tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5654979010238189832024-03-13T06:39:15.010-07:00Operation Teddy BearThe tales of life and work and love in Kathmandu Nepal, before, during and after the earthquake of April 25, 2015.Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-4081604291554315952015-09-10T07:30:00.000-07:002015-09-10T07:30:21.681-07:00Our Cracked Fate - Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I felt the vibrations, like a
subway car coming in beneath the airport. I have felt earthquakes before – a
couple in Ottawa, one in Nepal – never anything too big. Each and every time I
have felt an earthquake I hadn’t recognized what it was until after it was
over. Not this time. For some reason, I knew within a split second. My first
feeling was that a train was approaching from my left side, but in less time
than I could have even thought the words, I knew it was an earthquake. There is
no subway in Nepal after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Come,” I grabbed Louise’s arm, standing
beside me, as I turned abruptly, pulling her the several steps across the
arrivals hall to the nearest pillar. I do not know, to this day, how it
happened that I did that. If I had subconsciously risk mapped the room and
stored it away in some disaster activated part of my memory over the many, many
occasions I have moved through that room. If I <i>knew </i>that pillar was there. Or if I have been so well conditioned
working in disaster risk management that my brain knew what it was looking for,
identified it and instantly reacted. Either way, I dragged Louise directly to
that pillar without a single moment’s hesitation. Like a choreographed
movement. In the two to three seconds that it took us to arrive, everyone else knew
what was happening too. The vibrations had turned into an all-out shake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Cover your head. Get down.” I
instructed calmly, assuming the drop cover and hold position myself; bringing
both arms up over my head to shield the most vulnerable, and valuable, part of
my body. She did as I did. The ground rocked and bent furiously beneath my
feet. <i>This is a good one,</i> I though, believing it would stop in a mere
moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It continued. Screams multiplied.
I saw nothing but the floor. Not daring to raise my head to survey the room.
The earth growled and roared up at us as it tore apart and slammed furiously back
together, again and again. Like a clashing cymbal of brick and concrete. Pieces of the ceiling began to crack and fall around us. <i>Shit.</i> Other
bodies piled up next to the pillar around us. I had no idea where Carole was.
Panic and hysteria lay thick around us. <i>Oh my god. Maybe this is it.</i> I
heard Louise begin to pray beside me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“It’s okay,” I tried to reassure
her calmly. She reached out and wrapped her right arm around me, continuing to
pray. “It’s okay.” I was telling myself as much as I was telling her. <i>I
wouldn’t waste that arm around me when it should be protecting your head,</i> I
thought. Chunks of plaster and ceiling tile crashed to the ground. I considered
and accepted that the entire building might come down around me. On top of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had always known this day would
come. I came here to work in risk reduction. I had known the hazard potential
since day one. But still, I never truly believed I would be here to see it. I
had imagined myself, back in Canada years in the future, turning on the morning news while
I drank my coffee, seeing the breaking story that a massive earthquake had
struck Kathmandu. I had imagined the panic I would feel at that moment, the
grief, the feeling that the world was falling apart around me. I did not see
myself here. With the earth <b>actually</b> falling apart around me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The joints of the earth slammed
together, and the shaking continued. I kept waiting for it to stop, and it
didn’t. It occurred to me that I might be buried alive, or worse, that I might
die in the Tribhuvan Airport, and I wished I had taken a flight a day later.
Then I felt a body fling itself onto the pillar, over top of me, shielding me
from the falling debris. In that moment I was filled with hope. I didn’t, and
still don’t, know who it was, but I was silently and selfishly thankful to them
for protecting me – likely unintentionally. <i>Thanks friend, because whatever
falls is going to hit you, not me.</i> Suddenly it seemed possible that I might
have to be buried beneath a dead body, but that I could possibly survive. I
tucked that hope away inside and just held on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, it stopped. It just
stopped. I couldn’t believe it. The earth ceased grinding us in its fist and opened
its palm for us to escape. I have not yet been able to summon the words to qualify,
or describe the enormity of that feeling. The opportunity for survival. It was
like seeing a gun pointed at you, hearing it fire and then finding it had
somehow missed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Oh my god. It stopped. We can
get free. We’re still alive. </i>I
stood, bringing my arms back down to my side. For a second I was frozen in amazement.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Ugh, I’m covered in plaster
dust,” Louise stated beside me. Also standing up straight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“We have to go!” I realized
Carole had made it to the same pillar on Louise's other side and the three of us
were together. I turned to my right and noticed two people, standing surveying
the scene, obviously paralyzed by shock. “You should leave the building now,” I
commanded firmly. “There may be more coming.” They listened. I turned my
attention back to Louise and Carole. “We have to get out of the building. Now.”
I spread my arms to usher them towards the exit. The three of us strode quickly across
the small arrivals hall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Really. We should move fast,”
and I broke into a trot. Making my way around broken ceiling panels, chunks of
plaster and metal bits that lay strewn across the floor. Debris from above. I
knew it could start again. That this could have been just a foreshock. That
something worse could be moving towards us, and I didn’t know how long we might
have if that were the case. I just knew that I was alive, and that if I wanted
to be sure to stay that way I had to get to an open space. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Outside hordes of people milled
around in various states of shock and devastation. One foreign couple in
particular stood directly outside the entrance with their arms wrapped around
each other, starring up at the building in terror, crying uncontrollably. I paused for them only a moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I would very much recommend that
you move away from the building. If it collapses, it could fall on you,” I
stated in a calm and direct voice before continuing to walk away from the
airport. I did not wait to see if they moved or not, or to encourage them
further. That was all the time I was willing to take away from myself to give
to them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It wasn’t until we reached a spot
in the parking lot, far enough away from any structure to be completely safe,
that I began to take stock of the situation. I looked around and saw that all
the buildings around the airport were still standing. That was a surprise to
me, as many of those structures were built to shocking standards. <i>Maybe it
wasn’t as bad as it felt. Maybe it was just a small one.</i> I certainly didn’t
have any frame of reference for what big earthquakes felt like. My legs and
arms trembled, full to the brim of adrenaline, but I forced myself to remain
calm, speak slowly, take control of my body.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pulled my cell phone out of my
bag and noticed I had reception - another reason to think this probably wasn’t a
serious quake. Since my first day in Nepal I had always understood that <u>when</u>
the ‘big one’ came all communications infrastructure would be knocked out, the
airport would be destroyed, 60 percent of the buildings in the Kathmandu Valley
would be destroyed, nothing would get in or out and misery would reign supreme.
That was what we had been preparing for, and all evidence pointed to this not
being it. My phone was working!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lama wasn’t my first priority to
call. I already knew his phone was off. And I was more worried about the city
than anything else. After all, that was what we had always considered to be the
most vulnerable, and the most likely to be devastated in the case of an earthquake. <i>He’s probably better off outside the city.</i> And for the time
being, I was actually relieved that he was not in town. Instead I dialed his
brother, Raju. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Despite the fact that things
looked like they might not be so bad from where I was standing, I have always
been sceptical of the seismic resilience of their family’s house. I wanted to
make sure they were okay, because when I did get a hold of him I needed to be
able to tell him that his family was safe. And because he would do the same for
me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hello.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hello, Raju?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes, hello.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hi, it’s Bronwyn calling. Are
you okay? Are you safe?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh yes, yes miss. We just experienced
earthquake here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes I know. I am in Kathmandu. I
felt it too. Are you okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes, yes. We are safe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“And your Mom and Dad? Are they
with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes. We are all safe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh good. Thank you. I’m so glad
to hear that. Please stay outside okay. Please stay safe. There may be more
coming. Please be careful.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Okay miss.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Okay, I will talk to you soon.
Goodbye.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Goodbye.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank god.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After that I flicked on my 3G to
send an iMessage to both of my parents. ‘We had an earthquake. I’m fine.’ I
quickly fired off to them before switching the 3G off again. I only had 300
rupees of credit left on my phone at the moment, and I assumed I might not have
the opportunity to re-charge any time soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Malaysian airline stewardesses
sobbed in a small group beside us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The poor things. They’re
probably so on edge already this year, having so many of their colleagues lost
in horrible circumstances,” Carole very rightly pointed out. I felt sorry for
them. This wasn’t a calculated risk they had taken ahead of time. I hoped they
would be able to go home soon. But I assumed the runway was badly damaged, as
it has a history of cracking under the heat of a hot summer’s day. Close above
us in the sky a low flying jet on its final approach veered sharply to the left,
changing course and heading south to India. Above us in the air traffic control
tower, the only people who hadn’t evacuated the building scurried around,
turning all incoming planes away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Well, we’re all stuck here
now,</i> I couldn’t help but think
to myself. It didn’t scare me, it didn’t excite me. It was just a fact. All I
saw and all I could think were facts. Not emotions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I tried to dial Lama one more
time before my phone lost signal completely. “The mobile you are calling is
switched off.” And then even my reception dropped out. Probably because the
networks were completely jammed. Maybe because a couple of towers were
compromised. I switched my phone back onto airplane mode, not wanting to waste
battery searching for signal because I didn’t know how long I was going to have
to rely on this current charge. I just hoped that I was right in my assumption
that he was safer, and better off, in the mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The only thing that niggled the
back of my conscious was a concern that the shaking could have triggered
landslides. I remembered my friend Jwalant telling me, a year ago, when I was
preparing to go trekking in Langtang region myself, that the area had always
been bad for landslides.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even from where I stood, in the
middle of the city, as I looked up into the hills to my left, I could see a
fresh landslide opening up the face of the mountainside above. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-24316923393446647542015-08-31T02:21:00.000-07:002015-08-31T02:21:28.080-07:00Our Cracked Fate - Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The mobile you are calling is switched off,” chirped the recording on the other end of the phone. Sitting in the Kuala Lumpur International Airport outside my gate, waiting to board a flight to Nepal, I sighed and hung up. I had been getting the same message for almost a week now, but it hadn’t yet deterred me from attempting to call Lama a few times a day. Ever since he entered the Langtang Valley with his clients six days earlier, his phone had been unreachable. Mobile reception is not exactly reliable in Nepal, and having been in the Langtang region myself in the past I know that outside of cities you’re pretty much on your own. Must be one of the things tourists love most about it. But I wasn't a tourist, and I didn't love it. I wasn’t worried; just missed hearing his voice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Across from me two older women were attempting to take an airport selfie, chattering excitedly about their trip plans. Dressed in hiking shoes, quick dry pants and laden with fancy, brand new, back-packs it was clear they were also off to Nepal. I smiled, thinking of my first trip to Nepal, almost two years ago. The photos my friend Taryn and I took at every step along the way, documenting the whole immense pilgrimage – or so it seemed at the time. Today it’s just another long flight. After a nerve wracking trip across the Indian Ocean with Malaysian Airlines from Sydney to Kuala Lumpur, I hadn’t slept much and was just looking forward to (hopefully) surviving the next short flight and getting home to take a nap. But I am still a Canadian, and so I had to offer to help with the photo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Would you like me to take it?” I offered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh, yes. Thank you!” They cheerfully accepted my offer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“One, two, three.” I counted down before snapping then had them check and approve the photo before returning to my seat. “Off to Nepal are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes! Are you as well?” (In a black leather jacket, fashionable top and black tights, I don’t exactly blend in with either crowd that you would generally find waiting for a flight to Kathmandu – I’m not a Nepali woman wrapped in a brilliantly coloured sari, nor am I a foreigner decked out in the latest trekking gear.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yep,” I smiled at the thought. Looking forward to getting home and beginning the new start in Nepal that stretched before me. On Monday I was about to start a new job, on a three year contract, with an organisation I had been trying to work with for almost a year. We chatted the rest of the time until boarding away. Their names were Louise and Carole, they were going to stay with a friend who had lived in Nepal for many years and do a short, off the beaten path trek near Pokhara. I gave them some advice on things to see and do and eat while in Kathmandu. And more importantly: advice for the dreaded immigration process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As we filed on board and I got settled in my seat I took a deep breath and silently hoped for the best for this four hour flight. I was almost there, but I had a lingering feeling that I wasn’t out of the woods yet. <i>I’ve made it this far</i>, I thought, <i>if I can just get through the next four hours, everything will be okay</i>. I didn’t want to get on the flight. I hadn’t wanted to get on the last one. Driving to the Sydney airport the night before, I felt like I didn’t want to go. Then again, I had the same bad feeling a week ago on the flight to Australia; this irrational fear that something terrible was going to happen. The strangest part was that my anxiety did not stem from the possibility of dying, it was rooted in the idea that if I died I would never see Lama again. I chalked it up to my growing nervousness of flying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Three and a half, relatively turbulence free, hours later and we were almost there. <i>Finally this whole flying ordeal is almost over!</i> I peered out the window hopefully, but couldn’t see the massive snow-capped peaks, just a few specks of houses far below. Crouching precariously at the feet of the Himalayas lies my poor, poor Kathmandu. Like living in the shadow of any great giant, it exists under the constant threat that at any moment the giants may squash it with an off-hand motion – rolling over in sleep or swatting a pesky insect. My Kathmandu. When did it become mine? I don’t know. The moment I stepped off the plane? Maybe not so soon, but not so long after either. There’s something about this dilapidated city, worlds different from the “normal” I had always known, that still makes it home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Two years after landing in Kathmandu for the first time, with no idea about Nepal, or even Asia, here I was: coming back again, and this time to sign myself up for the next three years. Something I never would have expected when I accepted that first, six month contract in what feels like a different life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I arrived in June 2013 I was as bright eyed and bushy tailed as they come. I was ready for a new adventure, wherever it might take me. After the previous years in Ottawa, having spent time unemployed, spent time in bad jobs, spent time waiting for someone else, being let down, I wanted to make a major change in my life, get out and try something new, take control of my life and finally steer it in the direction I wanted it to go. Funny now, isn’t it? Because we all know life doesn’t really like to be steered, nor do we often know where it is we want to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through countless ups and downs, hard times at work, and even harder times in my personal life, I had struggled to stay in Nepal. I can’t rationalize why. I had just felt that it was where I was meant to be, that the reason would eventually present itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, as the plane broke through the turbulent clouds and the city came into view below, I was happy. I was going back to finally have some stability for the next years; to be able to really start my life with the person I wanted to be with. Finally, it seemed, the struggled had paid off, had made sense.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When the wheels touched down and the engines slowed us to a taxi I was gleeful – it was over! I made it! I was back safely now, and soon I would be at home, resting in my comfortable bed, emptying my suitcase back into my closet, taking a refreshing shower in my own bathroom, going for a run and meeting my friends for drinks later. It was all set to be a great weekend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When we were allowed to turn our phones back on I dialed again, just in case he picked up, just to tell him I was home. No luck. I wasn’t surprised. I had already calculated that, based on my assumptions about how quickly his trekking group would move, when they had entered the valley and where they last had cell phone reception, that he should be coming out of the valley on Sunday – tomorrow – and I should hear from him then. But that didn’t deter me from trying an extra couple of times, just in case I got lucky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I found Louise and Carole in the immigration hall and pointed them in the right direction. I had to go to a different line to collect my gratis visa, which my new employer would turn into a working visa after I started on Monday. I have so many visas from Nepal in my passport that I am always nervous going through immigration now; irrationally worried that they will think I’m suspicious and won’t let me in. It took some time, but finally I got that beautiful blue stamp of legitimacy in my passport. I tried to call again as I bounced down the stairs to baggage claim. <i>Guess what honey? I’m legal!</i> No such luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After locating my flight on the arrivals board to see where my luggage would come out, I patiently went to stand by carousel three. No one else was there, and nothing was moving. It always takes forever to get luggage in Kathmandu. I am convinced they bring it from the plane by hand, one piece at a time. I went to use the washroom. After exiting the rest room I located Louise and Carole in the throng of people crowded around carousel one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hi ladies,” I approached them. “Our luggage is actually coming out on carousel three, over there.” I pointed to the empty baggage carousel across the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh, thank you! I don’t know why, we didn’t even check! How did you know that?” I pointed to the small dilapidated screen displaying flights. “Oh silly us, we just went where the crowd was.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“No worries. It will probably take some time, but it should be coming out over here.” We crossed the small arrivals hall together, taking a place near the belt and continuing to chat on and off about Nepal and the interesting things to do on vacation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then, as I stood, impatiently waiting to see my small blue suitcase appear through the black rubber flaps of the luggage carousel, wiping the sleep out of my eyes, I felt the ground begin to vibrate through the soles of my feet. </span></div>
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Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-57977796303244888312015-06-02T05:15:00.000-07:002015-06-02T08:30:41.004-07:00Why Nepal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">People sometimes ask me: “Why Nepal? What is it about Nepal that makes
you want to stay there? Why not somewhere else?" It took me a long time to put
my finger on it myself. After my one-year contract with UNDP in Nepal came to
an end in July 2014, I stayed in the country, despite not having a job and amid
a very difficult personal time. I stayed for months, looking for some job
leads, believing they were there, believing there was a reason I should stay. Amongst all logical signs that I should go, I stayed. By November,
it was time to start thinking about booking a ticket home for Christmas and I
couldn’t do it. I knew that I couldn’t justify a return ticket if I didn’t have
something to come back for. And I wasn’t ready to go. By that time, I knew why:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">It’s simple: potential. Seemingly endless potential on the horizon: in
terms of both my own personal growth, and Nepal’s growth. It’s palpable in the
atmosphere. It’s exciting. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Since I first arrived in Nepal I have completed my first triathlon, won
my second triathlon, conquered my fear of cycling (in the craziest traffic in
the world), learned to rock climb, and designed a new project during my time at
UNDP, seeing it through implementation.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">My project provided business-centred training to micro-entrepreneurs on
disaster risk management. When I looked for training packages amongst other
development organisations to modify for the Nepal context, I found nothing. It
had never been done before! I also co-organized the first ever obstacle race
(think Spartan…baby Spartan) in Nepal. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Where else could I have been the first ever person to do anything? Only
Nepal. And there are so many other firsts that I get a chance to lead, be part
of, or witness happening. It’s a drug: pushing yourself, achieving something
new, making something happen that wasn’t there before, creating something,
making a real change in someone’s life. And I’m a full on addict.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Yet, with no means of supporting myself, I didn’t have much other choice
but to try to move on.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">In the last days, as I began to prepare myself mentally to depart, I got
a call from a former UNDP colleague to come in to talk to the boss. She asked
me to come work for them for a couple of months starting in January. I had my
reason to return, and Nepal kept its grasp on me. Almost simultaneously, I got
three other requests for work from different organisations, and suddenly I was
busy! </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">So I went home for my best friend’s wedding, Christmas, and skiing with
the family. All the while doing work from abroad on Nepal time, getting up in
the middle of the night for interviews, and even completing a written test for
a job I had applied for months before. I returned to Nepal in January and got
to work for UNDP right away. During the time there I had two, successive
interviews for the position with a regional NGO based in Kathmandu that I had
done the written test for over the holidays. Things were starting to look up.
But within a few weeks I was almost back to square one. Persistent visa
problems seemed to plague me, making it impossible for me to accept some jobs
that otherwise would have been mine, and even preventing me from being able to
access the money deposited into my account for work I had done. Add to that,
weeks after being told that I would hear about the job shortly, it was still
radio silent from the NGO. I had finished my work for UNDP by this point, and
had been jobless again for about a month. I had come to the decision, finally,
and somewhat painfully, that if this job didn’t come through, then I would have
to go, because I could no longer stay in relative “illegal” status (at least
for work). I had come up against enough walls to realise when it was time to
thrown in the towel. And it certainly hadn’t been for lack of trying. I started
sending out some feelers through my network in Canada. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The NGO had advertised for six programme officers, and I knew someone
else who was also waiting to hear. On the night that I found out from her that
she had learned a few days earlier she was selected for one of the
positions, I thought that was officially it for me. My boyfriend and I made a
plan that night for how we would manage the next months, or year, living across
the world from one another. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The following evening, as I made dinner, I got the email offering me the
position – a three-year contract. And Nepal pulled me back from the brink of
leaving again. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Many weeks later, in mid-April, reference checks had all gone through,
the official offer had been sent, and though it was a smaller salary than had
been advertised, the job description was exactly what I had been looking for,
and I figured out how I could make it work. The final step was that I had to
leave the country and return with the right type of visa, as it was impossible
to transfer a tourist visa into a working visa. So a flight was booked to
Sydney, Australia for one week – an opportunity to visit Dad, Pia and Claire,
considering my relative proximity (when compared to Canada at least).</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The day before I was set to fly I got a call from human resources to let
me know that they had decided to change my role – considering that I had been
quite set on the job description I had applied for, and already accepted, I did
not take this as good news. Regardless, I felt I was pretty much stuck at that
point, and I boarded the plane to Australia, with the intention of starting my
new job, the following week, on Monday, April 27th. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">In advance of my start date I landed back in Kathmandu on the morning of
Saturday, April 25<sup>th</sup> at 11:15am. Forty-five minutes later I was
waiting for my luggage at carrousel three when the earth started to shake, the
ground began to crack and pieces of the ceiling began to come down around us.
