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The Accidental Feminist

We sit surrounded by empty granola bar wrappers and other plastic-packaged foods in various states of undress. There are also half eaten bags of dried fruits, candles that have tipped over and rolled about, tea cups bottomed with the vestige of early morning breakfast, bath towels placed over chair backs waiting to dry, CDs, DVDs, maps, books, keys, cosmetics, receipts, the phone, water bottles (empty or full, we do not descriminate) things we have confiscated from the dog's gaping maw, a pair of new beaded leather flats and other recently purchased souvenirs...it's a veritable hodge podge of needful everyday things that have all migrated at some point to the dining table that doubles as our office space.

My house is a mess.

The kitchen contains not a single clean dish and hasn't (if the truth be told) for quite some time, unless you count the ones at the bottom of the sink, submerged in soap filmed water for three days straight. It is my excuse for not cooking. Not that I'd be inclined to do much in the way of culinary creativity anyway. Sometimes, when we've scraped together enough elbow grease to get things back in order I'm filled with inspiration and attack a dinner menu with great gusto. The result, however, is a messy kitchen, yet again exploded with vegetable peels, dirty silver, and endless pots and pans I'm too apathetic to be bothered with again for a long, long time.
I've admitted before to my weakness for tossing dishes out in favor of buying new ones and had worked really hard this past year to break such a wasteful habit but we just made our first sacrifice: a plastic tupperware container that had been demoted from food storage to pennicillin incubator.
When I showed it to Hamid, opened it so that all the glory of it's aroma could enchant him, and asked if he wanted to wash it or should I toss it out his reply was, "That's easy to wash." so I said, "Go ahead." and he said, "Throw it away." So I did.

I have not done laundry for over a week; sleeves and shorts and pant legs stretch out from the laundry room floor as if in escape mode. I do not hear their stinky-sock appeals for a thorough wash and would not care even if I could; leaving them to welcome whatever new bits of clothing I sometimes gather up from the bedroom floor or various bathrooms and doorknobs to toss on top of the pile.
The clothes that are clean have taken over the entire fourth bedroom, dubbed 'the closet', and although we bought at least a hundred stylish silver hangers they are cold and lonely on their bars. The clothes are everywhere but.

Hamid and I were surveying the damage today, in awe of just how messy we are. I'm guessing it's a symptom of having so much space. Our previous house was the size, in its entirety, of one of our small bedrooms so it commanded at least some effort in the way of organization - but that's no excuse really. We laugh and talk about the dilemma over our messy tables, floors, and countertops, ignoring the obviously desperate condition of our kitchen in particular, and we get to the part in the conversation where my guilt over not cooking, not cleaning, and generally not giving a damn comes into play. Hamid makes it clear he doesn't hold it against me and knows full well he could clean if he really felt it was necessary. But he doesn't. And neither do I. And the cycle repeats itself with nothing done and no one complaining. But still, there's that socialized idea that lingers somewhere in the periphery of our marriage that says I'm supposed to be on top of these things, that it's supposed to make me happy and fulfilled or something. I'm the wife. It's almost like there's this unwritten job description compelling me to take on these most unfabulous domestic activities whether I feel like it or not.
Whatever.

The truth is, I will clean if it seems like a fun thing to do, which is pretty much how I live the rest of my life...this approach works well for me. When it's fun, it's truly a cathartic experience and I am at one with my mop and my size extra small pink rubber gloves (purchased in and brought back from Turkey because Nepal only has extra large yellow ones which are just so unacceptable.) When I'm in that rare space of PineSol bliss, high on ammonia and bleach, scrubbing away at the worries of the world inside my very own house I'll go until every.single.thing is right back where it should be and glistening with a germ-free shine. But the mood hasn't struck me for eons and so it goes..

In the meantime, I do my best to try to shove the 'I'm a bad wife.' thoughts to the back of my mind and pretend I can't see what's going on around me; looking instead for more dishes to offer up to the garbage can gods of household detritus - at least that way, there's that much less to feel guily about.

Noah's Ark

It's raining. Still.
Has been pretty much for the past month - on and off. Mostly on.
It's grey skies laced with even greyer clouds; so heavy if I go up on the roof where they've obscured my otherwise pristine view I can just about touch them. So thick I can actually feel them in my lungs.
The drops are soft and round and fat - obese; the way they come down so fast, following eachother so close they merge into one long coursing curtain of water. Like someone left the tap on, way, way up...there.

