Home for the Holidays

Home. Family time. Abuelos. Tios. Primos. Speeding. Curves. Jungles. Volcanoes. Black velvet sand. Atitlan. Maya. Photo shoots. Languages. Snorkeling. Sting rays. Squid. Baby turtles. Roaring currents. Sun. Fresh air. Shit music.

If my appreciation of Christmas were based on food alone, this would not be my favorite holiday. Formal family gatherings and extended holiday celebrations have become considerably more complicated since becoming a vegetarian. Nevertheless a bit of home time surrounded by my crazy family is always refreshing. Needless to say there is never a dull moment. The parties and gatherings which are supposed to be a blast - literally with all the fireworks set off - never are, and the impromptu visits evolve into full fledged adventures becoming ingrained into your memory forever.

It's a bit of family tradition I suppose to cram as many activities in as many different places, in this case as many different places in Central America, when we're together. The traveling gene is very much ingrained whether it's by plane, boat, bicycle, car, or bus - sadly there are no trains here. One day you're stepping off the airplane just to pack a different bag which will accompany you for the next 2 weeks. The adventure begins with the sun rising over a misty Guatemala City as it falls away from you and you dive into the clouds. Next thing you know, you're zooming across turquoise waters, diving with squid and stingrays, surfing with dolphins and observing missionaries and narcos interacting. San Pedro is a small island in Belize which I'm told used to be a little haven away from home. Its two block commercial area has turned into a full fledged centro comercial, but at the end of the day it's still an island small enough to traverse various beaches in the hunt to find your father who's on the hunt for windsurf equipment but big enough to cycle an entire day and not get all the way around. Time slows down and the sun is warm. From here, it's back for a day and on to the next destination.

El Salvador is an amazing country even when compared to the cultural giant which is Guatemala. Of course, I'm biased. There's no questioning that streak of patriotism which invokes hyperactivity on arrival and "blows dust in my eyes" on departure, but where else can you physically feel the power of the earth and its roaring oceans, see rocks come to life, and hear the twitter of diversity? You can scale the face of a volcano to find yourself in a field of hummingbirds, flowers and butterflies. You jump in the ocean to get tossed around like a rag doll as you throw yourself against 1.5 meter high frothy waves and emerge laughing covered in black sand. You burn your feet on the sand and cool them off in the ocean. At sunset, you can hear the clicking of canegues (hermit crabs) clambering over black silky rocks as they scavenge for food. The people are friendly and genuine, laughing, smiling and open. The food is heavy and filling. Cheese lovers, you'll never find a cheesier and more satisfying dish than pupusas. I don't care if the name is funny, once you try them you love them. The politics are exciting and despite the high rates of internal corruption, there are many good people within the system.

Another early morning start, three hours later we're back in Guatemala City for a couple hours before getting back on the road this time to the Mexican border. There's an archaeological site called Tikalik Abaj which for all the hassle, the bad roads, potholes, and pitch black darkness, I didn't even get to see much of, but from what I did see, I would go back again. The Tikalik Maya Lodge was one of the coolest hotels I've ever been to, especially for being an eco-hotel. The rooms are large and spacious, completely environmentally friendly (no electricity yes) but plenty of hot water and amazing views from your roof top balcony.You wake up with birds singing and the rainforest at your doorstep. I'm not particularly fascinated by birds but you can't help but be amazed at the sheer variety of bird calls, and bird sightings of all different colours and shapes. Another three hour race for your life past sugar cane trucks, across the agricultural basin of Guatemala and down death provoking curves and you're in Lago Atitlan appreciating the deep turquoise waters and the view of seven volcanoes. Temperatures are mild at this time of year but it's the only time you can really swim in the lake. Panajachel is one of the few places in Guatemala where both men and women walk in the streets wearing their traditional outfits.

That basically sums up two weeks of being home, a flurry of activities, nearly four countries and it all culminates here on the brink of the New Year surrounded by notebooks, journal articles, yellow notepad paper and a very clingy cat preparing to pounce on the last slice of semita. 

wine, beer and tangerine

Something has to be said about SOAS, it's incredible atmosphere, it's complete and utter openness to all pathways of life, and its non-judgmental attitude and acceptance of different cultures. I almost wish I had come here for my undergraduate degree, but maybe I wouldn't have appreciated it as much back then.

I guess I'm just talking like this because the slow travel talk I went to today mentioned Mongolia. <3 Mongolia. One of these days, or maybe a few years from now, I will take a good three months of my life and board the trans-siberian express and travel from Moscow to Beijing, taking the time to get off at Irkutsk and Ulaanbaatar.

So slow travel is the next big thing it seems. Traveling while minimizing your carbon footprint by avoiding the gas guzzling aluminum sausage, and opting for more eco-friendly options like trains, buses and cargo ships. Funny, you wouldn't have thought of a cargo ship as an eco friendly option eh? Well it is, and apparently their captains are happy enough to take you on-board with their crew for a minimal price. Whole websites are dedicated to finding the right cargo ship for you on your slow travel journey. I'm definitely intrigued. The idea of traveling at the luxury of your own pace without the rush and stress of airports and security checks is very appealing. Sure, I'm aware that boat travel has its literal ups and downs, but come on, adventure. Ever thought about island hopping with canoes? I have. Off the coast of Thailand, dodging the anglophone masses of gap yah youths. One day. If only holidays were longer than two weeks.

To get the travel bug jitters visit:

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/globetrotters-with-a-conscience-around-the-world-in-381-days-799016.html

Camden Town

I have to say, not doing touristy things has suited me quite well, but today in response to the eagerness and spirited demands of my younger sister, we became tourists. And...we had fun.

Big Ben, West-Minster Abbey, Royal Arts Academy, Southbank book market (LOVE), Covent Gardens, Oxford Circus, and best of all: Camden Town. Discovering the markets in Camden was finding that niche that I've been looking for since moving to London. Markets are my thing, and this one didn't disappoint. It was like wandering around Kreuzberg Berlin, feeding off the punk-ass vibe and the gothic cool. Chatting to merchants and sellers, some eager to make a sale, other happy enough just to talk and feed you story after story. This is where true art lies, within the stalls of those who make a living selling what they make. If you're good you make money. Simple as that. Unless you're years before your time and your ideas are rejected for being too avant-garde, but that is also art.

We met stone whisperer with a story for every single one of the pendants, earrings, necklaces and statues in his stall. For him it wasn't about the design of the rock, but about image hidden within its murky depths. Hold it up to the light with a little imagination and a whole story unveils. A man by the stormy seaside, a witch in the jagged mountains, two dolphins and their eternal friendship. Each stone was picked at a specific time and place to be given to a specific person under specific circumstances. Each one as unique as the next. The merchant wasn't old, late 40's perhaps, with a calm and soothing aura that would quickly become thunderous as soon as any of his stones were mistreated. Half Sioux, half Italian he travels the world collecting stories and experiences with which to feed his infinite wisdom. The world is full of cool people if you take the time to listen. It makes me sad that not many people do.

It's been a while. Britain's welcomed me back with the open arms of a banker embracing a new customer. It's good to be back. Observing, absorbing, getting back in touch with the anti-nature that is civilization. Realizing it's so easy to be absorbed by the hype of the media, new phone, new film, new tv, new underwear! Falling in love left and right with all the new actors, musicians, writers and artists who have popped up over the past year.  Feeling how detached the rest of the world is, how good Europe and the western world have it.

