The cicadas hum, they cannot remember the words

Just now it is still. A kind of silence which I have not experienced for how long now? Five months? One minute past midnight, there are no barking dogs, no enterprising mosquitos, no car horns and no unfathomable lack of ease. There is a hum from my computer, and a hum from the cicadas, and that is all.

I am of course returning to Nepal in a month or so, to continue working with the circus project, but nonetheless it feels like I have reached some kind of conclusion. Today has been a bookend, a day full of reflected moments, a conclusion to the first Nepal experience. I walked that piece of road by Southbank station where I first had a phone interview for the Nepal job:
"I'm sorry but I have to ask, do you have any history of mental illness?" She asked with tangible displeasure.
"Ha! No, but I probably wouldn't tell you if I did, would I?"
Shit, I thought shortly afterward, I don't know this girl, she may not have a sense of humour. Just like that casting agent back in Melbourne, when I said that I loved kids, but couldn't eat a whole one. Both of these jokes are now filed away firmly under "jokes not to use in job interviews"

In the airport today, the internet kiosk spurned and tormented me, just as it did five months ago. This time I tempered my frustration. Maybe the constant car horns have galvanised my patience. Maybe I was just in a good mood.

Back then, I waited for a volcanic ash cloud to pass, so that planes would fly again. Nobody could say exactly how long the volcanic ash cloud would take to leave. The meanderings of clouds are unknown to the likes of us, they would tell me, in their own way. I had given up my room and so I slept on the couch at my own house. Now, here I am at the conclusion, sitting on a futon in that space where the couch lay. Not sleeping, I mean to savour this delicious silence for a bit longer yet.


Once upon a time I went to Nepal. I found a taxi to take me to Sanepa. My hands instinctively reached for the seatbelt and pulled, to no avail. The belt refused to move from its retractor (see A). Another taxi driver, seeing my continued attempts to unroll the seatbelt, laughed and said "Welcome to Nepal". It would take a long time before this, an immobile seatbelt as an analogy for Nepal, would make any sense. But now, if I were ever to see a foreigner in a taxi, attempting to use a seat belt only to find that it was in fact useless, I would say "welcome to Nepal". If they asked me why all of the taxis had some variety of broken seatbelts, I would explain that it would require needless effort to take them away.

Today at the train station, I thought about another metaphor which always sounded a bit odd. Many Nepali folk refer to their homeland as a "yam between two stones". The two stones are China and India, today's threatening new superpowers, and because of Nepal's location, it cannot grow. It is even, some claim, being kept poor by world powers in order to maintain a buffer zone between these two hungry, dangerous stones. I have understood this stuff for months now, only today did it occur to me that Nepal does actually resemble a yam.
 
 It was an exciting moment.

writing to the accompaniment of barking dogs

At night the dogs let loose their voices, a cacophonic choir of uncountable choristers. They bark, yelp, woof, howl and wwwwoowowowowow along to each other, in a fierce debate, who can say about what? I try to tell whether they are arguing with each other, or vehemently agreeing. Each night I go from one to the other, but whatever it is there is the feel of celebration to it. It is as though they had been forced, out of decorum, to still their tongues and stay silent all day, and now that night had fallen they were all free, all at once, to make as much noise as possible.

Lessons from the art of stillness

Just now it's hard to be in Nepal. I've given myself a day away from everyone, in my friend's fancy apartment, so that I could relax, recuperate, and do some fun creative stuff. All that has happened is that I've given my mind the space to air all of the doubts and fears that I didn't have time to look at. I've committed to staying here for a long time, so I'm going to have to work it out one way or another, but at the moment I can't shake the feeling that I'm not the best person for this job, and at any rate, I should probably get on with making money rather than dwindling away what little I have on the comforts I seem to be increasingly needing. I look to facebook for comfort, and see friends who worked really hard at circus, and are now touring the world, doing amazing shows, and earning a nice living out of it, while I watch my skills fade away for want of training space, time, energy. But let me stop this self-pitying, cringeworthy, poor-me blog. I'll put up this thing I wrote a while back, about one of the jobs I had while I was living in Brisbane.

For a while now I’ve been meaning to put down some words about life modelling, something I’ve been doing a lot of. Each time I do it I come away with something, it is an amazing kind of school.

