New Experiences

Patan Durbar Square

The last few days have been stocked full of bizarre experiences. It never occurred to me that during my trip I might see cremated corpses, animal sacrifices, exploding pressure cookers (no one was hurt!), or old women carrying their baskets of vegetables to the market on a public bus, but over the last four days that’s pretty much been it. Thursday evening around 6:30 I was sitting at the kitchen table with my host sister Tara when I suggested that we visit the Pashupatinath temple since we had nothing to do before dinner. Just a 5 minute walk from our house, the Pashupatinath temple is the oldest Hindu temple in Kathmandu, and one of the most important religious sites in Nepal owing to its position on the sacred Bagmati River. As we walked over Tara was explaining that the temple is enormously wealthy due to the significant level of donations given by the faithful each year, and so it spends large amounts of money on community works, the most obvious being the home for poor elderly Hindu’s located on the temple grounds.

Patan Durbar Square

It was getting a bit dark, but it was still clear that the temple had an expansive property and an impressive range of temples dedicated to several Hindu gods, the most important being the Lord Shiva. We walked toward the main section of the complex, where the Bagmati River flows through an amphitheater-style area currently being used for evening prayers. As we approached the main gates, Tara said “Oh they’re cremating the dead- look.” I cautiously looked over and saw a smallish pyre- no signs of burning bodies. So far so good. We walked through the gates as I carefully avoided looking directly at the pyre and stood to watch the evening prayers being carried out on the other side of the river. Suddenly Tara grabbed my arm and said “Oh my god there’s another body.” Ok now I’ve NEVER been a fan of horror movies and the like due to my somewhat inconvenient and exaggerated squeamishness, so as you can imagine that this was about the last thing I wanted to hear. Tara proceeded to explain that you’re not allowed to burn bodies during the evening prayers, and so the family standing to my left with the corpse was waiting until they were finished to proceed. As for the pyre to my left, once you start cremating a corpse you can’t very well extinguish the fire and start again, so exceptions were made for these cases. We stood there for about ten minutes, which was as long as either of us could handle being in such close proximity to the corpses. We were beginning to feel a little lightheaded and so decided to leave the area and walk through the terraces surrounding the upper levels of the temple. As we were passing next to the pyre I couldn’t help but glance over- at that moment the attendant whose job it is to stoke the fire (can you imagine a job like that?), began poking at the fire with a long piece of bamboo and yep sure enough there was the dark outline of a torso as it lay in the fire, slowly being incinerated. At that point we both jumped and practically sprinted out of the temple complex. We got about 15 meters before we had to sit down and take a few deep breaths. Tara mentioned that no matter how many times she’s been to the temple she never gets used to seeing the cremations, which reassured me a bit about my own slightly elevated pulse. Luckily it was dark enough that I couldn’t see much aside from the black outline of the corpse against the brightness of the fire, but suffice it to say that this image has been burned into my memory forever, pun intended.

Patan Durbar Square

Well after a few hours I got over the shock, ate dinner, and went to sleep (nightmare-free), but that night definitively qualifies as one of the strangest things I’ve seen so far. The only thing that can really compete with it is the buffalo sacrifice that we saw yesterday (Saturday) while visiting the Durbar Square in Bhaktapur. A group of 8 of us decided to spend the night in Nagarkot, a resort village in the mountains surrounding the valley from which you can see the Himalaya’s on a clear day. On the way we spent an afternoon wandering around the medieval town of Bhaktapur, which sits about 15 km from Kathmandu (translation: an hour bus ride on a traffic-choked road), and is well known for its pottery production and for having the tallest temple in the Kathmandu Valley. As it turns out, every Saturday they sacrifice a buffalo outside the temple of the Bhairabnath Temple, and lucky us we arrived just in time. Long story short, I couldn’t bring myself to watch- the mooing of the animal as it’s throat was being cut was enough to convince me to stay away. According to Anthony, it took about ten seconds for it to die and even after the head was removed, the body was still moving a bit. If I thought the cremation was bad this was about 5 times worse. Maybe in a few days I’ll have the guts to look at the pictures that the others took of the whole procedure but for now I’m just fine keeping my experience to a minimum.

