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.

The Real Nepal

On one of my earliest days in the Kathmandu Valley I heard the phrase uttered, “This is Kathmandu. This is not Real Nepal.” Many times since then I have heard references to the Real Nepal. I have heard it from hostel innkeepers, restaurant waiters, fellow students, engineering professors, and random acquaintances. Everyone knows that once you step outside of the city, you enter a whole different world, the world of the village. In fact, the overwhelming majority of Nepal’s population lives in small villages across the country. Their lives don’t resemble the lives of city residents in any way. A dormitory staff worker and former village resident reminisced to me about his parent’s home in the village. He talked of a farm with fresh grown crops and animals walking around. He said with a smile, “They have everything you could ever want there, except money.” During a welcoming celebration he let a city-born student behead the goat as a special experience. To the staff member it was just a routine and necessary action for making the meal. More recently while our class was preparing to test the efficiency of some cooking stoves, one student showed himself as the best wood cutter. Not surprisingly he was from a village that takes three bus rides, one plane trip, and a multi-hour walk to reach. Chopping wood was just a routine action for him. At the very beginning of the semester break, I got my first chance to visit the village.

About two months earlier I overheard a conversation regarding lead in the water of some rural schools. Previously, I had been keeping my eyes and ears open for a water project but I had found nothing. I immediately began contacting engineering friends in Houston to ask if they would volunteer a little time and lend their expertise to this project. I got a good response and felt hopeful about eventually solving this problem. Still, there is no obviously apparent solution. Lead is a rare contaminant in natural groundwater. With necessity being the mother of invention, a low cost lead removal method is still undeveloped. Any lead removal system on the market is a relatively expensive developed-world creation and a poor match for rural farmers. Regardless, after some additional investigation and a few meetings, a local educational NGO agreed to take me into the village and assist me in talking to the staff of the local schools. Over the next month my excitement built. I made sure to schedule a trip out to the village as soon as my semester break began.

On the day of departure, I got on the microbus by myself. Laxmi, the representative of the educational NGO, would get on the bus near his home a few miles down the road. After he did, the two of us began talking to pass the time on the long ride. First we talked about the village, the schools, and the NGO he worked for. I could see his genuine frustration when talking about some of the obstacles that were making his work as a community education program director so difficult. After taking lunch at a roadside restaurant we started talking about his family. He came from a family of professionals. An engineer, a dentist, a businessman, the list of his successful family members went on. He had decided to go into the non-profit field. With so much international money pouring into Nepali non-profits, it’s sometimes difficult to determine if a non-profit is made up of salaried employees who are just there for the money. Thinking about his family, one thing was clear. Laxmi, named after the Hindu goddess of wealth, was definitely not in this for the money. I relaxed and took a short nap, satisfied that I wouldn’t be working with someone trying to line their own pockets with charitable donations.

Eventually the microbus stopped in a small roadside village and we got out. It would be an additional hour long walk to the village. Stepping onto the trail, it was thankfully very dry. I was told that in the wet season the leeches are more prevalent. Still, as we walked we saw the occasional leech scurry across the pathway to get away from our stomping shoes. Along the way I saw two biogas reactors side by side. They were fenced in and looked well maintained, but the half open lid showed that they weren’t in use at the moment. We continued on, soon reaching a roadway constructed for a nearby hydropower project. Before we reached our accommodations at the local office of the NGO, we stopped at a primary school. Although there was no lead in the water at this school, we stopped in to visit and greet the teachers. On a short tour, I noticed the blackboard in each room. They weren’t actual blackboards. In each case, it was a section of the wall that had been painted black so the students could see the writing in chalk. Before we left, the teachers invited us to join their upcoming celebration meal for the holiday. We accepted the invite, which conveniently fell on our planned final day in the community.

Arriving at the local office, I saw it was actually a converted home. The guest room I would be staying in resembled a tree house that had been added onto the side of the house. I had tea with the local staff and we discussed some of the difficulties in implementing technology which can be caused by rushed work. I wanted to make it clear that I didn’t have a solution to propose right away. Whatever was going to happen was going to take time, and a well thought out plan. I enjoyed a wonderful dinner cooked by a local young man who was part of the staff. Over another round of tea, Laxmi told me about a pair of linguistics professors who were the last westerners to be guests in the tree house. The two of them met in Nepal and had worked together on and off for several years. They had gotten married and returned to the developed world, after concluding their work on local dialects. Retiring to the room, I lied down in my twin size bed. This was the first time I would be doing an initial project assessment alone. Before going to sleep, I looked over at the other twin bed and thought about who I wished was there, doing the assessment with me.