And here I was, almost a year after all logic told me I should have gone home:
still in Nepal.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Every time I almost left, Nepal pulled me back, and it pulled me back
the last time just before the big earthquake. I can’t help but wonder, at
times, if the reason I stayed all this time is so that I could be here now. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And so, I said goodbye to my nice, secure, three year job in a field I
hadn’t set out to work in, and now I’m back in an incredibly uncertain,
unsecure job with the UN. But maybe, after all this, now isn’t the time for
security. It’s the time for using your skills to do what you were meant to. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I thought I was done with the UN. And happily so, actually. I was ready
to try something else, and after my experience, I just wasn’t sure that it was
for me. But as it turns out there’s this other UN body, that hadn’t been in Kathmandu
before, called the Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA),
and their job, basically (in layman’s terms) is to make friends with all the
actors who rush in after an emergency, and get them to work together. Now
that’s something I can do! I don’t know if you, reading this, know my father:
Glen Brooks…I expect you do, even if you and I have never met. If you do you
know that these skills are inherited directly from him, maybe the best gift I
could ever have gotten. It is not the first time I have been thankful for the
fact that, as a result of being his daughter: I was born for this job. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Eurostile; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And yes, Nepal needs help now, but it still has that potential that I
have always loved about it. As horrible as this has been, it is also an opportunity
for Nepal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to fix Nepal, I
don’t want to save it. I just want to help along the path to realising this
potential and taking advantage of this opportunity. </span></div>
</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-84336378031736474482014-07-10T03:14:00.001-07:002014-07-10T03:16:48.097-07:00Le Trek<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">With only a month left in my contract with UNDP Nepal my boss pointed
out to me that I had barely taken any of my allotted leave time. After one
particularly frustrating meeting I marched directly into Sean’s cubicle and
proclaimed that I would go trekking with him. Hell, I had been in Nepal a <i>year</i>
and never gone trekking! It was time. Work wasn’t so urgent after all. I
basically left all of the planning to Sean – he’s a better planner, and his
contract was over before mine, so he had more time to do it. After our year in
Nepal together, I trust him enough to blindly follow him into the mountain
wilderness. What could go wrong?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xeRDl8ZAyog/U75jygt-CbI/AAAAAAAAAeI/8SribQNbnng/s1600/Photo+16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xeRDl8ZAyog/U75jygt-CbI/AAAAAAAAAeI/8SribQNbnng/s1600/Photo+16.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Just kidding. I didn’t follow completely blindly, and I did help (by
proxy) in some ways. I have a very good friend, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/La-Ma-walks/619525841439714?fref=ts">Lama</a>,
who’s a trekking guide here, and runs his own freelance trekking business: <a href="http://lamawalks.com/">LaMa Walks</a>. He’s a very good guide, and I
would have gone for my first trek in Nepal with him, had he been available.
Instead, we settled for having him approve our planned route before he left the
city for a mountaineering course. The original plan was a walk from Sundarijal,
a village at the edge of the city, straight through the Shivapuri National
Park, up into Langtang National Park, past holy, glacial Lake Gosaikunda, down
into the Langtang Valley, to the end of the Valley and up a small peak at the
end Tserko Ri (4984m). Lama was mostly fine with our plan, but told us he was
worried about us ascending too rapidly between our last stop in the Langtang
Valley and the Tserko Ri peak; however, if we acclimatized properly and had no
problems over the 4600m mountain pass near Lake Gosaikunda, then we should be
okay. We were warned to be careful at these two points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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In the end Sean even recruited another friend of ours: Quintin, who had
also been working for UN for over a year was finished his contract and wanted
to do a final trek. So, equipped with clothes, cameras, coffee and trekking
permits, the three off us set out early Saturday morning to begin our
adventure. I took the notebook that Sean gave me for Christmas and wrote a
little bit at the end of each day. I thought the best way to recount the events
of the trek would be to transcribe the contents of those entries here, along
with a few photos from along the route.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_krPdXu6Fs/U75gj7EqSMI/AAAAAAAAAcU/KVU4P0ERmHs/s1600/Photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_krPdXu6Fs/U75gj7EqSMI/AAAAAAAAAcU/KVU4P0ERmHs/s1600/Photo+1.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Trek Day 1: Saturday, June
28, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sundarijal, 1462m to
Chipling 2170m<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Stopped in Chipling for the night after about seven hours of walking. Guesthouse
is absolutely shocking…[cold] bucket shower, wooden plank bed in a dusty room
wallpapered with peelings newsprint from 2011. All located in a mud hut…beside
which they are currently barbequing a goat they just beheaded…off to a great
start! </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHs0RGSCzng/U75gmNReU2I/AAAAAAAAAcc/FkfwVibtSzA/s1600/Photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SHs0RGSCzng/U75gmNReU2I/AAAAAAAAAcc/FkfwVibtSzA/s1600/Photo+3.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4MiomGyzEUI/U75gi0nrhyI/AAAAAAAAAcM/FqvXoiIhIuA/s1600/Photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4MiomGyzEUI/U75gi0nrhyI/AAAAAAAAAcM/FqvXoiIhIuA/s1600/Photo+2.JPG" height="133" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">A good hard walk today…so so so so so many stairs! I consider myself to
be in good shape, but that was a long day of walking. I am completely
exhausted. I also managed to do something painful to something on the inside of
my left ankle this morning. No idea what, but it hurts a lot and walking is not
so good. Hoping it leaves as quickly as it came on, overnight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Trek Day 2:</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"> Sunday, June 29, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Chipling, 2170m to
Mangangoth, 3220m<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Stopped for the night in Mangangoth, at a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">much</i> nicer guesthouse than last night. Still only bucket shower,
but they heated the water and had an indoor toilet to clean ourselves in…as
opposed to an open field beside 15 men and boys roasting a goat, like last
night. I did some interesting bucket yoga to get my head into the water. Hips
and shoulders getting sore and bruised from my bag, and my ankle is definitely messed
up…not sure what will happen over the next couple of days. Will see what
tomorrow brings.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ndxedXJ01zw/U75hPPnAxGI/AAAAAAAAAcs/CYnVD2EdPyM/s1600/Photo+6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ndxedXJ01zw/U75hPPnAxGI/AAAAAAAAAcs/CYnVD2EdPyM/s1600/Photo+6.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0j0AeFTJUEI/U75hOEwNOeI/AAAAAAAAAck/9JIFd1erw-4/s1600/Photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0j0AeFTJUEI/U75hOEwNOeI/AAAAAAAAAck/9JIFd1erw-4/s1600/Photo+5.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aFxnjuFJ1yE/U75hRzDKPuI/AAAAAAAAAc8/ZPh4r-v5P78/s1600/Photo+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aFxnjuFJ1yE/U75hRzDKPuI/AAAAAAAAAc8/ZPh4r-v5P78/s1600/Photo+7.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">Hard and steep climb today over wet, slippery, loose stones. At least
it’s one more thing we don’t have to do tomorrow though. Weather is getting
much chillier too. Spent most of the day walking through clouds, but when the
sun did shine it was pretty spectacular – deep, lush valleys, and we even
managed to see the real mountains for a few minutes this morning. Another
positive is that we haven’t had much rain to contend with – a bit of wet
mistiness every so often, but nothing too heavy. We never got drenched, not
even in sweat, unlike yesterday. Now we’re just sitting in the dining room in
front of the fire that’s warming my back, as well as drying out damp clothes
while waiting for my daal bhat. Life = not so bad. :)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Trek Day 3:</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"> Monday, June 30, 2014<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Mangangoth, 3220m to Gopte,
3440m</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yclwBu5Bps4/U75iGMs0MYI/AAAAAAAAAd0/v3rEyjx5LjE/s1600/Photo+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yclwBu5Bps4/U75iGMs0MYI/AAAAAAAAAd0/v3rEyjx5LjE/s1600/Photo+9.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bVbuUwgXOdQ/U75iGpIWakI/AAAAAAAAAd4/eK8nduzFWLY/s1600/Photo+8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bVbuUwgXOdQ/U75iGpIWakI/AAAAAAAAAd4/eK8nduzFWLY/s1600/Photo+8.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Noon: stuck in a rainstorm in Gopte. Everything soaked. The rain cover I
bought for my bag has not proved itself to be the most valuable investment
ever. I officially have to dry pants. We want to make it on to Phedi today, but
we’ll need a drastic change in weather to see that happen (and soon). It’s
apparently a three-hour walk, and we’ve been warned by two people not to go in
the rain. Apparently there are many streams that cross the path and in heavy
rain they can become violent and have washed people away in the past. So for
now we’re going to have some lunch, wait a bit and see what happens. If it
doesn’t stop by 2:00ish I think we’re stuck here for the night. This morning’s
walk was great though. Beautiful trail. Not too difficult a climb.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wW3YU0oDgNI/U75iAWgs8PI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/y1gwvNpRbp0/s1600/Photo+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wW3YU0oDgNI/U75iAWgs8PI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/y1gwvNpRbp0/s1600/Photo+10.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Now wearing a pair of extra boxers of Quintin’s (unworn)…a bit weird,
but the only dry thing. Rain is just getting harder. Seen Desmond pissed. I’m
feeling about the same. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">With every day comes a new reason why we won’t make it where we
originally planned to (Tserko Ri). Not enough time, short on money, messed up
ankle, and now: rain delays. A part of me just wants to get through this as
quickly as possible so I can get this ankle checked out. I think I may have
sprained it at this point. Also, I have started to reason with myself that if I
get back to Kathmandu earlier than expected it just means more time I can use
to try and network myself into a job – also worthwhile at this point.
If I have a job I can come back and trek again… hopefully with a fully
functioning body. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tSP4bzE1RKo/U75h_tlF0fI/AAAAAAAAAdM/Gk0fSuBZNTI/s1600/Photo+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tSP4bzE1RKo/U75h_tlF0fI/AAAAAAAAAdM/Gk0fSuBZNTI/s1600/Photo+11.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">2:00pm: Rain still going strong. We’re officially here for the night.
The guy at the guest house is young…super annoying, and seemingly completely
incompetent. Sean is directing/supervising his attempts to start a fire…and
chop wood. We tore a few pages out of my notebook to use a kindling, then, as
we were lighting them and placing then under logs the guy says: “I have idea.”
Wanders off, returns with a small pot of gas and throw it in…safety always:
dead last here in Nepal. Sean has now chopped some proper kindling with a big
kukri knife and the fire seems to be catching. Hopefully: dry things to soon
follow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tntClig4hUo/U75iDzsYSQI/AAAAAAAAAds/3uumqpsjOwo/s1600/Photo+13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tntClig4hUo/U75iDzsYSQI/AAAAAAAAAds/3uumqpsjOwo/s1600/Photo+13.JPG" height="133" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So basically we’re perched on the face of a large, rocky mountain,
nothing but sheer up and sheer down on either side, waiting for torrential rains
to let up. At least it’s pretty. When the mist lifts we can see massive
waterfalls gushing from the side of the slope just above us. I’ve tried to
capture it in a photo, but I can’t do the scene any true justice. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">4:00pm: Drying is going only so-so. I managed to melt the back of Sean’s
long-sleeved, Marmot trekking shirt. Not on a great run after burning two pairs
of my own socks on last night’s fire. Quintin’s things are next…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Contemplated trying to dry the map by the fire for a split second…then
decided we really needed the map.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SrltrZo6VWI/U75iEUmRlNI/AAAAAAAAAdw/OrmT1V5gw7A/s1600/Photo+15.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SrltrZo6VWI/U75iEUmRlNI/AAAAAAAAAdw/OrmT1V5gw7A/s1600/Photo+15.JPG" height="133" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It’s times like these though that I am thankful for Sean and his
survival skills as well as his domestic training. He is much more pro at this
fire drying business thing than I am. He’s totally channelling Super Dad right
now…Super Wilderness Dad. I put my shoes by the fire to dry and when I turned
around to check on them he had removed the liners and repositioned them to dry
better. Wilderness Dad to the rescue!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He does not seem to like this new name…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Trek Day 4: Tuesday, July 1,
2014<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Gopte, 3440m to Gosaikunda,
4380m<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--NpCHNPUfHY/U75kFCv1KmI/AAAAAAAAAeg/AJzdyE4svr8/s1600/Photo+18.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--NpCHNPUfHY/U75kFCv1KmI/AAAAAAAAAeg/AJzdyE4svr8/s1600/Photo+18.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BffAQd_rf0k/U75kFIh_XYI/AAAAAAAAAec/ysMKAYkUOj0/s1600/Photo+17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BffAQd_rf0k/U75kFIh_XYI/AAAAAAAAAec/ysMKAYkUOj0/s1600/Photo+17.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Happy Canada Day! I feel like I want to die. What a brutal day. From
Gopte early this morning we made it to Gosaikunda by 2:00pm – over a 4610m
mountain pass…I have such a raging headache and feel so nauseous that it could
very well be the day after Canada Day and I could be madly hungover. I feel
like I might vomit. I felt that way most of the climb up to the pass. I almost
wanted to cry going up that hill today. After tea at Phedi (3700m): 1000m
straight up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many times I
didn’t think I could keep going. I didn’t want to. My throat was bone dry, my
lungs were burning, my head was pounding, my stomach was angry and seriously
contemplating rebellion, my ankle was throbbing and unstable and I was dizzy,
picking my way up a steep slope of wet, slippery, loose stones. I thought it
would go away once we came down…so far: no such luck.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JsTAjo1s1xY/U75kDxr759I/AAAAAAAAAeU/SO6Cja-Efiw/s1600/Photo+19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JsTAjo1s1xY/U75kDxr759I/AAAAAAAAAeU/SO6Cja-Efiw/s1600/Photo+19.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Had a terrible sleep last night too. Second night in a row. The first
night I had a bit of an upset stomach and a hard time sleeping. Last night I
drifted in and out of sleep battling intense nausea, a pounding headache and
feeling short of breath. It was so weird. We weren’t even up that high…and it
got better the closer morning came. The night was miserable though. This morning
I woke up and still didn’t feel wonderful, but I was determined to just make it
through today – the toughest day. We had a plan to order breakfast from a guesthouse
in Phedi, owned by the brother of the guy whose place we stayed last night in,
and eat it when we arrived there at 9:00am, after departing Gopte at 6:00am. However,
of course…that didn’t work out so well when he came into the dining room at
about 6:00am with our entire breakfast order…20 minutes after I asked him for
water that he still hadn’t gotten. With my head pounding I almost snapped. So
we asked him to pack it. This entailed him rifling through a magazine rack for
what felt like hours (but in reality was probably about five minutes) until he
found an old dusty book, tore a few pages out of it and proceeded to wrap it
around our food…not very effectively, I might add. I gave Sean a startled look,
but he just laughed it off, so I didn’t say anything. Still no fucking water!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2fr5lE5Qnpg/U75kIUAgXBI/AAAAAAAAAe0/yD6FUBlfq2A/s1600/Photo+20.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2fr5lE5Qnpg/U75kIUAgXBI/AAAAAAAAAe0/yD6FUBlfq2A/s1600/Photo+20.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway…we packed our food, finally got some damn water, and then ate and
had tea at his brother’s place in Phedi when we arrived…refuelling before
tackling Laurabina Pass (4610m). Now that we’re in Gosaikunda I’m eating some
garlic soup for lunch…a natural method of combating altitude sickness…and
vampires. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uMmrKUOMpf4/U75kG1zCB8I/AAAAAAAAAes/KPA588uHP44/s1600/Photo+21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uMmrKUOMpf4/U75kG1zCB8I/AAAAAAAAAes/KPA588uHP44/s1600/Photo+21.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">5:00pm: I still have a throbbing headache, and feel a bit like I need to
barf. I’m not really hungry, but feel I should eat, so I ordered my nightly
daal bhat anyway. Sean has finally worn me down on taking the preventative dose
of Diamox, and anti-altitude sickness drug. I think I must just have a bit of
flu or something from getting a chill yesterday, but I’ve relented nonetheless,
mostly because we’re making plans to try and climb a nearby peak tomorrow (Surya,
5125m), and I don’t want to end up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really
</i>sick. Also, considering my ankle is still all messed up, it’s probably wise
if at least some part of me functions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I had really wanted to avoid using any drugs for this. Makes me feel a
bit weak…considering we’re really not going all that high (for Nepal). And who
knows…it’s probably just a flu/cold from getting drenched yesterday. But, I
guess it’s better safe than sorry. I really wish I had Lama with me today. He
would know what to do. The rest of us are really just playing a guessing game.
I don’t think I’ll do this again without a guide. There are really so many ways
things could have been easier…food, lodging, language, important sites…the list
goes on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VToDw3Zhtkw/U75kIddAbvI/AAAAAAAAAe4/XcuYrCp_Q6o/s1600/Photo+22.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VToDw3Zhtkw/U75kIddAbvI/AAAAAAAAAe4/XcuYrCp_Q6o/s1600/Photo+22.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">7:00pm: I’m having an internal battle with myself. My headache is not
going away. If anything: it’s just getting stronger. And even though I managed
to eat, that also didn’t make me feel any better. Still nauseous. I have no
idea what’s going on. It’s the most frustrating thing. I feel terrible, but I
don’t know why. No one gets sick from altitude this low! Especially considering
this started at barely more than 3000m. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i>
just be regularly sick. But, on the other hand, if it <i>is</i> altitude then
it could be serious, and I really do not want to end up a name on a stone along
the path with a scarf wrapped around it, like all the other graves we have seen
along the way. So I don’t want to die – obviously; but I also don’t want to be
that person who ruins everyone’s vacation by being a drama queen about catching
a cold! What to do...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I just wish I <i>knew</i> what I was supposed to be feeling, what’s
normal, what all these different symptoms add up to…but I really only have a
rudimentary understanding of altitude sickness. I guess I just never considered
that we could face this problem on such a simple, straightforward trek. But
none of us really <i>know</i> anything; we’re all just making guesses, and
assumptions, and assuming it’s <i>not</i> the worst case scenario. I don’t want
to, but I can’t silence the little voice in the back of my head that keeps
asking me: “what if it <i>is</i> the worst case scenario?” If we had a guide,
our guide would know. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I talked to the guys about my internal battle. Quintin borrowed the
Lonely Planet of some French guys who are also staying in our guesthouse and
used the Langtang-Gosaikunda section to plot out our route, with altitudes, so
far. When we arrived today at 2:00pm we had enough time to go on, but it was
raining, I felt like I was ready to collapse, and our map listed the altitude
of Lake Gosaikunda at 3480m. Considering how I was feeling, I told the guys I
would prefer to stay here rather than at the next town, Laurabina, 3900m. The
lower the better, just in case it <i>was</i> the altitude making me feel so
terrible. According to Lonely Planet, however, Gosaikunda isn’t at 3480m, it’s
at 4380m – meaning that we’re about 1000m higher than we were last night, and
have officially blown our safe climbing and resting heights right out of the
water. But what can we do about it now? It’s already dark, so moving on isn’t a
safe option. We’ve decided to wait and see what the morning brings. They tell
me to wake them up, at any time, if things get worse throughout the night –
like if I start vomiting, develop new symptoms, or can’t sleep at all. It’s the
only thing we really can do right now: play it by ear. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Lama would have a coronary if he were reading this. He would tell me to
get straight down the mountain straight away. Maybe that’s the right answer. I
said I wished he were here; maybe channelling his opinion is good enough for
now. Maybe it will have to be. For now I’ll have wait and see what the morning,
and tonight, bring. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span lang="EN-GB">Day 9:</span></b><b><span lang="EN-GB"> Sunday, July 6,
2014<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Kathmandu, 1400m<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Not so much trekking anymore...things went downhill very quickly after
that last entry. Literally! And figuratively. Allow me to explain:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I woke up and it was still dark. Head pounding just as bad or worse than
earlier. Laboured breathing. Suppressing the urge to vomit. Shivering under
three blankets, even though my face felt hot against my hand. Impossible to get
back to sleep. I lay in bed for a long time, maybe an hour, waiting for
morning. I knew that Sean would knock on my door at 5:15am, and I would just
have to tell him that I was sorry, but I couldn’t make it on today, that I
would have to go down. I thought 5:15 couldn’t possibly be very far away.
