to stink)
- A considerable amount of extra stress. There is a scramble when the lights come on as everyone rushes to find chargeable things, check their e-mail, wash clothes, prepare a meal that requires grinding...
Not to mention the rude awakenings of midnight power-returns; suddenly forgotten lights blaze, music comes out of the forgotten cd-player and the forgotten washer starts humming along with our poor fridge.
When I start feeling sorry for myself, I remind myself that there are people in this country trying to run businesses. There are factories, offices, and schools trying to run without power. There are students studying for exams and owners of cybercafés. And then… I feel a little better about my coffee-grinding-issues.
I must add that we are down to 14 hours now. Almost half the time with electricity! If we ever get down to 12 hours I will begin to feel spoiled.
A few mornings ago I got up, found matches in the dark, lit a few candles, and started making breakfast. Lalala. Everything was as it should be. And then – (hold your breath) someone came in and informed me that we had electricity! I was lost in my routine and hadn’t even thought to check.
You may be wondering what my point is. Well, these experiences led me to realize that one can get quite used to the most incredible things, for example 16-hour power cuts. And no, that’s not 16 electricity-free hours a month, or even a week. It means 8 hours of electricity a day. Which means about 4 hours of electricity in the middle of the night and 4 hours sometime during the day; which does not mean 4 hours in the afternoon/evening when we are at home and in need of it, oh no. Are you getting the idea? Sometimes we go for days without experiencing a light switched on at home.
I'm not quite done complaining. No power does not simply mean no light. Candles are the least of our inconveniences. Let me write you a nice little list. No power means:
- No light
- No charging of cell phones, cameras, computers etc.
- No music (cd-player)
- No movies (you have the choice of sacrificing your computer batteries to a) an hour or so of music OR b) half a movie)
- No internet
- No using electronic cooking devices (no grinding coffee beans, no whipping, etc)
- No washing machine
- No leftovers in the (warm) fridge (it WILL begin to stink)
- A considerable amount of extra stress. There is a scramble when the lights come on as everyone rushes to find chargeable things, check their e-mail, wash clothes, prepare a meal that requires grinding...
Not to mention the rude awakenings of midnight power-returns; suddenly forgotten lights blaze, music comes out of the forgotten cd-player and the forgotten washer starts humming along with our poor fridge.
When I start feeling sorry for myself, I remind myself that there are people in this country trying to run businesses. There are factories, offices, and schools trying to run without power. There are students studying for exams and owners of cybercafés. And then… I feel a little better about my coffee-grinding-issues.
I must add that we are down to 14 hours now. Almost half the time with electricity! If we ever get down to 12 hours I will begin to feel spoiled.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A long-awaited update
I have been receiving complaints concerning the absence of updates on my blog lately… I am very sorry for the delay and I hope to make up for it with a long and newsy chapter! December is a busy month for everybody, right? Despite a quieter Christmas than usual, a lot has been happening here as well; we’ve survived four whole bus rides on the road out of Kathmandu, (if you’d seen the road you would be impressed – it meant countless 2-inch misses and passing several cliff/hillside wrecks) gone paragliding, and nearly been eaten by a crocodile (only slightly exaggerating).
- Christmas – a very different one this year, but nevertheless a very good one. Without the usual amount of homework and other annoying distractions, we became our mothers more than ever and took charge of the baking, cooking, decorating, knitting etc. We brought some of these sweets to work with us, but nothing was as entertaining as when the three of us performed our little St. Lucia parade and song, wearing white and covered in glitter. Although we failed to make a wreath of candles, the fat candle perched on Andrea’s head was a success, and the giggles lasted for days.
The Christmas season also gave us an opportunity to be with some very good friends. While Christmas Eve was celebrated at home in good old Scandinavian fashion, the days before and after contained cozy friends, Christmas movies and everything from Norwegian mutton and rice-pudding to stuffing, turkey, and pecan pie. In other words: for being so far away from home, my Christmas was quite complete.
