To Go Or To Stay?

"Don't come home! I wish I were there! Why, Why, Why did I leave?" Nissa writes me in an email.

My tourist visa will expire in three weeks; I begin the process of getting it extended by applying for a journalist visa. With school finished and my senior thesis written, I want a month to disappear into the house while it rains to write about Nepal. There are people I have yet to interview, places to photograph, and I haven't even trekked yet. For one week, I immerse myself in the visa extension process: in phone calls, attempted meetings, fruitless taxi rides to offices that no longer exist, in preparing a packet with letters of recommendation, samples of my work, my resume, the list of the stories I plan to write and the list of the publications I plan to write for. One week of playing the game turns into two. Suddenly I ask myself why.

I want to be warm year-round, to not have to squeeze around the edges of a mud lake every time I leave my house. I want to live near the sea. I want a toilet that flushes, hot water, and I want to be around people with similar sensibilities...artistic, spiritual.... No more hedonism PLEASE. And cheap! I heard that a paradise called Bali is a cheap place to live. Is that possible?

But I've never been good at good-byes.

The next morning I am dressing for a meeting with the Queen of Visa extensions. Although my heart is no longer in this, I've come this far, so figure I may as well see what happens. After a harrowing taxi ride across town, swerving around cows, speeding down the centerline, I am at the Ministry of Information. Mrs. Subhadi, The Deputy Chief has not yet seen the packet of information I grueled over all last week and brought in last Friday for her perusal. It seems to have disappeared. "Why do you want to stay?" she asks.  I tell her I want to write stories about Nepal. I am going to add that I want to write articles that will bring tourists back to Nepal, and so I begin, "I am so sad about what is happening to Nepal..."

She interrupts to say, "Never in all of my life have I seen my country like this." She gazes out the window shaking her head slowly. " I've been through revolutions, the end of the Panchyat Regime and the beginning of democracy, but this? It's the worst it's ever been. I can no longer watch TV. So many deaths. The government doesn't care about this country. Sometimes I think of going to Los Angeles to join my daughter. But I need more to do than just sit around watching TV all day. Now, they announce we will have new elections!  This costs money and who do you think will pay for it? The poor people of Nepal who work for 150 rupees a day. I do not see how we will survive." She sighs, and then turns back to me. "So, what must you think about the Deputy Director of the Ministry of Information speaking about her country to you this way?" I just shake my head slowly. She doesn't want to hear what I think. She needs to vent and so I listen.

She stands up and hands me her business card. She introduces me to Mr. Kendall in another office. "I am being transferred to another position in another office," she says. " This is the person you should speak to. He will let you know if there are more documents that are needed."

"Try to find the packet I brought in if you can," I say. "It has everything you need."

They look at me expectantly, or at least I think they do.  It's not like there's a long line of people standing in line to get their visa's extended to stay in Nepal, and so I will not beg and I will not pay them. Once again, I wonder why I am doing this.

The next day Mr. Kendall says to me on the telephone "I am doing what I can. You will be my new American friend." He tells me to call back the next day. I do. He says, "Your application is still under consideration. Come to my house this evening at 9 PM and we will discuss it further."

I will not stay in Nepal.  I know this now.

Last Magic Moments

My days take on a different tone now that I know the movie is ending. Everything in Kathmandu takes on a nostalgic glow. My ears perk up at every sound. I savor every detail. And so, as is typical for me, I am at my best in the last quarter.

I am in the garden one morning reading the Himalayan Times surrounded by flowers and vines just outside of the crimson doors which lead into the house which has been my home for the past four months. The doors are flung open to receive another day. The flowers in our garden: dahlias, geraniums, peonies, roses... A vine droops over the front doors heavy with passion fruit. The papaya tree outside my bedroom window stands straight and strong, it's newly pruned limbs sprouting tiny green leaves. A white The next morning I am dressing for a meeting with the Queen of Visa extensions. Although my heart is no longer in this, I've come this far, so figure I may as well see what happens. After a harrowing taxi ride across town, swerving around cows, speeding down the centerline, I am at the Ministry of Information. Mrs. Subhadi, The Deputy Chief has not yet seen the packet of information I grueled over all last week and brought in last Friday for her perusal. It seems to have disappeared. "Why do you want to stay?" she asks.  I tell her I want to write stories about Nepal. I am going to add that I want to write articles that will bring tourists back to Nepal, and so I begin, "I am so sad about what is happening to Nepal..."