Sunshine coming in through the window woke me up the next morning. We discussed plans for the day over breakfast tea and a little while later we were walking down the road. After about a mile, a large bus came up slowly from behind. It was rocking back and forth on the unfinished roadway as it approached. We waved our hands and it stopped for us. Getting on, I saw that we were only two of five passengers. The entire bus was filled with boxes of supplies. We sat down on some boxes in the front and I was told to be careful of the box of eggs near my feet. The bus started moving down the road. Sometimes it seemed like it did more moving side to side than forward. Looking up at Laxmi, I asked him if this was the real Nepal. He smiled and replied, “This is Real Nepal.”

Over the next two days, we visited three schools in the area. At the first school, we happened to walk in on a board meeting. This was fortunate since everyone was present to answer questions and share information about the school. I asked them about the single water filter in their office. They responded that an NGO had given it to them. Unfortunately, it was a filter designed for one family and it obviously could not filter water for the 500 children attending school there. Regardless, it was a good introduction to the community. Hopefully in time they would begin to understand the need for water filters in general. At the second school I was able to talk to three staff members. This school also had a single filter that they had been given. In both cases, everyone was very friendly and helpful. They answered all of my questions and showed me their water supply so I could take samples for water testing. I visited the third school on our final day in the community. At the top of a steep hike uphill, I got to the school physically exhausted. The children I had followed up to the school made this hike on a daily basis and they were much more adapted to the terrain than me.

Arriving early, there were only two staff members at first. I began chatting with them and I explained that I attended the engineering campus “Pulchowk”. This name is known far and wide throughout Nepal as the best engineering college. If a student anywhere in the country scores high enough on the entrance examination, they can attend this government school for approximately $8 per semester. Many of my classmates had done just that, some of them coming from remote villages throughout the country. After a few minutes, the rest of the school staff arrived. The last to come in was the former headmaster. He had a copy of “Three Cups of Tea” which he said was given to him by one of the western volunteers who had given the school its small filter. I commented that I had read the book, that I thought it was a good book, and I could see why a filter-donating volunteer would give it to him. As I asked questions, the former headmaster occasionally cut in with anti-modernization comments. If I had to describe his attitude, it would be “openly combative”. Still, I worked to respond to his statements kindly and I tried not to get frustrated or distracted. In his comments was some useful information about existing culture and local conservative mentality. He added that he did not use the filter that the foreigners brought. After asking permission, I filled my water bottle at the filter. I made a joke about the “foreign filter for the foreign man” and everyone laughed a little, easing the tension in the room. After the standard questions were answered, I went outside to get a water sample.

Standing by the tap, I took out my GPS unit and an empty plastic bottle. While I was not paying attention, the former headmaster came up and stood over me from a nearby ledge. He said, “You are student of Pulchowk?” and I responded that I was. He added, “I have just learned of this now”, a phrase which he repeated several times. From what I understood he was trying to apologize for his behavior. He had taken me as an outsider looking for a quick NGO project. I imagine that after I left some of the other staff members asked him why he had been so rude to a student of the country’s premier engineering college. After a moment of silence he waved his hand in the air and with a flick of his wrist he said, “You are student of Pulchowk. You are Nepali now.” He continued, “There is a garden that we have created here. I would like to show it to you. You will enjoy it.” After taking the water sample, all of us began walking towards the garden. Laxmi informed him that we could only stay for a short time since we were having lunch with the teachers of the primary school a few miles away.

After reaching a bend in the road, we walked down into the 2 acre garden. It was beautifully landscaped with small pathways connecting the different sections. There was a small pond with a statue in the middle, a temple with an alter inside, and another small temple where a few men were gathered. Since I had just listened to my host give some anti-modernization speeches, I didn’t dare take out my camera or even ask permission to take a picture. I admitted to myself that I would have to remember this place by my unaided memory. Taking our shoes off at the door, we walked into the inhabited temple. I joined the other men sitting down on mats surrounding a smoldering log in a pit at the center. Closing my eyes, everything slowed down and I started to relax. The rush of completing my project assessment on time seemed to melt away. Before I realized it, it was time to go. I reluctantly got up and walked out, vowing to return again some day when I had more time. I exchanged polite goodbyes with the formed headmaster and we began our hike to the primary school.

