The long journey to Gam Ghadi

The trip to Mugu was an adventure on its own. The time in Mugu will have to be saved for another entry. When your destination airport is closed indefinitely and you need to get a flight to the next nearest airport and then walk 3 days to get to where you are going; that’s the beginning of something unique. How unique is what I found out along the way.

Waiting at the Nepalgunj bus stop, I found a boy with his own homemade Wayne Rooney soccer jersey. Now playing in a red jersey for Manchester United, I wonder if this boy knew that Rooney was famous for the phrase “Once a blue, Always a Blue” from his youth soccer days.

Welcome to the Terai in Nepal. No mountains for miles. At this time of year whether it’s cloudy or not it’s always hot. There was a minor cholera outbreak here just a few days before I arrived. Fortunately for me I was just passing through.

Several grown men refused to carry our pack on the 3 day walk from the Bajura airport to our destination in Gam Ghadi. After discussing it among themselves, they found a teenage boy who could carry the load.

At a fork in the road for a shortcut someone asked me, “Are you willing to walk on a trail one foot wide?” I said that I would.

Landslides are commonplace here. Before one is finished being fixed, there are five more that need fixing too. You just walk over them as lightly as possible, trying not to make a sound. (See if you can find the footprints in this one I just walked across.)

Far off the tourist path, on a trail that is only a commuter path for locals, the younger children have never seen a foreigner. (The braid down the center of her head is traditional here. The age ratio between carrier and cary-ie is also traditional.)

Not everyone is impoverished here. The owners of these fields are doing quite well. But with a distinct and permanent class system, the only kind of poverty here is inescapable generational poverty.

The treacherous trail is relentless. Over and over, there’s that little pass you wish you could skip. I still can’t believe the porter did the whole thing carrying that pack.

Some little girls gathering water for their family, a little stupefied to see a foreigner at their local watering hole. (The giant aloe-looking leaf used as a spring spout is very common here.)

We met a group of men on the trail. They were escorting their friend home, without telling him what had happened. It was at his home that his wife would tell him his son had been swept away in the river. A day later we met the same group of men (minus one) coming the other way, it was their job to go looking for the body. Danger from nature is a way of life here, and all too common, a way of death.

Nightfall in the village we would stay in on the first night. Here we paid $13 extra too add a chicken to the meal. At our destination in Gam Ghadi, chickens sell for around $35 each.

On the next day, brief moments of wider trails brought some relief. It also brought the ability to look around at the scenery, instead of just looking at where your next step is going to be.

That relief doesn’t last long and soon it’s back to only worrying about your next step, and trying not to make a sound that will cause another landslide.

A family peering out of their shop, with a little boy curious to see the foreigner and a protective mother checking to see what’s drawing all the attention.

Have I thoroughly mentioned the general condition of the trail yet? This is a regular walk for many locals in the area.

Children in a village where we stopped to eat lunch. No matter how hard I try to blend in, it just doesn’t seem to work.

Going higher into the mountains, we start passing through denser and darker forests.

In the darkest place in the forest, I got a bad feeling of anger and fear. I looked over to see a pagan idol. Nothing in Hindu or Buddhist tradition has room for this. It was described as a “Ghost who eats chickens”. Rather, it was a place where locals go to sacrifice chickens to appease an angry spirit who dwells there.

The second night was spent in a village with a medicinal herb growing project funded in part by KOICA, the South Korean international development agency.

Another day of hiking through pristine mountain forest, with glacier-melt rivers and split-log bridges over the more harmless of the rivers.

At the end of day three it’s a stay at Rara Lake, the largest lake in Nepal, sitting at approximately 3,000 meters in elevation.

In the morning it’s only a four hour walk down to my destination, the district headquarters of Gam Ghadi.

It’s across the river from there, where you find the village of Ruga, known as the “Desert of Mugu”, over 60% out-caste and now without a functioning spring. This is why I came here, for a feasibility study: a project for 800 people, 150 meters above their water source. Is it possible to dig the first well in Mugu here? Is it possible to have the first water pumping scheme in Mugu here? More importantly, is it possible to find people to work with here who will facilitate the completion and sustainability of such a borderline-impossible project.

