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.
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