Nepal

Kathmandu, Nepal

Kathmandu, Nepal

Like a camel through the eye of a needle

People have been asking me left and right if I'm nervous about going back to the States after four years out. The question started appearing in emails and phone conversations around two months ago, right about the time we bought our plane tickets. I always answered 'No.', and quite truthfully at that. I've never been one to anticipate a future feeling and live in it unnecessarily for weeks on end beforehand, preferring instead to do my best to pretend that everything is quite normal, at least until the last possible minute.

Well, it's hit me finally. And while I can't really say I'm nervous I'm having a hard time finding what is the right word for the butterflies that have once again taken up residence on my insides. I do know that as a result of all this I am in constant motion; I cannot sit still. I think this is what the experts call 'mania'.

Naturally, I had us half packed weeks ago. The rest of our stuff is still strewn about the house in utter chaos; picking it all up somewhere on my list of to-do's but not quite making it to the forefront yet. There have been other, more important things to worry about than the state of our house. We microchipped the dog and got his papers stamped at the American Embassy where they peered at me through the plexiglass inquisitively and asked, perplexed, 'You're exporting a dog??' To which I replied, 'Yes, a little Indian street dog.' which didn't exactly unfurrow any brows. But they shrugged and stamped and smiled and sent me on my way $50 lighter. One more thing ticked off the list.

Actually, my most anxiety-inducing concern and the biggest butterfly of all is Mooshy. I hate to think of him in the belly of an airplane (three airplanes, actually if you count the flight to Bangkok from here and the flight from LAX to Vegas.) and stuck in his kennel for a good 24 hours. We did have the good sense to take a hotel room near the airport in L.A. that first night as the last thing I want is to see my parents again after eons looking like a big dishevelled mess of a daughter. And I have no way of even estimating just how long it's going to take us to get through customs and immigration - with an imported street dog and an Iranian husband I anticipate something of an extended remix bordering on trauma.

For now, I've got three days to check off the rest of the items on my list; not the least of which is handwashing the rest of our laundry. We donated our washing machine to a local charity and so I'm back to bucket and hand to get the job done. It's an exercise in humility to be sure...wringing out sopping shirts and shorts with all the force my pathetic little hands can muster. A fitting tribute to my life in the third world. I'm dreaming, ridiculously, of a set of Kenmores.

Best places to eat in Kathmandu

Since we're getting ready to leave I thought I should make my obligatory 'best places' post...and since I've practically starved to death here with almost nothing but momos surrounding me at every turn I'll list the few places that have kept me alive and kicking these past few months.

Kotetsu is a sushi bar owned and operated by a local Japanese family. Considering theirs was the first sushi I'd had for nearly four years it was pretty damn good. However, I'd suggest calling ahead to find out when their last delivery of seafood came in from Japan as toward the end of the batch it can get kind of sketchy. Delicious miso soup, amazing tuna rolls, sashimi, endamame, sake - the whole nine yards. Kotetsu is located between the Japanese Embassy and the new American Embassy on Lazimpat, across from Pani Pokhari (not that I expect you to know what that is, but your taxi driver will...). Their number is 01-621-8513. Expect to spend at least $50 for two people. Twice that if you like sake as much as we do.

Him Thai calls itself the 'first Thai food of Kathmandu' but what I'm pretty sure they meant was 'premier Thai food...' (don't hold the bad translations against them...the menu is even worse but is worth deciphering!) Him Thai is also on Lazimpat, near the Bluebird department store. The service is superbly friendly, the food - while not the most incredible Thai I've ever had is by far the best facsimile in this area. The green curries and coconut milk based soups are amazing, and they have tofu! Their number is 4418683 but trust me when I tell you it's much easier to order in person, and their semi-outdoor dining area is casual but cozy in the evenings with candles. The bar inside is cute too. Expect to spend about $20 with bottled Carlsburg beer and dessert for two people.