It rains everywhere in the world - nothing new. I've enjoyed the rain and played in mud puddles in some pretty amazing places on this planet and I've lived quite happily through eight monsoon seasons in my life (there are two every year in India...lucky ducks) but nothing, nowhere compares to Kathmandu.

The rain here is sudden, preluded only by a thundrous warning from the big grumbling stomach in the sky, perhaps a bit of lightning and then whoosh; in an instant everything is slick and shiny with water and there are puddles in my garden the size of Lake Michigan. (Not that I've ever been there actually - mental note to add it to The List.)
We're drowning here and it's absolutely lovely.

I feel about seven, maybe eight years old, when I go out in my bare feet and shorts to stomp around in the spongey grass and walk through the rivulets of rainwater that collect under the rosebushes. The neighbors in the apartments across the road from our place peer out from behind polyester curtains to wonder over my strange damp self as my hair becomes plastered to my head and my clothes are soaked through. In keeping with the spirit of my temporarily juvenile perspective I kick out a little rain dance to entertain them and go about my business enjoying the weather.

We're supposed to be taking care of the grounds since I fired the little old Nepali couple who lived in our carriage house and although darling, never did a lick of work to earn their monthly salary. So I'm supposed to be manicuring Mother Nature into submission myself, but with all this water pouring out of the sky things have been growing quite fast and I've had no inclination to clip a single branch or blade of grass in the monstrous yard. As a result it has turned into something of an English garden, The Secret Garden - wild and tumultuous with green vines and flowers sprawling and spilling out all over the place. It's perfect, I think, just the way it is.

Street Dog

My darling little Mooshy...my beloved Indian street dog.
I discovered a cache of pictures today from when we first found him - he was a tiny, undernourished, half-bald, moth-eaten, sick little mange of a thing. He looked like a four legged leper and had no energy at all - he slept for days and days and ate anything and everything he was offered. We worried then that he'd never be OK, that he'd be unable to find his mojo after such a rough start in the world. Ha.
With lots of love and patient attention he thrived. He grew and grew and although he's not terribly big at 11 months old now: 20kg, he is a bratty little monster, spoiled rotten by all of the fawning we've done.

I thought, had hoped even (as savage as it may be), that the cutting off of some of his boy parts would do more than just save us the trouble of a litter of puppies...I'd heard that dogs who are 'fixed' will settle down a bit and not be so inclined to mindless jumping up on people and gnawing on knick knacks. Alas. How wrong I was.

With or without testicles Mooshy is a holy terror.
When we asked the vet why he was such a freak and what on earth we could do about it he just replied, "He's a street dog...it's the breed." As if to say, "He's a pedigreed wildthing. Get used to it." And that's that.

The view from where I sit

Kathmandu, Nepal

Old Nepali at Durbar Square, Patan

No thanks, I already ate

As a matter of course and toward an easier time at customs and immigration in the States we took our darling Mooshy to be castrated yesterday. Poor little guy...even as I type he's glaring at me accusingly out of the corner of his eye. I prostrate myself to the dog every few minutes or so and make peace offerings of gigantic buffalo bones full of tender marrow along with my very own highly coveted vegetarian granola bars which he so loves.

I've never had a dog before so didn't know the first thing about the what or how of the procedure, but in an effort to be a good guardian and ensure the best possible care for Mooshy I requested a tour of the facility and a rundown of the vet's credentials before I'd allow them to get started.

The doctor was very accommodating and explained that he really did understand my need for information and reassurance before he removed a big chunk from our furry little family member's body. He told me about his degree from Holland, explained all of the needles, instruments, sedatives, and medications in great detail - spending a solid hour just talking to me about a procedure that would take less than ten minutes to complete.
He even allowed me to hold the dog on my lap while he administered the first few shots of painkillers and sleeping meds. I sat with this 20kg baby perched on my legs, straining my pathetic arm muscles more and more every second as he got heavier and droopier.

The vet didn't bat an eye when Mooshy peed all over the floor and then puked up whatever stuff he'd rooted out of the garden that morning in reaction to the heavy dose he'd been given. He just smiled and kept on talking, telling me what he'd be doing each step of the way.
I thanked him, told him I really appreciated all the time and effort he took in helping me deal with my anxiety and then Hamid and I went to wait in the lobby while they did the actual cutting.