P.S. It was only a few days after arriving that someone was swept away in the river while gathering water. To be clear, no one comes back from being “swept away” in this place. That is the final destination for them. With water gathering being a common task for women and children, what are the odds that one of the children pictured above will eventually be swept away to their final destination?

A Photo Blog

I thought I would change things up and do a photo blog entry. Mostly about daily life in the M.Sc. Hostel (dormitory) at my school.


Waking up in the morning, this is my bed. The top one is a mattress and the bottom one is a comforter I use as an extra padding layer. Below it is plywood.


Making a morning cup of tea (when the electricity is working).


Checking email, blogging, working on thesis research, etc.


Hanging up my laundry to dry on the roof of the hostel.


My collection of "bansuris" (bamboo flutes) with a CD shown for size. The little one and the giant one are almost impossible to play.


One of our two chefs, Susan, preparing a special meal in the hostel mess.


Heading out with my friend Kajendra to run an errand for the day.


A lot of the times, this is the fastest and cheapest shipping method for distributing goods in the city.


Crossing over one of the smaller local rivers. Hold you breath or cover your nose and mouth.


Passing by a small carpentry shop in the backstreets of a local neighborhood.


Unlike Houston, there is only one oil company in Nepal.


This is the errand for the day, picking up a water conductivity meter for the class trip to test the flow rate of a rural river.


Passing by a local tobacco shop where a man is cutting leaves by hand.


Stopping for a photo opportunity in one of the main intersections in Kathmandu.


Kajendra feeding a stray dog with some of our cookies. I think this went along with a discussion about Albert Schweitzer.


Passing over the Baghmati river. I wish the islands were sand and rocks like they look like in the picture. They are islands of trash.


Getting back to the hostel and finding a volleyball game in progress.


Students gathering for the celebration farewell meal to the graduating class.
(I will be graduating next year)

The Safest Riot on Earth

It isn’t often that Nepal is the host of an international sports event. Watching professional sports here is essentially a television activity. The favorite two leagues here, British Premiere League Soccer and Indian Premiere League Cricket, don’t host local promotional matches. For this reason, it’s more exciting when there is an international event. Recently, I was a little disappointed to learn that I had missed out on “Prowess-Expo Nepal 2010” featuring pro-wrestlers from five different countries, including Big Vito from the USA. The biggest recent sports event in Nepal was the ICC World Cricket League Division 5 Tournament. It was no surprise that most of the students were excited about watching the matches. Not only was the tournament in Nepal, but admission was free and they were being held on several college campuses, including ours.

One of the first matches on our campus was Jersey vs. USA. Once there, I ran into some classmates from the dorm and joined them. While we watched the match, most of the discussion veered away from the slow paced game. One of the students asked me if I knew where Jersey was. I responded that I had no idea where, or even what, Jersey was. After that comment, some British tourists a few rows in front of us turned around and smiled. I continued by stating that Jersey was probably a territory, principality, colony, wholly owned subsidiary of the British Crown, or something like that. I only knew that they didn’t have UN representation. As I found out later online, Jersey is something and somewhere, but I’m still not quite sure of its current status of dependence or independence of the United Kingdom. Its status is about as simple as anything in the British legal system, or American legal system for that matter.

As we watched more, another issue came up. The Nepali students pointed out that no one on the USA cricket team looked particularly American to them. I had to explain that their view of what an American looks like is very limited. In actuality, the USA has immigrants from all over the world. Looks can be deceiving. Even people who appear to be recent immigrants may be a part of families who have been in the USA for several generations. I added that one of my favorite ex-coworkers was a sixty year old man from the Bahamas. The students mentioned that most of the players looked like they came from the West Indies. It had been a long time since I’d heard anyone refer to the Caribbean as the West Indies. I told them that some of those countries were probably the only ones in the western hemisphere that regularly play cricket. Jamaica is a pro-cricket country, but the Dominican Republic is almost all baseball oriented. Without getting into the actual rules, I explained baseball’s dominance in the USA and its status as the national pastime. I also explained that I had grown up playing baseball from a young age. If my father had taught me how to play cricket instead, we would have been considered un-American, and rightfully so.