I was on a train today for five hours. I listened to conversations in different languages taking mental notes of patterns of code switching and creolization. It just happened. This is what I do now. I record languages for the greater good so that if one day a great natural catastrophe temporarily focuses the eye of the world on the islands of Micro-Polynesia, the deserts of Mongolia or the turtles of the Galapagos, those vocab and grammar books can be used to communicate with the natives.
http://www.hrelp.org/

Watch this space.

Blue skies, tall pine trees, large expanses of wheat and corn fields, getting lost in the woods numerous times, weekend trips to big cities, and eating so much fruit off trees that you're literally sick to your stomach; it's almost like being a kid again. I've always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with Germany - I mean let's face it, it's not as exotic as Brazil, Nepal or Vietnam - but after 20 years of summer visits, 5 world cups, 4 weddings, 2 funerals, 11 births, and countless family reunions, I can finally say that I like Germany. I guess I always have, I just haven't always been consciously aware of it.

The Great Confederacy: Watzajib Batz

It's 18:30 and I'm at home with a massive migraine feeling like I've inhaled far too much carbon-dioxide, which I have, my brain demanding intra-cerebral hydration - if only that existed. Rewind to 6:30, bright and early morning and you'll see me nervously skipping out the front door, camera in hand, feeling slightly guilty for ditching work. Fast-forward 20 minutes and we're stuck in traffic listening to Quique Villatoro drone on about what an amazing mayor he'd make. Snore. The day is bright and clear. Another 40 minutes and we're pulling into a driveway beside a wood workshop, the light-hearted notes of the marimba welcoming new arrivals. Still nervous-excited, the way you'd feel if you were about to come face to face with your life-time hero.

The music calls from behind a red solid metal gate. It lilts in the wind, twirling up towards the mango tree, its leaves joining in with the waltz. A man dressed in traditional maya suit stands behind the small opening in the gate, smiling broadly, welcoming us with an eager nod and a good douse of incense smoke to each of our cardinal points. We step from one world to the next, leaving the evils of modern life as we know it behind us, accepting the tranquility and serenity of the maya in front. As tranquil and serene as you can be when you're sacrificing chickens with your bare hands, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once inside, the city is immediately forgotten. People are rushing about, busily preparing for Watzajib Batz. Pine needles are scattered on the floor, their scent released with every step. Flowers, fruit and corn are arranged in geometric fashion, meticulously prepared as an offering to the North, South, East and West. Oranges, cloves, pine needles, candles and countless other fragrant symbols are placed carefully in what will become a fire pit. Four differently coloured candles are pressed into our hands and we're asked to kneel in reverence to mother earth. An hour later my knees and thigh aching we throw our offerings into the fire pit repeatedly and settle down in rusty fold up chairs for the sermon of Mayan wisdom. Don Apolinario talks of the importance of taking the time to appreciate traditions, of the loss the Maya culture is experiencing, of the fast-paced life that we are all a part of and the technology which is consuming us. He is bitter towards ladinos but accepting and grateful of outsider's efforts to support the Maya community. He wants to preserve ancient wisdom but it is unclear whether this knowledge is to be shared.

We kneel once more, and watch as four men and four women stand around the fire to sacrifice four hens and four roosters with their bare hands. Dogs howl, wings flap, feathers everywhere and soon the smell of burning flesh mixes with the heady scent of pine and incense. We line up to throw our final offerings and prayers into the fire pit, and back to our places to kiss the earth and meditate in silence. The ceremony continues for another hour before breaking for lunch only to resume again, but I've long since retreated to the shade to down a bottle of water.

And to get back to the theme of Guatemalan politics, everybody's favorite candidate has revised his campaign promises (in spanish):

http://www.taringa.net/comunidades/chapines/2226135/Baldizon-Promete-jajaja.html

Guatemalan Elections: A race to the death

The death toll is ever rising, so much so that even international artists are now being targeted for their ideals. Facundo Cabral, a famous Argentinian socialist singer was killed Saturday morning on his way to the airport. He was 74 years old.

Friday afternoon a helicopter flying in from Quiché, flown by Mauricio Urruela, UCN candidate for vice-presidency, crashed in Chimaltenango on its way back to Guatemala City, killing a UCN legislative candidate and a body guard. Mauricio Urruela was left in a critical condition.

Thursday evening, a bodyguard on Otto Perez Molina's (candidate for the presidency; El Patriota Party) payroll, shot a policeman in the stomach for being told to move the car waiting for the candidate's daughter because it was blocking the way for other cars. The policeman is also in the critical ward.

Tuesday morning, Luis Fernando Marroquin (Lider Party), a man running for mayor in San Jose Pinula (the outskirts of Guatemala City), was arrested for the murder of two of his competitors from the CREO and Unionista parties, and the faked attempt on his own life.

People are dropping dead left and right, and it's not just drug dealers and mareros (gang leaders) anymore, but figures of authority and innocent bystanders. It's a sad and ugly truth and people are scared. I'm kind of glad I'm leaving in two weeks.

El Volcán de Agua, Guatemala

It's been a while since I posted some pictures, so here goes. This is the water volcano as seen from top above the valley of Guatemala City on a clear day.

Sundays in San José Villanueva

La Hacienda

Wake up to the drip drip of the remnants of a violent thunderstorm. Parakeets chirp in hushed tones underneath a blue beach towel, quietly discussing the hot topics of the day. A cat flies in through the window and lands with a thump on your stomach, dashing off without so much as a "Good Morning" to your interrupted sleep. Somewhere in the house a shower handle squeaks and water gushes. Footsteps pad their way over and a blurry face appears in your line of sight.

"You comin' to church?"
"Urrrrrr"
"Good, 10 minutes"
"Urrr"

Twenty minutes later I'm sitting in the front pew like the good catholic I am not, watching in wonder as the funny man dressed in green humms and haws, spits and spews the Holy word of God unto our ever attentive ears. Well, their attentive ears. I don't even remember what the sermon was about. What I did make a note of however, was how much this particular church has grown in the past few years. I am the expert of course, having attended this church on average about twice a year for the past four years, Easters and Christmases included, along with random Sundays of the year. The church of San José Villanueva now has a certain feeling  of utility and warmth which wasn't there at the start. It's a big square "modern" building with tiled floors and wooden pews. The whole town flocks to its doors to fill its seats and listen with fervour to the good pastor. Testimonies of the church's good deeds are given, money to fund local farmers' harvests collected, scholarships for university degrees handed over, requests for a replacement tire for the community's mini bus were made, even the local drunk homeless man made an appearance in a bright blue polo shirt and khaki pants. A whole hum drum of activity which has slowly made itself a key aspect of these people's lives.

Or you could look at it from a different perspective. See those two rows of gringos four rows up? White faced, broad shouldered and stiff necked? They're a special congregation visiting from Misouri on their yearly rounds to monitor how their contributions are being spent by their sponsored missions. Puts everything into a different light.

Church over, the smell of huevos rancheros guides you home so you can stuff your face and fall into the lazy Sunday rythm, interrupted only by the journey to the bus stop. Guatemalan city life beckons. 

Nepali delicacies

I've reached that state of nostalgia for the previous country, so here goes a little commentary on some of Nepal's cuisine.


Momos - If I'm honest, momos are nothing to write home about, they are essentially a spicier curry version of chinese dumplings, usually stuffed with vegetable, chicken or buff meat. After returning from the momo festival complete with momorabilia (i <3 momos aprons, photos taken with the momo man), having tried sweet, salty, vegetarian, and fusion momos, I felt that the tastiest part of the momo was not the momo itself, rather the spicy sauce which accompanies it. A light, tomato based sauce which tricks you into dunking your momos to the fullest and stuffing them in your mouth before realizing its hella spicy. Amnesia is also a side-effect since 5 minutes after the fire gone down in your mouth you proceed to repeat the process all over again.