When we arrived, the teachers had just finished preparing the meal. Everyone sat down together at a long table in the main office. While I was being served food, I looked at each dish and recognized it as familiar. Almost everything I had eaten before in the Kathmandu Valley. With my expectations firmly set, I put the first bite in my mouth. I froze instantly, in awe of how good the food tasted. This was unbelievably better than anything I had eaten in the city. As the teachers piled more and more food on my plate, I continued eating. At one point I was no longer hungry and I was just eating for taste alone. After becoming completely stuffed, I excused myself from the table and sat outside in the schoolyard. Peacefully resting on a concrete block, I got the feeling that I had just eaten one of the best meals of my life. As they came outside one by one, I thanked the teachers and complimented them on the wonderful meal. I made sure to tell them that I had already eaten each one of those dishes in Kathmandu, but it never tasted as good as their meal. After more socializing, it was time to return to the house we were staying in.

The next morning we took the bus back to Kathmandu. Again, on the first part of the ride it seemed like the bus rocked from side to side more than it travelled forward. Laxmi looked across to me and with a smile he said one final time, “Real Nepal”. When I got off the bus a few miles from home I found myself in the late afternoon rush hour. The exhaust from the cars was prominent. The ground was covered in trash. When I walked over the river overpass I could smell the distinct odor of hydrogen sulphide. Getting back to my room I stopped and thought about the two Nepals that I now knew. I thought back about the comment I heard about the village having everything but money. I understood why people from the village come to the Kathmandu Valley and I understood why all of them long to be in the village.

(Pictures will be added soon)

No One Wears a Jordan Jersey Anymore

About three weeks ago an M.Sc. classmate told me the campus basketball team was practicing at the outdoor court and I should go talk to them. He told me they were getting ready for next week’s tournament. If I went down to the court, they would be sure to let me play on the team based on height advantage alone. I decided to walk down and see what things looked like. At the court, I saw a group of young B.Sc. students practicing. Not one of them was over 22 years old. I was approached by last year’s team captain. He told me I would have to try out for the team and I would need to come to every practice. He added that their team had won the past two tournaments and they were going for a third championship. I stepped onto the court and began playing around a little. It would be a few days before the basketball skills learned during my college years came back to me. Before leaving I talked to them about the limited practices I could make. Since I was M.Sc., my class schedule was opposite of theirs. I promised that if they started a little earlier, I would play for half of practice before going to my night lectures.

The next day I headed into Kathmandu to buy some basketball gear. Due to my size, I knew that I couldn’t frequent many of the cheap Nepali shops that sold “duplicate” jerseys, as they are called here. Instead, I had to go to the “genuine” Adidas store and buy the biggest clothes they offered. After trying on various clothes there, I found a plain jersey, pair of shorts, and basketball that suited me. On my way back to the campus I decided to stop at a notable “hip-hop and urban fashion” clothing store I had been in before. This place sold jerseys that were meant to be large and baggy on Nepali customers. They were also a perfect normal size fit for me. I perused through the rack of jerseys I had seen before. I didn’t like most of the players whose jerseys I had seen last time. At the back of the rack I came across a new jersey. It was a Michael Jordan jersey. During his playing years, I was never a Jordan fan, but the jersey still intrigued me. I tried it on and it fit.
When I went to pay for it, the shop owner said to me, “That’s a very rare jersey. Not many around.”
I responded, “Yeah, no one wears a Jordan jersey anymore. When you wear it, it’s like…”
“You’re basically saying that you’re the best that ever was. Most people don’t want to look that boastful,” he cut in.
“And when you wear it on the basketball court, you’re expected to play up to his level. You’re expected to be the best player on the court, or at least to run down every ball, hustle on every play, and never give up,” I concluded. I paid for the jersey and left the shop.

I practiced with the team every day as my basketball skills slowly returned. Each time I wore the plain Adidas jersey. I wanted to save the Jordan jersey for later. I didn’t have too much trouble making the team, but my status as part of the starting five was not secure. I knew that several students were hoping for me to play as a starter. Unfortunately, the Tuesday before the tournament, I rolled my ankle in practice. I knew it wasn’t as bad as times I had sprained it before, but I wasn’t sure how long it would take to recover. With the tournament due to begin Friday, three days of healing time was definitely not enough. In addition, I had a bruised rib cage from taking so many shots from Nepali shoulders. Each night I had to sleep in the same position so that I wasn’t lying on my ribs and my foot was comfortably resting without pressure. On Thursday it was my birthday. Lying sorely in bed, I stopped and thought about how I had just turned 30. I also thought about how I was about to play through injury in a tournament full of 22 year old students. Fortunately, Thursday also came with a call from the team manager. He told me the start of the tournament had been delayed until Monday. I accepted it as a good birthday present.