It was later in the week that my sister arrived to visit Nepal. After explaining all of the historical monuments that we could visit, I also told her about the upcoming cricket matches. Most importantly, she would be there for the anticipated Nepal vs. USA match at the main campus in Kirtipur. Nepal, USA, and Singapore were in the running for the top two spots of the tournament. Those two teams would play in the final match, but being the winner of that match wasn’t as important as being in the match. The top two teams would advance to the next round of international competition. That was the real prize at stake. In addition, this match would be rather crowded. Not only was it being held at the main campus in anticipation of a large crowd, but the current tournament results ensured that this match would likely determine Nepal’s chances of advancing. A win over the USA would guarantee them a top two spot.

On the day of the match, the two of us made the long and adventurous walk over to the main campus. Included in the walk was the crossing of the three-foot wide Baghmati foot bridge, which is shared by both pedestrians and motorcycles. When a motorcycle is coming, you stand on the edge of the bridge and hold onto the suspension cables to prevent from falling into the excessively polluted river below. Once we arrived at the field I realized how crowded the match would be just by looking at the number of motorcycles in the parking lot. We made our way into the grassy area that functioned as a grandstand. Walking through the crowds and trying to call my schoolmates, I couldn’t help but notice we were the only non-Nepalis in the crowd. The British contingency from the Jersey match had decided not to show up. After a break in the game, we found my friends and sat down with them.

The match continued on at a usual pace, with Nepal scoring very little. On every good Nepali play, the crowd would cheer and clap. On every good American play, I was the only one cheering and clapping. The strangers around us started smiling and chuckling when I would cheer and clap by myself. A few of them offered us some of their snacks they had brought to the game with them. At the half, Nepal had a very disappointing score and it seemed clear that the USA would win the match. A few spectators started throwing water bottles onto the field. One of the local event organizers walked around the perimeter of the field and tried to clam down the crowd. Due to the age gap, it looked like one father was trying to calm down a few thousand unruly teenage children. Surprisingly, after a few minutes the crowd was calm and the match resumed.

In the second half, the USA played an average match. It seemed like their performance would easily be enough to win. As the game progressed, it became more and more obvious that Nepal’s efforts were futile. At one point, a USA batsman hit three sixes in a row (three homeruns in a row, for my American friends). It was at this point that the match was clearly turning into a blowout. Not long after this realization, I saw a brick hurled onto the field from the crowd, then another, and another. The rain of bricks and water bottles picked up pace. The Nepali fielder closest to us turned around and looked at the crowd in disappointment before calmly walking away from his position. Anywhere in the developed world, raining bricks would be cause to run. Being Nepali, the fielder just calmly and slowly walked away, raining bricks being something that isn’t always that rare here. We stayed in our seats, the bricks flying comfortably over our heads.

As the brick throwing mob backed up on its way to leave, we found ourselves more isolated in the front rows. No one was going to throw a brick at us, but if someone’s throw accidentally fell short, it would be trouble. As we got up and started walking away, a friend from school said that we needed to leave. The police would be coming soon if we didn’t. With that, we joined the mob scrambling over the brick wall in the rear and calmly walking out. As we walked, I told my sister that even though we were walking away from a potential riot, we were perfectly safe. Even though we were the only fans of the victorious opposing team, we were still safe. Nepal doesn’t have a culture of violence against foreigners. The thought of hurting the only Americans there wasn’t in anyone’s mind. They were only thinking about getting away from the field before the APF (Armed Police Force) found it necessary to force them to leave.

Back at the dorm, I talked with some of the students about the match. While we were walking back, the unofficial score had been tallied up and Nepal was in second place, in front of Singapore. Even though both teams had the same record, Nepal had a better “net run rate”, putting them in second place. It was then that I realized what the riot was about. It was to stop the match after the last American batsman started scoring too quickly. If the match had continued to completion, Nepal would have a worse net run rate than Singapore, putting them in third place. The fans had stopped the match to help ensure the Nepali cricket team would advance to the next round. It had worked. I told my friends at the dorm that the fans had essentially secured the victory for the Nepali team. They agreed.