Chhurpi - extremely hard dried yak cheese with a stronger scent than flavour, which when you first pop it in your mouth tastes like swiss cheese with a hint of yak. Seriously. Imagine what a yak would taste like, kind of like the smell of a goat and a cow mixed together and you've got yak. So you pop it in your mouth, it's cut up into 1cm max 1.5 cm cubes, dark brown or yellow gray in colour, and you suck on it till it goes bland. I've been sucking on mine for a good ten minutes and tiny flecks are starting to crumble off the sides, but it still pretty much has the consistency of petrified cheese.

According to Wikipedia, chhurpi is a smoked cheese eaten in the Eastern Himalayas, very common among the Sherpas. It is made out of yak or chauri (cow-yak hybrid) buttermilk, which is pressed into a cloth and squeezed till no more juices remain. This is then allowed to dry until a cheese consistency is attained. After being cut up into tiny pieces, the little cubes are smoked senseless until the reach their petrified state. Twenty minutes later and I'm still breaking my teeth on this little cube. Tell you what though, normal yak cheese is tasty. Tastes like cheddar and bacon with the consistency of swiss cheese and a hint of dirt.

Curried potatoes - the sole reason I am surviving in this wretched country. I kid, this country isn't wretched. Only sometimes. Back to the potatoes though,  particularly curried potatoes baked, boiled, fried (I don't know what they do with them) to resemble butter. They melt in your mouth with such satisfying flavour, rich spicy, every so slightly bitter from karella (bitter melon) the medicinal herb used to cure all gastrointestinal diseases under the sun.  Bright yellow in color (the potatoes and their sauce) sometimes accompanied by dried pumpkin, another delicious treat, squishy and bursting with juices, and peas. How I miss these potato lunches.

Homeopathic Home remedies - Whenever I found myself suffering the side effects of street food, my landlady would sometimes bring me home made homeopathic concoctions to soothe my ailing stomach. The sweetest little lady who drove a hardbargain. Part of my overpriced flat's rent ensured that I could always make my way up those dark stairs into that dank curry smelling kitchen and she would make me a pot of herbalicious tea which would work its magic during the night and leave me fresh faced in the morning. Magic. On occasion when she was not at home, miso soup would work its magic. A slightly more drastic measure for getting rid of the bacteria, but miso soup certainly works wonders for the digestive tract. 

Central American Security Meeting

I apologize for the sudden political obsession but in truth, that is all I’m surrounded by recently. Politics by day and arts by night. Not bad you say, there are worse things in this world. There are, but the burocractic movements of politics in the real world, not to mention in Guatemala, are so tediously slow it’s like taking the time to measure the individual veins of a leaf in order to produce an exact replica.

Last week, the one and only Hillary Clinton along with 80 other heads of state from around the world, made an appearance in the Camino Real of Zona 10 Guatemala City to discuss Central America's future as a drug mule. With the likes of my latinamerican counterparts demanding more money (it's always about the money) and the likes of Arab sheikhs sitting on quite a bit of money producing useless comments, it fell down to Colombia's Calderón to point the finger and say, "If there is one thing we can be sure of, is that drug money is circulating in this room at this very moment."

Absolute, terrified silence.

Then you have the presidental candidates refusing to reveal their sources of funding. Some might argue it's their rights to privacy, their protection against thievery and extortion, but in this country you only stuggle that much against the law if you have something to hide. Parties win through trickery, lies and bribes. A recent political debate between the top five revealed them as complete and utter nimcompoops for the lack of a better word. Answers for reducing crime and drug traficking included:
a) a secret tactical army to target the narcos (drug lords)- another mismanaged groups of corrupt jugheads with fancy guns
b) shutting down borders - national prison, whoop
c)increased funding for the police force - way, undeserved bonuses!

If you had to choose, would you rather be governed by an ex-assasin, Dr. Evil from Austin Powers, the woman who became the country's richest person by stealing from national funds, or a terminally ill patient?

Salvadoran Legislative Court

A good friend of the family received a very distinguished award from the legislative branch of El Salvador's very apt and capable government so the three females of this family (excluding the cat) bundled ourselves in the car and sped away through rain and thunderstorms to attend the award ceremony. I am now proud to say that I have been inside the buildings of El Salvador's central governance, have sat with the who's who of El Salvador's political royalty (although I did not know it at the time) and have watched bemusedly as my mother the photographer flitted back and forth among all this grandeur, unapologetically pointing a 30cm lens in people's faces.

What can I say, it was exciting for all about 10 minutes until we all realized hardly anything could be understood over the incessant chatter of gossipy women sitting in the back corner of the legislative court. Who gossips in a legislative court?!

It was really interesting though. I felt like I was in an episode of the West Wing: El Salvador, sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for a glimpse of our president Mauricio Funes in the midst of drama and action. He never showed, apparently was never supposed to. Only the likes of ARENA's Calderon Sol (cough), and the Minister of Defense and other important people which I remained completely oblivious to. There was talk about the war, the progress that has been achieved, and of course my uncle's involvement in this progress and all of his achievements. All had good things to say, it got very political at one point which was when the gossiping hit its peak, and a couple flashes later it was over. Four females bundled themselves in a car and sped away home.

Antigua

Antigua, otherwise known as the Hoi An, Bonn, or the Pokhara of Guatemala. Backpacker central, gringo land, this is where you go to wander the streets in peaceful safety, marvel at colonial arquitectura and the enormous Volcán de Fuego, twist your ankle on cobbled streets and get ripped off for being a crazy gringa. I should complain I suppose, about how the influx of mostly American tourists has jacked up local prices, food portions and number of English speakers in the area, but then again it's because of the tourists that Antigua is so safe, so clean, so well preserved and so pleasant to walk in. After the panic of the country side (Google 'Petén massacre' and you'll see what I mean) and the political nightmare that is currently the capital, paying a little extra at the market is a small price to pay for a momentary peace of mind.

So what is Antigua?

The city used to be known as the capital of Central America (a quick geography lesson here, Guatemala is NOT in South America, it is in Central America. So is El Salvador). It was the capital of CA and the one of the several capitals of Guatemala (the two previous ones were destroyed by massive volcanic eruptions), until two massive earthquakes destroyed most of the city and the capital was transferred to what is now known as Guatemala City. Original. Today, by some stroke of random ingenuity, the people of Guatemala have conserved and rebuilt the ex-capital, and much of it can still be seen as it was 250 years ago. Some parts are very touristy, but most of it has remained unchanged. The architecture is Spanish baroque, wide one story houses with central courtyards and fountains, the tallest buildings are three story churches which in their surroundings look massive and grandiose. The whole place is a hub of commerce with even the likes of Burger King, MacDonalds and Dominos making a stage presence, but you wouldn't realize it due to the strict preservation laws forbidding any kind of changes to the architecture and any kind of propaganda to be put up. True visual peace.

And yet despite the flourishing tourism and commerce, the community is still very strong. Every year for Semana Santa (Easter), each block of houses works together to prepare and decorate their block for the Easter parades. Colourful sawdust carpets are prepared on the streets. Contributions of bread, toys, flowers, and yearly harvests are made to decorate these carpets depicting the story of the passover. I could spend pages and pages talking about this, but it's late and I don't want to get into it. It'll suffice to say it's beautiful and one of those unique experiences you'll never forget.