Finally, when the night and the pain felt so relentless that I <i>needed</i> to
know how close the relief of morning was, I turned on my phone (I had been
trying to save the 5% remaining battery). It was 10:45pm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I did not want to wake them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat cross-legged on my bed for several minutes, staring at
the diving wall between our rooms, trying to figure out what to do. I really
did not want to wake them, but I didn’t know what else to do, and I was
starting to get scared. I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the morning in the
status quo. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Guys...” I tried calling softly through the wall. No sign of movement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Guys,” I ventured a little more loudly. Rolling over. No response. I
contemplated for a few more minutes and then leaned over the bed and knocked on
the wall. Definite movement this time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Guys?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“Yeah?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">“I think I have a problem.” A minute of rustling around as they made
their way out of sleeping bags and into shoes later and both Sean and Quintin
appeared in my room, sitting on the second bed, opposite me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Wilderness Dad and Mom did their assessment of the situation. Sean
confirmed that I had a fever while Quintin checked my pulse and we all discussed
what to do. Often when altitude sickness is suspected a helicopter is called in
order to rapidly get the affected person to treatment in Kathmandu. In our
case, that wasn’t an option. There was no cell phone reception, there was no
land line, and according to Sean who had stayed up later the night before
discussing possible options if I didn’t get any better with the owner of the
guesthouse: the closest phone was a two hour walk away. Even if calling was an
option, the thick fog coating the hills around us would have made landing a helicopter
in the area impossible until morning. After some discussion Quintin and Sean
decided I should take another half tablet of Diamox and Quintin mixed me up a
litre of water with oral rehydration salts. I was in no state to question
anything, even though I knew that none of us really knew what we were doing.
They told me to drink the water and see how I felt in 45 minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Within 30 minutes I started coughing. But nothing else got any better.
When I went to bed a few hours earlier I didn’t have a fever, now I did; when I
woke up I didn’t have a cough, now I did. Ailments just seemed to be multiplying.
When Sean and Quintin came back our conversation went something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Quintin</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: “Any change?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Me</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: “No.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Sean</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: “Okay, well
considering you’re coughing now, you probably do just have a cold or flu, but
the altitude certainly isn’t helping. So we need to eliminate the altitude
factor as soon as possible.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Me</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: “We still can’t
go anywhere until it’s daylight though. It’s even less safe to be wandering
around in the dark at altitude, not knowing where we’re going.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Sean</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: “I already
talked to the owner about this being a possibility. He’s not thrilled with the
idea, but he’s agreed to guide us down to the next town at 3500m, about three
hours walk from here.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Me</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: “Okay. Are you
sure?” They confirmed that they both thought it was the best option. “Then
let’s get ready.” They had both already packed. Sean took all of the heavy
things that I had off my bed to jam into his own bag, leaving me with just a
sleeping bag and a few items of clothing. The boys went and woke up the old man
who owned the lodge while I got dressed in my warm clothes and full winter
jacket. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At 1:00am on July 2, while a light snow fell softly, crystallizing the
grass along the path, we walked out of Gosaikunda. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was eerie. I could hear water running, and I knew the
giant mountains were all around us, but everything was black. I couldn’t see
anything except what was directly in front of me, illuminated by my headlamp.
It was clear that the trail dropped off abruptly, falling away for who knows
how far into who knows what. All I knew is that there was a mountain on one
side and a drop into nothingness on the other. I tried to walk straight. According
to Sean, who stuck close behind me, I was only partially successful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">About 15 to 20 minutes after we set out we had to start climbing. The
stairs up to the pass on the opposite side of the lake were not too
challenging, or too long, compared to what we had traversed almost every other
day of the trek; but, at that moment, for me, they became the straw that broke
the camel’s back. When we reached the top I had to stop, I was practically
gulping air, and when I tried to drink some water to sooth my dry throat I
started to throw up. I had been trying so hard, for so long, to not throw up,
and I just couldn’t stop it anymore. Until that moment I had been comforting
myself with the fact that at least I hadn’t thrown up yet – it couldn’t be <i>that</i>
bad if I hadn’t thrown up. Which was stupid – not throwing up because you’re
using every bit of energy you have to stop yourself from throwing up does not
mean you’re not dangerously ill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sean asked if I wanted to rest, but I didn’t. After that I was
officially scared about what the hell what happening to me, and about how much
time I had to get it fixed. I just wanted to get the hell out of there as
quickly as possible, and get as far down as possible. I kept throwing up as we
walked down, a few more times. Sean held me up by my bag so that I didn’t lose
my balance and fall. But besides those quick pauses we didn’t stop walking. It
was a bit like a drive-by vomit situation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Mercifully, the rest of the walk predominantly a gentle downhill, and
didn’t take much physical exertion. Regardless, after 45 minutes Quintin
insisted on carrying my bag to make it quicker and easier for me. Moving
forward himself in the dark with his own bag on his back and my back on his
front, blocking his view of his feet on the path.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">(For obvious reasons there are no photos of this part of the trek)<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">By 3:00am we had reached Cholangpati (3584m). The old man guiding us
made it very clear that he did not want continue any further, and woke up the
owners of one of the two guest houses in town. They opened up and let us in.
Sean and Quintin discussed trying to get even lower, but after consulting the
map they realized that the next town was at least an hour away, we would only
lose an extra 200m by getting there, and the path was much more complicated.
Without a guide any longer, it made more sense to wait for daylight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At least this place had a phone. Sean used it to call the United Nations
Security Focal Point, Roshan, to get his advice and make some arrangements for
our next steps. I didn’t feel any better, but Quintin suggested that I should
lie down and try to rest. The woman who owned the lodge showed me to a room and
gave me a big blanket. I only took my shoes off, lying down on the bed still
zipped up in my winter jacket and wearing my wool hat. Despite being tired, I
was afraid of closing my eyes...just in case I didn’t open them again. Maybe it
was an irrational fear to have, but like everything: it came from all the
things I didn’t know. I knew that altitude sickness could be fatal. I knew that
the symptoms I had had come on quickly. But I didn’t know what exactly I was suffering
from. I knew that I probably needed to get to a hospital, and that there was a
reason why helicopters were the first choice to get there under normal circumstances.
I didn’t know how much time I had to get there, and I didn’t know what the
consequences of not getting there quickly enough could be. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In the end, sleep won out for at least a couple of hours. When I woke up
Sean was crashed out in his sleeping bag on the bed beside mine – probably to
monitor me in case things got any worse. He had worked out a plan with Roshan a
few hours earlier while I slept. We would have to keep walking out to Dhunche,
the nearest city, where the road finally meets the path, and he would have an ambulance
waiting there to take us back to Kathmandu. There was no vehicular access any
closer than Dhunche, which Quintin estimated to be about 4 hours away, given
our average walking pace. Roshan suggested that if I couldn’t walk there was a
military post close by and he could have some of the army guys come and carry
me down to Dhunche; however, I was fairly convinced that being bounced along on
someone’s back down a steep, rocky trail would <i>definitely</i> make me feel
worse than walking, so we politely declined that offer. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vz3fyrivkN8/U75kJ-6UH-I/AAAAAAAAAfE/ZeG-5qC2QmU/s1600/Photo+23.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vz3fyrivkN8/U75kJ-6UH-I/AAAAAAAAAfE/ZeG-5qC2QmU/s1600/Photo+23.JPG" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you see the path? Look for the backpack.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We left Cholangpati at 7:00am, descending basically straight down 1500m
along a very steep path. Knees? Nah! Those are useless now. Of course, at the
very last minute, there was also some precarious uphill, over a set of uneven
stairs carved into a rock face – because why not? Finally, at 11:30am we came
out on a road navigable by a four wheeled vehicle. The ambulance met us not far
from that point. We loaded our bags and ourselves into it and decided to skip
the Dhunche hospital and head straight for Kathmandu. I assumed that if I was
still alive at this point, that I could probably survive another few hours. The
wisdom of that decision was confirmed when we drove past the Rasuwa District
Health Post – basically a small tin shack. Sean made my sleeping bag a pillow
and I laid down in the back of the ambulance, drifting in and out of consciousness
for the next few hours. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Now when I say “ambulance” I know the image that springs into your mind
is one of a properly medically equipped vehicle with trained professionals. But
do not let the cross-cultural homonym fool you. That is not what is meant by
ambulance here in Nepal. Here, ambulance means 30 year old Mahindra jeep with a
bed in the back driven by a teenager who likes to play with the siren for fun,
stops to chat with a number of his buddies along the way and tries to take
pictures of you on his cell phone camera. It’s basically just a slightly more
expensive private vehicle…that gets you noticed right away when you pull up to
the hospital, which in this case was what made it all worth it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-GB">At Norvic International Hospital I was taken directly to a bed in
emergency. Zero wait time. They didn’t even waste time ensuring I was
registered first. They asked if I had medical insurance, but didn’t bother with
the details until later that evening. I gave Sean my wallet as I got out of the
ambulance and the guys took care of paying the driver and having him provide a receipt,
so that I could claim the costs through insurance (considering that he had to
write out this receipt by hand, in my notebook, in Nepali, I would say the
chances of me getting any money back for that are pretty much non-existent). By
the time Sean and Quintin got everything sorted outside and found me in
Emergency I had already talked to a couple of doctors, they had checked all my
vitals, given me a chest x-ray, had me fill in a form to get me registered and
provided a diagnosis. Dr. Pande, an older man who would become my regular
doctor during my stay, told me that was suffering from the early symptoms of </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High-altitude_pulmonary_edema">high altitude pulmonary edema</a></span><span lang="EN-GB"> (HAPE), an
advanced form of altitude sickness. He justified our decision to walk down the mountain
in the middle of the night by telling me that it was a very good thing I came
down, and that if I had not done so I would have ended up with full blown HAPE
and HACE (</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HACE">high
altitude cerebral edema</a></span><span lang="EN-GB">). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">After quickly strategizing how we would stay in touch, Sean and Quintin
took my things home as they were shooed out by a nurse who needed to give me an
ECG and stick me with an IV. Later that evening when my roommate Alex and
friend Sibylle showed up with the change of clothes and charged cell phone I
had requested Sean ask them to bring, I was resting in a private room with a
bag of fluids dripping into my arm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Alex and Sibylle stayed for a couple of hours, and other friends (Dan
and Nikola) came to visit as well. I slept early, and by the following day I
was feeling much better – almost back to my pre-trekking self. I had an appetite
again – Sean brought me breakfast and a latte from the café downstairs in the
morning. When Alex and Sibylle came for their daily visit Dr. Pande was there
and said he would discharge me in the morning. As I went to sleep that night
there was just a faint, dull ache in my skull.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, nothing can be that simple. At 3:00am I was woken up by
searing pain in my head. The nurses gave me an Asprin. Obviously…that did
nothing, and I couldn’t sleep. At 6:00am: another Asprin. Still nothing. When
Dr. Pande came in at 8:00am he was shocked at the difference from the previous
night. A CT scan, examination by a neurologist, numerous (and various) pain
killers and another night in the hospital later and the pain persisted; the
diagnosis was that I had a migraine. Three different doctors told me that this
was not uncommon as a sort of after-effect of the altitude, it could be brought
on by stress, anxiety or other strong emotions. There is no set prognosis for
how long it might last. As with altitude sickness, it varies from one person to
the next. Despite the fact that they wanted to keep me admitted for longer, I
insisted that if there was no risk of anything more severe and they were just
going to treat me with oral medication that I would be more comfortable at
home. I was discharged Saturday morning “on request” and Sibylle came to the
hospital to collect me and my things and take me home with codeine infused
analgesics, anti-anxiety drugs, anti-nauseants and strict orders for two days
of bed rest. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Alex and Sibylle acted as wonderful nurses over the next couple of days,
attending to me through more headaches, fever and a little extra vomiting
thrown in for good measure. Finally, four days after returning from what was (in
the end) about a four day trek, I am starting to feel like a normal human being
again. I still have a headache, but it is allowing itself to be medically
controlled fairly effectively. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">People keep saying things to me like: “Ahhh wow, that’s a really bad
experience. At least you’ll know more for next time now!” And I keep thinking:
Next time? What next time? I think my enjoyment of mountains from now on will
be limited to what I know: getting a chair lift to take you up to the top at a
safe altitude and skiing down!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When I look back now over what happened, and what I wrote up there I
realize that I was crazy to think it could have been anything other than the
altitude making me sick. But I guess that’s why hindsight is always 20/20. At
the time I really didn’t think it could be the culprit, considering how low we
were when I started feeling sick. It seemed impossible. I also didn’t want to
be overly dramatic and ruin everyone’s trek if it was just a bit of the flu.
But no matter how I think about it – as it was happening, and now, in
retrospect – it always comes right back to the same thing: we should have had a
guide.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The worst part about everything that happened was not being sick, it was
being scared, and completely in the dark about what was going on. It was
realizing that I might be playing a guessing game with my own existence. That
was when I recognized that having a guide wasn’t about bringing someone with
you to show you what path to walk up; it was about bringing someone with you
that you could trust to make a potentially critical decision about your life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When everything goes well you don’t think about these things. But things
don’t always go well, and when they don’t you don’t want to be playing WebMD
based on the little you can remember from pre-trekking reading. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Just having a guide doesn’t necessarily check those boxes though. When
you hire a guide you should go with one that has a good reputation or has been
recommended to you, if possible. Like I said: it should be someone that you
feel you can basically trust your life to. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">To be perfectly clear: Sean and Quintin were amazing! They did <i>everything</i> they possibly could to help
me, and I will never be able to thank them enough for that. But, in the future,
if I ever <i>do</i> trek again, there’s at least
one more person that I’m going to make sure is with me. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Optima;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-11374647670690898942013-10-28T03:09:00.001-07:002013-10-28T08:28:36.047-07:00Now for something a little different...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A couple of weeks ago I had the immense pleasure of attending (for the most part) the wedding of two people I absolutely adore. One of my best friends in the world and my "best friend by proximity" (in his own words): Emily Wilch and Eric Nolan. It was a long (and not without its share of disasters) journey, from Kathmandu all the way to Muskoka, Ontario, but I can honestly say that I'm not sure anything has ever been more worthwhile in my whole life.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0fp1BNjN38w/Um4uGpNe5LI/AAAAAAAAAVM/uNmPpE8Kc7M/s1600/1280877_692186040809565_1365404041_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="468" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0fp1BNjN38w/Um4uGpNe5LI/AAAAAAAAAVM/uNmPpE8Kc7M/s640/1280877_692186040809565_1365404041_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This wedding photo stolen from the Facebook page of Emily and Eric's wonderful photographer: Chad Munro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So, here's the story:<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2ORFr0CYfmc/Um40S-G_LdI/AAAAAAAAAWs/eAzoAtr1Szs/s1600/em+and+eric.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2ORFr0CYfmc/Um40S-G_LdI/AAAAAAAAAWs/eAzoAtr1Szs/s320/em+and+eric.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Em and Eric at my first Christmas Party</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have known Emily and Eric ever since I was 18 years old, when I started at Carleton University. Emily lived on the same floor in residence as I did, and she started dating Eric almost immediately. Emily took second year off, moving back to Toronto, but I continued to run into Eric around campus periodically. One day I ran into him and he told me that Emily was planning on returning to Ottawa the following school year, and he was helping her look for a place to live. As it turned out, one of my four roommates was moving out, and we were looking for someone else to live with us. The next year, Emily moved in and we all stayed together in that house until graduation. We all got to know both Emily and Eric quite well over those years. When I moved to Australia after graduation Emily and another former roommate, Amanda, even sent me a special Christmas package from home. When I moved back to Ottawa I lived on her couch (and sometimes in her bed, until she got too snuggly) until I found a job and an apartment (close enough that we could still drink wine together several nights a week).<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iC9UOCeXnk0/Um40SmSQaLI/AAAAAAAAAWo/umSiCqHfAgA/s1600/sangria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iC9UOCeXnk0/Um40SmSQaLI/AAAAAAAAAWo/umSiCqHfAgA/s320/sangria.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And sometimes sangria</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vJSUBbIHn0A/Um4zUypCW7I/AAAAAAAAAWA/ZKYwBbu-7ow/s1600/wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vJSUBbIHn0A/Um4zUypCW7I/AAAAAAAAAWA/ZKYwBbu-7ow/s320/wine.jpg" width="214" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LoizELKKVEM/Um4zUR1ZobI/AAAAAAAAAV8/Nz1eG1sTkpM/s1600/rafting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LoizELKKVEM/Um4zUR1ZobI/AAAAAAAAAV8/Nz1eG1sTkpM/s320/rafting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When I moved apartments a few months later (even closer) Emily spent the entire day helping me move out (even packing at least half of my stuff and cleaning my old apartment afterwards). She worked on zero sleep (due to an ill-timed but very fun impromptu overnight rafting trip the previous day), calling in sick for an afternoon shift at the restaurant she worked at to keep helping me and eventually going to her evening shift sans nap. When Emily and Eric decided to move in together to another part of town, my new roommate and I followed a few months later.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I left to work in Helsinki for the summer it finally happened: they got engaged. We had all been waiting for this for several months, due to Emily's "hunch" that it was coming...based on (some might say "happening upon" others would say "snooping in") Eric's credit card statement. I was very happy for the two of them, and wished I could be there to raise a glass to their future properly. Alas, the Atlantic divided us, and by the time I got home they had already moved to Toronto to pursue some further schooling. The engagement lasted about two years, and the wedding was planned for September 21, 2013.<br />
<br />
In May 2013 I got the amazing news that I had been chosen for this placement with the UNDP in Nepal, and that I would be leaving for Nepal in a mere month, not to return until December. Through my excitement about the new door opening up in my life, I thought about the wedding, and the idea of not being there just felt deeply wrong. So I named a price in my head and made a deal with myself: if I could find a flight back under $1500 and I could get the time off work, I would come back for the wedding. It seems like a lot, and for a person who was on a virtually unpaid internship it certainly gave me pause once or twice. But something my Dad has said to me on occasion rang in my ears when that would happen: "You know what Bronwyn: it's only money, and at the end of the day you can't take any of it with you." When it came right down to it: I knew that I would be friends with Emily and Eric my entire life, and years from now, when we're all hanging out together at their cottage, I wanted to be able to tell their kids that I saw their parents get married. So I decided that these things were what life is all about, and that they mean more than money.<br />
<br />
Even though I wanted to get settled in the new job before I started asking for time off, I commenced my flight search almost immediately. By late June I had found a round-trip flight from Kathmandu to Toronto for just over $1000, and even though I hadn't asked if I could take the time off, I booked it. Easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission, right? The plan was to leave Nepal the Friday morning before the wedding, and the 19 hour flight with Turkish Airlines would get me into Toronto at 7:00pm on Friday evening. Enough time to get to Muskoka, go to bed and wake up in the morning to get ready for the big day.<br />
<br />