A short time later the doc asked us if we'd like to come back and help Mooshy wake up so we wandered into the surgery (a tiny room with metal tables covered with yesterday's newspaper...true to form for this part of the world) and started cooing at and petting the limp life form sprawled out in front of us. The vet continued to be as helpful as he possibly could, giving details about Mooshy's breathing, taking his pulse, explaining how to care for the stitched up space between the dog's legs; and then at some point in the conversation his face lit up and he seemed to have come up with a brilliant idea.

"Just a second, I'll be right back." he promised.

He returned with a wad of bloody cotton perched atop one outstretched palm and came toward us, his smile expectantly fixed on the two of us, certain he was doing us a major favor. I thought maybe he wanted to give us a live lesson on wound dressing but was shocked when I finally saw what it was he brought forth like such a prize: Mooshy's extracted, yet fully intact, testicles - little round, greyish, wet, bloody oval shaped things nestled together like Japanese quail eggs.

I haven't eaten a thing since then and am more than happy to give up my breakfast, lunch, and dinner to our poor damaged little fellow. Even the granola bars don't look very appetizing anymore. No big deal, I've been meaning to cut back on carbs anyway.

But Alaska is *not* the same thing as China

I've never ever overstayed a visa in my entire career as a travel addict - always paying careful attention to the necessary date of renewal or departure required by the government of my host country. In India, though I have a ten year tourist visa, I was required to leave the country every six months (180 days to be exact) for at least long enough to stamp out and back in again. This meant marking the calendar twice a year and flying out to Thailand, Singapore, or most often Sri Lanka but I managed the timing to the last day with a fervent devotion for fear of a big red blemish in my passport. I've always made careful note of the when of any visa, until now.

For some reason (most likely my terrible math retardation and inability to tell at any given moment what day it is much less the month) I miscalculated the renewal date on our most recent Nepal entry visas and we went today to get the job done, a bit nervous to be three full days overdue and worried we'd be unceremoniously shipped out much earlier than we'd planned (as is threatened on all the visa-related forms we've filled out). I always expect the worst when dealing with government officials in any country, but fortunately the Immigration Department officers were not the least bit concerned with my oversight and charged us a mere four dollars each in penalties, on top of the usual $30 fee for the next 30 days worth of visa.

While we were in the office waiting for our own paperwork to be processed I passed the time doing the usual bit of eavesdropping (a social faux pas...yes, fine...I can't help it) and I was overcome with jealousy as I listened in to more than a few westerners explain that they were in transit to China. I started once again with the mental calculations for just how we could afford to deposit ourselves on Chinese soil even if just for a few days. We'd become resigned to the idea that it's just too expensive considering our upcoming move back to the States and would be too much hassle, what with my American passport and the amount of trouble that's been rumored to cause at the Chinese border these days - but then Hamid reminded me that I've got an Iranian passport - the equivelant of a 'pass Go' card for many countries that would otherwise be off limits to me entirely (I perked up even more when I realized the list includes Cuba. Far be it from me to shrink away from the possibility of controversy...) and so we're once again considering a jaunt across the border.

Never content to stay in one place for very long, and knowing full well my penchant for global travel is going to be put on hold for at least a year while we work toward Hamid's U.S. passport (being inside the country for this little matter is non negotiable), I'm feeling a bit desperate to pack in as much adventure and border jumping as possible before our October 10 departure from Kathmandu to the U.S....and really, China is *right there*...so close we could drive the distance in an afternoon.

I panic a bit when I allow myself to fully realize that there's a kind of shackle closing in on me, and fast. Three months between me and a temporary Stateside sentence (and oh how ironic it is that I've whined for it, begged for it, complained that it wasn't given fast enough...). When I start thinking out loud about whether or not we actually need to go to the States Hamid wraps himself around me and reminds me of blissfully reliable internet connections, business growth, proper sidewalks, dog parks, Nordstrom, Whole Foods, microbrews, babies, and masters degrees. I pout and verbally stomp around a while - moving from whiney 'but I want!!' babytalk to plying him with a sweetness that almost makes paying $100 U.S. a month for a very slow and unreliable net connection and falling down all the time seem worth it. But this move, this change, it's going to happen; whether I'm ready for it or not. Ask and ye shall receive...the universe fulfills my wishes left and right but in this case I'm feeling somewhat reluctant and all mixed up between gratitude and resentment. Too late to turn back now...

Whether we manage to actually get to China this year or not I'm fast realizing that I am going to have no choice but to reinvent my idea of the exotic, redefine my concept of adventure, and apply it all to the United States proper at least for a little while. I hear Alaska is quite a wonderland...

