pause

Writing is a thing which requires stillness, sitting, and not being distracted. This is the problem, has always been the problem with writing. There are so many things to do, so many wonderful distractions. There are periods in life when the only time you find to write is when you are waiting. Just now I am waiting for a bicycle to arrive, at which point I will go salsa dancing. Whilst riding bicycles, and whilst salsa dancing, writing is almost entirely out of the question. I try and collect these moments, so that when I finally get time to sit in front of a computer screen, I can pull them out and examine them. It takes a long time, and many of these moments have gone stale in my memory, whilst others have aged like wine. Some are lost, many turn up at unexpected moments.

There is an urgency now, if the bicycle doesn't turn up soon, I will have to find another plan, head footwards to salsa, perhaps moving my hips a little more than normal in preparation, until a small boy in a school uniform gives me a strange look, at which point I will most likely pretend that I'm stretching out a sore hip.

Last night we went to see live jazz. Up in that small room, the saxophonist requested, in his Spanish accent, that if we wanted to talk, we should go 'out the door to the other ambiance'. He then proceeded to play self-indulgent solos that went for too long, whilst the keys, double-bass and drums had their own conversations behind him. When someone else did a solo, he would walk off stage and sit down somewhere. We watched the band, a little uncomfortably, doing our best to enjoy the talent and inventiveness of the musicians despite the obstruction of this ego. On the way out of this place, we espied a Ugandan dance party. Perfect remedy, we danced along until everyone was gone. The next day, we went to a market for Ex-pats, a pocket of Jane Austen-esque ostentatious opulence. Then to an israeli cafe where we thought about eating but decided against it. A strong coffee at a table full of Dutch architects, spicy tea and momos, the delicious Nepali dumpling. We don't question the strangeness any more.

A letter I wrote to mum, just now

Hi mum,
Nepal is great, I have walked up and down a great many hills, and when
my legs complain, I tell them "Well what did you expect? We're in
Nepal!" I've met a great many goats on my walks, although I haven't
had any goat curries. Lots of Dal Bhaat, and sometimes I'll treat
myself to buff momos (buffalo dumplings). We have Nepali lessons twice
a week, I love the challenge of learning a new language, even though I
can't imagine it will be very useful once I leave.

I would love some New Scientists, or any reading material you'd like
to sent me, although where to send them to? Three of us have just
settled into our house, the new home of the circus volunteers. And
we've just found out that they are having issues negotiating rent, and
may have to move us somewhere else. I will hopefully find out, one way
or another, in the next few days. The house has been unused for a
while, so we cleaned, mopped, swept away mouse crap, rubbish and other
more ambiguous refuse. Now we have a lovely little house, with a stone
staircase, stone bookshelf, a big backyard with a secret pathway
leading up to a giant statue of Buddha. It is far away from the
dubious Westernness of Sanepa, (a district in Kathmandu, the home of
our charity's office, the UN, and a huge number of NGOs and ex-pats)
and the sprawling mess and noise of central Kathmandu. I hope we can
stay there, it's even worth the 1-and-a-half hour journey into the
office, where we squeeze sardine-like into the Micro, a toyota van,
one volunteer claims to have counted 29 commuters. I too woke up too
early, to try and beat the rush and get a seat that I could stay in
for the entire journey.

I would love to stay for longer than my initial three months, although
sometimes I feel like getting out of here as soon as possible. I have
been given a lot of responsibility, but not the respect that this
responsibility accords. My flight from Brisbane, a promise of regular
training space, and now the house in Godawari, from these I have
learned that I cannot rely on this organisation to follow through with
its offers.

Unfortunately you brought me up very well, but I am starting to learn
how to break my programming, to tread on toes, butt in to
conversations, bang heads together, so that I can get training space,
essential items for the students, organise time for them to see what's
going on in the world of contemporary circus, and just have fun
together, build some group cohesion, things like this. Everything
takes time here, but if I can just get these few things sorted out,
then I would happily stay for a long time. If it doesn't work out,
then it's back to Australia, where I have received a few job offers
via email, and have applied for a couple of festivals.