In early August the Tribhuvan International Airport began to have issues. The runway was deteriorating, and the appearance of cracks forced the entire airport to shut down three times in a single week. When the situation didn't improve I began to get worried about my trip. I had a one hour connection in Istanbul, and if a delay in Kathmandu caused me to miss it, I might not make it to the wedding. So I called Turkish Airlines in early September, asking if I should change my flight to the Thursday, in order to ensure that I made it on time. I stressed that I didn't want to take any risks because arriving on time was of the utmost importance. The friendly gentleman on the other end of the phone assured me that delays were only experienced in the afternoon, and there would be no problem at all with my 8:30am flight. If I wanted to, I could change for a Wednesday flight, but there was no flight on Thursday anyway. Reassured, I thanked him and left my ticket as it was.<br />
<br />
The week of the wedding finally arrived. I felt like a little kid waiting eagerly for Christmas day. I couldn't wait to see everyone and to celebrate with the bride and groom. Then, at 3:00am on Wednesday morning I woke up with a bad feeling. Something was not right in my stomach. I ran for it and made it to the toilet bowl just in time to empty most of the contents of my dinner into it. I returned to bed, only to sleep fitfully and have to race back to the washroom again two hours later. By 7:00am I was choking back tiny sips of water, sitting on the cool tile of the bathroom floor, unable to move more than a few feet away from the toilet. When I wasn't feeling any better that evening my boyfriend decided to take me to the hospital. After some blood tests they determined that I had some type of gastro-intestinal infection. I was confused because for the last 48 hours I had eaten only home-cooked meals, and hadn't drank any water that wasn't filtered. After some detective work (and discovering that my toothbrush bristles were brown) we discerned that the cleaning lady had (probably accidentally) used my toothbrush to clean the bathroom. I wish I was kidding. Anyway, the doctor gave me a few medications to take and cleared me to fly the following day. At that time it looked like deciding not to change my flight had been a very good decision.<br />
<br />
I woke up at 5:00am on Friday morning, showered, got dressed in comfortable clothes for travelling and got a ride to the airport for 6:30am, two hours ahead of my flight departure. I got through the airport doors with my bags and went to check what counter I had to check in at. The first thing that flashed on the screen at me was: DELAYED (by two hours). Considering I had one hour to transit in Istanbul, this was not at all promising. I begged the people at check-in to help me, the people at the boarding gate, the flight attendants, other Turkish Airline employees milling about the airport. I explained my situation. I told them I had been guaranteed that the flight would take off on time and not to re-schedule. They waved off my concerns, told me I still had plenty of time. Which was quite obviously...not true. When I broke it down again and again, asked them if they could call ahead, if they could get me on a different flight from Istanbul, they all replied with the same maddening phrase: <i>"ground staff will manage you when you arrive."</i> They told me I would definitely get on the next flight to Toronto. I told them the next flight would not arrive until after the wedding and that wasn't good enough. I NEEDED to be there TODAY. <i>"Ground staff will manage you."</i><br />
<br />
I called my mom, had her call Turkish Airlines North America; called my boyfriend, had him call Turkish Airlines Turkey, I tried calling Turkish Airlines Nepal. Mom was the only one who got through. The man told her there was another flight that left Istanbul at 6:00pm (instead of the 2:00pm local time my flight was supposed to leave) went through JFK and would arrive in Toronto Saturday morning. But he wouldn't change my flight. Ground staff...of course...would manage me when I arrived.<br />
<br />
In the end, my flight was 3 hours late leaving, my flight to Toronto had LONG since departed when I landed in Istanbul, and surprise surprise...ground staff: not so great at managing things. Long story short, I was the last person they helped, everyone else had left and I was still standing there waiting, with no information, for hours while they kept my passport and apparently searched for another flight for me. I'm not going to lie: it's sort of hard to believe that the staff is doing everything they can to help you when one guy is on a computer and 20 others are hanging out, chatting, drinking coffee and eating Turkish delight (literally, no word of an exaggeration, even though it sounds like a bad joke -- which is what I felt my life was becoming). When I tried to impose myself in the office and asked for information I was talked down to and dismissed. One man even turned around and spoke loudly about me to a colleague in English. I can't remember the last time I was treated with more disrespect, especially in a customer oriented business. I told them about the flight through New York and they told me it was too late, not enough time to get me on that flight. They could try to get me on a flight via Frankfurt that would leave in 10 hours and get me into Toronto at 12:20pm on Saturday. What other choice did I have?<br />
<br />
So they gave me a hotel for the night...that took another couple hours to arrange between getting approval for paying my entry visa, pausing to work on "emergency situations" periodically, clearing customs, waiting for the hotel shuttle with 30 other stranded travellers, and taking the 45 minute ride across Istanbul. By the time I arrived at the hotel at 11:00pm I had exactly two hours before the shuttle would arrive again to take me back to the airport in advance of my 4:00am flight. I was told upon check-in that dinner and breakfast were also covered by the airline. Right...because I'm going to eat two meals in the next two hours. I asked where I could get dinner, they told me just here in the hotel. So I went to my room, ordered something simple to be brought up and slept for just under an hour before I got up to take the last shower I knew I would have in advance of the wedding. I had my curling iron in my carry on and planned to get a European power converter in the airport and do my hair during my 3 hour layover in Frankfurt.<br />
<br />
Upon checkout I was charged for my room service because it was "something extra", never mind that that makes no sense, and I didn't actually eat anything else for that to be "extra" on top of. I engaged in a bitter argument with the front desk agent about how ridiculous it was that his hotel was getting money from the airline for two meals and he was going to charge me to eat. I lost. That seemed about right. At this point I was so exhausted that I started to feel like I was going to throw up. But given that my recent experience told me that if I threw up once I wouldn't be able to stop for 24 hours, I held it back and drank as much water as I possibly could.<br />
<br />
About five hours later I was in Frankfurt, I managed to find a toothbrush, toothpaste a small can of hairspray and a power adapter right away, which instantly made me like Germany more than Turkey. Sound logic, right? I ate breakfast at McDonald's (because even though I almost never eat fast food, after living in one of the few countries in the world with no McDonald's something weird gets triggered in your brain when you see those golden arches...you can't stop yourself), then proceeded to the washroom where I found a power outlet at the end of the women's sink area. Another point for Germany. I got a few weird looks while I curled my hair and emptied the tiny can of extra firm hold hairspray onto it, but I was so far beyond caring what anyone else thought of me.The sole thought in my head was a ruthless determination that I would make it to the wedding. In my mind there was no room for any alternative.<br />
<br />
Miraculously, we left Germany on time. Thank you Air Canada! When the meal service commenced I caught the attention of a friendly flight attendant and asked her if, by any chance, my vegetarian meal request had followed me when I switched flights.<br />
<i>"Ohhh, vegetarian..."</i> She gave me a skeptical look. <i>"That will be tricky."</i> What? Vegetarian? How is that NOT the most common special meal request? She returns a few minutes later.<br />
Her -<i> "Hi, hon. I found this one in the back. It says Muslim, but it is vegetarian. Is that okay?"</i><br />
Me -<i> "Oh yes, of course. That's perfect! Thank you so much."</i> She smiled and left me with the tray. I peeled back the foil to find a nice cashew beef curry.......<br />
Me - <i>"Oh hi, sorry. I just wanted to check. Are you SURE this is vegetarian?"</i><br />
Her - <i>"Well what makes you think it's not?"</i> All friendliness gone. I guess asking for a vegetarian meal is fine, but not being okay being tricked is too far.<br />
Me - <i>"Uhh...this....beefy bit."</i> I illustrated by holding a chunk up on my fork.<br />
Her - <i>"Well that's all we had."</i><br />
Me -<i> "Oh I understand, I just don't want to eat it if it's not vegetarian, of course. Could I just have the fish option instead?"</i><br />
Her - <i>"No, I'm sorry, there's only one meal per person." </i>With that she walked off. WHAT? Who the hell were they going to give this meal to then? So no meal for Bronwyn on that flight. The MOST ridiculous part of this though, is that an hour and a half before landing in Toronto, when they start distributing snacks (a choice of veggie or chicken hot wraps) someone brought me my wrap 10 minutes before everyone else and proclaimed: <i>"Your special vegetarian meal."</i> Seriously? Are they just mocking me at this point? There's no other way to express my reaction to that, but:<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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We eventually touched down in Toronto at 12:20pm on Saturday (10:05pm in Kathmandu, and 41 hours since I had slept for more than an hour). Okay, I thought, if I can just get out of this airport by 1:00pm I can make it. The wedding started at 3:00pm, about two hours from Toronto. It would be cutting it close, but I had come so far, I had to believe I was going to make it. <i>Just get me to the church on time...</i> Frank Sinatra's chorus rang on repeat in my ears.<br />
<br />
And you know what? I would have made it, I really would have. Had they not LOST MY %&*($ %&*($% #)(*%($% BAG!!!! Sorry, that part, more than the others still just pushes me over the edge of madness. So, having to wait for EVERY BAG ON THE PLANE to come out, realizing mine wasn't there, going to log a missing baggage claim and nearly jumping across the counter to throttle the agent who told me in his most patronizing voice that <i>"Ma'am, rushing isn't going to do you any good."</i> I bolted through the gates and ran to the waiting car with my mom at 1:39pm.<br />
<i>"Bronwyn, we can't make it in an hour and a half."</i> She shouted after me.<br />
<i>"We have to! We just have to,"</i> I yelled back over my shoulder, as I tore open the car door, tossed my bag into the back seat and dove after it. <i>"Drive!"</i> I barked at my brother who had come for the ride because it was the only time he would see me over my 6 day trip home. <i>"Please."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I changed into my dress, shoes and jewelry (all of which my Mom had brought, or bought, from home for me) and did my make-up in the back seat as we raced down highway 400. When we pulled up to the little country church just after 3:30pm I tumbled from the car with my tiny purse and my camera declaring that I would get a ride home tomorrow.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HstAslES-ok/Um40qoLRSBI/AAAAAAAAAW8/S5y6EjfmBWI/s1600/1240078_10151864376977370_61570055_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HstAslES-ok/Um40qoLRSBI/AAAAAAAAAW8/S5y6EjfmBWI/s320/1240078_10151864376977370_61570055_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><i>"Do you have everything you need?"</i> My mom asked?<br />
<i>"Of course not!"</i> But that didn't really matter. As it turns out, I raced into that church just moments after Emily and Eric said "I do." I made it in time for the last reading, a final prayer and the procession out of the church.<br />
<br />
But once I was there, once there was nothing else in my way, my panic and stress of the past 50+ hours gave way to elation. The wedding was beautiful, the location was a relaxing lakeside oasis, and I was with my best friends. I felt completely at peace, completely content. I felt like everything was right, and I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that moment. I don't think there's any way it could have been a more perfect event.<br />
<br />
So I won't be able to tell Emily and Eric's children that I actually SAW their parents get married. But at least I can say that I was there with them on the day to celebrate, not the beginning, but a new chapter, in an already great story.<br />
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Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-13602362098894753252013-09-13T04:01:00.004-07:002013-09-13T06:34:08.956-07:00Earthquake!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Two weeks ago we got our first, good Kathmandu earthquake scare!<br>
<br>
It was close to midnight on August 30th when the 6.0 magnitude rumble, originating in China's Yunnan province, started to rattle the valley. I was in bed when my door began to insistently clang against its frame. For a moment I thought someone was trying to come in, but as the glass on my chandelier started to clink, I realized that everything was shaking. I must say that even as the understanding dawned on me that it was an earthquake I was entirely calm. <i>Okay, here we go.</i> I thought.<br>
<br>
It didn't last long. It felt a lot like that June 2010 Central Canada Earthquake in some ways -- or any other earthquake I've felt in Ottawa, for that matter. However, unlike in Ottawa, in Kathmandu one cannot assume that a little shake is just that. Here, a little shake could always mean that the big shake is about to come.<br>
<br>
Luckily, we have been trained well by out earthquake savvy colleagues: we got up, got dressed (roughly speaking), got our UN radios and got out. We weren't the only ones. The Korean couple that lives below us exited fully prepped with their stocked GO-Bag in tow. That definitely made us feel a touch under-prepared for the potential devastation we had been warned about since our arrival. I can't tell you how many times I have heard: <i>"Kathmandu is sitting on a Fukashima earthquake with the vulnerability of Port au Prince."</i><br>
<br>
Anyway, we waited outside for bout 30 minutes, listened to updates on the radio channel designated to security, and hoped that it hadn't been a foreshock for the monster earthquake we had been warned to await.<br>
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<br>
In the end it was just a small one, and we went back inside after some time. It definitely wasn't the easiest, or deepest sleep any of us has ever had in our lives though, I can tell you that much. The next day Taryn and I agreed that we should get ourselves properly prepared: bring our own GO-Bags home from the office, stock them with some of our own necessities and not leave the apartment in pajamas and flip flops next time...<br>
<br>
At some point I might have to change the name of this blog to "I'm Still Alive, In Kathmandu!"</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-66442509486578140622013-08-29T05:17:00.003-07:002013-08-29T23:31:25.245-07:00Adventures Gallivanting Through the Mountains in the Back of a White SUV<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">After being deathly ill
with the flu for the past week, I awoke at 6:00 am on Sunday, August 4<sup>th</sup>
and decided that against most people’s advice, I was going to </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dolakha_District"><span lang="EN-GB">Dolakha</span></a><span lang="EN-GB"> for my four day field
visit with Tanya anyway. I climbed into the back of the white Toyota Land
Cruiser with Tanya, our driver Man Kumari and Bina, the MEDEP employee
responsible for Dolakha who was accompanying us, and we set off for the
mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The drive to Charikot –
the district headquarters of Dolakha, 136 km from Kathmandu – takes about five hours due to the fact that most of
the roads look like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bOyu35rWT1A/Uh8x2shdR3I/AAAAAAAAATE/MFDSx_0kfig/s1600/road.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bOyu35rWT1A/Uh8x2shdR3I/AAAAAAAAATE/MFDSx_0kfig/s400/road.bmp" width="316" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cwDTw5X8Pa4/Uh8xV5W6ONI/AAAAAAAAARs/LlP68TdqwLI/s1600/DSC_0045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cwDTw5X8Pa4/Uh8xV5W6ONI/AAAAAAAAARs/LlP68TdqwLI/s320/DSC_0045.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V3caYFHj9PQ/Uh8x3TmYctI/AAAAAAAAATM/yQFNTToMDGY/s1600/DSC_0703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V3caYFHj9PQ/Uh8x3TmYctI/AAAAAAAAATM/yQFNTToMDGY/s320/DSC_0703.jpg" width="214" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Hhahaha, just kidding.
This is actually a very nice road. It’s paved. And a lot straighter than most of
the single lane “highways” we traversed as we slowly wove our way up the steep
mountain slopes to what is understandably known as the roof of the world. Even
from where we were at approximately 3,000 meters, the physical presence of the
snow capped Himalayas is truly awe inspiring. Even though it’s monsoon season,
the clouds cleared enough on that first day for us to see the <u>real</u>
mountains, towering above us, so close I felt like we were tiptoeing at the feet of giants. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">If there are two things
to be said about this drive, they are that: 1) the views were absolutely <u>incredible</u>.
Everywhere I looked I saw stunning, lush green valleys with waterfalls
springing out of the sides of mountains. <o:p></o:p></span>And 2) wow was it ever terrifying at moments!</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PuJ99iOQmS4/Uh8xz7wSmfI/AAAAAAAAAS8/NkvywSGQZhA/s1600/DSC_0662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PuJ99iOQmS4/Uh8xz7wSmfI/AAAAAAAAAS8/NkvywSGQZhA/s640/DSC_0662.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tm1bvt5C6uk/Uh8xGwPThZI/AAAAAAAAARE/_ftkIrVXVbI/s1600/DSC00121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Tm1bvt5C6uk/Uh8xGwPThZI/AAAAAAAAARE/_ftkIrVXVbI/s320/DSC00121.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"></span></div>
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Sometimes we were scared
for others...like all the times we passed tourist buses flying around the sharp corners of
the steep mountain passes, crammed full of people with young men and a few
goats bumping along on the roof (if only it were a joke). At other times we were
definitely scared for ourselves. At one point on Day 1 we came to a roadblock
where a tourist bus had broken down on a diagonal across the narrow dirt road.
Cars were back up on either side of it. I could visibly see the driveshaft broken
off of the front axle and lying on the ground under the bus, so it was clear
that the bus wasn't going to be moving any time soon. We waited for about five
minutes, watching young men peering under the bus and running around trying to
figure out what to do before our driver muttered something in Nepali, sparked
the engine back up and pull around the other waiting cars, towards the bus. It
was clear that she intended to try and get around it. On the side away from the
mountain; the one that dropped off. My side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As Man Kumari approached
the bus, I looked at my phone and wondered if I had enough time to text my mom
and ask her to tell everyone I love them if I go down. Then, in that moment
when I felt my side of the vehicle get slightly lighter as it literally
teetered on the edge of a cliff, I decided that I didn't. But hey, it wouldn't
be Nepal if I didn't seriously consider the fact that it might be the last day
of my life at least three times a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Tanya spent a good
portion of that first day with her eyes closed when something exceptionally
sketchy or dangerous was happening. We joked that I would get her a sleeping
mask and just pull it over her eyes when I saw danger approaching so as to keep
her calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Damn it. I should have written letters to my loved ones to give you,
just in case.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I looked at her
incredulously. <i>“What makes you think I’m
going to survive?!?!”</i> That gave us a good, hearty laugh, one of oh <u>so</u>
many over those four days in Dolakha. It’s funny how nerves and intense panic
can manifest themselves sometimes, isn't it? Personally, I think laughing about
our extremely diminished level of personal safety was the best way to go. If
you have to laugh or cry, I think it’s always better to laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HHASoGb6l1c/Uh81Pq6q8DI/AAAAAAAAATo/0N3HUiJxsCw/s1600/DSC_0563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HHASoGb6l1c/Uh81Pq6q8DI/AAAAAAAAATo/0N3HUiJxsCw/s200/DSC_0563.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-POpXRA4obw8/Uh8w_UdefiI/AAAAAAAAAQo/3ZYv9j7Ozg0/s1600/DSC00042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-POpXRA4obw8/Uh8w_UdefiI/AAAAAAAAAQo/3ZYv9j7Ozg0/s200/DSC00042.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G3FX07B0RIE/Uh81Ps3omMI/AAAAAAAAATs/NLZ3bhie5NI/s1600/DSC_0619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-G3FX07B0RIE/Uh81Ps3omMI/AAAAAAAAATs/NLZ3bhie5NI/s200/DSC_0619.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">It would be impossible
for me to relay everything that happened, because it was just far too much. We
met so many people and visited countless enterprises over those four days, but
I will expand on some of the highlights. The first day was a MEDEP day. We
criss-crossed the district that Sunday, visiting fabric processing, bag making,
weaving and photography micro-enterprises, among others. In typical Nepali
style, we were welcome</span>d warmly everywhere we went with garlands of flowers and
scarves. While I understood that this is simply a Nepali custom for greeting
honoured guests, in some ways it made me feel like we were being accorded too
much importance. Not that I consider myself to be unimportant, but I developed
a heightened awareness of the potential expectations our visit might be
creating for what we were going to be able to do for these people. I made an
effort to manage those expectations through the interactions we were able to
have, by stressing that we were here to gather information and get ideas about
the potential intersections between micro-enterprise and disaster risk
management. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how clear that was, as
communication barriers were one of the main challenges we faced on that trip.
Thinking about it still brings me some concern. I suppose the only thing I can
really do to put my mind at ease is to take what we learned in Dolakha and turn
it into something real, something useful.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MBGsCv9Rx6g/Uh8xzLXvXqI/AAAAAAAAAS4/Ow8C21WkgBc/s1600/DSC_0627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MBGsCv9Rx6g/Uh8xzLXvXqI/AAAAAAAAAS4/Ow8C21WkgBc/s640/DSC_0627.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tanya and Bina after being welcomed at Dhaka fabric weaving enterprise training site</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qkUotXmVLws/Uh8xMG-8_sI/AAAAAAAAARY/OO5YtQcZuYI/s1600/DSC09987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qkUotXmVLws/Uh8xMG-8_sI/AAAAAAAAARY/OO5YtQcZuYI/s320/DSC09987.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CrV1rLmnFKM/Uh8xLtiL-yI/AAAAAAAAARU/hpovOqzttcM/s1600/DSC00187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CrV1rLmnFKM/Uh8xLtiL-yI/AAAAAAAAARU/hpovOqzttcM/s320/DSC00187.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">By 6:00 pm on the first
day we had made it to Singoti, our resting place for the night, and checked
into our “hotel”. To be perfectly honest, we had been preparing
for the worst, so it was a slight step up from that. I was just thankful that
the place wasn't hanging over the edge of a cliff, held up by a few timber
beams, as was the case with a number of other roadside hotels we had passed
throughout the day. Despite that, the beds felt like they were sacks stuffed
with straw, barely covering a wooden plank, the provided bed cover was a dirty
old kid’s fleece blanket, there were a couple small lizards scurrying around
the walls of our room, the entire town was utterly devoid of internet, or even
cell phone reception, and when I sat down on the common room couch to get some
work done I noticed goat droppings beside me. But man...was it ever cheap!!!