Even though Nepal later won the tournament final, the cost may have been too much to justify. When we walked away from the cricket riot with my schoolmates, one of them looked a little sad. He hadn’t been throwing any bricks. He said, “It will probably be a long time before they allow Nepal to host another ICC tournament.”

http://www.cricinfo.com/wcl/content/story/450113.html



Motorcycle Parking at the cricket match.



APF at a different, non-riot cricket match.

Opportunity Costs

One of the classes taught in the second semester is Engineering Economics. It essentially teaches the basic concepts of project finance, cash flows, and different types of financial analysis. As most engineers are focused on design, fabrication, and implementation, this subject can be easily overlooked. It also teaches some basic concepts that are sometimes contradictory to common knowledge and easy to forget about in daily life. One of those concepts is “opportunity cost”. As I listened to the lecture on opportunity cost, I could see that several other students didn’t quite understand the meaning. It was fortunate that I had been taught this about one year prior, and the concept was still fresh in my mind. I decided to share an example with the class in the hopes it would help some of the students understand.

If you own a 5 story building in Kathmandu, occupying any part of the building is free. You could rationalize to yourself that living with your family in the building is free too. Furthermore, if there was space for a shop on the ground floor, you could put your own shop in that space. It would be tempting to say that your shop would have free rent there, but in fact it doesn’t. If your shop wasn’t taking up the ground floor, then you could rent that space to another shop owner for 1 lakh rupees. Therefore, when you put your shop there, it isn’t really free. You are foregoing an income of 1 lakh. This 1 lakh is the opportunity cost and it means that the shop you own is effectively costing the rent that you are forgoing. In other words, it is costing you the opportunity to rent it to someone else.

With most of the students understanding, I decided to give another example, one even more prevalent in the current situation. For me, tuition and living expenses in Nepal are not exceedingly costly. Furthermore, I have a scholarship that pays for both of them. It’s easy to say that I live in Nepal for free. Still, this doesn’t consider the opportunity cost. Without quoting the actual number, I told them my opportunity cost for living in Nepal was very high. I left a job in the oil industry to come to Nepal and study renewable energy. That salary would be considered opportunity cost. Still, things are seldom what they seem at first glance. I reverted back to the cost-benefit analysis we had previously learned. The simple cost-benefit analysis only considers economic costs and economic benefits. For those who know better, we shouldn’t gauge our lives in strictly economic terms. We had also learned to supplant economic benefit with social benefit when appropriate. I explained to the class that while the economic opportunity cost was high for me, the social benefit greatly outweighed the comparatively minor opportunity cost. Without a doubt, the social benefit of studying with them in Nepal was well worth the opportunity costs.

It wasn’t long after this time that two of my friends from Engineers Without Borders came to visit. They were my first American visitors in Nepal. Thanks to a lot of good email communication with Shannon, we had planned out a very eventful week for their short time in Kathmandu. They decided to stay in the tourist neighborhood of Thamel. It was a good idea, since my dorm room would be a tight fit for multiple people, not to mention the lack of hot water. On the first morning I met them, I gave them a small Kathmandu survival package, with wool hats, pollution masks, etc. We sat down to talk in the small café of their hotel. I was quickly reminded of one of the reasons why I enjoyed EWB so much, the company of like minded people. The great conversations continued from the café, all through our walk to a nearby historical monument. The day passed quickly and enjoyably. I had to explain to them that this was essentially a vacation for me too. Most days are enjoyable at the university, but it’s not every day that I visit local landmarks with friends. In the past, I had one local friend who traveled with me to different monuments. Since she had obtained her German work visa six months ago, she had been gone.

On one of the later days, we found ourselves sitting outside my favorite temple in Kathmandu. It is a small temple located outside of the main city, in a rural village. It is completely integrated into the local community, with a health clinic and school in close proximity. The three of us sat and watched the schoolchildren play a game with a tennis ball. We could also see where one of the religious statues had been tied down to its pedestal. Most likely, it had been knocked over by the tennis ball a few too many times. A boy came over to the water tap nearby and took a drink, leaving it slightly running when he was done. Claire turned to me and asked about the running water tap. It was clearly bothering her. She asked if the water source was a spring or a well. What she effectively asked was whether a resource was being wasted or not. It it’s a spring, then it doesn’t matter that the tap is running, the spring would have runoff at the source anyways. If it’s a well, then a finite amount of pumped water is being wasted, at the cost of pumping it to the surface. Just to be safe, I walked over and shut the tap completely. Walking back, I thought to myself, only a sustainable development engineer would consider the water source before worrying about a running tap. Only another sustainable development engineer would understand all the implications behind the simple question, “Does that water come from a spring or a well?” Again, it was nice to be in the company of like minded people.