She interrupts to say, "Never in all of my life have I seen my country like this." She gazes out the window shaking her head slowly. " I've been through revolutions, the end of the Panchyat Regime and the beginning of democracy, but this? It's the worst it's ever been. I can no longer watch TV. So many deaths. The government doesn't care about this country. Sometimes I think of going to Los Angeles to join my daughter. But I need more to do than just sit around watching TV all day. Now, they announce we will have new elections!  This costs money and who do you think will pay for it? The poor people of Nepal who work for 150 rupees a day. I do not see how we will survive." She sighs, and then turns back to me. "So, what must you think about the Deputy Director of the Ministry of Information speaking about her country to you this way?" I just shake my head slowly. She doesn't want to hear what I think. She needs to vent and so I listen.

She stands up and hands me her business card. She introduces me to Mr. Kendall in another office. "I am being transferred to another position in another office," she says. " This is the person you should speak to. He will let you know if there are more documents that are needed."

"Try to find the packet I brought in if you can," I say. "It has everything you need."

They look at me expectantly, or at least I think they do.  It's not like there's a long line of people standing in line to get their visa's extended to stay in Nepal, and so I will not beg and I will not pay them. Once again, I wonder why I am doing this.

The next day Mr. Kendall says to me on the telephone "I am doing what I can. You will be my new American friend." He tells me to call back the next day. I do. He says, "Your application is still under consideration. Come to my house this evening at 9 PM and we will discuss it further."

I will not stay in Nepal.  I know this now.

Last Magic Moments

My days take on a different tone now that I know the movie is ending. Everything in Kathmandu takes on a nostalgic glow. My ears perk up at every sound. I savor every detail. And so, as is typical for me, I am at my best in the last quarter.

I am in the garden one morning reading the Himalayan Times surrounded by flowers and vines just outside of the crimson doors which lead into the house which has been my home for the past four months. The doors are flung open to receive another day. The flowers in our garden: dahlias, geraniums, peonies, roses... A vine droops over the front doors heavy with passion fruit. The papaya tree outside my bedroom window stands straight and strong, it's newly pruned limbs sprouting tiny green leaves. A white

grapes vine is growing over there, and a juniper bush here, bright pink chrysanthemums, marigolds,  snapdragons, coral hibiscus, royal purple dahlias, yellow roses, mums, golden irises, squash vines, a mango tree, and a statue of Lord Shiva, with fresh cut flowers in his lap and petals scattered over his head. By 11 AM, Nepal is a kiln. The monsoon rains are on their way. Each afternoon thick dark thunderclouds roll in blocking the sun. As spring turns to summer, they arrive earlier and stay longer. And then the sky breaks open, it rains, and the air is cool and clean again.

"Lichee! Lichee!" I look up and see a man's head between the spikes on our gate. He holds in his hand a bunch of round, red acorn-textured fruits. "Ek chin!" I say and run inside to get some money. "Phuntsog! Will you help me?" I ask my Tibetan roommate. "It's quite an exquisite fruit really," he says accompanying me to the gate to let the vendor in. The pokey red peeling comes off easily revealing a transparent, white, wobbly oval shaped fruit, like an eyeball minus the iris. I pop one in my mouth. It's sweet and juicy with a hard, smooth seed inside that looks like a kalamata olive.

It's the second day of the World Cup  --  Ireland against Cameroon. Phuntsog and his Irish friend, Alex are watching the game, and laughing over the wording in today's Kathmandu Post about a family of four who died from eating wild mushrooms. The article says that their intestines came out through their mouths. While watching the game, Phuntsog remarks that Senegal has some weird looking Eastern European coaches. Alex says dryly, "Since the iron curtain came down there are some strange people moving out into the world."

 I'm going to miss this sort of international banter in the U.S. For one thing, nobody in America is even watching the World Cup, much less discussing the effects of the Iron curtain coming down as casually as if one were discussing the weather.