Bhaktapur Durbar Square

We eventually made it to our hotel on the top of Nargakot, and spent a very pleasant night in the cool fresh air surrounded by a dense fog (distinctly Dracula-ish for the record). The trip back to Kathmandu today took 5 hours, which is best put in perspective when you consider that Nagarkot is actually only 32 Km from KTM.

View from Nargakot

After spending so much time sitting on vehicle-clogged roads, I think my lungs are ready to murder me and I may have developed a permanent cough. I’m starting to think that I should have taken up smoking before coming here just to give my lungs a chance to adjust to all the delicious carcinogens in the air. Between the trash laying all over the place and the pollution caused by all the traffic, I often find myself wondering how different Kathmandu must have been before the West arrived with its generous gifts of diesel and plastic. Nepal’s rich history is evident everywhere- in the architecture, the clothing, and the religious paraphernalia. How exotic it must have been- essentially a medieval kingdom shut off from the influence of British colonizers, only opening up to foreign interaction in the 1950s.

Anyway, it’s back to work for me now. This coming Saturday we’re going to visit the Boudha temple, which is the center of Buddhism in Nepal and home to Tibet’s expatriate community in Nepal. I’ve heard from many people that it’s their favourite place in Kathmandu, so I’m really looking forward to it.

Axis of Hospitality

Arrived in Damascus [دمشق] and it's funny. After being in 'Merica for two weeks I think American misery had started to rub off on me. American misery, and fear, and animosity. Where does American misery come from you ask? Well, I have an answer. American misery is the byproduct of what makes the United States so ambitious and arrogant. The hubris of the superpower. And like Oedipus, MacBeth and any other Tragic Hero the United State's hubris is her greatest strength and weakness. It is because of our success that we are able to have lifestyles that seem lavish, continue a constant flow of food, water, and public services. Simultaneously, it is because of this success that we are miserable. Because we have achieved so much, the hubris kicks in, and when the hubris kicks in we can't handle failing. Or even shooting shorter than we did before. Unable to live up to our own expectations we become miserable, unable to cope with 2nd, 3rd, or 4th best. To use a cliché, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. That is why, for example, things like "economic downturns" can have such dramatic social consequences. It also explains the prevalence of popular phrases like "We're number one!" and "In your face", etc. etc. (etchetera). Failure paves the way for misery, which leads to animosity. (Yoda: "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate and hate leads to suffering") Take that, but reverse it.This could explain why (some) americans can be xenophobic, racist, or mistrustful. And it is why the damned dirty Danes are the happiest people in the world. Figures. It also explains why, in the months, weeks, days leading up to coming to Syria that I was met with all sorts of warnings and exclamations of fear and general advice telling me to "be careful" and "keep my head".

From Christmas, anonymous pseudo friend/acquaintance: "You're going to Syria?!? Do you want to get killed?"
Friend, at a bar: "You know in Syria, they're going to execute you, or at least put you in prison for a long time"
A neighbor, bearing a striking resemblance, ironically, to the late Saddam Hussein: "Well, you'd better keep an eye on the bad guys so the good guys can do what they need to do."

By the beginning of my trip I really did somewhat fear the "hostility of the Syrian people" and my "iminent death by beheading" or "angry scowls from the Mossulmen". Axis of Evil? More like axis of hospitality. Upon arriving being picked up in a car by a driver, who accepted me, even though I wasn't on his list. Hostel owners who smile, ask questions and pour you endless amounts of tea/coffee/water, not to mention help you out when you're in a bind, and my favourite anecdote of the day:

Walking in the old city in Damascus. Just finished lunch, we got somewhat lost. My companions and I, putting our physical, but mostly metaphorical heads together, conjure up a phrase to help us get directions to where we wanted to go (i.e. home sweet hostel). We approach one man on the street with a kitchen supply shop, we ask him the way to Bab Sharqi (one of the gates into the old city, near our hostel), he mumbles Arabic, walks us up the street and points+gesticulates. We don't fully understand (many crossroads in Damascus are more than four ways, more like 7 ways), but walk in the general direction, but decide to get a second opinion. For safety's sake. We approach another man and ask him where we may find this Bab Sharqi.