Roadhouse Pizza is truly wood-fired pizza at it's best - and in a part of the world where 'pizza' can mean a slice of toasted white bread topped with ketchup, chilies, cheese, and the ever-inexplicable maraschino cherry Roadhouse is a dream come true. Roadhouse has three locations, the best of which is easily the one in Bhatbateni (just down the road from a supermarket with the same name.) The other two are in overcrowded Thamel, and Pulchowk. They have an interesting mix of menu offerings besides their famed gigantic and ever-so-inexpensive pizzas including: soups, sandwiches, desserts, burritos, pastas, and more. Their bar is nicely stocked and they also have an espresso machine. Expect to pay about $10 for two large pizzas with fresh gourmet toppings. Try the mixed veg or tuna pizzas. Their phone number is 4426587.

Mike's Breakfast is owned by a midwestern American which means a few things: the food is friendly to the western palate and the menu is diverse. Daily specials include homemade soups, quiches, and juices. They also usually have rainbow trout on the menu which I've not been brave enough to try - not being certain where it actually comes from, and beng privy to the sorry state of the local river system led me to indulge instead in fat vegetarian burritos, toasted sandwiches, and brown rice stir fry. Mike's is situated in the expansive and charming garden of an equally expansive and charming old Newari style home. There's also an art gallery upstairs that has lovely overpriced things to look at. It's virtually impossible for me to tell you just where Mike's is, but most taxi drivers know the name well as it's a tourist favorite. Expect to spend around $20 for two people.

Chez Caroline is Kathmandu's only real French cuisine. It's located in the back of Baber Mahal shopping center, a maze of converted stable buildings left over from an old palace. The rest of Baber Mahal includes high-end shops geared toward wealthy locals and the expat community. Chez Caroline is also a garden restaurant and is one of my absolute favorite places to sit on a stormy day, the atmosphere is just wonderful (assuming there isn't noisy construction going on nearby like the last time we visited). The bistro offers everything from smoked salmon sandwiches and soup to salmon croquettes with mashed potatoes. Of course they have meat and chicken and of course I didn't try any of it, but everything was presented well and looked delicious. Expect to spend $40 for two people, for the best of what's on the menu.

You may be wondering why on earth there is no mention here of a really good traditional momo place; fair question. Truth is, the momos here are not all that fabulous in my opinion and while a great place to indulge in Nepali momos may very well exist, I have yet to find it; and believe me, I've tried. I'm a complete noodle addict. Anything stuffed and steamed and I'm golden. But here the momos tend to be very thick-skinned and either quite bland on the inside or so spicy they hurt - maybe I'm still too accustomed to the western variations on these kinds of things. In any case, truth be told, the best momos I've ever had in my entire existence as a noodle fiend were at Tao, the Chinese restaurant in Ramaiiah that we ordered delivery from twice daily while we were living in Bangalore, India. Go figure.

Kathmandu, Nepal

So gross

I remember once in a university Philosophy class reading a very funny paper written on American culture from an anthropologist's perspective. The way in which it was written was so wry; examining the many strange 'rituals' American men and women participate in including: wrapping a piece of decorated fabric about the neck (wearing ties) and reclining inside heated solar shells to cook the skin a golden brown (tanning); on and on it went detailing our ridiculous pursuits in a hilariously serious tone of voice. I honestly can't recall the exact details but it was such a fresh perspective on what it means to look at and experience another culture from the outside, the gist of the paper has stayed with me for years.

And so it is with this open minded attitude I've experienced the very foreign world around me for the past four years. I've marvelled at social customs and inherent habitual activities all the way from India to Iran and then some and I've come away a better, more educated, more well-rounded person for it. But something is terribly wrong here in Nepal and it's not the Maoists seated in Parliament. Woven within the fabric of life in this country is the incessant habit of hawking up snotballs and spitting them loudly and wildly in any direction that happens to suit the spitter. I don't really see how spitting can be tagged a cultural phenomenon but, apparently in Nepal it is so socially ingrained as 'acceptable' that men and women alike spend inordinate amounts of energy sucking all the goo out of their throats clear down to their intestines and spitting it out.

