First Night in Kathmandu

A girl came to open the door for Mr. Bhagwan and I when we arrived at the hostel nearing 11 pm on Saturday.  Her name is Alex; she's from Sydney, Australia, and we share a room in the hostel.  It's a hostel solely for volunteers, and Alex is on her way out.  She's been here six weeks, working in an orphanage.  Today was her last day, and when she tells me how hard it was to leave those kids, I can see genuine love and care in her eyes.  Tomorrow is her birthday - she'll have drinks with friends in Thumel, the tourist part of Kathmandu - and then the next day she leaves to trek up to Everest base camp alone.  

"Alone!" I almost squealed in surprise.
"Yeah," she said in her no-worries-mate Australian accent, "hundreds of people are up there trekking each day; you can't get lost, and if your bag is light enough there's no need to pay a porter. You could easily do it!" 

It wasn't part of the original plan, but I'm thinking about it now. It would be a shame not to try, since I'll be living in a monastery so close by.  It wouldn't be like the 4-day backpacking trip I took with my dad & family friends a few years ago up the Lost Coast in Northern California.  We packed in all the gear we'd need for the entirety of the trip -- sleeping bags, tents, food, cooking equipment, etc.  No need for any of that here, since there are tea houses and hotel/hostels along the way which house trekkers and provide meals.  I can imagine I'd meet some incredible people along the way.

Alex borrows some of my intensely concentrated mosquito repellent to resolve the cause of her insomnia tonight, and we finally go to bed. Though I slept the better part of my past 32 hours of traveling, somehow I'm still tired and fall asleep almost immediately. It's warm, really warm, and I'm wearing long pants - nurse's scrubs, since they're functional, multi-purpose, and affordable - and a long-sleeve Under Armour top.  In the same 85-degree night in the U.S., I'd strip down to shorts and a loose tee, but I'm more concerned about protecting myself from mosquitos and other bugs than almost anything else tonight. 

Stray dogs bark all through the night. Around 4 am one of them starts so loudly that, judging by the sound coming through the open screened windows in our room, I'm almost certain that he's sitting on the veranda right outside.  The sun comes up around 5:30 and what starts with the loud sound of construction nearby and a few scattered voices morphs into a growing din of city life - traffic, horns, children crying and laughing, kitchen utensils, brooms sweeping...  It's Sunday, a work day in Nepal. 

Arriving

It was warm when I stepped off the plane. Like most Asian airports at night, the Kathmandu terminal was dimly lit and sparsely populated.  I filled out a visa application and watched as it, along with my passport and receipt for $100 visa fee, was passed down the line from one immigration officer to the next.  They joked and laughed among themselves, largely disregarding me, and plopped my passport down at the end of the counter without so much as looking up.

Having collected my checked pack from the baggage claim, I walked out to the taxi waiting area to look for a driver with my name on a plaque.  I doubled back 2 or 3 times to make sure I hadn't missed him, all the while politely declining a long list of services offered to me by other drivers.  I finally stopped walking, not quite sure what to do next since my driver was nowhere to be seen, and I was suddenly surrounded by no less than 12 Nepali men eager to help, all talking at once in a mixture of English and Nepali. Four of them were policemen and all were shorter than me.  I hesitated, but since I didn't have a cell phone that worked yet, I finally acquiesced and pulled out my list of contact numbers for the policeman who offered his cell phone.  He held it up and the rest of the men gathered around behind him, all studying my paper.  I learned long ago not to expect any level of privacy in Asia, and was somewhat thankful that neither my passport no., social security number or bank account were printed on that sheet. 

I was the center of intense curiosity as I tried to get in touch with Hom. But the connection was so bad, I couldn't even understand when he finally answered.  Four times I started to talk before the call was dropped almost immediately.

They kept asking me what hotel or tour company I was with, and though I imagined it might help find my driver, I was hesitant to respond because I'd just come in with a tourist visa, under which volunteer work is strictly prohibited.  I finally confided in one young man, who persistently asked me to identify some kind of company or individual.  "I don't know what the company is called in Nepal, but in the U.S. it's called IFRE - they planned the whole trip for me."
"Oh! IFRE! You're a volunteer! I know your driver, his name is Mr. Bhagwan and he's my friend. I'll call him now."
When the call was made & Mr. Bhagwan's location confirmed, I was glad I took the risk of accepting help from a stranger.