So overall summary, if you ever visit Guatemala, chances are you'll end up in Antigua. And you'll love it just like everyone else.

Politics and Transportation

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Writing doesn't come easy in this country for whatever reason. Whether it's the circumstances, lack of quick access or the momentary feeling of complete apathy, at least it's not because of lack of inspiration. Maybe it's because it feels more personal here. Bringing out the inner anthropologists is a lot more difficult when you're living at home in a completely comfortable environment of equity and peace.

I could talk about the transportation system. How absolutely ridiculous it is to put traffic police on what is pretty much a highway to stop oncoming cars 10 minutes at a time in order to allow people to make illegal u-turns. Or the “metro” which is really just a conventional bus with air con, pre-paid cards and its own bus lane. Normal buses are huge privatized vehicles, decorated in the ghetto fabulous style of a latino gangsta; think tribal decorations, catholic paraphernalia, and ACME cartoons depicted on the tire flaps. I'm not sure I understand why the cartoons. Despite their flashy exterior, their shoddy interior and clouds of black fumes they trail behind them provide a more accurate description of the internal state of affairs.

The elections are coming up. Politicians are going wild. And when I mean wild I don't mean wild with impatience to demonstrate political adeptness or eagerness to relay proposed political agendas to bring this country out the slum of violence and corruption. No I mean colour crazy. Never have I seen such obnoxious and extensive displays of propaganda splashed all over a city in every colour of the rainbow imaginable. A glimpse upwards from the valley reveals not natural beauty of tropical rain forests and jungles, but mug shots of the rich, powerful and corrupt. Rocks, lamp posts, sides of mountains, strategically placed broken down cars are all used to relay the all important message “Vote for me”. The city's vaults would be overflowing with cash if the mayor would only install a tax on roadside propaganda. Did I mention there are about 30 political parties running for the presidency? I'm not even exaggerating. In the end what it all comes down to in order to determine the winner of the presidency is who has the most money to pay for the most propaganda.

Orange is winning at the moment.

Exhumation of mass graves of the Verbena

I have kept busy familiarizing myself with the new work regime for the next months and the troubled history of this country. A few days ago I had the opportunity to check out the exhumation of mass burial sites in the city where unidentified bodies from the civil war were dumped. I didn't know what to think. It was so interesting yet so horrifying at the same time thinking that thousands upon thousands of bodies had been simply thrown into circular wells dug deep into the ground. There were three wells, a large one 10m across and 30m deep and two smaller ones about half the size of the first. All together an estimate of 14,000 bodies. Fourteen thousand bodies rotting away in black plastics bags in a sealed concrete container. The forensic anthropologists were half way through the second (the big one) and none of the bodies had been identified yet. Not one positive DNA match to people declared to be missing since the 70s.

And yet a morbid curiosity was awakened. The scientific mind wanted to examine those fragile putrid bones and feel the effects of decomposition. After 30 years of lying in sealed concrete holes with thousands of other decomposing bodies, bones start to resemble in texture, colour and consistency of rotting twigs. The leader of the expedition bent a rib in half as easily as if he were bending the stem of a daisy.

The smell wasn't horribly unpleasant, mostly earthy with a hint of methane but no where near as unpleasant as the stench of month old corpses in the process of exhumation. Rolling down the window to ask for directions was bad enough. Watching the policeman hesitate as he contemplated the answer in a putrid haze was worse. Still it was fascinating seeing first hand the effects that foreign bodies can have on our skeletal body identifying stabbings, gunshots, machete slices and post mortem breakages.

It was the unique cases that really stick. The six month old fetus placed in a jar within the body bag of an old man. Logic would dictate the the other body would be its mother not an anciano. Then were the remains of a young lady buried with her white heels and blue skirt whose skull still had 5 bullets rattling around in it even after having undergone the full process of embalming. The coroner simply did not think to take out the bullets.

It was horrifying but somehow undescribable getting the chance to see the true effects of this country's history first hand. It puts the fear into you knowing that most of these peoples' killers are still alive and kicking, most likely in positions of power. It's the not knowing who but seeing the results of their horrible actions. Just the other day, Thursday in fact, 6 tortured bodies were found downtown, open for display for all morning commuters entering the city. This isn't a very pretty culture.

More info: http://alienatedleft.blogspot.com/2010/10/exhumations-at-la-verbena-time-has-come.html

Guatemala City

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Home sweet home.

Back in the family pod, the tunes of a melancholy piano echoing through the house, clutter of ethnic knick knacks and pillows, cat hair, and an assortment of unconventional objects making up pieces of furniture. Wheels, doors and windows used as tables, an ox yolk as a shelf, a camel saddle bag doubling as a kitty bed and a scratching post. It became official as soon as I finished moving furniture in my room around, rearranging, assimilating, hiding – managed to hide a whole bed in the closet. Then came the overwhelming urge to sweep, dust and hoover, and before I knew it the whole house was clean. Then I ate a mango. A juicy, sweet, bright orange mango.

Hadn't been been back an hour and had already been coaxed into the candle pose, spinal cord realigned (never heard so much cracking in my life) and informed that we'd be making a trip to El Salvador in a couple days. That never happened though since the next day both parents fell ill to a particularly nasty strain of the flu and were rendered immovable for a week.

Life in Guatemala City is strangely domestic after exploring the cultural wonders of the world. Family dinners, cat hair, early morning rush to get to work/school/indigenous tribes, packed lunches varying in size depending on who packs them, weekend trips to see the grandparents, dealing with teenage emotional dilemmas. Everyone here is so emotional. A certain knowledge of etique is definitely lacking on my part.

You can´t say life isn´t rich and exciting though. This morning´s drive to work down that horribly congested Carretera El Salvador into the valley was made less tedious by occasional glimpses of the  Agua, Fuego and Acatenango volcanoes, the morning´s cool temperatures keeping visibility clear. Just like the view of the Himalayas, I can´t get enough of the volcanoes here. 

Californiaaa 18.04.2011

Sitting at the airport for 8 hours, finishing postcards which won't get sent till the end of the month, watching Glee and chatting to randomly friendly men.

“So where are you from?”

Right in the middle of an episode here, “uh, El Salvador”
“Oh wow, me too!”

Which isn't so surprising in the States since roughly half our population are currently living here. Six hours and a greasy panini later, at the gate still watching Glee another man starts...

“Where are you headed?”

Sigh. “Guatemala”
“Oh, yo tambien. Sos Guatemalteca?”
“No, Salvadoreña”

“Pero vives en Guatemala? Donde?”
“En la ciudad”

“Ah vives con tu esposo?” - This question always makes me laugh, but I should really start lying in response.

“Jaja, no”

“Pues yo vivo en la costa pero de vez en cuando voy a la ciudad, que tal si te doy una llamadita?”-

Eew, how old are you man? “No tengo telefono. Ademas me voy a El Salvador a vivir con mis abuelos.”

“Entonces tales nos vemos alli!”

!!!

Tales of Nepalgunj Pt. 2

Chomping on green mangoes, visa issues sorted out, this is as good a time as any to continue the tales of Nepalgunj...

***

The caravan from Surkhet departed early in the morning. A brief meeting at the district office of the fellow travelers to collect the means of transportation and its handler and we move off. 

