And so
goodbye for now Nepal. Waking on a Kathmandu morning, unable to breathe for all
the diesel soot, dryness and dust hanging in the air, I will not miss... but as
well as your mountains, your rivers, your moonlit hillsides and all the friends
I have made inside your borders, your smiles will surely call me back.
On my
birthday drive out to that desolate and windswept mountain peak, I stopped at
Boudhanath, site of the world's largest Buddhist stoupa and a thriving centre
for Tibetan Buddhism. As I entered the square, I could make out the maroon of
monks' robes between the dark wooden slats of a gompa sitting right in
front of the gleaming stoupa. A ritual was taking place, and I was suddenly and
powerfully overwhelmed by the chanting, the crashing of cymbals, the juniper
incense and the sonorous tones of the dungchen.
I mean it. I
had to sit down, so sought out the only shade available in that square at 12
pm, which just happened to be the bamboo awning of a coffee kiosk in the
corner. As I ordered, and fumbled around for some small change, I caught the
eye of a passing monk, and gave him one of those no-holds-barred smiles that
have become so indicative of my experience of this country. This it seems
arrested him from whatever business he had in crossing that square, for as well
as beaming back at me, he approached me slowly with both arms outstretched,
took my face in his hands and rested his forehead against my own. After a few
moments we drew away from each other, and he motioned for me to return the
gesture, placing my hands upon his cheeks, and bowing slightly so that our
foreheads might touch.
When we
separated, we were both still beaming, though my eyes were filling with tears,
and I had a lump in my throat through which I was struggling to breathe.
The next day
as I drove back down the mountain, I passed a wedding party at which a fully
uniformed brass band was making the most dynamic contribution. Normally I
associate these bands with military parades or pavilions on the village green,
but here in Nepal, they had taken the pomp and circumstance of the old colonial
West, and married it with their own native rhythms and melodies. For a moment,
I enjoyed reading the potential for irony in that band's performance, the
mockery that mimickry, particularly of one's colonial forebearers, can always
suggest. But in truth, the whole scene was more Kusturica than Python, and soon
I was struggling with a powerful urge to drink and dance.
Plumbing and
democracy aside, sometimes the East does the West very well, revitalising even
our most painful cliches.
Emboldened
perhaps by the evident admiration written into my gaze, a group of children
eventually approached me after a great deal of coy and tentative hovering.
Although most of the boys were in jeans and t-shirt, a couple of young girls
were clearly playing a more central role in the day's events and wore white
dresses trimmed with white netting and pink ribbon. All of them, boys as well
as girls, wore gold earrings and black eyeliner.
The oldest
among them, a girl of about 12, was such a gentle, modest and open-hearted
young kid. When we first set about chatting, she insisted she knew no English,
though it quickly became clear that her level of proficiency allowed her to
express herself quite eloquently. When I bought them some candy from the local
store, she apologised on behalf of the shopkeeper, who had overcharged me by 20
rupees, about 15 pence, and invited me to her family's house in a nearby field.
There she poured me some water and gave me a tour of her and her brothers'
rooms, their faded posters, dog-eared books and battered toys. She was opening
up her little life to me with an innocence and trust that only children have
and I was both grateful and touched. And then she asked me for some photos of
my family, and I took out my tablet to show her all the images, the maps and
the videos that it contained, teaching the kids how to tap, swipe and pinch
zoom the images. Of course, this they loved, and I was quickly at the centre of
a tight knot of eager reaching hands and craning faces. But still, I couldn't
help feeling a certain shame, a revulsion even for the source of this
excitement. Here in this simple home, such an expensive consumer device seemed
terribly decadent and made me despise the fetishistic value that we in the West
bestow upon such possessions.
For a
moment, my eyes glazed and I was no longer in the room. Overcome with my own
hypocrisy, I was slouching off to some dark corner of my head where I didn't
have to look myself in the eye. Then in some lull to all the excitement
happening far away I heard her voice.
"We are friends now, yes?".
I looked up
to see this 12 year old girl dressed like a little angel and beaming at me with
what seemed like all the love in the world.
And once
more I fought back my rising tears and struggled with the lump in my throat.
One of the
messages that I most want to get out with this blog is the importance of these
brave gestures, of openness, trust and empathy. Recently I re-took the Myers
Briggs personality test and confirmed that I am still very much an INFP type.
Naturally inclined to intimacy, I guess I am sucker for the kindness of
strangers, and always return it with interest. But it seems to me that in the
triumph of consumer capitalism, we sorely need the check and balance of empathy
if we are to avoid the unintended consequences that always come when we let a
system regulate our affairs. Ours is a society where self-interest and the
competitive instinct will always be rewarded with wealth and comfort, as well
as the power and privilege of preserving and drafting legislation. Whilst this
arrangement has obvious benefits in terms of stimulating innovation and economic
growth, without intervention we run the risk of creating ever more selfish
societies, further alienating and undervaluing those who would pursue the more
caring and nurturing professions.
Something to
ponder as you dwell on these encounters...
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