Once in the micro-van with Mr. Bhagwan, I was surprised to find that they drive on the left side of the road in Nepal, like in India.  Though it was dark, I could make out lots of trash alongside the roads.  As we emerged from the outskirts of the city and made our way into the city, an overpowering smell of urine penetrated the vehicle.  We dodged various trucks, cars, and motorcycles, nearly missing two cows that were laying, totally relaxed, in the middle of what we'd call a highway in the U.S.

Traffic started to build behind one car up ahead. It stood out because it was a nice, full size Jeep - not a miniature vehicle like all the rest.  As we passed it, I noticed the red diplomatic plates and had a flashback to being picked up from the airport in Russia just last February.  Of course traffic was building behind that car. I know from experience that diplomatic cars are the only ones who even attempt to respect traffic laws. Arriving in Nepal as a diplomat would include a certain sense of security; the scene of my airport pickup in St. Petersburg was literally me stepping away from the customs desk, taking one step into the arrival hall, being approached immediately by a consulate representative, and whisked away immediately into an atmosphere where everyone spoke English and everything about the American way of life was understood and appreciated. I didn't really even have the opportunity to get outside my comfort zone that first day.  How different my experience in Nepal has been already!  I'll always remember the response I got when I said to the policeman who tried to help me, "Okay sir, thank you so much for your offer to help, but I really don't have any money. I couldn't pay for your services."
"Don't worry, Ma'am, don't worry! This is Nepal!  You are safe in Nepal and the people are very friendly. No need to pay. Never pay police, never pay. We here to help you."

And that they did.

People's Republic of Beer

"How one man’s yeast research is propagating China’s craft beer culture"

I read an article about the proliferation of micro-brewing in China in Beer West magazine this afternoon while sipping a glass of Pinot Gris at Southern Oregon Brewing Company, our neighborhood brewery and taproom where my parents are regulars. Unfortunately S.O.B. doesn't offer any gluten-free beers, so I'm restricted to wine (but really, with a plethora of award-winning Southern Oregon wines at my fingertips, I can hardly complain).

Visiting with my Grandpa Rick at Southern Oregon Brewing Co.

What stood out to me most in this article about Yan Gao's new enterprise is his innovative solution to the obstacles posed by China's often hostile business climate, which can be especially unfriendly toward small businesses. Beer West's Emily Hutto writes,

"While microbreweries in the U.S. receive tax breaks if they're producing under a certain amount of beer, microbreweries in China must comply with macro-brewery laws, which dictate higher tax rates and expensive facility requirements that most small breweries can't afford. That is, unless they find a loophole.

Yan Gao inspecting yeast cultures in his lab.
photo by Bjoern Walter

In 2008, Gao opened Nanjing's first microbrewery, Oktoberfest Biotech Co.
While friends and imbibers recognize Oktoberfest as a fully-licensed production brewery, the state recognizes it as a yeast research firm. It's illegal for Chinese companies to dump their byproduct, in this case beer, so Gao drinks and sells it instead. 'I know how to deal with those dummies,' he says of the Chinese government. 'In order to grow yeast, we need to make beer. And in order to save the environment, we need to "recycle" the beer.'"

I love this nothing-will-stop-me entrepreneurial spirit and passion for his craft.

A Story from Central Asia

I met Artyom in the metro last Friday night. I was on my way back from the State Electrotechnological University, where I had been speaking all day to students about Linguistics and Intercultural Communications, and I was plain exhausted. I'd given six different speeches in the past five days and was really feeling the duress of public speaking. For the first time ever, I sank onto a bench on the metro platform.
“Spasibo,” I half-whispered as an attractive young blond man scooted over to make sure I had more than enough room to relax.
“Excuse me,” the young man leaned over 30 seconds later and started to talk to me in rapid Russian, “What do you think: are people more friendly and cultured in St. Petersburg than in Moscow?”