The really last one

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.