It is my personal opinion that all journeys to the field should be conducted via elephant according to colonialist traditions. It is not more uncomfortable than traveling by car (especially with the conditions of the road), more environmentally friendly and infinitely more exciting. Both means of transportation need special handlers especially trained in the field of working in adverse conditions, both consume fuel of some sort (bet you it'd be cheaper to feed an elephant that to fill up a tank of petrol) and both attract as much attention. We didn't travel by elephant but I'm going to pretend like we did since the rocking movement of the car climbing over boulders, ditches and streams perfectly immitated the movements of a walking elephant. Placing a company logo on the elephant wouldn't be much of a problem either, and if Ncell can advertise phone rates using Kathmandu's local elephant why can't GIZ use elephants to transport its staff to the field? I'm sure there would be enough space and willingness to include a paragraph or two on animal rights next to our conflict sensitive and human rights policies. Probably shouldn't talk about this stuff on here.

Madan the mahout was an excellent handler. He coaxed the grey pachiderm over hills and protected him from the rocks of nasty children. After a long days's drive, the means of transportation was always wiped down and put to rest in a safe location away from curious hands and feet. Occasionally local children were allowed to play with Nissan and climb all over his grey back. 

Thailand

Sunburn and mosquito bites, the holiday has started! Actually it started about a week ago as I soared over the Nepalese mountains catching my first and last glimpse of Everest, now I'm sitting here in lovely Chinatown, Bangkok surrounded by hanging orchids, eucalyptus and bamboo bushes, and trickling fountains stressing about the fact that my Australian visa won't go through. My flight is tomorrow. Stress.

Other than that, nothing much to report. Chiang Mai was ok, not exactly the cultural capital of Thailand it claims to be but maybe I'm a bit spoiled for culture after living in Kathmandu. Nevertheless, hung out with lions, tigers and elephants, took a tour to the Golden Triangle - something which I keep saying I will never ever do again, and this time I mean it, "I will never ever EVER go on another guided tour" -  and stood on the point where Laos, Burma and Thailand meet but unfortunately did not get to step into any of these other exciting countries. Saw the long-eared ethnic tribe - a very culturally diluted and depressing sight, won't say more on that,  and explored countless wats and stuppas. Oh and did I mention we went shopping? Sunday market, night market, fruit market, flower market, air conditioned shopping centres offering relief from the sweltering heat. Yes, we certainly went shopping and certainly added another 2kg to the already overstuffed luggage.

Then Bangkok came along.

Bangkok is an interesting city. Every time I come here I form a different opinion of it. You either love it or hate it. It's dirty, smelly, loud and kind of ugly, but ancient and powerful, wonderfully resilient and self sustainable. Not vegetarian friendly, but neither is the rest of Thailand. Public transportation is fantastic, reliable, clean, efficient, excellent city coverage - German influence of course - and cheap! Spent all day touring the city via river ferry, canal boats, bus, metro and on foot and spent around 50 baht. Just over a euro.   It's nice to be back in a big city, even if it is a little too big, 6.3 million.

Onward travels. Sydney and LA next.

Tales from Nepalgunj - Pt. 1

Skip the grimy airport arrival and what looks like blood splattered, water damaged walls and Nepalgunj welcomes you with a flurry of colours and a sensory overload. It is a town on the southwestern border of Nepal and India, in the Terai region, where traditional means of transportation are favoured over motorbikes and SUV's. Buses are garishly coloured horse drawn carriages meant to carry five people at the most but carrying 20 at the least. The streets are crowded and full of recycled life. People buzzing around carrying out their daily activities, rickshaw taxis making business from women running errands, children skipping school, not a single tourist in sight. There is constant movement, and abundance of colour and dust and so many details you don't know where to look. I hide gratefully in the cool confinement of the company car, peering out from the tinted windows.

Sometimes I get a glimpse of the appeal of colonial India. An architectural wonder emerges from the throng of horse carriages, saris and cows wandering the streets in oriented confusion. A flurry of questions ensue "What is that? Is that Nepali or Indian architecture? Is it very common? I've never seen it before. Tell me everything you possibly can about the history and function of this beautiful building". Such exclamations of wonder and awe fall on blissfully smiling yet uncomprehending ears. Madan the mahout smiles in the rear view mirror but remains silent. We're nearly in India now, standing at the border looking out into a mirror expanse of horse drawn carriages, saris and cows.

The hour long diversion to the India border, much appreciated as it is, sets us back by an hour. Surkhet is now a four hour drive away and something which feels like a hangover but could not possibly be a hangover begins to take its toll. The shanty towns we pass along the way are dusty ghost towns, wavering in the heat, the thrill and splendor of Nepalgunj quickly fading into a stupor of heat and nausea. Four hours later exhausted from doing nothing but sit in a car, a passive audience for road repairmen laying down tarmac for a winding but comparatively excellent road, we arrive in Surkhet.                        

Holi

Every country, culture and individual should celebrate holi. Unless you're agoraphobic, hydrophobic, chromophobic or globophobic, then it's definitely not recommendable. All other people though, kids, parents and grandparents have no excuse not to partake in this holiday (as long as it's celebrated on the day only and not during the whole two weeks leading up to holi when you're on your way to a very important meeting).

So what is holi? I've heard many different explanations for it, but whether you see it as a celebration of Vishnu's life, the coming of spring, or a celebration of equality, it is really mostly a contemporary excuse for little boys to throw water balloons and colour powder at little girls. And run away screaming and cackling. You honestly can't beat them so you might as well join them.

This year (notice how I've already decided this is going to be an annual event in my life - might even consider Hinduism), I celebrated it within the protective walls of an orphanage in Baise Patti, just outside of Kathmandu. We'd barely reached the door when screams of laughter drenched the four of us and our cameras in questionable smelling but intentionally clean water.  Squealing boys and girls chased us around the courtyard with buckets, Tupperware and hands full of water, just to get us caught up in the festivities. We were late. Then the colours came out. Coloured powder everywhere! Kids running around, jumping and screaming "Give me more! Give me more! (We set up a rationing system after what happened with the yellow) which only seemed to make it more fun. Am I really going to tip some powder into your little hands or will it just end up in your face? Maybe it will end up in my face. Many times it did. It went everywhere. They got their fair share of colour on their faces too. The beauty of it was that once the powders were finished and the water came out again the colours would wash away and you were clean again. Ironically, being one of the taller ones I didn't get the privilege of buckets of water dunked over my head and happily walked around with a purple, blue and yellow face for the rest of the day. Head held high, totally in my element.

Moving Day

And yet again I have moved. Not as drastic as change as the last move, this is after all within the same house, but still a hassle. Pack everything up into my bag and once again stress about the fact that I waaaay too many things to actually fit comfortably into the one already oversized bag. And that's just clothes. Books? Don't talk to me about books. I've come to terms with the fact that some will have to be left behind, but sketchbooks? Not a chance. Where do all these things come from?

In the spirit of moving in Nepal, I also decided to move house like the Nepalis do. The first time I packed all my belongings into a Suzuki taxi like you see the Nepalis do only to have my belongings dumped in the dust in front of the alley of my future house. This time I packed things on my bicycle and half walked/cycled precariously balancing a 1 m x 1.5 m bamboo shelf on the back, after being assured by the shop keeper that that bit of string would keep the shelf "secure". It did, but that's beside the point. It wasn't until I had to unmount the shelf that I realized it had been tied with a bow. Stopping on the way to buy fruit and veg was great as well. Apparently having a shelf on the back of your bike makes you much more likely to get automatic discounts. My awesome Nepali skills contribute as well of course.