Throughout the week, I had a wonderful time hosting Claire and Shannon. We visited historic monuments in Kathmandu, had academic discussions about the visible effects of climate change in Nepal, and ate lots of local Nepali and Newari food. I reiterated several times that this week was a vacation for me too. During their time in the tourist area of Thamel, they even found a restaurant that served nachos (I previously decided against writing an entire blog entry concerning my year-long pining for nachos). When it was time for them to go, I took them to the airport. We said goodbye, parted ways, and I returned back to my dorm room. The social vacation was over. It was then that I understood the term “opportunity cost” to its fullest. Before, I had only considered economic opportunity cost, not social opportunity cost. I needed to see it again, to remind me what I had really given up in coming here. I gave up time with my friends and family in the USA. I don’t regret coming to Nepal. Furthermore, after they left I still chose to stay an additional year in Nepal. Regardless, seeing the social opportunity cost is like looking at the ghost of what’s missing.


P.S. Claire and Shannon, thanks for visiting, I had a wonderful time. Thanks for the care package too!

Not an Ordinary Four Day Weekend

Again, I have a story that seems too typical for modern legitimate fiction. If I put it in novel form it would certainly be rejected. Too ordinary, too plain, it’s been done to death. No reader will find believability in the characters or the outcome. Too picture perfect, people don’t really act like that. I would be accused of being a second rate hack only out to solicit a prescribed emotional response from the reader. I would be pandering to a low intellect crowd clamoring for their fantasy image of love to come true. Again, I have the same problem: The story is true. Again, I have the same problem: The pure reality of the situation forces me to write it down and share it with whoever will believe that reality is far more idealistic than anyone’s fantasy.

I went to class last Thursday like any other day, Engineering Economics. I daydreamed through half of the class, already knowing some of the material. One student later asked me why I was smiling all through class. I told him not to pay attention to my smile because I was daydreaming. My smile had nothing to do with anything happening in that classroom. Only what was happening in my mind. I was too far gone to recognize that another classmate of mine, Anil, was not paying attention either. He was daydreaming too, only his daydreams were closer to fruition and they were also causing him a weighted amount of stress. After class when we all drank tea together, I was too wrapped up in a discussion about a book I had loaned to a classmate. I didn’t notice Anil deep in thought about what he was about to undertake. Still, no one in the class knew what he was about to do. No one could expect it.

The rest of the evening and the next day were as ordinary as any other. A little before class I went to the tea shop on campus, to meet with classmates and talk while we waited for the professor to arrive. One of the students who also stays at the M.Sc. Hostel asked if I had heard the news about Anil. I told him I hadn’t heard anything. He told me that Anil would not be in class today. I was a little worried about what might have happened. In Kathmandu, unexpected events are usually unpleasant and almost always unwelcome. He went on to tell me that Anil had gone to Pokhara with his girlfriend, to get married. I paused in disbelief. I asked if this meant exactly what I thought it meant, that Anil had left with his girlfriend to get married, without his parent’s knowledge. My classmate gave a somber nod to let me know that this was exactly what was happening.

After telling the classmates there the meaning of the word “elope”, I stopped to think about what it meant here. In the USA it often has a positive connotation along with the possible negative connotations. Here, deep in the land of arranged marriages, there is rarely a positive outlook on this activity. I stopped and thought about the young girl I met on the airplane who returned home to find that her family had arranged a marriage for her. She felt fortunate that they had chosen a young man who she was once close friends with. At least she would have that to start off with. I also thought about the young girl I met in the government hospital. Her eyes lit up when she talked about her dreams to have a love marriage. This dream was all the more fantastic in light of the harsh reality of low probability that surrounded it. A love marriage was becoming more common, but it was still rare enough, and eloping was far out of the question.