It happens at home, it happens in public, it happens in taxis, it happens at dinner over momos and 650 ml. bottles of Tuborg beer, it happens in the morning during the brushing of teeth (toothpaste spit is dispensed of in an equally disturbing manner: off the roof or balcony into the street below). I have heard and born witness to more loogies than I care to recount.

And it's just so gross.

Our neighbor to the back gets up every morning, early, and stands on the roof of his building with a toothbrush in one hand and a cup of water in the other. After much energetic tussling with the dental work he puts down his hygeine tools to stretch his arms, swing them side to side and then with all the gusto of someone about to puff into a trombone he snarfles and gurgles until every last drop of loose fluid has congealed in his mouth, swings his arms some more, and then spits it all out into my garden below. Not only do I have a problem with his giant piles of ick in our rosebushes but I wonder every time I witness this ritual why on earth he doesn't spit first, brush later. The logic escapes me.

Today we were returning from lunch and as our taxi rounded the corner toward our house I spotted one of the single most beautiful human beings I've ever laid eyes on. She was probably 15 or so with long brown hair, a plump face, and the natural beauty of someone who doesn't spend an ounce of energy on upkeep. She was dressed plainly, idly sitting and talking with two boys outside a little market, playing with the folds of her long not-particularly-stylish skirt - but she was so, so truly pretty I wished I had my camera. And then, forever shattering the artful image of her lovely face in my memory, all at once her features contorted into a mask of raised-eyebrow, flared-nostril sniffling and I heard her breath raking through her chest, collecting gunk on it's journey through her body. She then turned and spit the stuff out in a long stream that reminded me instantly of Popeye for a reason I still can't place; and as she did, her eyes caught my own now-horrified expression but there wasn't even a whisp of embarassment in her face. She then wiped her doll mouth with the back of her hand, kissed her boyfriend, and wandered off down the street.

I realize I'm a guest here but I can't help think that this kind of behavior, in America...at least the part that I'm from, would be social suicide for a girl, pretty or otherwise.

Where the wild things are

There was a frog in our bathroom last night. There have been other frogs. Many, actually. We found a frog in our kitchen a few weeks ago. He was just jumping around over by a window looking very much out of place on our marble floor until I scooted him back outside. There are mice under the first floor stairs and often entire flocks of birds in the third floor bedroom (you have no idea how creepy that is). There are mosquitos and spiders and ants and all kinds of many-legged creatures I cannot identify that squiggle around and out from their hiding places.

My parents had a ceramic frog in one of our bathrooms while I was growing up; a cute throwback to their once-upon-a-time 70's bell bottoms and leisure suits - but the frog last night was not so much ceramic. He hopped across the bathroom floor, eyeing me, probably estimating the likelihood of my eating him.

Knowing Mooshy's penchant for chewing on such things (we've caught him with birds, frogs, and mice hanging limp out of his little shark mouth more than once) I leapt into rescue-mode and frantically went to look for something to slip on like a glove. I'm not exactly a priss but I did read somewhere that touching a frog can kill him because of his porous skin, and far be it from me to be the reason something's going to die. The only thing near enough to be of use was one of Hamid's socks, poking out of the tops of his black Levi's monkey boots...the socks were clearly not clean but whatever. With my stinky sock-glove in place I cornered the frightened little amphibian and carefully scooped him up; his rubbery legs straining out in all directions inside his odiferous prison. At this point he must have been certain he was being eaten, swallowed whole - so I ran through the house yelling at absolutely no one to get out of my way 'Frog coming through!' and out into the back of the garden where I uncermoniously dumped him into the mud with a huge sigh of relief and a feeling of accomplishment. I sat there in my frog-inspired reverie, willing the stunned creature to make a move already but then the dog swooped in and made a light snack of my rescue. Damn.

Feeding the Buddha

We finally managed to hire new gardeners this month - with the almost incessant rain falling during the past two, our grass, vines, flowers, and trees had become a completely jumbled *mess*. Honestly, I liked it that way, but we're preparing to leave and it just didn't seem right to impose my own wild aesthetic on the next potential tenants.