They served us dinner (dhal bhat, obviously!), breakfast the next morning and
lunch (dhal bhat...what we ate nearly every meal for four days) and it came to under $20 including the room for the two of us.
Nevertheless, I can’t say it will be top of my vacation hot spots. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Day 2 in Dolakha was
disaster day, and our schedule’s focused shifted from visiting MEDEP projects
to Disaster Risk Management projects, partners and a disaster site. Over
breakfast Bina went over the schedule with us, and suggested a last minute
change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bina – <i>“The road is not good to Sorung Khola. If we
go there we will have to walk two and a half hours in and two and half hours
back. WE will get back late and stay here again. Instead we go to Lapilang. We
only have to walk 15 minutes in and 15 minutes back. Then we stay in Charikot
tonight.”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tanya and I stared at
her blankly. The one place Tanya’s team told us we HAD to visit was this Sorung
Khola project where farmers had been supported to cultivate Cardamom and Broom
Grass as a small enterprise because they were exceptionally good at preserving
soil integrity and preventing landslides. This last minute change wasn't going
to fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“I’m not sure if that will be possible. We
were told we really had to see Sorung Khola,”</i> I started diplomatically; as
much as it pained me to condemn Tanya and me to another night in the luxury
hotel of Singoti. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bina – <i>“It’s same. We can go to Lapilang. They have
Cardamom and Broom Grass.”</i> This seemed like something didn't add up. After
a few more minutes of strained conversation it became apparent that there were
three locations of this particular project. Tanya and I wondered: if it was so
much easier to get to the Lapilang location why hadn't we been told to go there
in the first place. We decided it was safest to get guidance from home base on
the change, so we asked to use the hotel’s landline and called Tanya’s
supervisor. He confirmed that it was fine to change our itinerary, especially
if it was more accessible and would get us back to our hotel before dark. In
the end, good luck was on our side, because as we drove towards Lapilang later
in the day Bina received a call reporting that there had been a landslide in
Sorung Khola earlier in the day. And so Nepal delivered us, once again, from
another near miss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-80zplvmfipo/Uh8xTOehrUI/AAAAAAAAARk/VVgRy-037Hc/s1600/DSC_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-80zplvmfipo/Uh8xTOehrUI/AAAAAAAAARk/VVgRy-037Hc/s320/DSC_0034.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Before we made that trip
though, our first order of the day was to visit the Local Disaster Risk
Management Committee at the site of a large landslide that had killed a family
of four a mere 15 days earlier in the nearby village of Marbu. When we went to
get into the car, we realized that we had accumulated quite the entourage. It
seemed everyone from ECARDS (the local disaster risk management project
partners) was interested in going to see this landslide site. So it ended up being Man Kumari driving, two
men squished together in the passenger seat, Tanya, Bina, myself and Bimal (the
ECARDS project lead) in the back seat, and another man crammed into the hatch
back with all our luggage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The road to Marbu was by
far the worst we drove on the entire trip. There was just barely enough room
for the Land Cruiser along what should have been the hard-packed dirt road, but
had instead been transformed into a ragged, mud slick with the monsoon rains.
We bumped along in our overloaded vehicle, so close to the edge that, had the
car stopped, it would have been impossible to step out of the left side without
falling two to three hundred feet directly into the gorge of the raging Singoti
river below. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Tanya and I had broken
out, periodically, into our nervous laughter again as we avoid contemplating
what seemed to be our imminent death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Are you afraid?”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> Bimal inquired
from the other side of the back seat. The side not staring directly down into
the gorge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Uhhh....welll....just a little nervous...”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> He nodded understandingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Yes. This is my first time coming here by car. I am also a little
afraid.”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Wait...what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“How do you normally come here?”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> I asked, looking at him incredulously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“I walk.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Really? How far is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“12 kilometres.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">TWELVE KILOMETERS!!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It became immediately
apparent why we had so many people crammed into the vehicle, this was their
only opportunity to visit this community without walking a half marathon. It
also immediately brought two fundamental questions to my mind: 1) If the locals
don’t find it safe to travel here by car, why the hell are we doing it?” and 2)
How does the community get access to the basic essentials of life? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p8OroVXnKGM/Uh8xAhVBv1I/AAAAAAAAAQw/86XtbEZoM04/s1600/DSC00015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p8OroVXnKGM/Uh8xAhVBv1I/AAAAAAAAAQw/86XtbEZoM04/s320/DSC00015.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Singoti Hospital</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One of these
questions had been answered, in a way, before we even began the treacherous
journey to Marbu. As we pulled off of the main road we passed a young man
rushing down the road, carrying an uncomfortable looking older woman, piggy
back style, flanked by two other women. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“He is taking her to hospital,”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> Bina answered our unasked question. Similarly,
the following day, as we stopped for tea in a small mountaintop village we saw
a woman lying on the ground with a crowd gathered around her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Is everything okay? Does someone need help?”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> I asked Bina.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Oh yes,”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> she replied breezily as
we watched four men hoist her up on a makeshift stretcher, made of dense cloth
pulled tightly over thick branches, and jog off down the road, bouncing her
along. <i>“She just had baby. They’re taking
her back up the mountain to her home now.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“WHAT?”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> I was unable to hide my
shock. <i>“Where is the baby?”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Green blanket.”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> When we turned
back to look we saw the young woman running after them with the green bundle
clutched in her arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I was a teenager I
used to think that I lived in a remote area, deprived of the essentials city dwellers
took for granted because the Huntsville Place Mall only had one good clothing
store in its tiny mall. Thing like ambulances, hospitals, police and road
safety seemed so fundamental their existence was never questioned. Can you
imagine carrying someone 12 kilometers on your back, through mud, up and down
hills and across rivers when they urgently needed to get to a hospital? How
about being carried 12 kilometers when you are critically ill or injured? Can
you conceive of giving birth to a baby and then being jolted around by the unsynchronized
running of four men up a mountain? This is the reality of everyday life for 75%
of Nepal’s population, who live in rural communities, so remote that access to
the basic essentials of everyday life is a luxury at best, and impossible in
some cases. To me, there is nothing that can more clearly illustrate the
challenges associated with providing services and delivering development
programs to the people of Nepal than that man carrying that woman to the
hospital. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WcIWHsD477w/Uh8xZHOQr3I/AAAAAAAAAR0/f_gkc9MmUGI/s1600/DSC_0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WcIWHsD477w/Uh8xZHOQr3I/AAAAAAAAAR0/f_gkc9MmUGI/s320/DSC_0059.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">But back to the
landslide for now. Perhaps unsurprisingly (considering I am writing this) we
did, in fact, make it to the site of the landslide. In fact, we drove straight
across its deadly path and into the tiny community. Looking up at the towering track
of earth and rocks, cut sharply across the otherwise lush, green mountainside
on our right and down the same track into the river below on our left, knowing
that we were driving on the graves of an entire family was not an experience I
can put words to. Yet, despite the freshness of their loss, only 15 days
earlier, the people still came out to welcome us, to talk to us, to show us
what had happened, and what they had done in the aftermath. The Local Disaster
Risk Management Committee (LDRMC), established with the support of CDRMP, took
us up the hill to a vantage point where we could survey the full run of the
landslide, in all its enormity. They explained that one home had been wiped out
completely, and that eight others in the area had been evacuated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal - <i>“The Committee has a small fund for
evacuation and relocation, and from that they were able to provide 2000 rupees for
each home that was evacuated and 5000 for the home that was destroyed.”</i> That’s
about $20 and $50 respectively. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“How much does it cost to build a new house?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal – <i>“About 100,000 rupees.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“And the house that was destroyed? Where
does that 5000 rupees go?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal – <i>“Hmm, yes, they are trying to decide what to
do with that money now. There is one, 15 year old daughter who was not there because
she was away studying. There is no high school near here. They are hoping to
make an education fund for her because there is no one to pay for her school
now.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“Who is taking care of her now? Is she with
other family?”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal – <i>“No. There is no one else.”</i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><i><br /></i></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">So what does a 15 year old, in Nepal, with no family and nothing but $50 to support her do? What would a 15 year old in Canada do? My guess: just find some way to survive. As is probably all too obvious: this is not a very forgiving climate to do that in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Committee also
filled us in on their plans to blast a massive boulder, perched precariously in
the mud some 500-600 meters above us. They explained, though it was not
necessary to do so, that if they don't bring it down, it could fall on its own
at any moment. As I peered up the steep slope I noticed several little blue
dots bobbing across the mud, and soon realized they were school children in
uniform. Upon closer inspection of the surrounding area I realized the hill was
dotted with people everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Xk5U6WVJIo/Uh8xel5fRiI/AAAAAAAAASE/HM-FVY3j6hc/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Xk5U6WVJIo/Uh8xel5fRiI/AAAAAAAAASE/HM-FVY3j6hc/s400/DSC_0068.JPG" width="400" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“Who are all the people up on the hill?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal – <i>“They are members of this community.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“I thought they were evacuated after the
landslide.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal – <i>“They were evacuated, but they come back
every day. The only thing they don’t do here is sleep. So really, they are here
most of the time.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn – <i>“Why? Isn't it dangerous.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bimal – <i>“Yes, but this is their land. These are
their crops. They don’t have any other choice.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The truth is, they brought
us here because this is a <u>good</u> example. This is a case where the LDRMC
was already established, and responded as it was intended to. Marbu is a
success story. Sometimes in development,
the gap between project “success” and meeting needs still looks and awful lot
like a canyon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1dmeRlLs3Rw/Uh8xdJ9bcNI/AAAAAAAAAR8/4mC1fgutKhI/s1600/DSC_0086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1dmeRlLs3Rw/Uh8xdJ9bcNI/AAAAAAAAAR8/4mC1fgutKhI/s320/DSC_0086.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XnMmjRIFYWQ/Uh8xfK4oHLI/AAAAAAAAASM/aSnrh_Z7Xhk/s1600/DSC_0075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XnMmjRIFYWQ/Uh8xfK4oHLI/AAAAAAAAASM/aSnrh_Z7Xhk/s200/DSC_0075.jpg" width="133" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">When we had made our way
back down the hill to talk to the broader community a young woman made her way
down from working the crops with a baby in a bassinet suspended behind her by a
thick strap across her forehead and another small child in tow. I decided that
this little girl would be the first recipient of one of my bears that I had
tucked away in my bag in the back of the land cruiser. When we had finished
talking to the LDRMC and other members of the community, I asked Man Kumari to
open the car quickly before we left and retrieved Osito, a red bear with a
Mexican flag on his chest. To be perfectly honest, Susilla seemed quite sceptical
of both me and Osito. The adults surrounding her smiled and cooed, appearing
delighted with the gift. They encouraged her and laughed as she shyly hid her
face when I held the bear out to her. I left Osito with Susilla’s mother who
began animating him to play with the infant in her arms. As we drove away
everyone from the community smiled and waved to us, but Susilla remained looking
dubious. I could only hope that eventually she would warm to Osito. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m2UrjWi7jGQ/Uh8xoD5xj3I/AAAAAAAAASU/ZJmZIAUtkYQ/s1600/DSC_0156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-m2UrjWi7jGQ/Uh8xoD5xj3I/AAAAAAAAASU/ZJmZIAUtkYQ/s200/DSC_0156.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0PbIijQ0q8o/Uh8xq62iUTI/AAAAAAAAASk/41TqctGgDH0/s1600/DSC_0130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0PbIijQ0q8o/Uh8xq62iUTI/AAAAAAAAASk/41TqctGgDH0/s200/DSC_0130.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Later that same day,
after some hiking and a few skechy bridge crossings we made it to the
Cardamom and Broom Grass plantations of Lapilang. From the cooperative meeting
space we hiked upstream and back viewing the crops for an hour and a half. For
the first hour Tanya was enchanted, proclaiming that it was the most beautiful place
she had seen in Nepal yet. Ten minutes later she realized we were both covered
in leeches when she felt the tell tale pinch around her ankle and had to start ripping
them off as they advanced up her pants and boots. I rolled up my pant leg to
find I was too late and my right sock was already soaked in blood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Okay, this is sick. Let’s get the hell out of here,”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> she proclaimed in a hushed tone to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O111swcil-I/Uh8xAqR_2kI/AAAAAAAAAQs/EVhHpFTqqcQ/s1600/DSC00066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O111swcil-I/Uh8xAqR_2kI/AAAAAAAAAQs/EVhHpFTqqcQ/s200/DSC00066.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Shall we see more?”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> Our guide, a
local soil conservation officer, inquired innocently. We just stared at him,
wide eyed like: <i>Stoooop it!</i> This was
entirely justified because every plant we had seen was...the exact same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“I think that’s enough. We can go back now.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“Hmmm,”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> He cast his eyes
downward and looked disappointed, but begrudgingly led us back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ik7YGyfMnhA/Uh8xE3rSAHI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/tMD60KcQGjo/s1600/DSC00097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ik7YGyfMnhA/Uh8xE3rSAHI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/tMD60KcQGjo/s320/DSC00097.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Upon returning to the
meeting space we sat down with all the cooperative members to discuss what kind
of demand they had for their crops, what their future goals for expansion of
business were and how effective the plants had been at maintaining the soil
quality. Here too there was one woman with a small child at her side. Deciding
that I was on a bear giveaway roll, when we had finished our conversation and
were preparing to leave I slide down the bench towards the young boy and his
mother and pulled Fuzz out of my bag. Once again, while his mother smiled, he
met the sudden appearance of a stranger holding a bear out to him with the same
hesitance as Susilla and buried his face in his mother’s side. The our soil
conservation officer friend, who apparently had suddenly decided we were in a
rush tried to speed up the process by taking the little boy’s hands and
forcibly making him take Fuzz from my outstretched hands. This, of course,
prompted an immediate outburst of screams and sobs. So yeah...basically the
exact reaction I was going for! I sheepishly backed away slowly, apologizing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once outside and on our
way back to the vehicle I said somewhat disappointedly to Bina: <i>“The kids really don’t seem to like the
bears.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“No, no, they like.”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> She tried to
reassure me. I gave her the same sceptical look the children had greeted me
with. <i>“It’s just that they have never
imagined that such a thing could exist.”</i>
That was a factor I had never considered. Needless to say, I decided to
re-examine my bear giveaway strategy before scaring any more Nepali children
for life, and turned my focus back to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2S20DVcKGf4/Uh8xwB7KZNI/AAAAAAAAASs/UbORKdQuHSY/s1600/DSC_0387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2S20DVcKGf4/Uh8xwB7KZNI/AAAAAAAAASs/UbORKdQuHSY/s320/DSC_0387.jpg" width="214" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">That night we stayed up
working until 10:30 in the restaurant of our hotel in Charikot because our
minds were so full and there seemed to be a true urgency. By day 3 we were
getting tried. We met more entrepreneurs, ate more dhal bhat and spent
the night in Jiri, the Everest Gateway – where the road stops and people who
don’t want to fly to the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenzing-Hillary_Airport"><span lang="EN-GB">Tenzing-Hillary airport</span></a><span lang="EN-GB"> start a 7 day
trek up to it. By the end of that day all Tanya and I wanted to do was sleep
for hours (after a few emotionally and physically draining days without really
sleeping due to mattresses that I am fairly certain were made of straw and
woodchips and enforced 4 or 5 am wake ups as a result of dog fights, tourist
buses, roosters and general hotel hubbub), but alas that was no in the cards
for us, as Bina had other plans. So instead we visited another MEDEP outlet, a
large stupa, took a stroll around Jiri and then sat out on the deck of the
hotel with the ladies snacking on local vegetables with chilli and some local
alcohol. At this point, I just went with it, despite the fact that I
had no idea how that massive cucumber was washed and I have been told time and
again to NOT drink local roxi (liquor). If I had survived this long, what’s the
worst that could happen? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kZ9kRYqQskQ/Uh86z-wgDjI/AAAAAAAAAUA/pak0bqOcSP4/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kZ9kRYqQskQ/Uh86z-wgDjI/AAAAAAAAAUA/pak0bqOcSP4/s320/photo+(4).JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Bina – <i>“We are all going to have some local alcohol
now. Just a little. We will all have little drink.” </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn - <i>“Bina, have you ever had roxi before?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bina- <i>“No, never!”</i> she giggled. I became
slightly concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bronwyn - <i>“At all?”</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Bina- <i>“No. No beer. No wine. No roxi. First time!”</i>
She proclai</span>med happily, and down the hatch the questionable and <u>strong</u>
green liquid went. <i>Ahh crap, how is this
going to turn out?</i></div>
<br />
<o:p></o:p>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When all was said and
done, we saw many linkages between poverty and disaster vulnerability that
helped shape our ideas about our project. It was an incredibly valuable trip.
However, I must admit that by the time the LONG trip home on that last day was
finally over I was exhausted, sweaty, felt as though I was likely covered in a
thin layer of urine (from all the disgusting toilets I had to use with the only
hope of washing up being: fingers crossed there’s a stream nearby) and never wanted
to see another plate of dhal bhat again in my life. When I woke up peacefully
in my own bed the next morning I uttered a sentence I never thought I would:
“Ahh, it’s so nice a quiet here in Kathmandu.” Perspective’s a funny thing,
isn't it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-81797408749841447712013-08-19T04:04:00.000-07:002013-08-19T04:14:22.533-07:00Working ON The Weekend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Work: it’s about time I write something about it, eh? Oh how
quickly “working for the weekend” turned into “working <u>on</u> the weekend.”