Last night at the Upstairs, they showed a video made during the jazz festival and it gave me goosebumps, took me back. What a magical time that was. There they were, Nick and Matt and the rest of the band, and behind it all, Susan making the impossible possible. Cheddup calls Susan and I over to a window. We look down onto the street, where illuminated by street lamps are two women dancing to the strains of Credenza drifting out of the bar. They didn't have the 200 rupees cover charge. Cheddup goes down into the street to invite them up to the bar.

Walter has just returned from Thailand and I meet with him to ask about where to go and what to see in Thailand. We talk, eat Mexican food, and I take notes. Why haven't I interviewed this man before? The Austrian expatriate who arrived and stayed in Kathmandu over 20 yrs. ago to build an ashram has a resume of occupations longer than the grocery list for the Von Trapps in the Sound of Music. For years he imported Mercedes parts,to Nepal by driving to Europe in a bus to get them and driving it back full of parts.  He was an organic farmer before organic farming was fashionable. He restored antique furniture, he owned a resort, he was a healing masseuse, manager of a rock band, and a bartender. Today he owns and runs the Botega and Stupa View Restaurants, he is owner of a touring and trekking company, and he is the only licensed undertaker in Nepal. On the way home we tour through old Kathmandu. At this late hour, it's just us, the roaches, the rats, and the scroungy dogs who are digging through the piles of trash strewn throughout the narrow alleys. But that's looking down. When you look up, you see magnificent, centuries old temples and deities, in bronze and carved wood, towering overhead in the halogen lights.

The next day I go to Patan with my friend, Jeff, who has just completed a trek around Mt. Kailash on assignment for Yoga Journal and is headed back to San Francisco the next day. While Jeff ducks in and out of little shops looking for a house warming gift for this friend, and a Buddha for that one, I chase the last precious rays of the day through the square in Patan. Suddenly I hear whooping and cheering. I go inside where I find woodcarvers listening to the World Cup -- the same thing every other man in the world is doing at this moment.

It's Sunday night at the New Orleans Cafe when Kathmandu's musicians -- both those traveling through and those who live here --  come together to jam with their instruments. Kesan is playing and singing Dylan. A slight, blonde man with an English accent approaches the stage with a travel-sized guitar and begins to play. Robin (of local Robin & Losar fame) beats on the tabla with abandon. Diep, the Chief of Police's son, sings. Someone shakes the tambourine. More musicians gather around, Suman with his flute, Sudesh with his acoustic guitar, and more traditional Nepali instruments whose names I do not know. The intensity of the music builds, rapid-fire and rich.

Some expat havens are full of writers. Some are full of painters. Kathmandu is a town awash in musicians.

New friends who feel like old friends surround me: Phuntsog, Laura, Robin, Suman, Sudash, Dahl, and Tamara.... Security is a net of knowns. The fear of the unknown beyond Kathmandu has begun to creep in on me. When I left California, Kathmandu was the Unknown. And now, with Kathmandu the Known, I feel the tug of security.

My flight leaves early tomorrow morning and I have not yet packed. I have no idea where I will spend tomorrow night in Bangkok. Dahl tells me that there is a way that I can stay if I want. All I need do is go to India, pretend to have lost my passport, come back to Nepal, and get a new one. It is a way out. "Why is it again that I am I leaving?" I try to remember. Robin sings a farewell song: Cat Stevens, "...now that I've lost everything to you, you're off to start something new, and it's breakin' my heart you're leaving, Baby I'm grievin'. Ooh Baby Baby its a wild world. Hard to get by just upon a smile girl..." I look around the people of Kathmandu in their shorts, their jeans, long skirts, and sandals on this summer night in Kathmandu and I say to Phuntsog, "I wonder if I'll find this in other expat havens?" He says, "Probably not."

At midnight, I go home and pack.

At 8:30 AM, I am on the Royal Nepal jet as it taxies down the runway of the Tribhuvan Airport. Luckily, there are no cows laying on it. We climb to the top of the sky, and from my seat on the left side of the plane, I look out at the Himalayas, at a view that is straight off a Nepali travel poster.

The Next Best Place Robin will be is in Bangkok, the city in Asia, according to the news this week, with strongest economic outlook. Robin wrote Roger Gallo and stated that although the flight from Kathmandu to Bangkok was only 4 hours, she felt as if she had hopped planets which were galaxies apart. Gallo replied that Kathmandu is an outpost. Bangkok, the new frontier.

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