- Christmas Show – this deserves a paragraph of its own, as it was the definite highlight of the year for the kids (and a lot of us!) at ABBS. The anticipation has been building steadily; the Christmas Show has been the number one topic of conversation for months. In fact, I’m not sure what we’ll have to talk about this spring.
All the families were invited to the “big center” (our kids got picked up in a special, decorated(!) bus and driven to headquarters) where the kids performed dances and songs (we’ve worked hard at these, watching them perform I felt all proud!). We eight volunteers contributed as well; this involved singing and dressing up as Santa, rats and a cat. The whiskers were very popular. The show was followed by lunch for everyone, and a present for each of the children. Having everyone dance to loud, thumping (I won’t say screeching) Hindi-music was of course inevitable at some point, as no gathering is quite complete without this. I’m sure we were quite a sight; those who could walk helping those who couldn’t, those who could see helping the blind, wheelchairs spinning and rattling, and an occasional volunteer with whiskers.
When it was all over and we watched the kids leave (grinning from ear to ear), it was surprisingly hard to say goodbye for two short weeks.
- Chitwan – not that I was left time to brood. The next morning we took off for a weekend in Chitwan National Park with the staff at ABBS. American volunteer Ben went along too, which added some English-speaking fun (not that we don’t love constantly conversing with Nepali ladies in our extremely fluent Nepali).
As mentioned above, this was a bit of an eventful weekend: elephant riding, rhino-spotting, boat ride on the river, elephant babies, and a crocodile. And in the evening after a stick-dance culture show, hours spent around the fire with a drum and Nepali ballads (with a little dancing) that lasted well into the night.
This all sounds idyllic enough, but remember, this is Nepal: nothing will go too smoothly. In this case it was our bus. It broke down regularly during the trip, giving us the chance to hang out and eat some more, go swimming in a river, snack some more, sing some more, and eat some more. I believe I ate about 7 oranges in the course of a few hours.
- I now come to the event which changed my outlook on life forever, and which caused me to discover the true purpose of my existence: PARAGLIDING! I have no words. Except that it was amazingly fun and exactly like flying, and that if you haven’t done it DON’T! Because you will become addicted and never do anything productive with your life again. I personally plan to spend all the rest of my time and money on training and traveling and very expensive paragliding-equipment.
I should mention that this revelation took place during our 5-day trip to Pokhara, a lovely town sandwiched between a big lake and the mountains. The rest of these days deserve a spot in this blog – quiet cafes on the lakeside with a beautiful view, hikes to hilltops with a spectacular view, golden-pink sunrises over the Himalayas… and of course, the good books to be enjoyed in the middle of all of this. The break from the polluted, dusty, loud and crowded streets of Kathmandu was quite appreciated.
There you have it! Now we are back at work and enjoying it more than ever (most of it at least... did they always used to pee this much?). For those of you who think our life here is all safaris, parties and quiet lakeside cafes, I can assure you that that is not the case. Power cuts have reached 12 hours a day, soon to become 14, 16 and maybe 18 (it has been said that by March they’ll have reached 24 hours and 15 minutes). Hot showers are a distant, hazy memory; especially morning showers are like vivid flashbacks to dips in icy Norwegian fjords. The cold tiles and brick walls inside don’t seem to ever warm up; the only way to get warm is to place yourself and all your layers in the sun. The kids are like ice every morning, and on their skin fresh blisters, cracks and sores from their two weeks at home.
What I wouldn’t give to plop some of them in a steaming hot bath, scrub them, wrap them up in a warm, dry towel, set them on the heated tile floor, cover them with lotion, blow-dry their hair, and let them toast their toes by the fire in my home in Norway!
- Christmas – a very different one this year, but nevertheless a very good one. Without the usual amount of homework and other annoying distractions, we became our mothers more than ever and took charge of the baking, cooking, decorating, knitting etc. We brought some of these sweets to work with us, but nothing was as entertaining as when the three of us performed our little St. Lucia parade and song, wearing white and covered in glitter. Although we failed to make a wreath of candles, the fat candle perched on Andrea’s head was a success, and the giggles lasted for days.