Now I have a new room. My own room with an actual bed (even if it isn't earthquake safe), a roof terrace and an outdoor toilet with a view to a carpenter's workshop. Pigeons do their best to make sure I get to sleep and wake up happily by crooning songs through my window but really I just want to run out there yelling and screaming, and strangle each and every one of them. It's only been one night but my back and neck already miss sleeping on the floor.

Maha Shiva Ratri – Pashupatinath 02.03.2011

Happy Shiva’s Birthday. Wake up, leave the house under the cover of darkness, half asleep, find a taxi and convince him to drive you to Pashupatinath for 300 rupees. Check. Innocently walk past a police barrier and bypass massive queues of devotees waiting in line to be blessed and tikkaed. Check. Chiya for breakfast. Check. Breathe. Wander aimlessly in amusement observing the garish light decorations contrasting with early morning glow of the sun and the distinct festival feel of the event.

Being the Holy Hindu Kingdom that Nepal is, masses flock to the sacred site of Pashupatinath just outside of Kathmandu on Shiva’s Birthday, an auspicious day for any big events (weddings, funerals, baptisms etc.). So it’s packed. Crowded. I was warned of the various naked sadhus, paranoid marijuana and hash vendors (the only day when smoking weed is legal because it pleases Lord Shiva), the groping of foreigners, the desperation of the people, the stench of the river, flea ridden monkeys, diseased beggars. A pretty unpleasant picture which I’m pleased to say was not at all what the experience turned out to be like. Instead, I saw families playing badminton, people quietly queuing (actually queuing!) in an orderly fashion to be blessed, free chiya and water stands, toilets (!), sweets, popcorn and cotton candy vendors, only half-naked sadhus, and marijuana being given away because the selling was made illegal. Children break dancing, sadhu’s meditating in unbelievably cool tents and gear, head to toe in white body paint. I have never seen so many dread-locked beards or such high mounds of hair on people’s heads. Mass migration of monkeys playing and frolicking in what appeared to be a zoo. 

It was lovely and atmospheric, and by 9:30 we were sitting a 20 min walk from Pashupatinath, in a breakfast bar in Boudha.

Botekoshi River Festival 2011

In the spirit of closing down dams and increasing loadshedding up to 18 hours, this weekend was spent white water rafting near the Tibetan border, north-east of Kathmandu.

A bit of background information. The rivers of Nepal are disgusting. To be fair, I have only seen two, the Bagmati River which on the best of days smells more like fresh feces as opposed to fermented sewage water, and the Botekoshi river which rages through the mountains with just the right amount of power you need to entice a bunch of foreigners and their inflatable rafts to hurtle themselves into the icy fresh Tibetan glacier water (it may not actually be glacier water). The Bagmati stinks like no other, the journey from Patan into Thamel should never be done without a scarf of facemask for the journey, and the beautiful Botekoshi looks like it might be on it's down a similar path. Fortunately, there are a few modern people in Nepal who know that throwing all your waste into the river is a bad idea because the gods will NOT magically clean it up one day, and they've decided to do something about it. And what better way than to invite Nepal's youth of today to splash around in a healthy river and show them how fun clean and clear rivers can be.

A water revolution complete with team building activities and Tibetan rastas.

The first day was mellow. Enjoyed chiya on the ring road (Kathmandu's type of highway which circles the city) within the comforts of a warm SUV until the driver got tired of waiting for the delayed bus, kicked us out and left. Fair enough really. So there we were, six of us prime targets for curious eyes and highway vendors. Skip 3 hours ahead and we're all holding hands with 80 other people walking around in circles around the 12 year old winner of the river awareness competition in an attempt to demonstrate the ripple like effects of the river. The rafting on this day was fun. Swimmers and non-swimmers were split up into two groups. Two swimmers, four non-swimmers, a guide, helmets, paddles and life vests, and we were off down the lazy river. There was lots of splashing involved and by the time the evening disco at Borderlands resort came round, I was too tired and lazy to participate.

The second day of rapids was better, although the river seemed to have a lot less water in it. There was a lot of getting in and out of rafts and bouncing involved. We were able to choose our own groups this time, which only seemed to add a lot of pressure on individual performance after all the complaining that had been done the night before. After some time, the bird enthusiast in our raft became distracted by the birds, the Brits stopped listening to commands and our professional guide handed over his leadership position to a young trainee who tended to shout out commands a couple seconds too late. "Get down!" *CRASH*.

It was all good fun though and I would definitely recommend it to anyone coming to Nepal. Just another 15 cm of water and it would have been amazing.

Monday Morning

Early morning start again. Was up at half six to cycle over to the pre-work yoga class I've signed up for with one of my housemates. Pedaled slowly, barely awake enough to register the beautiful sunrise and the early morning fruit stalls dotted along the sides of the pock marked road. Stretch, stretch, stretch. Pain, pain, pain. The more I exercise the more it feels like my muscles are beginning to atrophy. Slight modifications to your posture become more apparent, and each adjustment to whatever yoga stance you happen to be breathing into makes it all the more strenuous.

Rush home, still tired, avoiding the onset of morning rush hour. School buses and SUVs. Expats wearing the local dress, looking ever so slightly (ahem) ridiculous, cheerfully waving and greeting each other across the street. Young locals wearing western clothes, joking and laughing, smoking through their face masks. Older men sitting on street corners sipping on little cups of chiya. Women already 2 hours into their chores of laundry, cooking, weeding and gardening. I get home, gulp down dry cereal and someone else's banana. The fridge is broken and the milk is off. Stress about the fact that despite the mountains of clothes that seem to be piling up in my room it feels like I have absolutely nothing to wear. It's silly, I know that, but it's a daily issue I'm faced with.

Greet the landlady and cycle to work, nearly run over for the upteenth time by a rumbling black cloud of smog and garrish colours overtaking a mini taxi. Work greets me with a genuine smile on its face. It's been a week of holidays, we're all fresh faced and happy, and a wedding band is playing next door. Wailing bazookas, drums and an odd trumpet here and there set the mood for the day. 

The art of making smoothies with a fork

Ingredients:

• 3 Tbsp of yogurt
• 1 banana
• juice (of your choice or whatever's available)
• honey (optional)
• fork (not optional)
• glass (also not optional)

The other day I came home from work craving a smoothie. And although there are plenty of cafés along the way, I neither like nor trust their smoothies. If you're drinking something which kind of tastes of ass with sugar added it's not really a good sign or wonderfully appealing to the taste buds. Therefore, I decided to make my own. With a fork. It's not like I have a blender, much less electricity to use the blender so I've had to improvise a bit.

In order to make this smoothie in Nepal you need a fork. And a glass or mug, or any receptacle with high enough sides to mash the banana against the sides with the fork at a high speed without spilling the banana puree onto the laminated kitchen floor. So you have your fork and glass, great, now you need to locate a hole in the wall which sells dairy products. Perfect, you found one. Buy yogurt. Now go across the street and buy those shriveled looking black things which they call bananas. Go ahead and buy six of them, it may take a bit of practice, or it may be so delicious you immediately want another.

You have the yogurt, bananas (a carton of juice would also be a good idea), a fork and glass, wonderful. Wash bananas. Yes, wash them. You don't want to get street bacteria on the wrong side of the banana peel. Now peel the banana, and cut up into small pieces in glass. Grab fork, mash banana into mush with fork until it resembles baby food. The best way to do this is to start slowly, making sure all large chunks of banana come between the prongs of the fork and the side of the glass. Increase speed until the banana is thoroughly mushed.

