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.