Everyone in the class knew what had spurred this decision on. Anil had a girlfriend from a different caste, a lower caste. His parents never knew about their five year relationship. He would have been banned from seeing her. There was no way he could have married her with his parent’s knowledge. Likewise, another couple I know has kept their relationship secret from the parent’s of his higher caste family. The son is a “good son” and he won’t run away with his girlfriend to be married. Anil on the other hand was doing the seemingly impossible, especially for a respectable young intellectual in a painfully traditional society. I’m constantly reminded of a paraphrased quote from a famous author: “I am not a politician, nor am I running for political office, and I don’t have to respect anyone’s stupid opinion.” I stand by it in my daily life. I can respect someone else’s culture in many cases, but if a culture states that two lovers cannot be married because of something as trivial as the differences in their last names, well, I don’t have to respect that, and I am free to call it stupid if I want. It certainly is dated, and its death is long overdue.

So for Friday and Saturday the words around the Hostel were, “Have you heard about Anil?” The rumors were flying and there was only one way to find out the truth. Wait for Anil to return and ask him in person. Before Sunday’s class I told the rumor to a classmate who lived outside the hostel. He was due to have an arranged marriage in the next month. He responded by telling me that this was certainly a joke the other students were playing on me. Anil would not have a marriage without informing his parents. This was not possible. Joining the others for tea, he soon found out that the rumor was very sincere. After a while, he too was claiming that we would need to wait until Anil’s return. Before the teacher arrived in the classroom, one of the students called Anil on his cell phone. As the whole class stood silently listening to the phone ring on speakerphone, I made the obvious comment. If Anil had gotten married, he certainly wouldn’t be answering his phone right now, unless we managed to catch him at a meal or something like that. As expected, no one picked up.

Class on Monday was also missing Anil and the rumors still remained. After class I returned to the Hostel and walked into the mess for dinner. There, sitting and eating dinner, was Anil. I started to ask him about the rumor, but he cut me off, saying that yes, everything I had heard was true. He said with a gigantic smile, “Yes! I eloped her!” After I corrected his grammar I began washing my hands as I smiled and shouted congratulations to him from five feet away. I told him how courageous he was and how he had done something that my culture would regard as a pure act of true love. I continued by telling him that people in my culture dream of being challenged this way, only so that they may overcome it. I refused to stop and I continued telling him how great he was for denying his parents and his culture in order to marry the woman he loved.

Calming down as I sat down for my meal. I asked him about what had happened. He told me that he decided to do this last Wednesday. On Thursday he took and overnight bus ride with his girlfriend to Pokhara. He added that he respected as much of his culture as he could. He called his unwed older brother to ask for his permission, since the oldest brother should always marry first. Securing his permission, which he knew was sure to come, he called his girlfriends parents. Her father gave his permission, but her mother begged him not to do this. She promised that if they would return the families would arrange a proper marriage and they wouldn’t have to go against tradition. Anil hung up the phone on her. He knew that her parents would work to arrange a marriage, but once his parents knew, they would be certain to destroy it. Immediately after they got married he called his new wife’s mother again. This time she gave her blessing to the new couple. As he told the story his smile was uncontrollably beaming across the room. He was louder and more animated than usual. For those who know Anil, this may seem impossible, but it was true.

Anil finished his meal and came over to me to tell me more about how great he felt. I asked if he knew why my culture hailed the love marriage as the greatest form of marriage in the world. He responded by shouting that yes, the love marriage is the greatest feeling in the world. As he went on, I interrupted him to tell him that in his culture he would be expected to give me a gift, but in my culture I would be expected to give him a gift. As we walked back to our rooms I told him what a great and courageous thing he had done. I told him that I would bring him a gift, but it would take some time to find the right one. I had to be certain to find a gift worthy of the greatness he had just achieved.

Leaving him at his door and walking the rest of the way back to my room alone, I started to worry. What on earth could I find that would do justice to the unspeakably amazing thing that he had done? What gift could reflect every great quality that I was taught to revere since I was a little boy. It wasn’t until a few hours later that my mind tripped over the only thing that could come close to touching what he had done. I needed to find a Superman t-shirt, for him to wear. He had earned it. And of course a Superwoman t-shirt for his new wife, after all, she had earned it too.

Congratulations to Anil. You are my hero.