The hard part is over, now you can add the yogurt. Fill half way full, mixing banana and yogurt as you go along. When the two are completely combined, add juice and/or honey to taste, a little at a time to make sure everything is properly combined. The trick is to make it feel and taste like a smoothie so you really need to makes sure it's well mixed. You really don't want to come across random pieces of green banana as you're chugging this down. Once everything is combined and the contents of the glass are all th same colour, find your sunglasses and sunny corner to sit down in and enjoy the fruit of your labour with a spectacular view of the snow peaked mountains.

Puja

I have just been anointed for Puja (ritual worship) with my first official tika (the little red dot). Apparently this is what happens when you pop out of the office to the little stationary store at the corner to buy ink cartridges and chocolate. You are suddenly accosted by a smiling, orange toga-wearing man carrying a flowery basket, muttering prayers under his breath and dangling an eye dropper of red ink over your forehead until you stand still enough to allow contact. The eye dropper is then lowered into a small pot of yellow ink held in his flowery basket, raised to your forehead again and orange flower petals patted on the top of your head, constant prayer muttering and head bowing during the whole process. Of course a donation is demanded after, and no matter how much the shopkeeper and I pretended to busy ourselves with the business of finding suitable ink cartridges, the man patiently waited until no more excuses could prevent us from handing 20 rupees over.

And so, literally 2 minutes later I walked the ten metres back to the laughing guard at the gates of my office, looking like a Nepali covered in flower petals, red ink on my forehead and a studded nose. I only need to improve my language skills now and I'm basically one of them. The shop didn't even have any ink cartridges.

Rain

Rain, rain, rain, beautiful rain. I've said this word so many times now it's currently undergoing a process of semantic bleaching in my head. Rain. But seriously, you don't realize how much you miss a good rain until after a month and a half of constant sunshine and blue skies it tumbles down on your doorstep in rolling clouds of thunder, banging on your door crying, "Let me in! Let me in! I'm here to wash all troubles away!", which in this case has a very literal meaning.

Maybe living in Glasgow for five years has made me particularly partial to rain. Funnily enough though listening to the pitter patter of rain immediately takes me back to Jijoca, Brazil, sitting in the damp sand under a palm thatched roof, intently watching the waves of the lake, the wind, the dancing palm trees, the billowing clouds, eagerly waiting for God to show his mighty hand through a terrifying and pulchritudinous act of nature. I must have been ten or eleven.

Here, the rain is comforting. A pleasant drumming fills the silence and muffles the noise of angry traffic. More importantly, rain is warm, and a sign of warmer days to come. The roads are cleaned, the air isn't dusty, people stay in their homes and don't get in your way as you cycle to work. It's not quite monsoon season yet, that'll be in another couple of months, but green life is already emerging. Potholes fill up with water and give roads an air of paved smoothness, and at the end of the day the city emerges cleaner and fresher, beautifully illuminated in the glow of the mountains and the setting sun's rays of sunshine peeking through the clouds. 

Conversations

“Namaste”

“Namaste”

Hands in prayer position, both heads bowed. Occasionally I receive a salute in response. I find I tend to greet and have conversations with people who aren’t used to receiving greetings from foreigners, and after a brief look of surprise, will break into a smile and proudly salute. They’re mostly older guards.

“Where you from?”
Smile, “Guess.” I can’t help but smile when this question comes up.
“You are not Nepalese, I thought you were Nepalese. Maybe Chinese or Korean?”
“German”
“German! You look more Chinese or Korean. Maybe Japanese”

Then there was that African gentlemen at Bangkok International:

“Where you fram?”
“Umm, I’m looking for the transit schedule”
“You look German”
“Oh. Well I suppose I am”
“German’s are strong,” flexes muscles, “are you strong?”
Mmmm, strange conversation here “Uh, I guess. Nice to meet you, bye!”

"Ebany! Ebany! Are you there? Are you alright?"

Sleeping. "Hmm? Yes, sorry, is something wrong?"

"Are you alright?"

Confused. "Yes? What time is it?", looking around for a clock

"Oh wonderful, you overslept!"

"Overslept, what? What time is it...10:30?!" Jumps out of bed, starts running around frantically.

"Oh yes, your office called to see if you were alright, but how wonderful you overslept. You must have had a very good nights rest after such a long flight..."

"They called?!" 

"...well yes, to check you were alright, but how wonderful you overslept..."

“500 Rp for a picture! Come, take a picture!”
“I don’t have money sorry”
“100 Rp!”
“I really don’t have any money”
“I will take whatever you have!”
I’m sure you will, “Sorry”

Looking at phone, phone rings, “hello?”
“You sent me a blank message?
“Yes sorry I was…”
“Why you send me a blank message?”
“I was trying to call you and…”
“So what do you want?”
“Actually I’d like some language lessons, do you teach Nepali?”
“Ahh, yes I teach Nepali. How many lessons? When do you want them?”
“Twice a week? When are you free?”
“I am always free. How about three times a week? Three times a week is better.”
“Are you free after 5 during the week?”
“No that is not good. What about during the day, day is better for me”
“Well I work from 9 – 5 so that wouldn’t work for me”
“How about 4-5? That is good for me. Three times a week”

"Ebany! Ebany! Are you there? Are you alright?"

Sleeping. "Hmm? Yes, sorry, is something wrong?"

"Are you alright?"

Confused. "Yes? What time is it?", looking around for a clock, panic, have I overslept again? 7:30, it's ok.

"I smell gas, do you smell gas? Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine." sniffs "I do smell gas though" Jumps out of bed, starts investigating. Roshana, my landlady is already in the room sniffing away at things.

"It's not the gas heater, and the cooker's off"

"Strange, well open the window and come have a cup of tea"

"Roshana? Hello? Roshana?"

"Upstairs!How are you?"

"I'm good thanks, is something wrong with the water?"

"What's wrong with the water?"

"Well I haven't had running water for two days now..."

She screws up her face in concentration, puzzledly thinking..."Ah! I turned off your water!"

"You turned off...?"

"...you said the toilet was leaking and I didn't have time to investigate so I thought I'd just turn off your water to stop it from leaking"

Oh, well that makes sense I guess. Mind you, this has happened twice since then and the toilet still leaks.

A Weekend Away

Long hours of nothingness, long weekend, long work-day of nothingness. This is starting to get unhealthy.

First weekend away from the city and it was lovely. Took a two hour taxi (paid 14 bucks all together :0) up to the village of Nagarkot - a lovely site for amazing sunrises - to not see an amazing sunrise. It was an exciting car journey, the four of us and the taxi driver jammed into a white suzuki, half asleep and unwashed, jerked awake in terror by careening mountain roads and monstrous tourist buses charging to overtake us. It was best to just close your eyes and retreat to a happy place.

Left at 8, an hour and a half later we were up in the mountains surrounded by pine trees and fresh air, stuck behind pick up truck and its billowing black clouds of exhaust fumes. Talk about irony. A couple of wild turns and near death experiences later, little Susuki chugged to a stop on the particularly steep hill that led to our pink monstrosity of a hotel. A rude receptionist man ignored us beyond awkwardness and directed us to the restaurant where we were asked to wait half an hour for our rooms to be tidied. An hour and a half, two English breakfasts, two Special breakfasts and four pots of coffee later, our rooms still weren't ready. It took four stubborn, whining females to get two clean and prepared rooms in an otherwise empty hotel. Despite the distinct unfriendliness, I thoroughly enjoyed sleeping in a comfortable bed and the luxury of the albeit luke warm water in freezing temperatures shower.