As he begins his explanation, gesticulations matching that of the first man, the first man walks over. I was worried he would feel insulted that we didn't trust him initially and was concerned, he and the second man have a verbal exchange, and then the second man asks us in Arabic, "do you have a car?" we replay with something like "to walk" and tilt the middle and index fingers downward, simulating one leg in front of the other. The first man says something else to the second man and he beckons us to follow. It was only after he opened his car door that I understood. He was going to drive us. Scared, uneasy, and surprised, I got into the car, the front seat.


As the journey passed a few minutes, the man tried to determine exactly where we were going. He and I tried to communicate, with mild success, my sweat in the 103 degree heat prompting him to offer me a tissue while he himself applied one. He then took out his cell phone and called "The Doctor". "The Doctor" was spoke English and could act as a impromptu cellular translator between us and our driver. The doctor was handed off to someone else and the driver asked me if we were hungry. If we had had dinner. If we wanted to go to a restaurant, and to a swimming pool. and maybe something about his family. I stupidly tried to find the words to say that we had plans and weren't hungry. He looked disappointed. I was getting nervous because it was clear to me we had left the old city, and were getting into unfamiliar territory. After some help from "The Doctor", however, our driver dropped us off at a location more convienient than the one we originally wanted.

For fear of insulting him I asked our driving for his number of telephone. He wrote it down on an old reciept and as I was getting out of the car I asked him his name. He looked at me, jotted it down next to his number, and said "Osama."


Sketchy? Perhaps. Ability to restore a little faith in the world? Worth it. I don't necessarily advocate entering strange men's cars in all times of need, but there is a calculated risk in everything, and a group of three is a bit harder to trifle with. Thanks Osama, you were our Shephard when we were astray. And, in the words of great Shokry Gohar himself

"I do not think the Syrian people are hostile."

word, Shokes.

E

(interspersed are some initial pictures from our day with Osama. mostly in Souqs [اسواق] (Markets) and near the Umayyad Mosque [الجامع الأموي])

Oh yeah work...

I started work at BDS this week after a surprise long weekend courtesy of Monday’s bandh. For those who don’t know, a bandh is essentially a strike called by a political party (in this case the Maoists) in protest of anything and, given Nepal’s recent experiences with bandh’s, everything. During a bandh, no vehicles are allowed on the streets and all shops must remain closed. People still go to their offices but generally the day is slow since many people cannot walk to their places of work. Unfortunately I fell into this latter category, and so spent the day trying to make the time pass (this mostly means watching Star Trek).

I finally began interviews this morning with Manisha, who is the President of the Federation of Sexual and Gender Minorities in Nepal. She was very informative and discussed BDS’ work over the last 7 years in detail- both at the community level and at the policy-making level. BDS’ Program Director, Pradeep, has become my key contact at the organization, introducing me to everyone and taking me along to meetings with other NGOs, as well as with the media. We have discussed site visits to Pokhara, where BDS has a regional office, as well as the smaller offices in Patan and Bhaktapur here in the KTM Valley. There is an intern named Anthony from New York working here for the summer, so it looks like we’ll be traveling together on these site visits, which should help mitigate the difficulties I still seem to have with the transportation system in Nepal.

Everyone I have met both at BDS and through my host family has been very welcoming and generous with my many questions. I am learning more about both BDS’ work and the political history of Nepal, to which BDS’ work is integrally tied. What I find most interesting about this organization is the bridge that it forms between community-based outreach and national level policy-making. Much of what BDS does is conducting national programs aimed at HIV/AIDS prevention and treatment, as well as awareness campaigns about LGBTI rights in Nepal. In addition to this, however, BDS is involved in high-intensity lobbying for the inclusion of LGBTI rights in the new draft Constitution of Nepal, which involves contact with a wide network of NGOs, political parties, foreign actors, media agents, and activists. All of its hard work is certainly paying off. In December 2007, the Supreme Court of Nepal passed a decision that established the rights of LGBTI individuals as equals before the law. More recently, BDS’ founding director Mr. Sunil Babu Pant (picture above) became the first openly gay man to be elected to an Asian legislator outside New Zealand and Australia. Currently Mr. Pant’s work is focusing on the inclusion of LGBTI rights in the new Constitution that is due to be passed next year. Everyone seems hopeful that full rights will be accorded in the Constitution, in large part thanks to the tireless efforts of Mr. Pant.

