Rude awakenings

It is perfectly dark now. This is load shedding. Perfectly dark of except for the laptop screen, which has been recently replaced, giving my cracked old laptop a certain phoenix quality, giving hope that old wounds can certainly be healed, and that eventually I will get off my arse and do those simple things which I had been meaning to do for the longest time. Load shedding. Reliable information is hard to come by, but what I’m told is that Nepal is powered exclusively by hydro-electricity, hence the ample power during monsoon season, and the escalating regime of power cuts which last year went up to 18 hours per day without power during the end of Winter. What I also heard is that Nepal sells power to India, but then miscalculates and has to buy part of it back at an inflated price. Hard to believe, but not impossible. After all, this is Nepal. 

Here we are in Winter time, those who can afford it have generators, which burn petrol, or inverters, which charge great batteries so that when the power goes out, they can still watch tv and use their laptops. What this means is that they use at least twice as much power while it’s on, or they use petrol and create power in a much crappier way, making the whole idea of load shedding sort of redundant. For the people who can afford it, that is, and for those who cannot afford it then load shedding is very effective indeed. I find myself without an inverter, partly because I don’t know if I’ll be staying in this house for much longer. 

Nepal has made me really appreciate the ingenuity of the humble head-torch. I bought a cheap one from a shop the other day, but unfortunately you need to hold the button down to keep it on, making it even more annoying than a regular torch. Determined not to be defeated, I rifled through the darkness and found some sticky tape. Managing at last to wedge something inside the button and cause it to stay on, I triumphantly settled into bed, to read a book which I didn’t particularly like. But then holding the book meant leaving arms exposed to the spitefully cold air, and after continuous attempts at finding a comfortable, warm position, with head torch at correct angle, with book, I finally opted for the release of sleep instead, sleep and dreams. I don’t know what happened to that head-torch, it could be that I flung it from my rooftop in a fit of rage at 4a.m.

Shame, I’d quite like to get back to that book.

I am trying to deal with the cold as best as I can, but it is quite a pain. A stiff upper lip only gets you so far, and when your arms begin to go numb, you begin to feel a little vulnerable, like maybe the problem is a bit bigger than you and your lips. Two weeks ago, I was at the other end of the spectrum, dangerously hot. There, at Woodford folk festival, in a donated tent, my own little solar oven. My initial attempts to move the tent into the shade were kind of shouted down by an ageing hippy. I didn’t even know how to argue with him about it, because I didn’t even know where he came from. I was offered a tent at my friend’s campsite, but no-one said that there would be an ageing hippy with an English accent, turning up a few days into the festival and being absolutely intractable on the matter of tent location. I woke up at 6a.m. to feel myself stewing in my own juices, just like in those old Warner bros. cartoons, where bugs bunny thinks that he’s having a nice hot bath, and then suddenly says, “Mmm, smells delicious, smells like, like… Rabbit stew!!?”

I threw the door of the tent open, blessed relief, I would live another day. I had been back to sleep for perhaps 15 minutes when I felt myself being shaken.

“Hey, mate!” Shake, shake, “Hey, come have a beer!”

 Just then, in that waking-dream state, it was hard to appreciate just how unusual this was. A complete stranger walking past at 6:15a.m. reaching into my tent and physically shaking me awake, so that I would come and have a drink with him. All I knew was that I had absolutely no inclination to follow him.

“Ok mate, I’m right behind you.”

That worked, he stumbled off, and moments later I heard him, from further into the campsite, trying to get someone else to come and drink, someone to keep him from stopping. Luckily, I didn’t have to stay in that tent ever again. That’s another story.

Two weeks later, there I was in Delhi airport, on a 15 hour overnight stopover, stuck in one of my least favourite transit lounges of all time.

I went looking for one of those long comfortable chairs to sleep on. They are highly sought after, prime real estate, but I eventually found a vacant one. It would have been ideal, except for the fact that every twenty minutes, an announcement would come over the speaker system, warning me not to leave my bags unattended. My sleep was broken and harrowed, and I experienced what felt like one non-stop announcement loop which played upon my existing bag-paranoia. This was Delhi, after all, a city that rivals London for the quantity of untrustworthy characters who lurk about. Eventually, I think I must have gotten used to it, for I had been on a fairly good run of sleep when a noisy man came and sat on the bed next to me. When he sensed that I was awake, he smiled congenially,

“Sleepy time, eh?” He laughed.

“Yes. Sleep time,” I said, flatly.

“Everyone is sleepy,” He laughed again.

Who is this guy? I thought. I was too tired for pleasantries, as I ignored him he started talking noisily to his friend sitting nearby. Eventually I got up, picked up my bag and threw them both acid glances. They seemed unfazed.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

The man’s friend quickly jumped into my seat, and they both promptly went to sleep. I couldn’t help but appreciate that jerk.