Those who have been to third world countries might not get very far before laughing or smirking at my Western ideals of what third-world countries are like.
Those who have not been and never plan to go, might be tempted to take this post as a sign that they are right in their convictions.
I will accept both thoughts as valid and will extend no judgement back. I’m still digesting this trip and what it means (and meant) for me. Never in my younger days did I ever really desire to go to third world countries. Heading abroad meant Europe or Bali, beautiful beaches or spectacular ruins, but always ending in a clean hotel with a private bathroom attached. I never considered going to a country where if I got sick from the water or food I might have to squat over a hotel in the ground while clutching my stomach. I never really considered there might be such a place, that’s how far away it was in my mind.
This biggest differences about this trip to Nepal were two-fold: first it was mainly a fundraiser for my friend’s NGO, WE International, that cares for victims of sex-trafficking and to learn about how to help Nepal fight their own sex trafficking problem. And second, it was hiking up a mountain when I never hike anything even in the states. It was a kind of adventure I had never been on before, had never even considered before. I consider myself well-travelled, or at least, willing to travel, but while I’ve been on two missions trips to Paris, I never considered travel altruistic or something I could do with the idea of bettering a person’s life, or a community, in mind.
I spent very little time in Kathmandu compared to the mountains of Nepal, but I’m not sure that more time would have endeared me more to that city. Clearly, if you want to get anything done in any country, being in the city has many more benefits. But being in the city always means more noise, more dirt, more under the table dealings. More grime, more poverty, more misery. That’s true here in America and everywhere else.
I know this in my head, and yet I couldn’t help cringing at the …dirt and grime and noise. Yes, there may be overflowing garbage cans at the park in America, but most neighborhoods don’t have piles on the side of the road. And while we bemoan how much pavement there is in an American street, we would probably not accept the dirt roads, dirt sidewalks, or the tiny alley ways considered to be both road and sidewalk.
And the noise! A four am wakeup call by the neighborhood rooster, a five am wakeup call with something that sounded like a cowbell, or a triangle being played. To call in the cows? Or goats? I’m still not sure.
Any American who demands those in their work or school be sensitive to their abhorrence to noise would be at a loss in the middle of Kathmandu. I watched in awe at the nonchalance with which the locals honked, yelled, whistled, spit and clapped or other noises to garner someone’s attention. Although there are signs posted that read No Horn, very few pay any attention to them. A tap on the horn, after all, is the only way to say ‘here I am’ when trying to turn right through four lanes of traffic with no turning lane (they drive on the left side of the road, by the way) or when trying to squeeze through two parked cars and an oncoming motorcycle.
Heat stopping.
To be fair, there isn’t much else to use except for the horn in a city with over 3 million people and only two traffic lights in sight, both without electricity. The police in the middle of the traffic literally put their lives at risk as the multitude of cars and motors spin around them, blowing their whistles and waving their hands, though the funniest one we saw was a policeman who simple blew through his whistle while looking at the clouds. Or the guy on his phone who continued to wave his hand back and forth, directing …no one in particular.
Beware Westerners who cannot bare undue noise. You will not like Kathmandu.
There is a novice charm to the city at first. Something that is so very different endears itself to you, though I’m afraid that at times that endearment feels a bit demeaning, as though looking down at the city with a sweet smile and pinching its ‘cute’ cheeks as it struggles to leave the fat fingers of the West to lumber on its own two feet towards the twenty-first century. There is only so much that it can do with itself when the government clearly doesn’t wish to build sidewalks or pick up trash or make sure that traffic can be done in an orderly fashion. There is only so much the people can do when their lives are willed with the daily grind of providing for their families and eeking out a better future for their kids.
While walking through the city center to see the main sights of the Hindu temples and catch a glimpse through the palace windows that are still being refashioned five years after the earthquake almost brought it down completely, there finally came a time that almost being run over or getting my foot taken off was no longer funny. It was no longer endearing. The noise, the lights, the endless game where one’s own life in on the limb, had taken its toll and I suddenly felt very tired. As I tried to catch the eye of a motorist so as to decide who would go first, me across the small street, or him into the chaos of the main road, frustration bubbled up within me.
“A little bit of organization would help so much,” I complained to my husband, knowing right away that no one in that country wished to listen to my griping. “It’s the disorder and ‘every man for himself’ that just gets so overwhelming.”
I thought about my complaints as I kept the eye contact of the motorist for genuine fear of, if not my life, at least my shinbones, while seeing the traffic cameras of the Japanese intersections from YouTube in my head. So many people. So much traffic. But with traffic lights and signals and pedestrians that followed the rules, as well as motorists who weren’t afraid of ten cars and motorcycles getting wedged in-between them and the next vehicle if room was left to do so.
As the evening darkened and we were left to focus more on where we stepped than on our inner thoughts of the city, I left my grappling behind with a sigh, trying once again to simply embrace the city as it was. As its people were. As they wished to be. They did not want my thoughts or my complaints. It is difficult to change a culture or a habit, just look at the way we still enter onto an airplane or how we still wait for weeks for a passport (they are done in the moment in Spain and other countries) and I do not have all the answers. For a city that sits between the giants India and China, Nepal is doing well to have never once been conquered. And my Western attitude will do little to change, obviously.
When visiting a country brimming with people and on the verge of so much change, it’s easy to judge it from the perspective of what works better at home. But instead of that, try to simply accept it as it is. And leave the change to the local people. They will change what they wish and keep what they wish. Just as we do. For before we go about judging the efficacy of a country, we would first have to sort out the Social Security office and the dreaded DMV, would we not? And that is a mammoth I’m not willing to take on. I’d rather embrace the chaotic nature of an unfamiliar city.