For now my agenda consists mainly of interviewing staff members here and getting to know how BDS works and connects with the community. Eventually I will be going on site visits, and hopefully conducting focus groups with BDS beneficiaries in this area. I am looking at places to move to so that I can be closer to the office and so save money on transportation (I still take taxis since I’m not brave enough to take the tempos on my own). This would also mean not getting stuck at home every time there’s a bandh!

That’s it for now- KTM is still hot, but hopefully the monsoon starts soon so that the temperature cools a bit. Everyone here is as miserable as me, so I know for sure that this is unusual weather. I’ll have plenty more to report once I start doing more site visits and meetings. For now, however, so far so good!

P.S. Just a quick observation- I think being a traffic policeman here would be the scariest job EVER.

Scuzzy, Scummy, Sucumb-y

Home Sweet Home. Tucked behind the Redwood Curtain. A place of extremes: from hairy grimy hippies to heavyfooted homophobics, majestic wilderness and stenchclinging pulpmills. A place where words like "high fructose corn syrup", "partially hydrogenated oil", "pesticides" and "GMO" are curses. Where amphibians and mammals frolic and boogy together, despite biological incompatibilities. A thin white film envelops the world, turning trees to moss, water to fungus, metal to rust, all without a murmur of protest. In the words of a transient (p.c. term for homeless hitchhiker/bum) with whom I spoke yesterday: "This place is weird man, there's like a haze over everything". He wanted to get to San Francisco or Seattle, whichever came first. I let him use my laptop to look for rideshares on craigslist while surfing on the city Wi-Fi in Arcata. I wanted to tell him that this haze is my home; Home sweet Humboldt.

Here is a place where creatures like the banana slug are possible and abundant (above is a picture of banana slug for reference), and cities like Eureka and Arcata can neighbor each other without a proverbial Peloponnesian War. Even in mid June the weather is scuzzy, and as my brother noted: "Eureka looks like it could be the set of a zombie movie." The irony of the Arcata Plaza isn't lost on anyone: willful and unwilling transients napping under a tree, their bodies being penetrated endlessly by the waves of the world wide web, free for anyone with a laptop. (to find out more about Arcata transients click here: http://www.northcoastjournal.com/021501/cover0215.html) People have their favourite Burrito Bus, piloted by Esteban himself, the Jesús of comida mexicana. Here is Esteban's stallion:

Don't get me wrong, I love home, but it is quirky. Being consumed by fog at all hours can get disconcerting, not to mention being dwarfed by the mighty Sequoia sempervirens, whose fate is played out daily by the righteous and the wicked (depending on the side you choose). Rather than scribble endless nothings on the daily comings and goings I thought I could characterize my County through a triad of anecdotes:




1. Cultural conflation at the Summer Arts and Music Festival

The day after my flight landed I was shipped merrily away with my younger sibling and two of his friends to Benbow's annual Summer Arts and Music Festival. The event was an hour south, still in Humboldt County, but out of the existential white mist which characterizes Northern Humboldt (hereafter NorHum). SoHum by contrast is a quaint, vibrant, cultivated place, with a colorful (and bright) atmosphere and persona. Plus the sun shines. Benbow is a fairgrounds for community gatherings, and all around feelgoodyness. Local vendors, foodservices and performing acts were aplenty, and if you were lucky you might catch a glimpse of this beard. (You see Alex? This guy almost tops the man on the cover of your Nepal Lonely Planet book!)

