Winter rain
Two things I notice when I wake up—the neighborhood is unusually quiet, and the sound of rain. Rain in Kathmandu also means two things—the roads will become both dust-free and muddy, and no one will be on time for any appointment. In fact, in my experience, this phenomenon is reflected across the whole of Nepal and South East Asia. Whether the roads be dusty/muddy tracks or tree-lined boulevards, Asia just slows right on down when it rains. I guess that’s because in countries like Nepal where really it doesn’t rain that often—yes, yes, there is the monsoon of course when it does for around 90 days—people just aren’t used to moving around in the wet. Being from Scotland, where it must rain 365 days a year (Google says its 265 but I’m quite sure that’s an under-estimation) we are hardened to going out in the rain, winter, spring, summer and autumn.
Meantime in Nepal, children are late for school, parents are late for work, and appointments are cancelled across the board the moment the skies open. Eventually, during the monsoon months, we do seem to get used to the idea of having to go out in the rain and unless it is a heavy downpour, Kathmandu does get moving. But should it rain ‘off-season’ so to speak, then forget about anyone getting out of the house.
We all know the rain causes flooding that makes it impossible to drive or walk down some of the roads. Several times I have had to choose between walking through knee-deep water to get out of my street or staying at home. Although I know what holes lurk under the water in my street, I’m in despair if I’m faced with wading through overflowing sewage and rainwater on a road less familiar.
Missing manhole covers, unexpected collapse of the top tarmac, and newly dug holes for whatever reason can mean there are hidden traps under the water. We have all seen the footage and read the horror stories of children falling into ditches and sewage channels. It makes me shudder.
But if there is no reason to go out, I love winter rain. Because it reminds me of home. It’s the perfect time to huddle up with a hot drink and listen to the patter of rain on the roof. Somehow it feels ‘cozy’ even if it’s cold outside. I imagine all over the city families and groups of friends are sitting around chatting over a steaming cup of tea, a brief respite from the usual daily winter routine.
However, the summer monsoon rains are a different animal altogether. If you have to go out on foot, it’s impossible to wear a proper rain coat because it’s generally too hot. I have, over the years, had a variety of ponchos but why do they all leak around the neck? If a ‘hands free’ approach is required then the hood is also required. But the water always manages to snake its way in through the seam between the hood and the body of the poncho. What’s with that?
Thus, aside from when my hands are full, an umbrella is my constant companion from around March till November. The umbrella is both sun-shade and rain protection. Unfortunately, umbrellas seem to die young here. Something about Kathmandu affects the longevity of these essential items and they are all left broken, with limbs poking out and exposed, on rubbish heaps. RIP trusty friend.
For those who drive a scooter, motorbike or cycle, the situation is much worse. Avoiding pot holes and gushing sewers becomes daily routine. I’m sure helmets provide some protection from the rain and those interesting ponchos that are somehow attached to the bike come into play. But I will never get used to seeing women sitting on the back of a bike trying to keep dry under an umbrella which is being pulled this way and that by the jet stream wind.
Okay so perhaps ‘jet stream’ is a little overkill given the slow pace of traffic here, but you know what I mean. I feel sorry for those women; why do they never seem to have a rain jacket or poncho? Sometimes I want to shake their husband/son/brother and ask them why they don’t buy extra rainwear for their female passenger. Of course I also want to ask them why they don’t spend a little cash on a crash helmet too…
Kuire !
“Kuire”, whispers the girl in front to her friend. Yes, it is always a bit of a shock when I go out of my ‘local’ area. I mean, I’ve lived in Kathmandu longer than I have lived in any other town. That makes me a local right? Beep! Wrong! Being female, tall and blonde definitely sends out the signal ‘not local’. And yet I know the back roads and short cuts better than most taxi drivers; was in Nepal during the whole conflict; stood in the street to watch the funeral procession of the royal family, and suffered the curfews, bandhs, load-shedding, earthquake and blockade just like the rest of the population. But I also have skipped the queue to get into Singha Durbar, been offered a seat on a full bus (not often mind you!), am royally treated at restaurants, and trusted by my bosses and clients alike. On the down side, I am frequently overcharged for fruit and vegetables, have to pay more for the same hotel room (why?) than locals, and cannot walk through Thamel without getting Tiger Balm and a sarangi thrust in my face. “Kuire”, shouts the little boy in the street. His mother and I smile at each other, me through my teeth. Such is life.
Based on the fact I am not local, I will be writing this weekly column giving some insight into the life of an average ‘non-local’ in Kathmandu. Which brings up the question—‘what is an average non-local?’ For want of a better word, let’s use ‘expat’. Yes there are all sorts of racial connotations attached to that word but…
Come in all shades
There are several kinds of ‘expats’ in Kathmandu. There are those who are married to Nepalis, many of whom have been here for decades and have grown-up children and even grandchildren. There are some who have only been married for a short time and are desperately trying to get a visa for their spouse to their home country. There are those who came in the mists of time to study Buddhism and dharma. There are those who are young and enthusiastic volunteers. There are those who are working on a two- or three-year contract with the UN or some INGO, climbing the career ladder. Then there are those like me, who don’t fit into any category and who don’t look at Nepal through the rose colored glasses of ‘newbie-ism’, Buddhism, or any other ‘ism’. We are an anomaly and are quite unique. “Kuire”. Yes, perhaps.
So let’s get this party started by outlining a typical 36 hours in the life of a neutral category expat. Able to afford the luxury of a taxi across town, I’m off to visit a farm on the outskirts of the city. This is an organized trip so it is both social and educational. Quick catch-up coffee with a friend returning from her Christmas break (we decide we can’t afford the food prices in the restaurant despite the fact it is aiming at a local clientele).
Off for a meeting, which is comfortable since it’s with another expat and we are both in sweaters and jeans (unheard of if we were in the West) in the chilly weather.
This is followed by shopping in a large supermarket. Yes, definitely the owner needs my money less than the little pasal on the corner but it has what I want. Get home to discover a long-standing client has sent four urgent pieces of work that need to be completed by 5pm. It’s already 4.15. My client of course leaves the office promptly at 5pm and does not have access to his emails. Some confusion takes place and finally the work is sent to the correct people at 7pm. Is the solar water still hot? Lukewarm will do, so step in. Lights go out. It’s fine, I know where the soap is….
Saturday morning off to a market catering almost exclusively to expats. I cannot afford the prices and have never heard of some of items—but seemingly they are the latest thing in Australia and America. The staff in the coffee shop look stressed at the sudden influx of people wanting lattes, cappuccinos and, what’s that—a baby cappuccino?
My phone rings—the person I met with yesterday is having an emergency work problem which she hopes I can solve. Despite the fact we have only met twice, and never actually worked together, we are both Westerners so we have a bond of trust between us.
