At the immigration office today I, while I was waiting to get my visa extended, I was having a conversation with one of the officials. He told me about his wife and daughter, it was really nice to have a conversation with a Nepali man, to try and gain some insight about the strange culture here, caught between the old and the new as it is. I ignored his flirtiness because he was a lot older and it was a bit absurd. Besides, men are often affectionate with each other - one image I will always take with me is the sight of army men in full uniform and rifles, holding hands as they meander down the road. But then it got a bit too much and I decided to go to the bathroom. He followed me in, and continued to pat my stomach and remark on how big it was. I didn't know how to take this, until he tried to put his hand under my t-shirt. Excuse me, but what the fuck? If homosexuality wasn't punished quite so severely here then perhaps it wouldn't get manically misdirected at me. Rather than kicking up a huge stink, I said no and promptly left. After all, I was applying for a tourist visa, due to whatever loophole, I must volunteer illegally. Not that anyone seems to mind much. At the airport a few weeks ago (on the way to Singapore), the customs lady asked me what I was doing here in a token kind of way, whilst stamping my passport. I told her I was a volunteer teacher, so she stopped, smiled, and asked me again. "Oh, I'm a tourist!" I said.
It is starting to become apparent that I will never actually fit in here. In a way I didn't really fit in back in Australia either, but this is different. The other bideshi, they are not that friendly. With the exception of my friends of course. I see that Australian girl I met at that party, and say hello. I can see the corners where that painted-on smile is beginning to peel. I crave to have more interaction with Nepali people, but this is fraught with difficulty. Taxi drivers and shopkeepers form the majority of my Nepali interaction. I can do prices, products, and directions quite well now. I walk around, or I sit, and I think about how I could have said what I wanted to say. The taxi man I walk past every day, I caught his taxi once, and now he pursues my business with dogged desperation, believing that one day I'll crack. Today he stuck his tongue out at me, and implored, "Every day I wait for you and you do not come!" 100 metres further down the road, the phrase "Kina pharkanuhuncha, ta?" formed in my mind. Why wait then? Sometimes it works, yesterday another taxi driver followed me slowly in his car, ignoring my friendly rebukes until I said "Malaai ghumna man parcha". I like walking.
Soon I will come back to Australia, and be poor again. I will have nice accommodation, hot showers, drinking water straight from the tap, beaches to swim in, public transport, live music, but I will be poor. And then I will come back to Kathmandu, and will have none of these things. But I will be rich. Oh, and peace and quiet, space and time. Here comes someone now
It is starting to become apparent that I will never actually fit in here. In a way I didn't really fit in back in Australia either, but this is different. The other bideshi, they are not that friendly. With the exception of my friends of course. I see that Australian girl I met at that party, and say hello. I can see the corners where that painted-on smile is beginning to peel. I crave to have more interaction with Nepali people, but this is fraught with difficulty. Taxi drivers and shopkeepers form the majority of my Nepali interaction. I can do prices, products, and directions quite well now. I walk around, or I sit, and I think about how I could have said what I wanted to say. The taxi man I walk past every day, I caught his taxi once, and now he pursues my business with dogged desperation, believing that one day I'll crack. Today he stuck his tongue out at me, and implored, "Every day I wait for you and you do not come!" 100 metres further down the road, the phrase "Kina pharkanuhuncha, ta?" formed in my mind. Why wait then? Sometimes it works, yesterday another taxi driver followed me slowly in his car, ignoring my friendly rebukes until I said "Malaai ghumna man parcha". I like walking.
Soon I will come back to Australia, and be poor again. I will have nice accommodation, hot showers, drinking water straight from the tap, beaches to swim in, public transport, live music, but I will be poor. And then I will come back to Kathmandu, and will have none of these things. But I will be rich. Oh, and peace and quiet, space and time. Here comes someone now
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