Although there were many decent performances of all varieties (including the P-Funk Allstars), one left a distinct mark on my consciousness: the bellydancers. We found shadeunder a tree and sat down to watch them. The dancers were skilled, lively and Caucasian. Only as the act continued did I notice the decor: cloth portraits of Ganesha, Shiva, et al. (Deities) hanging in the fore and background on Saris-made-wallpaper. They were framed by other fabrics with Arabic calligraphy- words of the Prophet. I smiled a little, thinking it kind of silly that the "near East" and "far East" were so easily exchangeable. Poor India and her Hindus, forever to be lumped into the same pile of the unmentionables in the Middle East. After a moment, however, I decided to stop being so critical and focus on the showcased dancing, rather than the auxiliary tent. The musicians behind the dancers continued belting out their rhythms and tunes and as the song changed I recognized the tune. I remembered it from choir, and how did the lyrics go? OH! I remember now, song: Hine Ma Tov, origin: Jewish hymn. Irony struck, smacked my face to the right, and still had time to left hook me in the jaw. Maybe I'm just a snobby Middle East student, sitting on my high horse, flirting with Edward Said but this was an inescapable tricultural conflation. I could only come up with two possible explanations: either this was a wonderful show of Orientalism or a new way to peaceful humanism. Orientalism, the buzzword of my education, is the idea that we (of the Occident) define the Oriental (in all her shapes, sizes, ethnicities and nations) as an other which is foreign and exotic to us. This relationship hinges on a social hierarchy in which Occident is perceived (consciously or subconsciously) as superior to the Orient, or north to the south, or West to the East. This combination of Hindu imagery, Arab folk dance, and Jewish music may be a manifestation of otherzation through a dismissal of cultural difference. That all these cultures are seen as similar or interchangeable shows an indifference to their legitimacy as a social order, real to those who live it. Or that those who are thought to be knowledgeable in the East believe that hummus is a dip for Samosas.
The other possibility is that the performers know that they are combining (at least) three distinct cultures, traditions and religions, and they actively don't care. They recognize that all humans are in fact human, and by dismissing our differences we are closer to actualizing ourselves as a species.

The third possibility is that they just like to dance and play the drums.

2. Bayshore Mall Reunion

I recalled that at a time before bars, cars, parks and High School, there was really only one place where us kids could hang out: The Bayshore Mall. Eurekans love their Bayshore Mall, so much in fact that The Old Navy Outlet, The Gap, J.C. Penny, Mervyns, Gottschalks and countless other locally and massively owned businesses have come and gone, 'er to be seen again. The Bayshore Mall, once a dear home is now a center for suburban decay, lost chances, and fiscal fiasco. Unfortunately it is also the only place we could think of that sold blacklight markers. On a rushed trip we briefly stopped by Radioshack and Spencer's Gifts. In Radioshack there was recognition. The cashier was an acquaintance from High School, name forgotten, fellow member of German club. I asked him how he was, small talk, chitchat, whatever you want to call it; it's no good. Carrying on to Spencer's Gifts, a crude novelty store, filled with Gothic Kids in leather and ripped fishnets, Daniel asks me to pay as he has no money, paper or plastic. In his rush, Daniel spills his coffee on the check-out counter. The Cashieress grumbles something jokingly at him, and then I realize she looks familiar, a memory of 8 years ago. My Grade 8 (8th Grade?) heart skips, and I remember it all too well. One week, 12 years old, me and her back at the Mall, hanging out. Holding hands. Sweet unimaginative nothings, passed back and forth via intricately folded notes of paper, scribbled clumsily, handed off during passing periods. "Your name is Kristina, right?", "yeah, and yours is Eric?", "Yeah, you only knew that because it says that on my Visa", "I think I would've remembered otherwise", "Didn't we like date for a week in 8th Grade?" Awkward laughter.

The Bayshore Mall is where it all goes down. Hellos, Goodbyes. But no tears are shed. As we're walking out the Mall exit, Daniel spies a girl in his graduating class working at the "All American Buffet". 3 for 3. I bet between us we had a mutual acquaintance working in each and every Bayshore Mall establishment.

3. Kneeland Shoot-Out

The following is a story passed on to me via my family. Although our largest "urban" center is Eureka, we actually inhabit the "city" of Kneeland: a collection of houses, a school and a post office on a hill, tucked into a vast pocket of wilderness.

"So Eric, did you hear about the attempted break-in on the hill?" "Umm... which one? Attempted? What are you talking about?" "Well, I guess some burglar meth-head guy was looking to rob a house about a mile up the road from Green Road (our road- creative, right?), this guy was armed with a handgun or something as he decides he needs money and creeps onto someone's property at 6:00 in the morning. So they guy enters the property, but little did he know that the owner of the house was awake and paranoid enough not only to own a gun, but also to have it accesible when he saw someone entering his property. The owner of the house fires his gun up in the air to try to scare the burglar guy away, but of course the robber, confident with pistol, head full of drugs, chooses fight over flight. He fires at the owner, who chooses flight over fight, and takes off into the wilderness. A gun battle ensues as the two of them are armed hunter and armed hunted." (The wilderness looks a little something like this:)



"As the two guys run through the woods, firing at each other, they stumble upon another person's property, a police officer, who also owns a firearm and is prepared to use it. He hears gunshots and enters the chase, unloading his firearm at the other two men. Once all the ammunition was ejected and all the neighbors awake, the three men emerged from the woods, unscathed, apparently impervious to bullets and in need of marksmanship training. The burglar was allegedly arrested and the homeowner questioned. All's well that ends well."

sort of. This is my home, a multifarious place (but what place isn't?). With righteous hippies, java sipping yuppies, teenage mall rats, right(and left)wing gun toters, strung out criminals, and arrogant half-Canadian university students what's not to love?

