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.                        

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. 

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.

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.