From an airplane, the tiny kingdom of Nepal is a palette of lush greens and rich browns, with Mount Everest rising above the clouds with its magnificent snow-capped peak. To my eyes, the roadways look like tiny veins as they wind through dense vegetation.
Emerging from the airport, I adjust my eyes to the intense sunlight that appears after a heavy downpour. It is the beginning of the rainy season, and the air is hot and sweet.
There are few roads in this tiny landlocked country, and fewer still are paved, especially outside of central Kathmandu, where I will spend the next two months living with a Nepalese family.
As my taxi leaves the airport, I am amazed at how many people there are: they navigate roads clogged with cars, buses, cyclists and cows. The brightly-coloured saris of the women stand out next to the dull brown houses and muddy roads.
I spend my first week in Nepal in a hostel in Thamel, a touristy area of Kathmandu where pashmina boutiques, bookstores, restaurants and t-shirt shops line the road. Here too the roads are narrow, and rickshaws must carefully manoeuvre around pedestrians and wild dogs.
At nearly every corner, the familiar voice of Bob Marley is heard—he became an icon to the many Americans who came here in the 1960s seeking a laid-back lifestyle. In Thamel, one can find all the foods native to Nepal and neighbouring India and Tibet alongside pizza, tacos, chocolate cake and beer.
Rumours of an abundance of large spiders in my hostel require me to check every inch of my room each night before I go to bed.
In the morning, long before the sun rises, I am awoken by shops opening for the day, dogs fighting in the streets below and men clearing their throats from balconies. The soft hum of sewing machines and the sizzle of frying pans are never far away.
My decision to volunteer in Nepal stemmed from my desire to know more about the country and its rich cultural heritage. About 90 per cent of the population are Hindu, and the streets of Kathmandu are rich with shrines and temples devoted to the more than one million Hindu gods and goddesses. Also sacred to the Hindus are cows, which wander freely on the narrow roads.
For two months I volunteer at ABC/Nepal (agriculture, basic health, co-operatives), a group that primarily functions as a shelter for young girls and women who have been rescued from brothels in Nepal and India.
It also gives small amounts of money to women in rural communities to start farming co-operatives, and aims to educate women about their rights and the dangers of unprotected sex. Although the rights of women in Nepal are improving, the legacy of the caste system still restricts many women, as does a society that emphasizes more traditional roles for women within the home.
Evidence of the current political strife in Nepal is widespread: soldiers are stationed at every corner, and burned tires from student protests sit discarded by the road. Most people are told to avoid the far Western Terai region, an area heavily populated by Maoists.
As a result, Kathmandu is overpopulated with people from rural areas trying to escape the violence. Newspapers printed by those loyal to Nepal’s King Gyanendra never discuss the wrongdoings of the King’s army, although many have told me they are as much of a threat as the Maoists.
During my stay, I begin to recognize the people I on my daily walk to the bus who sit in the morning sun, waving, or just staring at the oddity of a foreigner walking alone in this rural neighbourhood.
Once on the bus, I stand with a single hand grasping the overhead safety bar, my face turned toward an open window. More and more people get on, some clinging to the back, others hanging out of open doors. When my stop is faintly called, it takes the jaws of life to pluck me from the bowels of the bus where I have wedged myself.
I work in a simple office, writing and editing proposals for funding for ABC/Nepal. With almost daily power outages, this task is sometimes difficult.
From the window, I can see vast fields of rice, and beyond them, the foothills of the Himalayas. If it is a holy day and children are home from school, I visit with some of the girls staying at the shelter.
I answer questions about Canada, sing the national anthem and try to explain why we don’t have a national dance. I tell them we’re still working on that, and I’ll try to come up with something by the next time I visit.
By the end of my two-month stay, political tensions have risen considerably and although Kathmandu is still quite safe, I find myself looking forward to the familiarities of home.
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