E

Arrival in KTM

In response to popular request, I am finally posting my second blog entry. First item on the agenda: 91. This is the number of bites that I sustained from a single (I think) but violent mosquito last night. Granted they’re small, but still it’s rather remarkable don’t you think?

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s talk KTM. Having read Eric’s first post, I realize that the bar for witty banter has been set fairly high. I am therefore going to warn you that what follows is a mathematical and somewhat dry description of my last few days, devoid of clever observations or amusing quips. Blame it on the heat, blame it on the jetlag (personally I think it has more to do with the fact that I’ve been trapped in academic mode for three years and so can’t write anything else). But at the moment this is all I can offer. So first of all it’s pretty hot here: 32C today and 34C tomorrow. The last few days I’ve become super sleepy around 2 in the afternoon, which I think is partially due to jetlag and partially to the heat. Today was the first day that I was out in the city by myself, which I spent wandering around Thamel (the main tourist district in Kathmandu). I went to a café called Himalaya Java, where there is wireless internet and good drinks, a beautiful place appropriately called Garden of Dreams, and then New Orleans Café for lunch and more wifi. I actually managed to get home in a taxi by myself, which was extremely encouraging. Maybe I’ll make it through the next 7 weeks after all!

While the first thoughts to spring to many people’s minds when they think of Nepal or Kathmandu are of exotic cultures and breathtaking scenery, it is worth keeping in mind that Nepal is also one of the poorest nations in the world, and continues to face political instability and an uncertain future. We have around 4 hours of electricity blackouts each day as the city tries to conserve energy and balance it through all the districts of KTM. What is most remarkable is that this is actually the best time of year in terms of electricity provision. During the dry seasons when the rains don’t come, there is only about 6 hours of electricity each day, and households have to stand in line sometimes for days for water. My host sister explained that during this period families need to carefully predict their water requirements or else there is a risk that their requests for water will be insufficient. This is problem faced by all residents in the KTM valley, both the poor and the wealthy. My understanding of KTM to this point has thus been a mix of beauty and sadness, with an ever-present contrast of poverty and rich cultural traditions evident everywhere.

Like many cities, KTM is crowded, dirty, and chaotic. For example, while technically people are supposed to drive on the left side of the road, in reality I think traffic rules are taken more as friendly suggestions. Between the cyclists, tempos, motorcycles, taxis, cows, dogs, and pedestrians (there are no sidewalks in KTM), it’s a miracle there aren’t more traffic accidents in this city. I’ve decided that this could have something to do with the fact that an over-reliance on horns seems to be an epidemic among drivers in this city- at least you always know when there’s someone behind you! There are signs and posters EVERYWHERE. Thousands of communications wires run above the streets, tied together against buildings or tall poles. I attract quite a bit of attention, particularly in my neighourhood, and people stare pretty openly at me. For the last couple of days I’ve had a bit of a cough, due mainly to the dust and congestion of downtown I think. I’m careful to drink enough water because in this heat it’s easy to get dehydrated, and my appetite is finally coming back after the stress of traveling and landing in a completely foreign place.

My host family is very welcoming and generous- my host sisters are careful to make sure I know how to get around and happily answer the million questions that I have about Nepal. We live farther away from the center of town, about 15 minutes from the airport, which means that I have to take transportation every time I need to go to work or want to go exploring. Given the fact that I speak no Nepali and probably couldn’t figure out the bus system even if I could speak a little, if I stay here I’m probably going to end up taking taxi’s everyday between the house and work. This could get expensive so I’m considering moving in a little while if commuting is too much of a hassle. Unfortunately that would mean finding another place to live, which is a pretty big deterrent.

