Coming to a new country, particularly if you plan to live there, is like being re-born all over again (I can’t help but wonder what the Buddhists might think of that analogy). You can’t speak (their tongue), you can’t walk (in the right direction), and you constantly depend on others, in this case people who are maybe half your size. I have lived through this transition a number of times, and yet it never gets any easier.
Our new staff was introduced to us yesterday. There is a cook and a driver, with a nanny to be named later. My wife is very cautious when addressing them, she is as uncomfortable as I am about having hired help. We give them the weekend off so they can arrive on Monday, well-rested while giving us a little time to find our sea (rice paddy?) legs?
The next morning, we are severely jet-lagged. Let’s face it, when you travel halfway around the world, those twelve hours of difference will not just tug at your tired eyes and ears but make like a boot and kick you square in the ass. I spent half the night with Axl, who is a little groggy himself. His nighttime energy will only suffice for a couple of Baby Songs and Blue’s Clues DVD’s, and he actually does something very unique for himself: sit. I watch Steven Burns and his puppy go through his Blue’s Clues dance for the millionth time (the poor guy must have been on suicide watch by the last season, and maybe even his damn puppy) and marvel at how a little animated blue puppy and live salt and pepper shakers can capture the little guy’s attention while drinking the rest of the crappy Australian wine. Dawn arrives at about five thirty a.m. Rats, I’m thinking, somewhere out there somebody’s running through the city, getting exercise, something I should be doing. Oh well. There will be another morning.
Almost as if somebody has flipped a switch, a downpour falls from the sky and drenches the green landscape outside. These are thick drops of rain, projectiles that will order you to seek cover or meet the rest of their wet army in full force. First stop, the supermarket. Since the cook has the weekend off, we must fend for ourselves. Since the same time off applies to the driver, this means a taxi ride to the supermarket. The place is called Bhat Bhateini, or the closest thing people will have to a Wal-mart in these parts, I am told (not necessarily a good thing). But first things first: I will need a ride there. I scamper down to the bottom of the hill in the quarter of town named Dumharaj, mumbling the name over and over to myself as I dodge cars, motorbikes, and pedestrians on my way to the taxi stand.
The driver at the head of the cue opens the front door and motions for me to have a seat. I mistakenly open his side of the door, oblivious to the fact that they drive on the left side (thanks a lot, UK), and the driver politely points to the other door held ajar, giving me a skeptical look, as if to say, 'What, pal, are you giving me a lapdance?' I tell him where to go and we embark on a ride, its likes which haven't been seen since Luke Skywalker’s brain numbing race through the trees on his flying scooter, or even the last Indy 500, if you will. If being a pedestrian was an adventure, then driving in a little taxi in Kathmandu is simply loco. I would like to hold on to something every time the guy is about to take out a pedestrian or run over an animal, but there is not enough room for my shaking knees, no doubt the first body parts to go should this guy miss the brakes or a cyclist. Luckily, he doesn’t.
On the way back, there is a bovine animal in the middle of the road (a cow? A buffalo?), in no hurry to go anywhere. It stares at us with drooping eyelids as if to say, Great, another little critter in my territory. I half expect it to charge the little taxi, knowing it could smash this car, bend it, tap-dance on the body, copulate with the tailpipe, anything its big heart desires. Instead, it doesn’t challenge the honking horn of the little cab and proceeds on its journey. I have to laugh at how simple this all is: little domestic cat meows at big tiger to go away. Mission accomplished. The driver has to laugh too. Watching a foreigner in these parts is as much a hoot to him as me watching him and the rest of Kathmandu at work. He drops me off and I tip him, just in time for the next downpour.
Inside, I listen to the rain outside and smile. By now I have already learned that this is not Jordan anymore, where rainfalls are as rare as dogs living with leper colonies. When my wife and I selected Nepal, we were asking for an adventure. I now know that we will get it.
Our new staff was introduced to us yesterday. There is a cook and a driver, with a nanny to be named later. My wife is very cautious when addressing them, she is as uncomfortable as I am about having hired help. We give them the weekend off so they can arrive on Monday, well-rested while giving us a little time to find our sea (rice paddy?) legs?
The next morning, we are severely jet-lagged. Let’s face it, when you travel halfway around the world, those twelve hours of difference will not just tug at your tired eyes and ears but make like a boot and kick you square in the ass. I spent half the night with Axl, who is a little groggy himself. His nighttime energy will only suffice for a couple of Baby Songs and Blue’s Clues DVD’s, and he actually does something very unique for himself: sit. I watch Steven Burns and his puppy go through his Blue’s Clues dance for the millionth time (the poor guy must have been on suicide watch by the last season, and maybe even his damn puppy) and marvel at how a little animated blue puppy and live salt and pepper shakers can capture the little guy’s attention while drinking the rest of the crappy Australian wine. Dawn arrives at about five thirty a.m. Rats, I’m thinking, somewhere out there somebody’s running through the city, getting exercise, something I should be doing. Oh well. There will be another morning.
Almost as if somebody has flipped a switch, a downpour falls from the sky and drenches the green landscape outside. These are thick drops of rain, projectiles that will order you to seek cover or meet the rest of their wet army in full force. First stop, the supermarket. Since the cook has the weekend off, we must fend for ourselves. Since the same time off applies to the driver, this means a taxi ride to the supermarket. The place is called Bhat Bhateini, or the closest thing people will have to a Wal-mart in these parts, I am told (not necessarily a good thing). But first things first: I will need a ride there. I scamper down to the bottom of the hill in the quarter of town named Dumharaj, mumbling the name over and over to myself as I dodge cars, motorbikes, and pedestrians on my way to the taxi stand.
The driver at the head of the cue opens the front door and motions for me to have a seat. I mistakenly open his side of the door, oblivious to the fact that they drive on the left side (thanks a lot, UK), and the driver politely points to the other door held ajar, giving me a skeptical look, as if to say, 'What, pal, are you giving me a lapdance?' I tell him where to go and we embark on a ride, its likes which haven't been seen since Luke Skywalker’s brain numbing race through the trees on his flying scooter, or even the last Indy 500, if you will. If being a pedestrian was an adventure, then driving in a little taxi in Kathmandu is simply loco. I would like to hold on to something every time the guy is about to take out a pedestrian or run over an animal, but there is not enough room for my shaking knees, no doubt the first body parts to go should this guy miss the brakes or a cyclist. Luckily, he doesn’t.
On the way back, there is a bovine animal in the middle of the road (a cow? A buffalo?), in no hurry to go anywhere. It stares at us with drooping eyelids as if to say, Great, another little critter in my territory. I half expect it to charge the little taxi, knowing it could smash this car, bend it, tap-dance on the body, copulate with the tailpipe, anything its big heart desires. Instead, it doesn’t challenge the honking horn of the little cab and proceeds on its journey. I have to laugh at how simple this all is: little domestic cat meows at big tiger to go away. Mission accomplished. The driver has to laugh too. Watching a foreigner in these parts is as much a hoot to him as me watching him and the rest of Kathmandu at work. He drops me off and I tip him, just in time for the next downpour.
Inside, I listen to the rain outside and smile. By now I have already learned that this is not Jordan anymore, where rainfalls are as rare as dogs living with leper colonies. When my wife and I selected Nepal, we were asking for an adventure. I now know that we will get it.
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