Yesterday I had to do a double – to pose with another model. I have done this only once before, and that other time it was a rushed thing, a distracted thing. There were so many external circumstances that it was just an incidental aspect of a bizarre life modelling session. This time, I knew in advance, and I was modelling with someone who I’d met only once before. She is one of the most experienced life models I know, having done it for at least 6 years and currently working 5 days a week at this curious job. She has a kind of introverted strength, a quiet confidence. She picked me up in her little car and she drove, and I talked. Soon we were finding our way up winding paths, through the crisp air and dense foliage of Mount Tambourine. The class itself was held in a church that was commonly used for weddings and functions, bright, but austere, and absolutely beautiful. On the way we talked a little about modelling, about how we might approach the evening. Mostly I model for university and TAFE courses. In those places there is a pervading air of concentration, a silence punctuated by the scribbling, scratching and sweeping strokes of the various mediums. A teacher either timidly offers encouragement and advice, or stalks as a predator, startling students with incisive criticism. This mount Tambourine group were so very unlike this. They are doing this class because they are old friends, and this is their way of catching up. They have been doing this for a long time. They are quick to express their appreciation of a challenging or interesting pose, and to rise to a challenge like old friends at a chess board. I felt very awkward posing with the other model. I had learned so much about holding my own body still in space, and now suddenly there was someone else who I’d never worked with before. Poses which should have been so simple were proving too difficult to hold. I’ve almost never come out of a pose early, but during this class I think it happened twice. Nonetheless they loved us, and plied us with food and wine, implored me to juggle, laughed along.

At some points, and it always happens, I experienced the power of the body-mind connection. In one pose I sat with my head in my hands, an image of mourning, while the other model leaned on my back sympathetically. After a few minutes of holding this pose I felt such a strong a sense of loss, of mourning. Imaginary figures dutifully ambled past me in single file,  all of the things I had to mourn, lost friends, dead relatives, failed loves, poor old Suthy our pet dog. Cloudier, spectral shapes - I could only assume were the things which hadn’t happened yet, the things I was yet to mourn – they filed past too, at the end of my lonely little centrelink line. At the same time, the human warmth of the co-model, being supported in this pose gave me such a feeling of poignant hope, of how far I’ve come and grown through all of these times. Another pose involved us in a sweet embrace, innocent and warm despite our nudity. And I have never been attracted to that girl, nothing beyond appreciating her looks and charm in a distant sort of way, but after about ten minutes of creating that image with her, I developed an overwhelming feeling of being in love with her. It was nice at first, but I was glad to hear the timer go off, and be relieved of the feeling that my innermost emotions and thoughts were at the whim of some life drawing class. That such a genuine feeling of love could be created by holding a certain pose, made acutely aware that the mind is not a fortress but an open shed, that I’m utterly susceptible to the outside world, its forces, its wind. This lesson has been confronting me almost daily, in varying ways, for the last month or so. It is a many-headed beast, one of its heads is this idea, still half-formed in my mind, the notion that I was never fully in control of my emotions, most of the time I was merely suppressing them, and if I can relinquish this particular kind of control then I will be able to be a better performer, writer, liver. Or, I might just go completely mental.

One of the members of the group runs a gallery. He has a worldly, jaded sort of artist air which poorly conceals a very warm and friendly nature. I was discussing with him this thing about life modelling which really grinds my gears.

After many years of studying circus, I have learned where my strengths and weaknesses lie, how to improve, etc. It was a framework, something solid, a source of confidence, because I knew even if I wasn’t satisfied with my skill level, I had a map, I could get there. Life modelling laughs in the face of that, because despite sometimes feeling successful, sometimes feeling uninspired, sometimes feeling absolutely great or completely useless at it, there is almost no correlation between these feelings and the feedback I get. In fact, the feedback is always very positive, which I find strange because people talk about what they like in a male model, and I don’t have those things. I don’t have muscle definition, I don’t do strong caveman poses, I’m not angular, I’m really quite curvy, and I don’t have a lot of tan to draw tone from. Anyway, this guy in the group the other day, he gave me a nice insight on it. He said “You’re great to draw because you’re likeable”. Now, it’s nice to be told this, and I get told it a lot. Not trying to blow my own trumpet, but I do. And sometimes I feel annoyed about this, like being a nice guy is the consolation prize for not being a good artist, especially when so many wonderful artists I know would never be accused of being a friendly, likeable person. But he elaborated “you’re really comfortable up there when you’re modelling, and we can tell that you like yourself, and this makes you much easier to draw. We’ve had some models who had amazing bodies, but they just had so much attitude, and you could tell that they didn’t want to be there. It’s as though your eye doesn’t fall on them as easily, you feel like you’re being pushed away.” This resonated, it was part of that many-headed beast. This feeling of being there with the life-drawers, of bringing them in, it came from the fact that I didn’t care that much. I mean, I love life modelling and I always try and do a good job, but in a much different way to performance, where I’m anxious, and serious, and it’s important that I do well, and this show could be the big one where I get noticed, and all of that crap. During a clown workshop I discovered that when I don’t invest anything in the performance, when I’m beyond the point of caring, of wanting so much to be great at it, then I actually allow myself to show something special to the audience. And I looked at the other model, her peaceful, almost distracted air, and I appreciated why she was such a good model, why she gets more work than she can handle.

