The Arrival

June 2, 2009

Note to self: Next time I want a visa for Nepal I’m going to bring my own passport size photo.

Being ripped off is par for the course when traveling (period). This is even more true in the case of a developing country. When locals see a white man they assume that he is rich and that he will spend his money lavishly. But “rip-offs” or “out-of-towner’s taxes” (I prefer the later) aren’t just an ad hoc project. Case in point: Since I didn’t have my own tiny photo for the visa I had to take a picture at the airport. Since I didn’t have any rupees, having just stepped off the plane, I had to exchange money at a desk specifically set up for the convenience. The scheme was clear. If you are not aware of the appropriate protocol you will be fined for your ignorance.

I don’t want you to think that I’m disparaging this activity, I’m not. It is very annoying, of course, but it is also a fairly ethical form taxation. This is not true in all cases, certainly I do not look forward to shake-downs by Maoists rebels, but an individual or institution squeezing a little extra cash out of a foreigner, punishing him for his ignorance, is fine by me. My ignorance is really laziness. If I had taken the time to be informed, I would have known I needed a picture taken. Likewise, if I knew at least some of the language, was better informed about the culture, had studied up on ways to get bargains or at least the prices of common products and services, all of which I could have done prior to leaving, I’d save money. Of course there will always be some things you can only learn on the ground and I can’t change the fact that I’m white. But when we travel in this type of comfortable ignorance, we travel with wealth and privilege as our shield. Part of me wants to thank people who rip me off for teaching me of my own hubris.

**

Going through customs is often like navigating a maze. Marching through the narrow warm orange corridors of the Kathmandu airport, I was aware of the way the space had been intentionally separated. I squinted through a long window. It obscured my view of the room beyond it with the reflected white of daylight, but I could see that the room was full of people. Nepalis mostly, my guess. It was such a contrast to the relatively tiny group that disembarked from our boeing 777. We were outside, coming in, and they were the others.

I was getting nervous. Stupid me for not better planning my arrival. I didn’t even have Kashish’s phone number. What if he’s not there when I step out of the baggage claim? What if there’s no internet? How will I know if he’s coming? How will I remind him of my arrival? What about a hotel? I so did not want to pay for a hotel, but what if that was my only option? Nick is a crazy person, remember Cuba? What possessed me to to rely on this guy and our two Nepalese friends from college?

I escaped the maze of customs only to be lost again. I had read about how stepping out of the airport in KTM is an experience of sensory overload for most first time travelers. That is not what happened to me. In fact, the place was clearly subdued, relatively quiet, almost calm: the Bandh. Still, I was immediately surrounded by three men reaching for my bags, offering to take me to “my” hotel, offering to find me a taxi, offering to help me make a local phone call.

––You need taxi? ––Which hotel you are going to?

––No hotel. I don’t need a taxi, thank you. My friend is picking me up.

––Where you from? California?

––Wow, that’s a good guess, yes I’m from California, but I live in Washington, DC.

––You volunteer here?

––That’s right again actually, wow.

––With NGO yes? Which NGO?

––The center for development and population activities, CEDPA.

––Oh, CEDPA, yes. Ok, you stand over here, you are safe. You are safe. If you need to make a phone call, we can do that too. Welcome to Nepal.

And so I stood in a tourists’ corral along with 50 or so other people, looking lost, bewildered and wondering where my ride was going to come from.

**

The first word I learned in Nepal was “gata”. It is a Newari word that means “enough.” As in, “I can’t eat any more” or “I’m drunk already.” Gata, gata, gata! –– enough, enough, enough! The second word that I learned in Nepal was “pugyo,” which is a Nepali word. It also means “enough.” Such is the hospitality of the people of Nepal. The guest is God, and any guest here will undoubtedly have to learn these words and learn them quickly. Otherwise one would die of an exploded stomach.

**

I paced the tourists’ corral; poked my head around red cement pillars; scouted busses, the few there were; scanned the faces of the crowd for Kashish and Dawa. Nothing. Had it been so long that I wouldn’t recognize them? No. They were not there. They did not come. I dragged my bags out of the corral and stood on the other side of the rope separating the human cattle from their rustlers. I turned to walk away and a twenty-something white man passed me. I paused. He walked to the edge of the corral, his eyes darting from face to face.

––Looking for someone? I asked

And, Nick, the dear friend I hadn’t seen in years, greeted me with a hug.