The team consists of two local guys, brothers - and they come every weekend to chip away at one section of the garden at a time. It's looking a bit like a half-shaved head at this point and certainly isn't to my liking, so naked. But they do a great job and we're lucky to have them here. They work hard, sweating in the blessedly sometimes-present sun and laughing with eachother over Mooshy's relentless tailgating while they're trying to work.

They've cleared out the dead and brown corn crop, cut back the squash and bean vines that had crept out of their marginal sidegarden and toward the house; wrapping themselves up and around every possible vertical surface along the way. And they've mowed about one fifth of the gigantic lawn; grass now clipped golf-green short near the balconies, still a foot high out toward the compound walls.

I peek out at these nature tamers every now and then, not to check up on them as their work is efficient and nonstop each time they visit us, but just to make sure Mooshy hasn't crossed that threshold from cute to absolutely annoying as he is so often inclined to do.
Yesterday, during one of my regular spy missions I watched as one of the brothers took an ear of corn, harvested from what was left of our garden's seasonal bounty, and place it at the base of the large black statue of Buddha that sits at the right of our house. He lit a stick of incense and added it to the shrine. Then, carefully picking an individual kernel from the orange cob, he stuck it smack dab onto the Buddha's mouth.
A gentle gesture of respect for his God.

He sat quietly before the statue, head bowed, while the incense burned and wafted around him...meditating. And then, as soon as the scented stick had run its course, he reached behind him, snapped up his clipping shears and jumped up to return to work.

Mooshy, never one to show respect for much of anything, immediately slunk in behind the devotee's turned back and stood up on his hind legs to sniff the offering that had been left behind. For a moment it looked just like he was kissing the Buddha. He then quickly made off with the ear of corn at the icon's feet. I dare say, the Buddha wouldn't mind much, and our little canine thief was kind enough not to steal the morsel of food directly from his mouth.

Kathmandu, Nepal

Kathmandu, Nepal

Premature evacuation

I know, I know...it's far too early to be packing. But that's just what I did this past weekend. I can't help it...it's like a necessity for me. Once I'm emotionally finished with a place, once I'm in that space of acceptance, like, "Yes, we really are going." and/or excitement, like, 'Yes! We really are going!" I'm half packed and basically ready to roll.

This is nothing new, and I've been living out of suitcases for so long I've got it down to a science.

The best part is, I'm going back with one darling Iranian husband and one darling-most-of-the-time Indian street dog in tow and between the three of us we have only three suitcases and a big kennel.

I've packed up all of our personal whatnots from shelves and countertops, aside from the bare essentials. Half of my meager wardrobe is packed and I've started the requisite huge pile of donations: clothes, shoes, cosmetics, etc. Basically anything that I don't absolutely need or will wrench my heart over to give up is slated for donation to a local charity.

I'm ready, let's go.

Modern technology

While trying to do laundry yesterday our washing machine; or: two plastic tubs hooked up to some kind of rotary device beneath it all and then hosed-up to a shower tap in the third bathroom masquerading as a washing machine; stopped working. Mid cycle.
So there I was with a good 6KG of wet clothes, a washtub full of soapy water and no apparent working motor to make the whole thing go and spare me the laborious task of hand washing.

I called Hamid to take a look. Knobs were turned, switches were thrown, lids and hoses were removed and reattached. Nothing.
So I kicked it and it started right up again.

Oh dear...

When I was younger I was always fascinated by the stories of people who should have been on the Titanic but switched their tickets at the last moment, or those who should have been on such and such a flight but slept through their alarm, cursing their bad luck when they finally awoke to realize they were never going to make it in time; learning hours later that their plane had crashed.

Well, in preparation for our upcoming departure from Nepal I've been bugging Hamid about going into Kathmandu's China Town to buy another suitcase. We were going to go today but inhereted a rain-inspired laze and decided to stay home instead. Turns out that laziness was more to our advantage after all.