The Christmas season also gave us an opportunity to be with some very good friends. While Christmas Eve was celebrated at home in good old Scandinavian fashion, the days before and after contained cozy friends, Christmas movies and everything from Norwegian mutton and rice-pudding to stuffing, turkey, and pecan pie. In other words: for being so far away from home, my Christmas was quite complete.
- Christmas Show – this deserves a paragraph of its own, as it was the definite highlight of the year for the kids (and a lot of us!) at ABBS. The anticipation has been building steadily; the Christmas Show has been the number one topic of conversation for months. In fact, I’m not sure what we’ll have to talk about this spring.
All the families were invited to the “big center” (our kids got picked up in a special, decorated(!) bus and driven to headquarters) where the kids performed dances and songs (we’ve worked hard at these, watching them perform I felt all proud!). We eight volunteers contributed as well; this involved singing and dressing up as Santa, rats and a cat. The whiskers were very popular. The show was followed by lunch for everyone, and a present for each of the children. Having everyone dance to loud, thumping (I won’t say screeching) Hindi-music was of course inevitable at some point, as no gathering is quite complete without this. I’m sure we were quite a sight; those who could walk helping those who couldn’t, those who could see helping the blind, wheelchairs spinning and rattling, and an occasional volunteer with whiskers.
When it was all over and we watched the kids leave (grinning from ear to ear), it was surprisingly hard to say goodbye for two short weeks.
- Chitwan – not that I was left time to brood. The next morning we took off for a weekend in Chitwan National Park with the staff at ABBS. American volunteer Ben went along too, which added some English-speaking fun (not that we don’t love constantly conversing with Nepali ladies in our extremely fluent Nepali).
As mentioned above, this was a bit of an eventful weekend: elephant riding, rhino-spotting, boat ride on the river, elephant babies, and a crocodile. And in the evening after a stick-dance culture show, hours spent around the fire with a drum and Nepali ballads (with a little dancing) that lasted well into the night.
This all sounds idyllic enough, but remember, this is Nepal: nothing will go too smoothly. In this case it was our bus. It broke down regularly during the trip, giving us the chance to hang out and eat some more, go swimming in a river, snack some more, sing some more, and eat some more. I believe I ate about 7 oranges in the course of a few hours.
- I now come to the event which changed my outlook on life forever, and which caused me to discover the true purpose of my existence: PARAGLIDING! I have no words. Except that it was amazingly fun and exactly like flying, and that if you haven’t done it DON’T! Because you will become addicted and never do anything productive with your life again. I personally plan to spend all the rest of my time and money on training and traveling and very expensive paragliding-equipment.
I should mention that this revelation took place during our 5-day trip to Pokhara, a lovely town sandwiched between a big lake and the mountains. The rest of these days deserve a spot in this blog – quiet cafes on the lakeside with a beautiful view, hikes to hilltops with a spectacular view, golden-pink sunrises over the Himalayas… and of course, the good books to be enjoyed in the middle of all of this. The break from the polluted, dusty, loud and crowded streets of Kathmandu was quite appreciated.
There you have it! Now we are back at work and enjoying it more than ever (most of it at least... did they always used to pee this much?). For those of you who think our life here is all safaris, parties and quiet lakeside cafes, I can assure you that that is not the case. Power cuts have reached 12 hours a day, soon to become 14, 16 and maybe 18 (it has been said that by March they’ll have reached 24 hours and 15 minutes). Hot showers are a distant, hazy memory; especially morning showers are like vivid flashbacks to dips in icy Norwegian fjords. The cold tiles and brick walls inside don’t seem to ever warm up; the only way to get warm is to place yourself and all your layers in the sun. The kids are like ice every morning, and on their skin fresh blisters, cracks and sores from their two weeks at home.
What I wouldn’t give to plop some of them in a steaming hot bath, scrub them, wrap them up in a warm, dry towel, set them on the heated tile floor, cover them with lotion, blow-dry their hair, and let them toast their toes by the fire in my home in Norway!
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