Ahh, well – it’s all good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've been working for the <a href="http://www.np.undp.org/content/nepal/en/home/ourwork/povertyreduction/overview.html">Poverty and Inclusion Unit</a> at the <a href="http://www.np.undp.org/nepal/en/home.html">United Nations Development Programme Nepal</a> (one of six thematic units, which include: Poverty; Climate
Change, Environment and Energy; Governance; Disaster Risk Management; Peace
Building; and Strategic Planning) for a month and a half now. I didn't write
anything about it at first because I didn't have much to say that was substantial
– it took a while to get rolling with work. I haven’t written anything about it
recently because I've just been too busy! Something I am very happy to report. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SpdfKRNz1KU/UhH5pmAwccI/AAAAAAAAAQI/JAfLIBDfkn0/s1600/1079400_10100429106549735_1657866886_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="468" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SpdfKRNz1KU/UhH5pmAwccI/AAAAAAAAAQI/JAfLIBDfkn0/s640/1079400_10100429106549735_1657866886_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The office: UN House.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll start with what my unit does, and then I’ll tell you a
little bit about what I have gotten myself buried in (buried in a good way, I
promise). The mandate of the Poverty and Inclusion Unit is to promote
sustainable and socially inclusive economic growth in Nepal through the
alleviation of poverty. There are two components to the unit’s work: policy
support to the government in helping them create interventions that are
“pro-poor” – in other words: ensuring that government policy and programs take
the poorest, most disadvantaged and socially excluded in Nepalese society into
account; and grass roots programming to support poverty alleviation in the
rural areas of the country. These programs are centered on livelihood support
in the most impoverished districts and communities of Nepal, including a
Livelihood Reduction for Peace program (Nepal is still recovering from a recent
10 year armed conflict from 1996-2006 and income generation is one strategy to
reduce incentives for armed conflict in extremely vulnerable districts) and a <a href="http://www.medep.org.np/">Micro-Enterprise for Development Programme</a> (MEDEP). MEDEP has been one of UNDP Nepal’s flagship programs over the past 14
years of its operation, hailed for its success in over-delivering, lifting
thousands of Nepal’s most vulnerable people (women, <a href="http://asianhistory.about.com/od/glossaryae/g/Who-Were-The-Dalit.htm">untouchable castes</a>, disenfranchised youth, disabled, religious minorities, and conflict
and disaster affected families, among others) out of poverty. Nepal has been successful in reducing
absolute poverty over the past 20 years from 42% to 23% living below national
poverty line ($230 USD/year – about .63 cents per day) – however, inequality
has increased and the poorest segments of society have only become more impoverished
as other have risen out of poverty. That is why the MEDEP project aims to
target these most disadvantaged groups. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have gotten involved in the “upstream,” or policy, aspect
of the unit’s work, by aiding in the preparations for the fourth national
review of Nepal’s progress on the Millennium Development Goals, which has been
a significant undertaking. We’re in the home stretch with that one now though,
as it’s due to be launched on September 10<sup>th</sup>, and then we’ll dig into
preparing the Nepal Human Development Report, which will be an even larger
project. I have also been involved with the MEDEP project by helping finalize
documentation to bring the project into its fourth phase. As I mentioned before,
MEDEP has been a very successful UNDP project for the past 14 years, and currently
operates in 38 of 75 districts across Nepal. As its success has been admirable,
the Government of Nepal wants to adopt its approach and take full ownership of
the project, using it as a poverty alleviation tool all across the country by
implementing it in every district. This fourth, and final, five year phase of
MEDEP will focus on transitioning the project from implementing the model to
facilitating the government’s implementation of it. AusAID is the biggest donor
to this project, and has allocated about $32 million for the fourth phase. So
basically we’ve got: UNDP, AusAID and the Government of Nepal, who all have to
agree on the terms of this arrangement and sign the 150 page project document
and cost sharing agreement in order for the project to go forward. To really heat
things up as we came down to the wire to get this agreement signed, our AusAID
contacts told us that because Australia was about to head into an election we
had to get it signed in the next week or it likely wouldn’t happen. No
pressure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it’s Tuesday. AusAID has agreed on the text of the
project document, and all we needed was to get the Ministry of Industry (MoI)
to sign off. My boss has left the office about 45 minutes earlier to take the
document to be signed when my phone rings. It’s Nabina (my supervisor); she
asks if I’m busy and tells me she’s going to send a car for me because she
needs my help down at the MoI. When I arrive she is sitting with the Joint
Secretary of the MoI, the National Programme Director (Government representative
on the project) and the National Programme Manager (project lead) with her
laptop open to the document. When I sit down beside her she tells me that the
government wants some changes to the document, and she wants me to make them as
they go through it so that we can get it signed today. <i>Okay, makes sense</i>, I think, and take over on her computer. It takes all of 60 seconds for me to realize
that they are currently on page 7 of 150 and reading the document line by line.
LINE. BY. LINE. <i>And she thinks we’ll
finish this today? Oh my god, I am going to be here until tomorrow morning!</i>
So we start slogging through the jargon, and they are debating every tiny
little detail. I soon realize that the government people are asking to change
words that they don’t like, or don’t fully understand. It’s doesn’t matter if I
explain the meaning of the word, they want to change it to a word they are more
familiar with…as if they don’t understand that different words mean different
things and you can’t just swap words without altering the broader meaning of
entire sentences and paragraphs. And that’s not even the best part! The best
part is that all of this negotiating is going on in Nepali. So we’ve got four
people heatedly debating a massive document, phrase by phrase, in Nepali, and
me, behind the keyboard, supposedly keeping up with these changes. Because
everyone was aware of how much there was to do they wanted to move through it
quickly and once they had agreed they would just move on, look at me quickly
and ask: “Got it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>WHAT? NO! Of course I
don’t ‘got it’! How could I have it?</i> At this point I started looking around
the room thinking: <i>Ashton? Where are you
hiding? Am I being Punk’d?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, by the time we reached page 30 the Joint Secretary
exclaimed thoughtfully: “You know, maybe it’s better if we all go home, read
over the document, make notes and come back tomorrow to go through the notes
quickly at that time…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How this was a concept that was just dawning on him is still
absolutely beyond my realm of comprehension. Ahhh but alas, at the 11<sup>th</sup>
hour it all came together and we got the signatures we needed to move forward
with MEDEP for the next 5 years. You can all expect Christmas gifts made by
poor and marginalized MEDEP micro-entrepreneurs this year!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KdYbA_T8R7U/UhH5qd_F7SI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/PEgu_ROTI0g/s1600/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="474" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KdYbA_T8R7U/UhH5qd_F7SI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/PEgu_ROTI0g/s640/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my little corner at work...desk a disaster, as usual.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The final thing I have gotten involved in is a new
initiative that another JCP, Tanya, and myself are trying to get off the
ground. Tanya works in the Disaster Risk Management Unit, and is very
interested in poverty alleviation. Similarly, I am very interested in issues of
environmental risks. At the Canada Day party Tanya and I got talking about how
we saw a lot of points of intersection between our two projects, and agreed to
explore writing an article about them, on our own time. When I ran this idea
past my boss on Monday morning she took it a step further: “Or, if you have a
good idea, you could draft it and we could present it to Senior Management. If
they like it we could do a pilot in the field.” <i>What? Seriously? </i> I did a
major double take when I heard that. Within the hour I had talked to Tanya
about it and we agreed to move forward and see what was possible. Everyone we
turned to for guidance and information was supportive over the next could weeks
as we began to shape our ideas and draft a concept note. I was so impressed and
surprised to see how much room there seemed to be for this type of initiative.
What we came up with, in a nutshell, is a two part plan with both long and
short term objectives to better mainstream disaster risk management principles
into micro-enterprise development, in order to protect the sustainability of
fledgling enterprises in this exceptionally disaster vulnerable country. We see
the current status of MEDEP, a hugely successful program on the verge of being
implemented nation-wide, as a perfect window of opportunity to make some small
changes to its delivery that will, hopefully, have a large impact. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">We presented our initial
ideas at a meeting with both of our supervisors, as well as other stakeholders
from both projects, a few weeks ago, and once again, the response was shockingly
positive. Not only were we given the green light to move ahead, we were
encouraged to back up our concepts with concrete experiences by going to the
field and observing the linkages between disaster and poverty for ourselves. So
that’s what I’m working on now: helping out where I can with policy and program
work, as well as trying to push Tanya and my pet project out of the nest and
hoping it flies in the next four months before my contract comes to an end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Stay tuned for my report
on my first trip outside of Kathmandu to Dolakha district with Tanya for our
project – as well as my first bear giveaways (spoiler alert: as with everything
in life, it didn't go exactly as I had pictured it).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One thing that I have
really learned in my two months working here is how important building trust
and good relationships is to getting work done. People here not only care a
great deal about their work, they can even be very protective of it in some
circumstances. Until someone trusts you they won’t let you be a part of what
they’re doing. I was even once asked to leave a big meeting that was directly
related to what I am working on because the leader of the meeting didn't
believe there was any value in me being there (she’s not someone I work with
directly). She claimed that it was because she wanted to conduct the meeting in
Nepali; however, I think given my earlier story it’s fairly clear that that’s a
bull sh*t excuse. That’s part of the reason why work was a bit slower to get
rolling than in other jobs I have had. I spent a good amount of time just
softening people up and focusing on building their trust in me. But once I got
in with them, and they knew they could rely on me it was like the flood gates
opened completely. Now I often find myself pulling a Nepali work week (Sunday
to Friday). But it’s okay. I like what I’m doing, so it doesn't feel like a
burden. </div>
</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-30184272159509478102013-07-23T21:27:00.001-07:002013-07-24T07:59:18.647-07:00Working for the Weekend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xUXL5iAd6fs/Ue9Q41ksx4I/AAAAAAAAANs/CtK3BoZwCy4/s1600/IMG_2779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xUXL5iAd6fs/Ue9Q41ksx4I/AAAAAAAAANs/CtK3BoZwCy4/s320/IMG_2779.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">There has been no
shortage of things to keep us occupied here in our first month in Nepal. So
much has happened that it feels more like a year than a mere month. Every
weekend is too short (that’s definitely the same as at home) with too many
things to see, do and explore. Two weeks ago, team JPC (Taryn, Sean, Jess,
Tanya, Micah and myself) decided to get out of the city for a day and check out
a rice planting festival. We hoped on a bus bright and early on the morning of
Saturday, June 29<sup>th</sup>, along with a number of our new Australian
friends, and within 45 minutes were bumping along down washed out country roads
amongst a sea of green rice paddies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ohx1Y-XyOI/Ue9Q3FMfp9I/AAAAAAAAANk/AB0Mk02HUAM/s1600/IMG_2774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1ohx1Y-XyOI/Ue9Q3FMfp9I/AAAAAAAAANk/AB0Mk02HUAM/s320/IMG_2774.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">When the monsoon rains
begin to fall on Nepal in the summer every year, the rice season commences.
Rice is not only a major dietary staple for Nepali people; it is also an
essential means of livelihood for many farmers across the country. Traditionally,
the last Saturday in June is the first official day of the rice-planting
season, and the famers celebrate the return of the new season by planting, and
playing in the mud. Unfortunately, we learned that the tradition of playing is
dying out now, but we did our best to keep its spirit alive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">When we first arrived three
busloads full of foreigners sidled up to the edge of the empty paddy, all
wondering what we were supposed to now. As we all tentatively made our way
through the muck, local women tried to instruct us on how to turn up the “soil”
by scooping up bits of debris dropping them in a pile and stomping them deep
beneath the mud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Seriously? <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Based on the fact that
what appeared to be the entire population of the small village had gathered on
nearby rooftops to gawk at us, it seemed equally likely that this “weeding”
technique was usefully as it did that they were screwing with us. However, this
didn’t last long, because it was only a matter of minutes before the first of
the mud started to fly. This quickly gave way to all out mud wrestling matches.
Once I was dirty I became fully committed to the cause of ensuring every other
participant became equally mud-covered. In my mission, I suffered an especially
amusing defeat against Tanya’s husband Micah, as immortalized on video by Sean,
here:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/2vPPc_o-mvA/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2vPPc_o-mvA?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2vPPc_o-mvA?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">I felt a bit guilty
about getting side tracked from the “weeding” at first, but when I started to
notice just how smooth the mud was getting I realized that it might have been
part of the master plan for turning up the soil after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jJvXsiGMBO8/Ue9QmJVTIPI/AAAAAAAAALg/3W-wZ0h4EJY/s1600/1010648_10201579631320577_1342965963_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jJvXsiGMBO8/Ue9QmJVTIPI/AAAAAAAAALg/3W-wZ0h4EJY/s320/1010648_10201579631320577_1342965963_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Once the paddy was in
the right shape to be planted we were called away from our games and handed
bundles of rice stalks. The next 45 minutes were occupied by trying to stick
the individual plants up in the mud without royally screwing up these people’s
future rice harvest. I do not think I have ever heard “No! Like this!”
(followed by a demonstration) more times in my life than during that period. It
didn’t help that everyone seemed to have a <u>slightly</u> different version of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like this.</i> When my rice bundle was
all (or at least most) stuck upright in the mud I happily retired to the
waiting snacks and rice beer. I can say with complete confidence that the local
women were relieved to get us out of the way. They were <u>literally</u>
reaching over me to plant in front of me I was going so slow (oh yeah, and to
re-plant a few of my first attempts at times as well). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mveRgutqzNU/Ue9Q9oMmZRI/AAAAAAAAAOU/CI8IBxrTvoQ/s1600/IMG_2802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mveRgutqzNU/Ue9Q9oMmZRI/AAAAAAAAAOU/CI8IBxrTvoQ/s200/IMG_2802.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">After snacks and beer it
was time for the real games to begin! At first we were reluctant to hop back
into the mud, but the organizers soon had a fairly sizeable group divided into
two teams for what I can only describe as a combination of capture the flag,
tag and ultimate mud wrestling championship. In reality, the game is called Kabaddi
and what happens is one person crosses the centre line and attempts to tag a
player from the opposing team then dart back across the line to safety on his
or her own side without being taken down by the opposing team. If you get taken
out by the other team, you’re out. However, if you manage to tag someone and
get back across the line the person you tag is out, and someone from your team
gets to come back on. It got a little intense at times....<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lThrDRX5S8o/Ue9Q6pn5aQI/AAAAAAAAAOA/5xjyB7FIodI/s1600/IMG_2785.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lThrDRX5S8o/Ue9Q6pn5aQI/AAAAAAAAAOA/5xjyB7FIodI/s200/IMG_2785.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PCIiEoftYzo/Ue9QmvOVMwI/AAAAAAAAALo/n4RuSR7Dq20/s1600/1016512_683243345024073_1312216322_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PCIiEoftYzo/Ue9QmvOVMwI/AAAAAAAAALo/n4RuSR7Dq20/s320/1016512_683243345024073_1312216322_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><b>But it was definitely
fun!</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OAQ2zvwEFcM/Ue9QsPUKfcI/AAAAAAAAAMk/FXWR-VU2PQY/s1600/DSCN7213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OAQ2zvwEFcM/Ue9QsPUKfcI/AAAAAAAAAMk/FXWR-VU2PQY/s200/DSCN7213.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">After the mud wrestling
had run its course as we had all managed to “shower” under village water taps
and streams we loaded back onto the buses and went to a local restaurant for a
traditional Newari (the native people to the Kathmandu Valley) meal, followed by
a relaxing stroll through the hills before arriving, exhausted, back in the
city a few hours later. That might have been the deepest sleep I have had since
arriving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ma0cNYd6ANI/Ue9QsOFNAqI/AAAAAAAAAMw/g-ZoFMctATo/s1600/DSCN7212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ma0cNYd6ANI/Ue9QsOFNAqI/AAAAAAAAAMw/g-ZoFMctATo/s200/DSCN7212.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">The only really low
point of the day came when this conversation transpired:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Tanya – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey, did anyone else notice that as we got
closer to the edge of the paddy it started to smell like poo?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Micah – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, I went to use the public washroom at
the end of the day and it was basically just on the edge of the paddy.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Bronwyn – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">WHAT? Oh my god! I got it in my MOUTH!!!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Other fun weekend
activities that we have kept ourselves busy with have included a great hike up
part of one of the local mountains, a Canada Day barbeque and (of course) flip
cup tournament and some regular Saturday brunches at a beautiful oasis like
restaurant and organic farmer’s market.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CiNNR3ahORM/Ue9QwxShcCI/AAAAAAAAANI/K_kTLROxoNM/s1600/DSC_0097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CiNNR3ahORM/Ue9QwxShcCI/AAAAAAAAANI/K_kTLROxoNM/s400/DSC_0097.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1905, our new regular Saturday morning brunch spot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KZ_NiYX94wk/Ue_PUo4n5NI/AAAAAAAAAPA/2w7e2KFeH50/s1600/IMG_2870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KZ_NiYX94wk/Ue_PUo4n5NI/AAAAAAAAAPA/2w7e2KFeH50/s320/IMG_2870.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Last weekend we took a <u>jam packed</u> micro-bus (Jess counted 22 people at one point) all the way across the city to Budhanilkantha, at the foot of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shivapuri_Nagarjun_National_Park">Shivapuri </a>national park and hiked up the mountain to Nagi Gumba, a female monestary, and back. Even though we ended up getting
monsoon rained out on our hike back down it was incredible to get a few hours
of fresh air and relief from the Kathmandu dust and smog, as well as take in
some amazing views of the city from above. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p3iFNmJSRG4/Ue_OufGSH9I/AAAAAAAAAOw/iVizcoG2vpk/s1600/DSC_0154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p3iFNmJSRG4/Ue_OufGSH9I/AAAAAAAAAOw/iVizcoG2vpk/s320/DSC_0154.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zQLiyivsI6M/Ue_O5bDrE2I/AAAAAAAAAO4/1USVOMEgywk/s1600/DSC_0171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zQLiyivsI6M/Ue_O5bDrE2I/AAAAAAAAAO4/1USVOMEgywk/s320/DSC_0171.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Nagi Gumba</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xGg3jglJWCc/Ue_RdP0JoBI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/g3f89q9IF6k/s1600/IMG_2874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xGg3jglJWCc/Ue_RdP0JoBI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/g3f89q9IF6k/s320/IMG_2874.jpg" width="238" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PyT4O_hqUIs/Ue9Q2LCVpLI/AAAAAAAAANY/MuRW6fVCvhg/s1600/DSC_0502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PyT4O_hqUIs/Ue9Q2LCVpLI/AAAAAAAAANY/MuRW6fVCvhg/s200/DSC_0502.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beer Pong Team Russel(l)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HOITLC1q-do/Ue9Q896NryI/AAAAAAAAAOM/te46ex0Py54/s1600/IMG_2790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HOITLC1q-do/Ue9Q896NryI/AAAAAAAAAOM/te46ex0Py54/s200/IMG_2790.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">POUTINE!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: xx-small; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">JPCs overlooking the valley from Nagi Gumba when the skies were clear, and a random man claimnig shelter under Jess and Sean's umbrella.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
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<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">On “Canada Day”
(actually June 30<sup>th</sup> because it was a Sunday and no one had Monday
off) we took a cab across town to the home of two Canadian girls who are in
Kathmandu for an internship with <a href="http://www.minesactioncanada.org/">Mines Action</a>, and did they ever put on a good,
authentic Canada Day celebration! It was so nice to see their patio full of red
and white outfits (worn not just by our Canadian friends, but the Aussies,
Germans and Americans as well). With all the changes in my life recently, I
hadn’t given Canada Day a second thought. Dressing in red and white and walking
around downtown Ottawa on July 1<sup>st</sup> seemed like another world,
another life. But I’m so glad these girls reminded me of it, because it was a
really fun time, and two great seeds were planted here. One has to do with a </span>conversation Tanya and I had about potentially collaborating to write an
article about the ways in which our two units (disaster risk management for her
and poverty alleviation for me) could both benefit more deeply from
collaborating on a few key aspects of programming, and another was with a new
friend who works at a school for children who have been rescued from forced
