This happens very rarely and today it only happens after I decide to give my driver the day off. Poor guy, he's worked the last twelve days in a row or so. Time to make up for it, and the immediate beneficiaries of this decision will be my feet and the smog laced skies of Kathmandu.
When you exit the Embassy compound, you see a ’Namaste’ market right across the street. This store is designed to attract foreign service officers, since the majority of their product line consists of overpriced western items. It was a wise decision to put that store where it is now, knowing Americans are still by far the biggest consumers in the world.
I pass the singer’s statue at the intersection. I pass a couple of chicken salesmen, in other words a couple of holes in the wall with cages full of live chicken. I dodge a motorcycle at the edge of the road only to step into the path of a bicyclist, and we collide. Miraculously, I am not hurt, nor do I even fall down. The cyclist looks in bad shape. His head went smack against the pavement. This is where mobs could easily form and ask for my head, but for some reason people are too busy making a living to even notice us. I help the guy off the street and ask if he can walk. He nods and picks up his bike. Then he swings his gaunt looking frame back on his bicycle and is gone. I hope the guy wasn’t afraid of me.
After almost three months in Kathmandu I have gotten used to the stench of the streets inundated with garbage. I have never seen a dirtier city in my life, and yet the employment of the superlative here isn’t meant to be negative. I remember this Dutchman telling me once that a lot of westerners love imperfections like that, claiming that it’s an opportunity, not a disadvantage. Point taken. That’s what had always been inculcated in me when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. And yet, this can’t be healthy for people. Somewhere all of the trash must cease to become an opaque impediment, and common sense needs to kick in.
A bus carrying tourists inches past me. On the top of the bus where the luggage rack is, sits a traditional Nepali folk band, singing and playing away like the Von Trapp family on a mountaintop. This is not a bunch of guys who should be hanging on to the bus railing. Maybe people are better off without all of these regulations. Maybe they should be able to pollute at will and crack their heads on the pavement after falling off the top of a bus (or a bike). Maybe. And yet, there is something about this everybody-for-himself mentality I detest. Living in Jordan and Morocco for two years each didn’t help, either, I have to admit.
I walk past a cluster of shanties that probably have the combined value of the pair of pants I am wearing. Minimalist to the last inch, these people don’t need to worry about locks or alarm systems. A couple of half-naked children jump around near a bonfire, probably grateful that they can warm themselves for a few minutes. A half a block up the road is a welder’s shop, really a large cage with few tools and a couple of logs to perform their craft on.
I pass a school. Little boys are kicking a soccer ball, their shirts still tucked in and their ties neatly knotted. The school itself has no windows or doors; these are just unnecessary expenses the state won’t spring for. Further down the road is a video shop, another hole in the wall that rents out pirated copies of bad Chinese action flicks. It is easy for us to point the finger at people selling cheap pirated DVD’s and CD’s. But if these people were indeed to pay full retail for the original copy issued by the studios, they would be out a quarter of their month’s salary. These people believe in abiding by the law, but they would also like other entertainment than the standard Maoist soldier march on the parade grounds.
Finally, I turn onto the freshly paved side road that will lead me home. Kids come running immediately to say hello and greet me and ask for the obligatory rupee. They are adorable, all of them. Arab kids were too, except you would have some bad apples throwing rocks at you if their parents smacked them around long enough. A beautiful day in the neighborhood it probably is not, but that’s a day in the life here, a coloring book of Kathmandu minus the crayons.
When you exit the Embassy compound, you see a ’Namaste’ market right across the street. This store is designed to attract foreign service officers, since the majority of their product line consists of overpriced western items. It was a wise decision to put that store where it is now, knowing Americans are still by far the biggest consumers in the world.
I pass the singer’s statue at the intersection. I pass a couple of chicken salesmen, in other words a couple of holes in the wall with cages full of live chicken. I dodge a motorcycle at the edge of the road only to step into the path of a bicyclist, and we collide. Miraculously, I am not hurt, nor do I even fall down. The cyclist looks in bad shape. His head went smack against the pavement. This is where mobs could easily form and ask for my head, but for some reason people are too busy making a living to even notice us. I help the guy off the street and ask if he can walk. He nods and picks up his bike. Then he swings his gaunt looking frame back on his bicycle and is gone. I hope the guy wasn’t afraid of me.
After almost three months in Kathmandu I have gotten used to the stench of the streets inundated with garbage. I have never seen a dirtier city in my life, and yet the employment of the superlative here isn’t meant to be negative. I remember this Dutchman telling me once that a lot of westerners love imperfections like that, claiming that it’s an opportunity, not a disadvantage. Point taken. That’s what had always been inculcated in me when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. And yet, this can’t be healthy for people. Somewhere all of the trash must cease to become an opaque impediment, and common sense needs to kick in.
A bus carrying tourists inches past me. On the top of the bus where the luggage rack is, sits a traditional Nepali folk band, singing and playing away like the Von Trapp family on a mountaintop. This is not a bunch of guys who should be hanging on to the bus railing. Maybe people are better off without all of these regulations. Maybe they should be able to pollute at will and crack their heads on the pavement after falling off the top of a bus (or a bike). Maybe. And yet, there is something about this everybody-for-himself mentality I detest. Living in Jordan and Morocco for two years each didn’t help, either, I have to admit.
I walk past a cluster of shanties that probably have the combined value of the pair of pants I am wearing. Minimalist to the last inch, these people don’t need to worry about locks or alarm systems. A couple of half-naked children jump around near a bonfire, probably grateful that they can warm themselves for a few minutes. A half a block up the road is a welder’s shop, really a large cage with few tools and a couple of logs to perform their craft on.
I pass a school. Little boys are kicking a soccer ball, their shirts still tucked in and their ties neatly knotted. The school itself has no windows or doors; these are just unnecessary expenses the state won’t spring for. Further down the road is a video shop, another hole in the wall that rents out pirated copies of bad Chinese action flicks. It is easy for us to point the finger at people selling cheap pirated DVD’s and CD’s. But if these people were indeed to pay full retail for the original copy issued by the studios, they would be out a quarter of their month’s salary. These people believe in abiding by the law, but they would also like other entertainment than the standard Maoist soldier march on the parade grounds.
Finally, I turn onto the freshly paved side road that will lead me home. Kids come running immediately to say hello and greet me and ask for the obligatory rupee. They are adorable, all of them. Arab kids were too, except you would have some bad apples throwing rocks at you if their parents smacked them around long enough. A beautiful day in the neighborhood it probably is not, but that’s a day in the life here, a coloring book of Kathmandu minus the crayons.
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