Sadhu

Kathmandu, Nepal

I love the color and vibrancy of these paintings - positioned together in mural form along one wall inside the Pashupati temple grounds, a holy place for Hindus situated on the Bagmati River east of Kathmandu.

Long live the king, where's the WC?

The royal palace is just up the street from our house. It's big and pink; fashioned at the height of the 70's I'd guess - looking more like a library than the home of royalty. It has none of the charm of the Newari style I so love about Kathmandu's crumbling older buildings.

We pass the distasteful deco palace every once in a while when we're out for a walk; using it's four or five city blocks of property as a median for the journey.

I'd previously been perplexed by the very sour and heavy smell of pee all along one entire side of the palace grounds. A king's residence would hardly seem the kind of place that would be left guilty of reeking insufferably of human excrement, but there it is. Every time choking us to tears and doubling Hamid over in near wretches at some of the stronger smelling areas.

But now that I've heard and seen in person what the locals think of the king I've developed a theory and am completely convinced they're using his compound walls as a toilet.

Today, on our way to the beautiful mountaintop village of Nagacort we were suddently stopped dead in traffic - wall to wall cars, motorcycles, and trucks sandwiched in together on a one way street with no hope of moving any time soon.

People started exiting their vehicles to see what was the matter; some of them climbing onto the hood or roof for a better view. As I didn't feel all that inclined to scramble onto the roof of our taxi I joined the growing crowd of Nepalis moving swiftly down the sidewalk toward the scene of whatever was keeping us parked.

At the next intersection there was a distinct energy of chaos and confusion. The Nepali police were trying to keep order amidst the crowd I'd walked up with as they prepared to merge with the fast approaching mele of literally thousands carrying sticks, clubs, and the red Maoist flag.

I hesitated long enough to climb up on a lightpost and snap a few pictures of the demonstration and then quietly slunk away from what was fast becoming a possible riot - but not before noticing a banner hanging on the same street. Big, white, with an image of Nepal's monarch smack dab in the middle; his broad brown face surrounded by red lettering proclaiming the king's relationship to God followed by an exultant "Long live the King!"

Back in the car we waited for the event to pass so we could continue on our way and in the meantime grilled our driver on what the whole scene had been about. This is essentially what he told us:

"King no good. Many people like fight king police with sticks. Like fight king. Many Maoists. Understand? King no good."

Upon further questioning he relented his own political views, "Mao Tse-Tung good. Many people like Mao. Many Nepali."

The buzzing crowd of angry Maoists must have found another road to inhabit and we were finally allowed to move forward. As we inched along the street and into the same intersection I'd been snapping pictures at I again saw the king's banner - only this time it was ripped to shreds, laying in tatters on the sidewalk, half in the street; taking further abuse from under the string of cars. Our own wheels met the lonely monarch's face mid- forehead and left a muddy tire print down his happy visage.

I felt sorry for him immediately - to live in a pink, pee-smelling palace styled to look like some kind of institution rather than a homey, opulent, dignified residence fit for a king; surrounded by people who hate him and apparently take great pleasure in using his garden walls as a rest stop.

Ouch

I have this really annoying (and painful) habit of falling down.
It's just taken hold the last few years - crashing motorcycles, falling down stairs, slipping on wet sidewalks...I'm on the ground grasping at a bruised knee, or worse, at least once every couple of months.
And today yet again; while striding happily with Hamid through the cats-and-dogs monsoon in Kathmandu I went from upright to half-height in the middle of a giant puddle in less than thirty seconds.
My Coach ballet flats, which until now have been a most infallible pair of shoes for negotiating the half-baked sidewalks of Nepal's big city, transformed all at once from sturdy footwear to banana peels and that was the end of me.

I really don't have a clue what I'm doing wrong. For all intents and purposes I really *do* know how to walk - for goodness sake I used to flit around in stilettos all day without a care in the world. But now, I'm like some feeble old woman slipping and sliding onto the ground at every opportunity; providing amusement for bystanders who 'Ohhh' and 'Ahhh' at the spectacle of my temporarily muddled abilities.

Hamid always swoops down on me and gathers me and my muddy wetness up in his arms, cooing at me the whole time while I silently curse the karma debt I seem to be unable to pay back in full. And I limp away from the scene, unable to look anyone in the eye and wondering what on earth I need to do to recover my sense of self enough to be able to navigate the planet's walkways without becoming a victim of them at every turn.