I haven’t started work yet. Getting in touch with the office has been difficult given the poor quality of cell phone reception and the fact that I have to go to an internet café every time I want to check my email. Hopefully I will visit the office tomorrow and get to meet everyone who I’ll be working with for the next 7 weeks. I’m not feeling too nervous about starting the case study, I’m sure that I can muddle through once the ball gets rolling, but I think that adapting to life in KTM would be easier if I wasn’t alone. Having someone with you provides a sort of safety net- if you get lost at least you’re lost with someone else. If you can’t understand what someone is trying to tell you at least you don’t feel silly alone. I talked to another young woman in a café who is working for another NGO and it seemed that she had had a similar experience to mine the first time she was in KTM. Based on this, I guess that this feeling of isolation is not unique. Nonetheless, it is difficult and I can’t help thinking about how much I would love to share everything I see here with friends and family at home (both of my homes!). At least when I go traveling through Eastern Europe in the fall I will be with Eric, which means twice as many photos and a decent number of Facebook albums, as anyone who is friends with Eric already knows J.

Anyway, I hope that this satisfies your curiosity for the time being about what life is like here. I am alive and well (don’t worry Mom!), and starting to figure things out a little bit. Will post later when I have more news to share.

Bureaucracy 101

First post.

Although I am currently unstuck in the world, I though it might be nice to make my first post somewhat more universal than the mundane day-to-day as will be commonplace later on. So I shall begin with a topic that is universal in scope, yet specifically applicable to me: the troubles of bureaucracy. Now it seems normal to anyone familiar with the dreaded "third world" that bureaucracies happen, and in fact if you go somewhere "developing" you are by far more surprised by a streamlined system of bureaucracy than one which involves long lines, large fees, huge waiting times and general inconvenience. This may be true, albeit somewhat imperialist, however to find wonderfully converse systems of bureaucracy one need not travel beyond the North American/European continents. As you probably know, the authors of this blog are soon to be heading east, to the heart of Europe, for a semester on study away. To Prague, Czech Republic. Some of us were fortunate enough to have a European passport (behold! the vast multinational nation of Europe!), however I am still trapped in the mediocrity of Dual Northamericanhood. This inevitable means a visa, something I don't fear or dread as I have been competent enough to get 3 visas over my years: 1 Norwegian, 1 Indian and 1 Syrian.

Visa requirements for Student Visa to Czech Republic include:

1. 4 page application form (to be filled out digitally and printed)
2. Two (2) Identical Photographs
3. Passport
4. Proof of Funds (3 most recent bank statements + credit card)
5. Proof of Purpose of stay (Letter of Acceptance from University) (in Czech!)
6. Proof of Accommodation (Confirmation of Dorm reservation) (in Czech)
7. Proof of Insurance
8. Photocopy of Birth Certificate
9. $182 Fee (in cash or money order)

The list is exhaustive, but not difficult. I arrived to the Czech Consulate of Montreal (thank GOD they have one in Montreal, quite near McGill) with all my documents proudly in hand at 10:00 AM on the dot (they are open 4 days a week, 9-noon). The ladies in the consulate are nice enough, one loses her shoe as she opens the door for us. I go to the service counter. No one home. I wait. 5,6,7,8 minutes. I decide to call. "Uh, hello, yes, I'm, um, I need a visa..." "Well sir, have you looked at the website?" "No, I mean, um, well, I'm inside, with all my documents..."

She comes, smiles, (dyed (vibrant) red hair glistening) leaves. 25 minutes later, returns with credit card, insurance, and pport. "Yes sir, everything seems to be in orrrrrrder except (except!?!?) we need a copy of your criminal record, new rules" "But I don't have a criminal record..." "Yes, that's good, we need a copy of your lack of criminal record."

10. Criminal Record (or lack thereof)

This criminal record is needed to help the Czech Alien Police inspect my background: they want to see if I've been to Mars, determine if I have tentacles, three eyes, scaly skin or excrete a green ooze while excited. I want to call them and tell them that I don't speak Huttese, Klingon, or Tralfagarian, and NO, I don't know which direction Alpha Centuri is in, nor do I know how many lightyears away it is. And even if I did, my criminal record would not tell you so. Of course it's not just a criminal record. It's a criminal record which has been signed by an office in Ottawa (certifying it for International use), and then translated into Czech. I ask how to do these things, and am handed a form with the address to the office in Ottawa, told that I can pick up my (lack of) criminal record at any police station, and given the contact information for Czech translator extraordinaire, Mrs. Smid. Somehow, they'll determine whether or not I'm an earthling if my criminal record has been translated. I consider myself fortunate however, because as a Canadian citizen it only takes 60 days for the Alien Police to inspect me, whereas my United Statesian neighbors get a full 90 days.