The actual job which I ostensibly came here to do, the circus classes,
are great. Quite a challenge though. I'm looking forward to having a
bit more Nepali language to talk to them with. The kids are all aged
between 14-22, and mostly you would never know that they have been
disconnected from their families, trafficked, and abused. They are
bright, funny, keen to learn and willing to try new things. The issues
that come up are the same kinds of issues that all teenagers face:
self-esteem, body image, jealousy, etc. but there is a general level
of respect here that is rare among Western teenagers. I'm trying to
slowly bring in more theatre and general performance training, to work
on their stage presence a bit, sometimes this goes really well, and
sometimes it is a complete fiasco, but we always stay positive. One of the
kids goes off quite often to brood, staring out the window for long
periods with a look that speaks all too clearly of the past trauma and
current pressure that he must live through. A grim reminder of the
complexity of this situation.

I'd best get back to work. I've got to a report now to the project
manager in the UK, where I will no doubt repeat a lot of the things
I've just written here, but perhaps maybe couch some of them in more
diplomatic terms. I'm glad to hear that you're getting the move back
to Australia sorted. Will you move back into Carlton?

Bye then,
Love Ivan

requiem for a dying computer

Load shedding is what they call it here. The power is cut for at least a few hours every day. In Winter times, there is a schedule can be worked around. Now, in monsoon times, there is much more electricity, but the cuts are unpredictable. Here in the office, all of the computers are connected to little black boxes. Today is Sunday and the office is deserted. As I sat alone in the room full of computers, I discovered the purpose of those little black boxes. When the power goes out of Kathmandu, each little box starts beeping, and keeps the computer alive for precious moments. They each have their own way of beeping, their own pitch and tempo, so the result is an electronic choir, a minimalist opera, requiem for a dying computer. Hearing this symphony for the first time, I realised that the boxes were there to give us, the humans, enough time to save our work, finish our emails, log out of facebook.
And this is why it's hard to write. When I try to write, I am paralysed by the sheer volume of moments, some hilariously surreal, some devastatingly real. So much good material, where to begin? So I begin right there, with the choir of beeping boxes, and then zoom out to the view from the rooftop of my new home, the majestic Kathmandu valley stretching out into the distance, little houses, babies in baskets, goats. Then I settle into the rhythm of it. My friend asked me what the kids are like who I teach, so I start writing about them, each one so different, so amazing, and so much like a regular teenager.

And then I lose the entire post. I try to rewrite it, but the task is beyond me just now. Especially with life intruding at every sentence. Someone's key doesn't work, so I must jump the fence, unlock the gate from the outside. Dog escapes, so I chase it down the street. Babu the gate keeper tries to explain something to me about oil. At any moment the power might go out again, and I will have to rewrite this whole thing again. I will post this for now, even though I've barely described the landscape or the people here, or even covered a fraction of the amazing things that happen all of the time here. It will take time to settle into this enigmatic place, to be able to write about it in anything more than fits and starts. This is part of it, the lesson, live life now, write later.

A quick post, written whilst waiting for girls to get ready

Raincoat, umbrella, gumboots/wellingtons. Today I will go shopping for these things, take the fight to the monsoon, now that we've moved to Godawari, up in the hills, with the leeches, the winding mountain pathways, the house that is half an hour's from the office where the school bus takes us and all of the circus kids to training.

So much to write about. Yesterday we were moved to Godawari, away from this office, away from NGOs, UN road-hog vehicles, pollution and the honks, away from money, away away. Up there, children come up to you, not to ask for money but  out of sheer curiosity, and they giggle to each other and then run back to their parents, who are nearby, farming, cooking, washing, smiling.

A few days ago, we had a volunteer induction, and we were told that if we keep a personal blog, and if we write anything about the Esther Benjamin Trust in it, then we have to show it to the head of the organisation for approval before posting. On the same day, I found out lots of dubious things about the organisation, things I would love to write about, but which wouldn't go down so well. It has been almost impossible to write blogs since then. I'm still trying to decide whether to tell them anything about this blog, whether they'll find out anyway, I guess I need more time to know them better and see just how they'd react if I started talking about military connections and other such scary things