We've just received an email from the United States Embassy here in Kathmandu letting us know that four bombs went off in different parts of the city today. And one of the explosions was right in the area we would have been shopping at. It's all something to do with the upcoming elections and I'm happy to know we'll be leaving just in time, considering, and won't be here for the aftermath of what is likely to be one of Nepal's most violent political seasons in years.

Now this isn't nearly as dramatic as fortuitously missing the sinking of the Titanic, but it's a close call nonetheless.

Little Sherpas

Not to be outdone by it's giant neighbor, India, Nepal has offered us an equal amount of absolutely-darling kid clothes; lots of sweet patchwork overalls, handknit sweaters perfect for swathing a tiny baby body in warm wool, and an abundance of slipper, hats, pants, and jackets all made up in traditional Newari fabrics and styles. And we have, of course, obliged ourselves by buying an entire suitcase full of Nepali styled baby wearables; including two pairs of little teeny shoes.

I dare say our babies will be better dressed than we are.

Punk rock hair

So...I went to the salon today to rid myself of my blonde locks.
I'm tired of coloring my hair and although the last time I actually saw my natural color (hmmm, I guess I was maybe 17?) it was still blonde of its own accord, the stuff that creeps in at my roots these days is far from it.
So off I went to the most expensive coif shop I could find in Kathmandu; always relying (too) heavily on my theory that paying more will protect me from disaster.
With the help of the, uh, technician, we chose a light brown/dark blonde shade and named the whole process 'lowlights' with a plan to keep a bit of my existing blonde all mixed in with a more natural color.
They put this rubber hat with little holes all over it on my head and used what looked like knitting needles to pull strands of my hair out over the top of mon chapeau. By the time they were done I looked like a white Tina Turner and I smiled at all the girls who fawned over me in pairs, working up a lather on my rubber-coated head with the brown goo that was meant to transform my brassy mop into something lovely. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself.

I sat and read tedious reports in glossy fashion mags about who's who in the U.S. celebrity scene these days and what they're wearing, about the new jeans for 'every body' (happy to see my own favorite Goldschmeids on the list but feeling a bit lost at not recognizing a single other designer), about whoever's adopting whoever from the third world, and whatever else they think is important at InStyle.

When I noticed that the pile of gunk on top of my head was getting awfully dark I kept my mouth shut and mentally prayed my 'spend more, get better service' mantra whincing slightly at the memory of how this philosophy has failed me oh-so-many times here in the third world.

The cap was peeled off my head, my hair was washed and I was once again seated in front of the mirror. My hair was very, very dark...but I reassured myself that it was still wet and would transform into a delicious mix of blonde and brown as soon as it was dry.

Finally, my hair was dry and I could see very clearly that something was wrong. When I pointed out to the stylist what looked like exceptionally dark ends she simply said 'This never happens.' and turned away quickly to tell her girls to dry my hair some more; perhaps hoping that the heat would magically evaporate the very dark deposits of color that had cemented themselves from my jawline down.

The girls dried, and dried, and dried some more. My hair stayed the same. They checked and double checked color tubes, talked over me in stressed Nepali, and apparently came to no real conclusion. No one offered me an apology.

I'll leave the conversation that followed to your imagination but I will tell you that I refused the offer of a color removal and fresh attempt, but hautily accepted the suggestion that I not pay for my ruined head.

I walked out, took a deep breath and accepted my fate. I decided I'd just pretend it was on purpose - one of those very punk rock styles that starts out doing its thing at the top and then fades to black at the end. I'm trying hard not to relate to Lita Ford in the 80's and lean more in the direction of Jennifer Aniston after a dark wash, but it's a tough call.

I'm home now and Hamid has been telling me he thinks it's 'gorgeous' - but he says that even when I'm up at five a.m. with a fever and haven't had a shower for two days, so I don't necessarily trust his judgement.

No, I'm not going to show you a picture either. When you see me again, just smile and nod and pretend to think I did it on purpose, tell me it's very cool...assume I was looking to put a bit more edge back in a style that had otherwise gone very hippie as of late; the rock star look; whatever....