labour in carpet factories. Unsurprisingly these children have very few
belongings (perhaps two outfits each) and no toys. I think this is the kind of
place that could use a teddy bear or two! Stay tuned for breaking news on both
these fronts, coming to you soon!<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ePLpSi8J5cg/Ue9Q2GCBygI/AAAAAAAAANc/GQ6rzLo5_uo/s1600/DSC_0497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ePLpSi8J5cg/Ue9Q2GCBygI/AAAAAAAAANc/GQ6rzLo5_uo/s400/DSC_0497.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few Canadians enjoying some shade on "Canada Day"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g2K2jkENzaI/Ue9Qwm5J0KI/AAAAAAAAANQ/yVzRaW_pRFs/s1600/DSC_0476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g2K2jkENzaI/Ue9Qwm5J0KI/AAAAAAAAANQ/yVzRaW_pRFs/s400/DSC_0476.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite a good turnout for a Canadian national celebration in Nepal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment--></div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-9806923520614817142013-07-05T05:04:00.000-07:002013-07-18T22:16:52.036-07:00Life In A Ticking Time Bomb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">It is said that a major earthquake in the Kathmandu Valley could dwarf
Haiti. In fact, according to the recent security briefings all us UNDP Nepal
newbies just received, Kathmandu is <i>the
most</i> at risk city in the world to earthquakes. Geological history indicates
that an earthquake of such scale will occur every 75-100 years (a pattern which
has held for about 1000 years). We are currently on year 79. Analysis: I have
moved to a time bomb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yhAF5e6yO4M/UdapBbtMXFI/AAAAAAAAAHI/jjA8mVli5bA/s1600/DSC_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yhAF5e6yO4M/UdapBbtMXFI/AAAAAAAAAHI/jjA8mVli5bA/s320/DSC_0372.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Nlkho36nt8M/UdaqIhYVgSI/AAAAAAAAAH0/28d3lH5Qo2c/s1600/DSC_0354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Nlkho36nt8M/UdaqIhYVgSI/AAAAAAAAAH0/28d3lH5Qo2c/s320/DSC_0354.jpg" width="214" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">So we’ve been getting the earthquake preparedness rundown. You know, the
whole: drop cover and hold business. We’ve been instructed to have our
emergency “go bags” with essential supplies, medical kits, water, travel
documents, etc. ready to grab and get out when the looming earthquake <i>does</i> hit. We’re to stay indoors,
wherever we are, and cover to the best of our ability until the shaking stops,
then grab our go bags and get out, heading to the nearest open space where
crumbling building, falling trees and power lines cannot harm us. Now, I don’t
know if you have been paying attention to my photos of Kathmandu, or if you
have ever been to Kathmandu, but I can assure you that in this cramped Asian
city NO such place exists! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cXjCNIMC-eA/UdapTZ4mHoI/AAAAAAAAAHY/nykg7vK0B4Q/s1600/DSC_0454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cXjCNIMC-eA/UdapTZ4mHoI/AAAAAAAAAHY/nykg7vK0B4Q/s320/DSC_0454.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not exactly structurally sound</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The new apartment is quite close to the UN compound, and that’s the
“safe” area we’re supposed to try and get to. So, basically, what I have
garnered from the massive download of information of the past couple days is
that, in the event of a major earthquake (which experts estimate would level at
least 60% of the buildings in Kathmandu and cause upwards of 300,000
casualties) I am to cover myself, and if the structure I am in remains
standing, and I survive the initial shock, I am to grab my bag, get out and run
down the street (likely while aftershocks roll across the city), trying to
dodge the intensely sketchy and shoddily constructed building that will surely
be falling all around me and hopefully make it to the UN. Through from there,
who knows. The city of nearly 3 million has…8 fire trucks, not all of which are
functional (some of them were “donated” from the U.K., which after seeing them
I take to mean: dumped here from the 18<sup>th</sup> century), and few
ambulances. Telecommunications will nearly all be down, and bridges connecting
the city will likely have collapsed…meaning getting out of the city by air or
land may not be possible. Long story short, this is the message we have gotten:
“If we get a huge earthquake, which, by the way, we will, SOON, we are all
screwed. Good luck! And welcome to Nepal, we hope you have a wonderful experience!”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span lang="EN-GB">Talk about a warm welcome<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"> </span></span></span>:)</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s-oHl9uGN84/UdapS02KYVI/AAAAAAAAAHU/cHoTCHCC3uo/s1600/DSC_0439.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s-oHl9uGN84/UdapS02KYVI/AAAAAAAAAHU/cHoTCHCC3uo/s640/DSC_0439.jpg" width="427" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We are going down here, if the earthquake happens in the next half hour, we will die." Direct quote.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D4X_82SlUPM/UdapYv-l_oI/AAAAAAAAAHo/MeRyKYxf5xc/s1600/DSC_0455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D4X_82SlUPM/UdapYv-l_oI/AAAAAAAAAHo/MeRyKYxf5xc/s320/DSC_0455.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This place, like many others, is going down, for obvious reasons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oU6OJs_ACRY/UdapS58U1JI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/hxNri81WqjE/s1600/DSC_0440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oU6OJs_ACRY/UdapS58U1JI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/hxNri81WqjE/s320/DSC_0440.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surveying potential damage during our earthquake walk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-43621112528861492922013-07-05T05:02:00.002-07:002013-07-18T22:40:44.156-07:00First impressions of Kathmandu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">It has been
three weeks since I landed in Nepal, and I think the time is overdue for me to
give a few of my first impressions of my new surroundings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J-GoCFCLGjE/UdawvCNllnI/AAAAAAAAAIE/sR0uiqhVLzY/s960/1057048_10100399208146375_1560691111_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J-GoCFCLGjE/UdawvCNllnI/AAAAAAAAAIE/sR0uiqhVLzY/s320/1057048_10100399208146375_1560691111_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tKSZZNO95AQ/Udaw0j8GvGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/SWtMMreVOpI/s1600/DSC_0315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tKSZZNO95AQ/Udaw0j8GvGI/AAAAAAAAAJA/SWtMMreVOpI/s320/DSC_0315.jpg" width="214" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">When we
first got into the UN vehicle and left the airport, taking in Kathmandu was a
shock, to say the very least. My head swivelled restlessly from side to side as
I surveyed the packed streets with no semblance of order or rules of the road,
the tiny, makeshift huts that passed for shops, the precarious buildings in
extreme states of disrepair and the rats nests of wires wound around every pole
with wide eyes. <i>What have
I gotten myself into?</i> I wondered, involuntarily. </span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ajOPFunqqTE/UdaxHIIaHjI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/s4jV4MBosQg/s1600/DSC_0370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ajOPFunqqTE/UdaxHIIaHjI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/s4jV4MBosQg/s200/DSC_0370.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<i>Are <u>these</u>
the kinds of places I am realistically going to have to go to buy food?</i> A
six month hunger strike seemed more fathomable to me at that point. Our guest house was in a nice area of the city, surrounded by
embassies and expat homes – it is located on a mud road, wide enough for one
car at a time that swerves back and forth to miss pedestrians, scooters and
massive potholes (along with a few uncovered manholes). </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XybuIN0z2T8/UdaxGmupPRI/AAAAAAAAAJo/-Zjtfe6vXB0/s1600/DSC_0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XybuIN0z2T8/UdaxGmupPRI/AAAAAAAAAJo/-Zjtfe6vXB0/s320/DSC_0357.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Allow me to
give you a run-down of a few features of day-to-day life in Kathmandu. Let’s
start with the traffic, shall we? I can describe it in one word: insane! The major
streets are fairly wide (enough to fit two and half-ish cars across) with no
lanes to speak of, nor apparent rules of the road. Instead, vehicles just go
where they want and weave in and out of one another to get there. The flow of
traffic is: everyone goes at whatever speed they want to (all different). The main
intersections have about eight different ways of coming at them, and no traffic
lights (actually, I think I have seen one set of lights...I’m fairly certain
they were non-functional). Traffic police are dispersed somewhat randomly
throughout the city and “direct” the traffic...sort of. They have helped us
cross at times though, so they are definitely appreciated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Every vehicle
that passes anything (pedestrian, other car, truck, motorcycle, scooter, cow, bus,
etc.) honks at it. Every vehicle! Every time! All the time! (Yes Dan, you were
right about this). Even when walking alone down the side of a relatively wide,
completely empty street a single passing car or motorcycle will honk as it
passes, giving me a wide berth. As this point I am not certain if the honk is
meant as a way of saying: “G’Day Mate,” “Watch out, I’m here,” or “Get the F***
out of my way.” These nuances of the honk remain a mystery to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lK6EzgjUVXE/UdaxPdLZJ6I/AAAAAAAAAKQ/Es-pZBaDNfk/s1600/DSC_0432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lK6EzgjUVXE/UdaxPdLZJ6I/AAAAAAAAAKQ/Es-pZBaDNfk/s320/DSC_0432.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The
accepted manor for merging from a side street (all of which are dirt roads,
only slightly wider than a car and a half) is to just start pulling out and
creeping across...people seem to stop for this. To be fair: the speed of
traffic is actually quite a bit slower than we would be used to in North
America, so it’s not as abrupt as it might seem. This is also the accepted manner
for crossing the street. Just go! The cars and vans and motorcycles and bicycles...they
will all just go around you (in theory; currently, my best practices for street
crossing is to sidle up to a local who looks like they’re about to cross and
walk in their shadow). For that matter, this is how animals cross the street as
well. And are there ever animals in the street!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bxM0ewoK4Sg/UdaxOgC_eCI/AAAAAAAAAKE/nj_OzJfYjoo/s1600/DSC_0416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bxM0ewoK4Sg/UdaxOgC_eCI/AAAAAAAAAKE/nj_OzJfYjoo/s200/DSC_0416.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Thus far,
on the streets, I have seen: ducks, chickens, dogs, lots more dogs, rats (sometimes
alive, mostly dead, being fought over by the aforementioned dogs), a few cats,
dead crows, monkeys, cows, goats, and this morning one of my fellow JPCs saw an
elephant as she was walking to work. I am a very deep and unhealthy shade of
green over her good fortune at this. The most common is dogs – lots and lots of
street dogs. They mostly sleep in the shade during the day. We have taken to
naming the dogs along our street. Names include: Pharaoh for this really
Egyptian looking one, Tripod for the three-legged German Sheppard and Shenzi,
after the hyena in the Lion King for an especially scraggly, long-haired one. When
the sun goes down though, the dogs come out for their nightly mass street dog
convention and ultimate fighting championship. Luckily, I am a pretty deep
sleeper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mhNgC_ba6ds/Udawvb1lwSI/AAAAAAAAAII/Yq_e6fxAd6A/s960/1063049_10100399198071565_1439670705_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mhNgC_ba6ds/Udawvb1lwSI/AAAAAAAAAII/Yq_e6fxAd6A/s320/1063049_10100399198071565_1439670705_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">All these
animals are not just found along the sides of roads or on tiny side streets. I
have witnessed both dogs and cows literally laying down and resting in the
middle of major roads, looking completely calm and unfazed as speeding cars
pass all around them. Everyone just moves over for the animals, as for every
other obstacle on the road. In fact, I watched two cows cross about six lanes
of traffic the other day. I should really make an effort to try and ask them
how they did that, come to think of it! </span></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">So, with a
traffic situation such as this, how does one get around safely? Well, safety is
a relative concept around here, so let’s not spend too much time dwelling on
that. There are several options for “public” transit here (I say “public” because
they are privately owned and operated as there are no city busses). If headed
into the centre of the city for some evening entertainment (about 5km from my
apartment) you could take a taxi for around 250-300 Rupees ($2.75-3.25
Canadian). OR for a more colourful option you could stand along the side of a
major road and wait for a jam packed white cargo van looking thing to drive by
with a young boy hanging out the side of the open sliding door yelling
locations quickly in Nepali, hope that you flag down the right one and squish
in for 15 Rupees (16 cents).</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZDNTtpDfAqU/UdaxGsSpAXI/AAAAAAAAAJk/HovnT1BzTb0/s1600/DSC_0365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZDNTtpDfAqU/UdaxGsSpAXI/AAAAAAAAAJk/HovnT1BzTb0/s320/DSC_0365.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Our group of six did this one evening.
We got some weird looks from the locals, and I think I might have caught a
touch of TB from the elderly woman hacking up her lungs 3 inches from my face,
but it was sort of fun at the same time. The tension was broken when the driver
tried to ask us for 900 Rupees and Tanya yelled out: “Noooo,” very good
naturedly in a way that said <i>You’re
silly, and we’re not stupid!</i> Everyone burst out laughing then, driver
included, who told us it was worth a try.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">There is
also the Tuk Tuk, which is an even smaller, more packed, three-wheeled version.
They look a lot like they could be cardboard boxed perched on top of slightly
overgrown, motorized tricycles. We have yet to try this, but trust me: it is on
the list!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RCWBSakgjVw/UdaxElJnTAI/AAAAAAAAAJM/0dhBMjgjQVQ/s1600/DSC_0326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RCWBSakgjVw/UdaxElJnTAI/AAAAAAAAAJM/0dhBMjgjQVQ/s200/DSC_0326.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">In terms of
getting where you are going, that is quite interesting and hilarious as well. If
we were able to give cabs addresses and have them take us to said addresses
that would be easy, but that’s not how they roll here in Nepal. Most streets
don’t have names. People find their way based on regions and landmarks. On our
first day we received directions that included: “<i>Go west to the end of this street, then take a left. Follow it straight
until the banyan tree, where you should go around it to your right...”</i> So
at this stage we can never truly be sure where we are going to get dropped off,
and if we can expect to be able to find our way to our destination from there.
It certainly makes getting around interesting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GuE4ag4bTWE/UdawyJXlJPI/AAAAAAAAAIs/6DOSGUZx6DQ/s1600/DSC_0305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GuE4ag4bTWE/UdawyJXlJPI/AAAAAAAAAIs/6DOSGUZx6DQ/s320/DSC_0305.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GuE4ag4bTWE/UdawyJXlJPI/AAAAAAAAAIs/6DOSGUZx6DQ/s1600/DSC_0305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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Other
features of the Kathmandu streets: they are hectic, crowded and <u>incredibly</u>
polluted. I cannot tell you how many times a big truck has driven past me and
completely coated me in thick, black exhaust. Besides the air pollution,
walking often turns into a game of: can you avoid the mounds of animal feces
and piles of garbage between point A and point B? The Bagmati River, which
separates Lalitpur (where I live) from central Kathmandu, has 300 tonnes of household waste
dumped into it every day. Every! Day!</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tlora38p11o/Udaw0mIxzUI/AAAAAAAAAI8/j_4v9we2S3Q/s1600/DSC_0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Tlora38p11o/Udaw0mIxzUI/AAAAAAAAAI8/j_4v9we2S3Q/s320/DSC_0310.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">Environmentally,
this is horrifying, but even worse than that is the fact that Kathmandu’s
poorest people live beside the river in makeshift huts, constructed mainly of
old clothes, garbage, tarps, signs and other debris. Poverty is extreme. Nepal
is one of the top 10 poorest countries in the world, with 25% of the total
population living below the poverty line (on less than 63 cents per day). Of
everything I have encountered here, it is the most shocking thing to be confronted
with. Watching people working so hard, for such long hours to make so little
gives you the kind of rotten feeling in the pit of your stomach that doesn't go
away, especially when you think about the fact that most people at home pay more
for their cable and internet in one month than a lot of people here could hope
to make in a year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v9cUbXkMzaw/UdaxRuyhCiI/AAAAAAAAAKs/U3UWSfZyF1Y/s1600/DSC_0461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eBFO9y8Sc0Y/UdaxQ5SUofI/AAAAAAAAAKg/F6LQqaawYao/s1600/DSC_0444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eBFO9y8Sc0Y/UdaxQ5SUofI/AAAAAAAAAKg/F6LQqaawYao/s200/DSC_0444.JPG" width="200" /></a><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v9cUbXkMzaw/UdaxRuyhCiI/AAAAAAAAAKs/U3UWSfZyF1Y/s320/DSC_0461.JPG" width="320" /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The biggest
adjustments have been in the basics of living: food, water and electricity. We
had a hard time at first figuring out what and where it was safe to eat
(vegetables are generally out unless you wash them in iodine for 30 minutes
yourself), but now we have a few local haunts for lunch and dinner. Despite the
hygiene caution, we eat out a lot because everything is cheap. Lunch on a daily
basis costs about $3 and we have relied on reputable restaurants for the most
part since arriving as we’re just starting to gain confidence in our ability to
properly wash and prepare vegetables without giving ourselves a bad case of the
runs. Clean water is another concern we have been faced with. Generally speaking: water is not to be trusted
in Nepal. Even sealed water, in bottles from shops must have their seals
carefully inspected so as to ensure they haven’t been refilled with filtered
tap water.</span><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mYTzNVhk-fQ/UdawwFGUT8I/AAAAAAAAAIk/9fZKwsqLE2A/s960/979712_10100391371431215_224185319_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mYTzNVhk-fQ/UdawwFGUT8I/AAAAAAAAAIk/9fZKwsqLE2A/s200/979712_10100391371431215_224185319_n.jpg" width="146" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Everything is dusty and dirty because of the air pollution, so the
fact that your bottle is dirty looking when you pick it up doesn't necessarily
say anything about what’s in it. As a matter of adjusting I have already gotten
sick a couple of times from the local food/water. </span><span lang="EN-GB">I think it’s all part of the
process of slowing turning my stomach into a cast iron machine. It’s happening
now though, I even ate salad at a restaurant without having to spend the entire
next day in the washroom last week! Progress.</span>The last
thing is the electricity. The government of Nepal has a system of “load
shedding”. This means that scheduled power outages roll across
the city for about 8-10 hours per area on a daily basis. We are pretty spoiled
at our apartment, and have a backup generator, which means we don’t often lose
power for very long; however, we have, on occasion, had to prepare food or eat
in the dark. Thanks for the headlamp Assia! It has proven quite handy at times.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Finally,
how could I call myself Canadian and not talk about the weather? It’s
bloody hot! The Nepali’s don’t seem to think it’s too bad, but I am from the
great white north, and 30 degrees with 75% humidity every day has turned
me into a sweaty, partially melted mess with an intense, frizzy afro most of
the time. I have given up on the idea that I will ever feel truly clean during
this monsoon season. Oh, and monsoon, that’s another thing entirely. It rains
every day, even when it doesn't look like it will, trust me: it is going to
rain! Hard! We made the classic mistake of going out for lunch without our
umbrellas or rain boots on a particularly clear, lovely afternoon and ended up having to rush back to the office for a meeting amid a torrential downpour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X8ldt97BkPQ/Udawv2KKI6I/AAAAAAAAAIY/7C2uOe4KmgE/s960/975749_10100396806938415_1035462093_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X8ldt97BkPQ/Udawv2KKI6I/AAAAAAAAAIY/7C2uOe4KmgE/s320/975749_10100396806938415_1035462093_n.jpg" width="236" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"> <i>“Close
your mouth,”</i> Tanya yelled to us as we ran down the street trying to dodge
calf deep mud puddles. Best way to spend an afternoon, you ask? Slowly drying
under an air conditioner over the course of a two hour meeting, only to realize
you are coated in a thin layer of grit from the air pollution that washed down
on you in the rain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You would
think that with all these changes I would be hit with massive culture shock, but that
hasn’t been the case. On the contrary: I LOVE IT HERE! One thing that really
struck me within my first few days of arrival was that in spite of how
incredibly different <u>things</u> can be from one place to the next, <u>people</u>
are essentially the same. We humans all essentially need and want the same things.
We haven’t been treated like we’re so different by people here, and I realized: it’s because
we’re really not. We have been met with nothing but friendly attitudes, smiles,
gracious hospitality and fabulous senses of humour. Everywhere I go Nepali
people are smiling and giggling together and with others. Almost every
conversation I have involves laughter. It’s hard not to be happy amid that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Nepali
culture is not abrasive. Perhaps I find that because we’re in the big city so people
are more used to accepting westerners, or perhaps it’s their genuinely kind and
gentle demeanours. It’s not as conservative as we were all preparing for. It <u>is</u>
a conservative society; however, people seem very accepting of differences.
They may think some things are strange, perhaps about the way we dress or act,
but we don’t get harassed. I go out running in my lulu lemon shorts and people
stare curiously at me, but that’s about it. The only thing I am not going to
get used to is people calling me maam everywhere I go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Good morning maam.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Hello maam.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Coffee maam?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Good evening maam.</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I am not
important enough to be called maam!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Perhaps I’m
still in the honeymoon phase, but I find it amazing how quickly one can adjust
to new things and come to love them. I already feel at home here. The mud road
with massive pot holes, and a menagerie of dead and living animals along the
side of it, is just “my street” now, the same way Lisgar or Woodland were my
street before. The little huts with random samplings of dusty
products and piles of veggies lining the precarious shelves are just my local
shops where I buy eggs and beer now. Everything that shocked me and made me
wonder what I had gotten myself into a couple weeks ago has come to be the new
version of my cozy little existence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I do get
irritated by some things at times, of course – and the suffocating humidity and
pollution that leave me in a constant state of sweatiness don't exactly help.