Czech bureaucracy, enter Canada. One phone call later I learn that to get my (lack of) criminal record certified I have two options. 1) go to Ottawa and get it signed the same day or 2)mail it to Ottawa and wait five weeks. I have 2 days left in Montreal so I opt for renting a car and driving. The following day, getting ready to leave town I swing by the police station. Police station tells me they can't help me, gives me a paper with the address of those who can. Drive to the other office, finally some answers. Big sign in front advertising a copy of your record for student visas. Thank goodness Canada is so well organized! Fill out form, pay $40 dollars (I have to pay for the privilege to see what offenses I haven't commited?), and then told, "thank you sir, your record will be here in five business days. Would you like that mailed to your address or would you like to pick it up here?"

Total cost of student visa between Czech and Canadian bureaucracies:

$182 Visa fee,
$40 fee for copy of (lack of) criminal record
$ ??? international certification fee
$ ??? translation fee
$80 rental car
$52 surcharge for the Alien police to inspect me

...

Perhaps though, it's not so bad. I have learned to value of good friends (willing to travel to Ottawa for me post-departure) and I'm sure the 6 different offices that my documents will travel between have given that many more people jobs, money, food, life, etc. Maybe the key to a stable economy is a stable bureaucracy because it is able to diffuse the shocks. The trickle-down theory gets clogged in the drains of bureaucratic offices. That being said, bureaucracy steals the most prized of non-renewable resources: time. Time, something that matters to the spender, and does nothing accomodate those who perform the service. All bureaucracy may not be so bad, essential even, but it can be inefficient. Andefficiency is so clean, perfect and hums a gentle vibraty purr.


E

Welcome to Georgetown

The last few days before leaving were hectic. Between packing, finishing up my case study outline, and feeling nervous about flying for 26 hours, I found myself asking the same question that I had asked before every cross country race I ran back in grade 9: how did I get myself into this?

Well it’s a pretty simple story, really. I’ve been working at the Institute for Health and Social Policy at McGill for a year now, first as an intern, then as a research assistant, and now as a policy fellow. When my supervisor, Tinka, suggested that I think about applying for the fellowship program I jumped at the opportunity. I mean really, what’s not to love? It was an opportunity to put everything that I had learned in the lecture hall to work, and to study civic participation in a completely new context. New culture, new country, new friends. I was thrilled when I was accepted to the fellowship and learned that I would be traveling for two months to Nepal to study Blue Diamond Society, an organization that works to protect the rights of LGBTI individuals and to spread awareness about HIV/AIDS.

Now, several months later, I am sitting in a Barnes and Noble in Georgetown, Washington DC after missing my connecting flight to Doha and then on to Kathmandu last night. Mechanical problems and bad weather combined to leave me hanging here for 24 hours, still full of anticipation over my pending journey, but feeling more nervous than ever. Part of me recognizes the adventure I am about to embark on, and part of me is wondering: wouldn’t it have been easier to stay in Montréal for the summer? Now don’t get me wrong, I am lucky to have been chosen for this program and know that when I look back at my time in Nepal it will be with pride at my accomplishments and confidence in my ability to work in new cultural environments. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I would be a fool to pass it up. In spite of this, however, my stomach is turning flips at the idea of spending two months (alone!) in a completely new environment, so far from home and everything that I am familiar with. It seems a bit silly doesn’t it? Today we fly around the world in 26 hours. 100 years ago it would have taken weeks to make the same trip. Irrational as it may be, sitting here on the floor of Barnes and Noble, it seems just as far and just as daunting to me as it must have seemed to travelers all those years ago.

Alas, armed with my Lonely Planet guide, Dramamine (the drowsy kind of course!), and two seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation, I am ready for Nepal whether my nervous stomach likes it or not. As Capt. Jean-Luc Picard would say (sorry Eric for the blatant reference): Engage!

Alex