So now we're home, and I'm sopping wet. I'm feeling most sorry for myself and my knee which is promising to be green for a very, very long time and I'm pondering the depth of my despair...is it worth crying over? Probably not. But I'll publish a public appeal for sympathy anyway...

Haji Baby and the ungrateful wretch

Hamid's parents are in Kathmandu fom Iran this past week and next, which is great - I adore them both.
Hamid's dad, while of a seriously genius mental caliber, is hilarious and makes me laugh with his innate and charming ability to channel his inner child at will. He drfits in and out of silliness most naturally, in a way few grown men are apt to do; calling to his wife Hajieh in sing-song "Haji Baby!!!" as she moves about our kitchen preparing wonderful Persian dishes on our ridiculous two burner gas stove. How she manages to create these culinary masterpieces with such limited equipment is beyond me, but she seems to have imported herself all this way for the sole purpose of feeding Hamid and I three square meals a day.
Hamid's mom kisses me hello every morning and calls me 'Tessam' (my Tess) and 'baby'. She is generous to a fault asking me "You want?" every time my gaze lingers on anything for more than a second. She runs a close tie with my own mother as the most selfless person ever to exist in all of human history.

While they've been here they've spoiled us both rotten with lavish meals, gifts, and one entire suitcase full of the delectable dried fruit and nut assortments and sweets so common to Iranian tea time.

They've even indulged my latest habit of buying baby and children's clothes; supplying me with two darling tiny pairs of shoes I just couldn't take my eyes off in the store the other day. (Before we left India I bought entire closets full of lovely little traditional girl and boy wearables made of sari silk - Nepal's adorable hippie-patchwork style has also caught my eye and I've doubled my as-yet nonexistent children's wardrobes with locally handcrafted skirts, pants, hats and tops.)

Hamid's parents are quite simply the most dreamy set of in-laws one could ever hope for. They're supportive and kind and sweet and funny and completely pleased with me in every respect. This makes my life a hundred times easier than it might be considering the vast difference in culture and attitude that draws an unavoidable, invisible line between us. I'm Muslim now, but only so much...and I'm Iranian on one set of papers but still oh-so-American in every respect.

We're a real motley crew, mowing through rows and rows of shops in Nepal's old royal city of Patan; buying up Tibetan singing bowls and Nepali arts and crafts; Hamid's father dressed smartly in a suit, his mother in her scarf and manteau and me in my comparatively half-naked attire of sundresses or tank tops. Hamid's parents, while madly in love, have been socially conditioned not to display affection in public, while Hamid and I fall all over ourselves to get closer to eachother no matter where we are. Hamid and I are outright in our ideas, questioning, and opinions - appearing hyper and even wild next to his mom and dad who speak quietly and calmly, weighing their words before uttering a single one. But the happy reality is none of us cares much how the others choose to dress or act or speak or think. We're each in it for the simple experience of being together, practicing the art of being a family - philosophies and social skills aside.

But...and here comes the guilt-ridden, I'm-a-wretch portion of this post: it's so, so, so hard for me to have people in my house - messing up my nicely placed whatnots and mucking up my kitchen which is always sparkling clean because it never gets used and I know...I know how ridiculous it is to be rolling my eyes when Hamid's mom leaves the bottle of cooking oil out on the counter instead of keeping it neatly hidden in the cabinet the way I like it. After all, she's the one cooking 24 hours a day, who am I to complain; treated as an honored and pampered guest in my own home. But six days of sharing space with people who've been around twice as long as I have and by default take precedence in the hierarchy is simply exhausting for the control freak in me.

I'm a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad daughter-in-law but it drives me crazy when I come downstairs and see that all of my plants have been moved outside into the garden (after I worked so hard lugging the darn things in in the first place) or find laundry hanging on the main floor balcony where everyone and their cousin can see it instead of on one of the third floor balconies where it doesn't mar the beauty of the view of the house from the street.

These things I get stuck on are meaningless. Pointless and shallow - and I'm perfectly aware of how very ungrateful it would appear if I let on at all; so I say nothing and smile until the urge to put everything back 'where it belongs' passes. Instead of freaking out when the giant package of toilet paper ends up on display somewhere in the house or my carefully chosen kitchen towels turn up sopping wet and goopy I remind myself that these are the people who have willingly, lovingly given me everything they have to give and then some, including their first born child.