We hiked, walked, trekked and explored. Saw the backyards of villages, an infinite number of goats, chickens and kids playing and frolicking in the sun. The view wasn't amazing, it was too hazy to see anything, but the sun was warm and the exercise a welcome relief from keyboard workouts and bad posture. Seeing as it was a holiday weekend most Nepalis seemed to be in a particularly good mood, music and singing echoed through the mountains the way it does during festival season of the British summers.

Sunrise

Viewing tower

Sunday was an early start, 6:15, to catch the (un)amazing sunrise. Mountains were visible to the naked eye, but virtually invisible through a lense. This didn't stop hordes of Chinese, Japanese and Korean tourists from setting up mini portable studios on the hotel viewing tower and chirpily snapping away. It was amusing to watch the crowd dynamics. As soon as one discovered a new sight in the scenery - the emerging glow of the snow covered mountains, or the orange crescent of the rising sun - the rest would quickly follow, running from one corner to the other, external flashes, tripods and telephoto zooms in hand to capture that one perfect moment which never arrived.

The feeding of the masses followed and the hotel made sure to profit as much as possible by serving us leftover potatoes, toast, boiled eggs and instant coffee. We were ready to go and soon enough embarked on a 4 and a half hour hike from Nagarkot to Changu Narayan a world heritage site north-east of Kathmandu. For 100 rupees you get to go in and see an exquisitely preserved village with its tall intricate wooden temples and and metal idols, the faces of which are smudged in yellows, reds, and flower petals; incense and candles decorating the shrines on an otherwise peaceful Sunday. The initial idea was to hike all the way to Bhaktapur then catch a bus or taxi back into the city, but as the day wore on, and our feet grew weary of the sun, dust and mountains, our plans slowly evolved. The visit to Bhaktapur was abandoned and an orange, red and blue boombox of a bus decorated with all the appropriate hindi paraphenelia and blaring bollywood music drove us short of a half hour walk to our houses. Kathmandu city greeted us in all its glory of congested traffic, and suffocating air.

The pink dots on the map below are the points to which my group traveled to over the weekend. Starting in Lalitpur (Patan), taxi to Nagarkot. Spent the night, hiked to Changu Narayan. Collapsed in a heap for lunch, took the groovy love bus of perpetual happiness down to Bhaktapur, looked out the window and continued out journey back to Kathmandu where we were dropped off next to the river. In case you were wondering the bus journey from the world heritage site to Kathmandu cost a whole of Rp 30 - 40 American cents, 30 Euro cent, 25p. Amazing.

New week, new month, new outlook

Things are starting to look up again even though the load-shedding is supposed to get worse. Still, I feel more and more settled each day and the pattern of everyday life, working week and weekend life juxtaposed against each other, it's all starting to make sense.

Despite this new positive outlook, my brain hurts today. Sitting in coffeeshops full of screaming 3-12 year old blonde blue-eyed kids isn't exactly helping. Talk about culture-shock. It feels...strange. Exposed. I'm not the type who usually hangs out with prepackaged group stereotypes, yet here I am, in the heart of the expat life of cafés, restaurants, bars, gyms, and yoga centres, blogging no less. I have so much respect for those who manage to find a way into normal local life and stay there. That's what experiencing different cultures is all about. 

Yesterday I went to Patan's Durbar Square and explored the local heritage site. It was surprisingly enjoyable, not overly touristy, and if you walk down back alleys you're in the middle of local Nepali commerce, dodging meat trucks, water buckets and being sold numerous quantities of aromatic spices.

If you make it on to the square by following the main road, which you should, you're suddenly surrounded by beautiful indo-european architecture. Someone of course will come up to you as you're entering the square and tell you to buy an admission ticket on account of you being a foreign visitor. Here you have two choices depending on your willingness to contribute to increasingly corrupt and greedy system guarding Nepal's heritages sites. You can pay like a good tourist, but make sure you check the tourist officer's credentials first, or you can make like a Nepali and tell them you're a resident. Residents don't pay admission.

Walking along the square you'll see tall buildings and domes made out of a mixtures of stone and wood carvings, windows and statues. The buildings are accessible to the public, with the exception of a large hotel in the centre of the square, and some are even host to small restaurants and cafes where you can sit and enjoy the picturesque view. Locals and tourists alike seem to enjoy this view, and you hear couples giggling in the shade, and children playing in the alleys. Personally, I found Patan's Durbar Sq. to be more genuine and enjoyable than Thamel's, although this may all change as it increases in popularity.

Laundry in the Morning

Early morning. Wake up, start the day hand-washing the laundry. Boiler left on since the night before to catch those three hours of electricity which came on during the wee hours of the morning. Clothes have been soaking for a couple days now, it’s time to give them a good shake. Open the tap, trickle trickle, gush gush. Light a candle rendered useless by the cold morning light trickling in through the grimy side window. Close the door to the tiny, dark, dingy bathroom. Contain as much of the steamy heat as possible. Squelch squelch, scrub scrub. I take advantage of the suds and warm water and give myself a wash as well. Put on the essentials to avoid getting cold.

This hand washing clothes business is new to me. Sure I’ve scrubbed the odd stain or two once a month, but it’s nothing compared to the mountain of clothes I’ve ambitiously thrown into a 30 litre bucket. Do I scrub each item of clothing individually? Should I beat them with a stick? I settle for the provincial wine making procedure, using arms instead of feet. I feel like a strange sort of gorilla.

Pressing down through the water on the soaked folds of cloth, suds spill over the sides unto my shoes. Circular movements, vertical movements, awkward movement become smoother, soothing movements. The quick take in of air as clothes are brought up from below, the slap as they are quickly submerged again and tiny bubbling air bubbles rising to the surface. I’m suddenly five, sitting on the side of the well watching Tita do the laundry in my grandmother’s house.

For some reason doing the batch of colours is more difficult than the whites. Probably because there’s more of them and it’s already half past eight. Quick! Time to rinse each item separately because mass rinsing will never get the job done in time. Take the procedure to the sink, the shock of cold gushing water adds to the urgency and the briskness of my movements. More scrubbing, squelching, wringing. Set aside. Work my way through half the bucket and do the quick math. There’s not enough time. Hang up what is ready, get dressed and go to work. Fifteen minutes. Grab the clothes and head outside, dripping trail following my lead. Wriggle the rusty gates open with my foot, balance the mound of clothes on the dusty balcony rails, try not to loose any privates over the side. Has it been raining? Leaves are damp and mysterious puddles of water are present but the sky is an early morning gray and shows no signs of rain. Ten minutes, shit.

Wring the clothes three at a time, lose two socks and one underwear over the railing in the process.  Ungrateful ****s, get back here! Rush back inside to dress for a rescue mission. Can’t have the whole neighborhood watching as I climb down the gutter to the steep jungle that is my landlady’s garden in fresh smelling under whites, calf-socks and loafers. Five minutes, get dressed! Work dressed. Put on shoes, trousers and a sweater, do your makeup and grab a hair tie. Get your jacket, scarf and backpack. Where’s my hat? Turn off the heater, lock the gate, climb down the gutter, grab your underwear, throw it onto the branch overhanging the balcony, climb back up and bike to work. Hatless.

And here I am, sitting at a computer for the next 7 hours, watching the sun rise over the rooftops greeting the world with its warm embrace. Life is so much more exciting on the outside.