Also, I have seriously started to consider Dad’s suggestion of just screaming “HONK”
right back at cars when they wait until they’re just in front of my face and
lay on the horn (as if I can’t see them approaching on the empty street or am
even moderately in their way), especially when I've had a couple drinks the
night before. However, at those times, retreating to the roof of my building and taking in the
amazing view of Kathmandu with a cool beverage brings me right back to my happy
place. All in all: life is good.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-56858444425522917322013-06-29T22:22:00.002-07:002013-06-29T22:22:40.135-07:00Romeo and Juliet meets Macbeth - a very Shakespearean royal history of Nepal <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As it turns out, some of the recent Nepalese royal history
has a bit of a Shakespearean feel to it, and the literature lover in me
couldn’t resist relaying this tale to you, as it was told to me by our new
landlord Deepak over our celebratory dinner/drinks after moving in (Editorial
Warning: very real potential of personal bias here in the telling of the story,
though I have checked the facts). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 1950 a child was declared King of Nepal – 3-year-old
Gyanendra. Upon his birth he was sent to live with his grandmother after a
royal astrologer told his father, the crown-prince, that looking upon his
second son would bring him bad luck. For this reason, amid a political plot
that saw his father, grandfather and most other royals fleeing the country for India,
Gyanendra was the sole remaining male member of the royal family in Nepal. His
reign as King of Nepal ended a mere two months later, when his grandfather
returned to the country and re-assumed the throne. Now, this is where the
theories come into play. There are some who claim that Gyanendra was very
ambitious and wanted the throne back – meet our Macbeth. Many years later, in
June of 2001, when King Birendra (Gyanendra’s older brother) was monarch of
Nepal, his young son, crown-prince Dipendra, became upset with his family for
refusing to allow him to marry his choice of bride, a woman from a clan with
which his family had a historic animosity – enter Romeo. On June 1st Prince
Dipendra, in an alleged state of intoxication, stormed into a royal feast and
murdered nine of his family members, including his mother, father, brother and
sister, before turning the gun on himself – effectively eliminating every heir
to the throne from his father’s line. Gyanendra happened to be away in a nearby
city at the time of the massacre; however, his son and daughter came out of the
event unscathed, and while his wife was seriously wounded, she too survived.
Three days later, King Gyanendra was back on the throne. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, there are also questions with respect to Dipendra’s
true role in the massacre. For instance, his self-inflicted gunshot wound was
apparently inflicted from behind. One guard has claimed that Prince Dipendra
was, in fact, killed before the massacre even began, and a piece of historical
fiction that recounts the events of June 1st from the perspective of the
Queen’s personal maid claims that two men masked as the prince were the true
perpetrators of the massacre.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are officially listed as conspiracy theories, and
quite possibly can be attributed to the popularity of King Birendra and Prince
Dipendra, and the widespread dislike of Gyanendra, and his son Paras, amongst
Nepali people at the time. However, if for nothing else than an interesting
example in my mom’s English class next time she teaches one of the great
tragedies, I wanted to share this tale.</div>
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<br /></div>
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**Note: King Gyanendra’s effective reign ended for a second time in
June 2006 when, amid the final days of a ten year long civil war, Parliament
officially scrapped all the major powers of the monarchy and reduced him to a
figurehead. Two years later the interim constitution of Nepal officially
transformed the state into a republic, and the role of King was no more. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like any new democracy, Nepal’s republic is still finding
its feet. Today the political government has been suspended and a caretaker
government of public servants, with the mandate of bringing the country to
elections, is at the helm. The most senior public servants are currently occupy
the most senior political roles – the Chief Justice is the Prime Minister of
Nepal. The election date has now been set for November 19<sup>th</sup> of this
year; however, tens of Nepalese parties oppose this date, claiming that only
three parties were consulted in setting the election timeline. Many people
believe the November election will be postponed, and we are sure to see
increasing civil disobedience and more frequent bandhs (city-wide protests
called by political parties that restrict vehicles from driving and shops from
opening by threatening retribution, meant to cripple the city) in the coming
months. It is definitely an interesting time to be living in Nepal.</div>
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</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-3670996042439326682013-06-29T21:54:00.002-07:002013-06-29T22:20:54.397-07:00Getting Settled<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Taryn and I landed at Kathmandu Tribhuvan Airport a little
after 8:00am on June 13<sup>th</sup>. As we exited the plane onto the runway
and waited to board the bus that would take us to the terminal we took in the
incredible mountain landscape. I couldn’t help but be totally overwhelmed by a
mixture of excitement and nerves as the reality of the situation <u>finally</u>
sunk in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be perfectly honest I
had been avoiding thinking too much about it, and at that moment I wasn’t able
to any more. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay, we’re here,</i> I
thought to myself<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Six months. I wonder
how this is going to go.</i> I looked over at Taryn to gauge how she was
feeling about it.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It’s like we’re in a totally different
country,”</i> she exclaimed. I instantly burst out laughing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Actually, that’s exactly what it’s like.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“You know what I mean!”</i> I did. And after
the 35-40 hour long journey we just took, I could completely forgive her
difficulty in expressing herself. It broke the gravity of the situation in my
mind though, and then I was just having fun again. I realized that we would be
just fine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mc7kB4POR_o/Uc-xNUCYDwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/c44n_e5-_3s/s320/983341_10100390864676755_1216875986_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Mc7kB4POR_o/Uc-xNUCYDwI/AAAAAAAAAFk/c44n_e5-_3s/s320/983341_10100390864676755_1216875986_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taryn and me in the back of the UN car leaving the airport</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The UN vehicle that met us, bright and early that Thursday
morning, at the Kathmandu airport delivered us to the Black Pepper Guest House,
where four of the six JPCs in Nepal had reserved rooms. While a little pricier
than many other accommodation options (at $15/night) it had a great location,
at only a 10-minute walk away from the UN compound, and that was a big priority
for us. After checking-in, the temptation to just crash was great; however,
Taryn and I promised we were going to keep each other awake despite our chronic
lack of sleep over the past two days, in order to push through the jet lag and
get adjusted to the 9 hour and 45 minute (that’s right) time difference as soon
as possible. I have to say, I think we did quite well on this front, and were
trucking along with life in Nepal time almost immediately. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With four days until we were set to start work, Taryn and I
managed to pack enough into our waking hours to ward off the threat of napping,
including: searching for apartments across the city; eating dinner in the dark
due to load shedding (scheduled brownouts that roll across the city to conserve
power) at the guest house with fellow JPCs; walking into the city centre with
Tanya (another JPC) and her husband Micah to see Kathmandu Durbar Square and
peruse the stores of Thamel (tourist district); and even meeting some of our
soon-to-be UNDP colleagues for drinks at a swanky hotel with Sean (another JPC
who had arrived much earlier and commenced work already). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Early in our apartment hunt Deepak, the owner of the Black
Pepper insisted on showing us the apartment he has for rent in his building
down the street. We went along to be polite, as Sean had already scouted out
this option for us and we agreed that, at $1500/month, it was much more
expensive than we were willing to pay for accommodation in Kathmandu. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you ever seen the TLC show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Say Yes To The Dress</i>? If you have then you know, all too well, that
moment when the bride-to-be puts on that dream gown that’s out of her budget
“just to try on” and inevitably falls in love with it. Well that’s basically
what happened to Taryn and I when we saw this apartment – it was our own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Say Yes To The Apartment</i>. Damn it. We
spent the rest of the morning with Sean looking at a number of other options
with various real estate brokers, but none of which were as nice, as
comfortable or as close to work. Then the justifications started…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“You know, I feel like
it will be easier for us to adjust to living here if we’re going home to a
really comfortable place at the end of the day!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I mean, it’s probably
not necessary, but it’s nice to know there’s a 24 hour guard…”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“At least all of the
rooms are pretty comparable, so it’s not like one of us would have the master
and someone else a shoe box!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Everything is
included as well, you know, not like some other places where we would have to
pay extra for gas, internet, the generator…”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“This one would be
turn key, we have to factor in the expense of staying in the guest house until
one of the other less expensive places would be available, after all!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It might be a little
more expensive, but everything else here is so cheap. It might be worth it to
splurge a little.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AT3_0mS9Q6A/Uc-yJ-0AuNI/AAAAAAAAAGM/iCdcMpHFiNQ/s1600/DSC_0386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AT3_0mS9Q6A/Uc-yJ-0AuNI/AAAAAAAAAGM/iCdcMpHFiNQ/s320/DSC_0386.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TGs7JTnf_JY/Uc-yJjyL4gI/AAAAAAAAAGE/URGu1wG4MYc/s1600/DSC_0382.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TGs7JTnf_JY/Uc-yJjyL4gI/AAAAAAAAAGE/URGu1wG4MYc/s320/DSC_0382.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All met by a chorus of agreements from the others. It was
clear that we all had our hearts set on it, but didn’t want to come right out
and say so directly. We nonetheless remained in agreement that $1500 was simply
<u>way</u> too much. It seemed as good a time as any to test out those
bargaining skills we kept being told we would need. After some careful math and
budgeting we decided that the absolute highest we could afford to pay was $1100
monthly. We put on our best poker faces, talked about how much more cost
effective some of the other places we saw were and tried not to betray how much
we wanted to live in the apartment while negotiating the price with Deepak. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OIEQDmRzSM4/Uc-yNNJxaMI/AAAAAAAAAGo/l4J0tsBjAEA/s1600/DSC_0393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OIEQDmRzSM4/Uc-yNNJxaMI/AAAAAAAAAGo/l4J0tsBjAEA/s320/DSC_0393.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from my bedroom window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AT3_0mS9Q6A/Uc-yJ-0AuNI/AAAAAAAAAGM/iCdcMpHFiNQ/s1600/DSC_0386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
After going back and forth a couple of times we were able to
settle on $1100/month – the only thing he wasn’t able to include for that price
was the daily cleaning service, which would be an extra $30/month if we wanted
it, we assumed we could survive without daily cleaning. Upon agreeing Deepak
said the magic words: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“You can even move
in this evening if you want, we just need an hour or two to do some cleaning.”</i>
We happily skipped up to our respective rooms to pack, and within a couple of
hours were loading our bags into the Black Pepper’s little red van and moving
into our new home. The day before work started, it was perfect to feel like we
had somewhere to hang our hats and weren’t going to be living out of suitcases
in cramped, shared guest house rooms anymore. Also, it doesn’t hurt that our
new place is <u>swanky</u>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SJzlzKVDlmM/Uc-xQzyMHaI/AAAAAAAAAFw/d1SQnQl-0xs/s960/1059112_10100401481959635_1372252686_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SJzlzKVDlmM/Uc-xQzyMHaI/AAAAAAAAAFw/d1SQnQl-0xs/s200/1059112_10100401481959635_1372252686_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3 months rent -- 315,000 Rupees</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Once we got all our stuff into the apartment Deepak invited us across the street to the Black Pepper Pub at 7:00pm for some drinks to celebrate. A couple of drinks ended up being a seemingly endless flow of beer and food to our table while Deepak regaled us with interesting stories and tidbits of Nepal culture and history. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
He also insisted that we call him at any time, for anything. <i>“If you maybe go out at night some time and you need ride back, just call me! We have this van and we can go pick you up so you all come back safe and together. Really. Call me for anything!”</i> He also invited us to his niece’s wedding later that summer, exclaiming that he thought it would be nice for us to experience the Nepalese wedding with the party and the ceremony. Who could say no to that? These are all just examples of the incredible warmth and hospitality that most Nepalese people have met us with since our arrival, but more on that later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh yeah, and we ended up keeping the cleaner…I know, I’m
never going to be able to go back to Canada. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E_p1AIkJooE/Uc-yWwM75tI/AAAAAAAAAGw/pseBi47Ge5k/s1600/DSC_0399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E_p1AIkJooE/Uc-yWwM75tI/AAAAAAAAAGw/pseBi47Ge5k/s640/DSC_0399.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Kathmandu and Himalayas from our rooftop patio</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-22519009358016346902013-06-26T02:46:00.001-07:002013-06-26T02:46:32.125-07:00Voyage to Nepal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y5ferk9o_dY/Ucq3bn8UvAI/AAAAAAAAAE8/xsb0UUvoO_I/s1600/Toronto+take+off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y5ferk9o_dY/Ucq3bn8UvAI/AAAAAAAAAE8/xsb0UUvoO_I/s320/Toronto+take+off.jpg" width="320" /></a>The trip to Nepal is a bit of a long haul…to say the least. For
me it started at about noon on Tuesday, June 11, 2013. That’s when I loaded my
suitcases into the back of my mom’s Toyota Matrix and commenced the two and a
half hour drive from Huntsville, Ontario to the Toronto airport, arriving right
on time to get checked in and meet my Aunt Janet for a cold beer and a snack
before crossing the ominous threshold of AIRPORT SECURITY. About an hour before
the 6:20pm take-off I ended up at the gate and met fellow JPC (one of the total
six of us JPCs starting at UNDP Nepal this month), Taryn Russell there. The
last name is just one of the many things we share in common, including a Welsh
first name, an April birthday and vegetarianism – but I’m sure there will be
much more on Team Russel(l) later. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wi4wpoqdd10/Ucq3eRHRERI/AAAAAAAAAFE/sVaoKRuqGgw/s1600/Brussels+snack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wi4wpoqdd10/Ucq3eRHRERI/AAAAAAAAAFE/sVaoKRuqGgw/s320/Brussels+snack.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wi4wpoqdd10/Ucq3eRHRERI/AAAAAAAAAFE/sVaoKRuqGgw/s1600/Brussels+snack.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Our Jet Airways flight took off right on time, and landed in
Brussels ahead of schedule at just after 7:00am Belgian time. It was somewhere
around 1:00am by our time, so we deemed it appropriate to spend our 2.5 hour
stopover running to the nearest pub and filling ourselves with a little Belgian
beer (all the better to help us sleep on the next leg, of course). And sleep we
did, almost the entire way from Brussels to Delhi. I woke up six hours into the
eight hour flight, just in time to see Afghanistan and Pakistan as we flew over
them, which I’m glad I didn't miss. All in all: everything went smoothly…until
we got to Delhi.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last leg of our voyage – the 1.5 hour flight to
Kathmandu – would have to wait the next 8.5 hours to begin. So that was a bit
of a bummer, but we were prepared for it. What we were not prepared for was to
be pointed in the wrong direction by nearly every single (very unfriendly)
person who worked in the Delhi airport. We were told to leave the area we <i>clearly</i> had to go through (international
connections) at least three times, sent on a wild goose chase, denied access
when we finally came back to the right area because we used the wrong lift,
then sent back when the “right lift” wouldn’t work, only to be turned away
again. When we <i>finally</i> got through
security we arrived in what I can only describe as an airport mega mall that
was duty free and numerous other designer and name brand shops. At this point
we had been travelling for approximately 24 hours and made the quick
calculation that spending the cash on lounge passes was a worthy investment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wwXI9yJZTa0/Ucq3eTl6ykI/AAAAAAAAAFI/6miG0oid63c/s1600/Delhi+lounge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wwXI9yJZTa0/Ucq3eTl6ykI/AAAAAAAAAFI/6miG0oid63c/s320/Delhi+lounge.JPG" width="320" /></a>Unlimited food, drink, internet access, comfortable chairs
and an air conditioned napping room (in the city that was 36 degree when we
landed in the middle of the night) soon proved us right. Although the charge for
the lounge use was $25 US for two hours, the manager offered it to us for 8 for
only $5 more…as long as we paid in cash…and I’m <i>sure</i> the company saw every penny of that….mmhhmmm. We were very
comfortable and treated extremely well in the lounge. In fact, perhaps it was a
little <i>too</i> well. We were checked in
on by the lounge manager every 30 minutes, and the conversations usually went
something like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Him</i></b><i> – Oh you are having a
drink, very good. You have everything you need? You are enjoying?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Me</i></b><i> – Yes, thank you.
Everything is great.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Him</i></b><i> – You should have, I
think, just a small glass of vodka, with some ice, a little bit of orange
juice. You will be very relax!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I’m not usually one to turn down vodka, but it was all
just a bit much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Me</i></b><i>- Oh no, that’s okay.
Thank you.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Him</i></b><i> – Okay? Yes. I make
for you!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Me</i></b><i> – No, no! No thank
you. No vodka for me.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if it was just us, but we found the level of
service to be…perhaps slightly too intense for our tastes. The icing on the
cake was when I peered into the napping room, to see if there was room for me to
have a quick sleep. My buddy the lounge manager came up behind me and wanted to
open the doors to show me inside. I tried to explain that I only wanted to
check if there was room.<br />
<i>“Yes
yes, there is. You should go. You should get rest.”</i> I decided he was likely
right, so I went back to our seats and told Taryn I was going to try to take a
quick nap. Upon entering the room I found two of the four couches already
occupied by sleepy travelers, but grabbed a nice looking spot near the back of
the room with a couple of pillows and shut my eyes. I drifted in and out of
sleep for a while, and was aware of the two others leaving at some point, presumably
to catch their planes. The next time my eyes drifted open I was startled into
full consciousness at the sight of a figure bending over me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i> “Oh
hello! It is you. I was not sure it was you I did not see you out there anymore.”</i>
One guess who that was. Who else did he think it would be? More importantly:
why does it matter?<i> “Yes yes, you sleep
now. You know you should just have a small glass of vodka with a little ice. It
would make you very relax. You sleep.”</i> At this he mimes passing out, which
at that time instantly became the last thing I wanted to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i> “No
no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i> “Okay.
I go make for you?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i> “NO.
No vodka! Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i> “Okay,”</i>
he nods his head. Then turns his attention to the next thing he can do to serve
me. <i>“Here, you see you just cover like
this,”</i> he starts grabbing pillows from the surrounding couches and covering
me with them. <i>“Then you be very warm and
very relax.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know what doesn't make me “very relax”? A man I don’t
know trying to tuck me in with pillows in a dark room and get me drunk on
vodka. After that, it’s safe to say that I was <i>wide</i> awake until we boarded our final flight to Kathmandu. </div>
</div>
Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-565497901023818983.post-34377090179617555742013-06-20T20:27:00.003-07:002013-06-26T02:35:00.152-07:00The Mission<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ABaLP3SQ8Ss/UcqzqG_sYqI/AAAAAAAAAEs/qDx5fFvLQvE/s1600/in+bears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ABaLP3SQ8Ss/UcqzqG_sYqI/AAAAAAAAAEs/qDx5fFvLQvE/s200/in+bears.jpg" width="195" /></a>Growing up I was never a doll girl. I didn’t spend hours
dressing and re-dressing, brushing hair and hosting tea parties; instead, I was
all about the teddy bears. When I was young (okay, a teenager) I used to
collect bears. I worked at a toy store in high school and the job fed my
existing love of plush toys to an out of control level. They absolutely
overwhelmed and littered my bedroom, until I inevitably left home for
university at 18.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the near decade since I moved away from home, my mother
has been bugging me about what I am going to do with the occupying force the near
two hundred bears have become in her basement. I haven’t been able to decide. I
didn’t want to sell them, or just bring them to a second hand store. They had
been important to me, and while I knew that there was no way I could keep them,
either at my mom’s house, or in my apartment in Ottawa, I didn’t want to give
them up without good cause. I wanted them to go to people who would love them
even more than I would. I wanted them to go to people who needed them. Finally,
Mom and I made a deal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was Easter weekend 2013 and I was at home, completing an
application for an internship with the United Nations Association in Canada to
be a Junior Professional Consultant (or JPC) with the United Nations
Development Progamme (UNDP) in Nepal. Mom started hauling the bags and boxes of
my bears up from the basement and instructed me to take photos of them, because
they had to go. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jLMvBC8l8l0/UcPH8zUIOXI/AAAAAAAAAD0/miZf7THzvnU/s1600/DSC_0302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jLMvBC8l8l0/UcPH8zUIOXI/AAAAAAAAAD0/miZf7THzvnU/s320/DSC_0302.JPG" width="320" /></a>“Bronwyn,
how about: if you get this position, you take 10 of your bears with you and
give them to kids there that don’t have anything else. Then, the next
developing country you go to you take 10 more, and by the end of your career in
development your bears will be spread out all across the world?” It was an idea
I’m not sure anyone could argue with. And even if they could, I certainly
didn’t want to, I loved it. It was the perfect solution to my teddy bear
dilemma. I know how excited <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> used to
be as a child to get a toy. The idea of being able to bring that much happiness
to that many children around the world was more than I could have ever hoped my
bears could be worth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the conditional plan was set, and then, as luck would
have it, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> get the JPC position
in Nepal, and the plan was put into action. In the week before I left the
country for the six month posting I gathered all my bears from the basement and
selected the lucky ones for this first phase of my Operation Teddy Bear,
stuffed them into a vacuum seal bag, sucked the air out and jammed them into
the bottom of my suitcase. Children on Nepal, here we come! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Meet “Team Nepal”</b></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hk5a-wmF2qA/UcPHqzRZbvI/AAAAAAAAADs/vNYijQ586K8/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hk5a-wmF2qA/UcPHqzRZbvI/AAAAAAAAADs/vNYijQ586K8/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Bronwynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13892871659071797939noreply@blogger.com1