aimless writing

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

Another old journal entry: Amiga is a dog

I should be sleeping. This knowledge keeps me awake. This, and the cold, and the full full moon. So here I am, lying in front of the heater, blessed warmth. It’s just you and me now, words. We don’t need love, warmth, cuddles. Heaters and words, they don’t lie awake, thinking about how much they need to be alone, but jumping at every creak and rustle, thinking that it may be a certain person coming to lie with them. Objects, concepts, sitting in smug silence. And then, on the other hand, there is Amiga. Flying through the house faster than her legs can carry her. Crashing into things, making noise, waking everyone in her desperate search for love and attention. I am more like Amga than I am like the heater, though I would like to be the other way. Really, everything is fine, well mostly. I guess if I was going to imagine what I’d like my girlfriend to be like, I’d start with someone who was happy to see me. I think X is, sometimes it’s quite hard to tell. Mystery.

Words escape through cracked lips like weedlings through chapped concrete.

Pen on paper. This is a kind of alchemy. My four-colour pen has just this colour left, my least favourite of all. No-one likes the red pen, it is the colour of tick and cross, and other such judgements. Normally red things entice, excite and invite me, but red pen hits my eyes, the red writing is the uninvited guest whom you were nonetheless expecting. The remarks of one who is telling you how to write, how to express, how to be.

I know a girl who makes me lose my cool. Where did it go? I had it a moment ago, and now she asks me to produce it and it’s gone. She turns me into myself, horror of horrors, and leaves me to deal with it, to babysit myself until the cool comes back. Coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, destruction. The thought of being healthy is repulsive to me just now, what the hell is going on? There, it happened again, just hearing her footsteps makes me lose my cool. Rattle, rail, shake those chains. I would like to sleep now, but I am so alive! I should like to write myself sleepy. Lots of loud noises and angry voices happen on the street outside, a thousand terrible scenarios play out in my mind. Slep now, young Ivan, worry less, fear less, let go, sleep. They will sort themselves out, they are apt to fight their own battles. Listen, now they are laughing.

Scooby Doo

I am currently enjoying a moment of peace and stillness, in an Israeli cafe here in the heart of Kathmandu. The password for the internet here is Baba Ganesh. Get it?

My boss, and some other people from the office, have been away this week. They are in Tamil Nadu, India, on a rescue mission. According to a documentary I just saw, our charity has, over the years, rescued over 300 children. Each rescue mission is different from the last. Sometimes they involve being chased by dogs and men with big sticks. Sometimes they involve long hours spent in police stations, dealing with beauraucracy and corruption. Of all the rescue missions this is probably the most bizarre. This time they are rescuing young girls from Dr. Job's Mission, another charity.

I cannot write emotively, can only report. I would like to paint a picture, the landscape, the long journeys, describe faces, conversations, but the whole situation is too sick. Maybe later.

It is difficult to get accurate information, and of course each story is slightly different. Here, a death certificate was forged, so that the parents believed their daughter had died. There, the website shows profiles of girls, falsely claiming that they're orphans. Perhaps Dr. Job's Mission actually believes this. The agent that was responible for trafficking the children has a particularly nasty reputation. Usually the agents are so well-connected that it is almost impossible to arrest them. The families tell us that they had sent their children to Kathmandu to get a good education. Instead, the daughters were taken to India, given new names and put in an evangelical christian school, so that they can continue God's work. One girl managed to get in touch with her brother back home. She begged for help, claiming that they were routinely abused, that conditions were terrible. Word made it to our organisation. Some family members were brought along to make rescue possible. One of the girl's brothers, perhaps the same one who received the phone call, had a seizure on the plane, I'm told that if he hadn't been on that plane, there would have been no way that he would have made it to the hospital in time, his life would have ended in that village.

The crew from EBT moved quickly, and managed to rescue 30 Nepali children. Each family has agreed to take the children back.

I cannot help but think of that line from Scooby Doo, "And I would have got away with it too, if it hadn't been for those pesky kids". One girl made a phone call, and 30 children were brought home. Surely more investigations will follow, what will happen next I cannot say, but I am happy to see that Dr. Job's Mission's website is down for maintenance. You can still see the title, "Welcome to the Home for Daughters of Martyred Christians"