I rested and practiced lightly on my ankle during the weekend. On Monday I was good enough to play. The concept of the tournament was the “All-Technical Cup”. A regular tournament, it featured teams from all of the Nepali engineering schools that chose to register. In the past, medical schools had joined in, although this year none of them signed up. The tournament was held on an outdoor court at Kathmandu Model College, which also had a grade school on site. Every time I showed up to play, I was surrounded by a swarm of children looking to meet the only foreigner there. I shook countless children’s hands before each match. I have no idea how many times I said, “I am Brian. I am from the United States,” in response to their questions. After a few days, children would come up to me, call me by name, and wish me “best of luck” in the game for the day. Just the same, after every match the children would come out again and congratulate me on a game well played. As I was making goodwill with all of the children, I felt a little like Muhammad Ali before “The Rumble in The Jungle”.

Our first two league play matches weren’t too difficult. I played the first quarter of each game, giving me time to rest my ankle whenever possible. The team captain, Naveen, told me I needed to be ready for Thursday’s match against Kathmandu Engineering College, or KEC as they call it. They were a private college with two “club” players on their team. I found out immediately afterwards that “club” players are professional players in Nepal. They are not paid much to play, but they are the best basketball players in the country. He added that their team was likely to be our only real competition in the tournament.

With one day of rest, I stayed in my dorm room most of the day. I didn’t want to walk on my ankle too much. I looked at the Jordan jersey on my desk and thought about the greatest player of the modern era. I repeated many things to myself as I looked at the jersey, “Jordan became a great player when he included all of his teammates in the game. Jordan never gave half-effort; he always gave 110%. Jordan made every player around him better. Jordan never played half of the court; he was defensive player of the year multiple times. Jordan knew everyone’s role on the team and helped them in playing their role better. Jordan played through sickness and injury, still coming out on top. Jordan wasn’t ejected for loosing his cool during a championship game. Jordan played great team basketball. Jordan played great team basketball. Jordan played great team basketball.”

On Thursday we took to the court against KEC. Of their two club players, one was my height, the other was a little shorter but he was strong. Our team played a defense where the center plays up at the free throw line. This put me in the power forward position, with our other tall player in the small forward position. Due to weight and strength, I was matched against the shorter stronger club player throughout the match. In an incredibly physical game of basketball, we came out decisively on top, winning by over 20 points. The club player I was defending, their main offensive weapon, was held to a disappointingly low score. After the game was over, everyone on our team celebrated the victory they previously weren’t sure was possible. Having secured our number one seed from league play, a few of the players celebrated back in their hometown on the edge of the Kathmandu Valley. All I could think about was the next time we would play KEC, in the tournament finals. After one last easy win in league play, we were ready for the semi-final match, the first of two games in knockout play.

Back at the campus, several of my fellow students heard about our win over KEC. They all congratulated me and asked about the team dynamic. They all wanted to know if it was a one man team, with me being that one man. In every case I gave them the same answer. I told them we had a great team with lots of good players. We had good three point shooters too. I continued by saying that I knew my role on the team and I played my role well. All of the other players played their roles well too. I said that if it was a one man team focused on me, we would not be as successful. I felt good talking about how we played well together as a team. With each student who approached me, I also told them I was confident our team would win the tournament.

Monday was our semi-final match against ACME Engineering College. They had a star player who I wound up guarding for most of the match. The game was closer than expected, with us leading by three or five points most of the time. Unfortunately, during the match I was given a hard foul near the basket and I pulled something in the back of my leg. The foul was a shorter player’s dream like aspiration of blocking my shot. Instead, he crashed into me and I landed awkwardly on my left foot. As I hobbled to the free throw line I realized that I didn’t have an uninjured leg to favor anymore. My right leg still had a sprained ankle and now my left leg had something pulled above the top of my calf. I finished out the game, a fresh injury never hurting as much as a day old injury. In the closing minutes we pulled away to win by twelve. Again, the other team’s scorer was held to a below average performance.

At home in my dorm room I wondered how serious my recent injury was. I decided that the morning would bring the answer and I went to bed. This time I found a sleeping position to accommodate my ribs, my ankle, and my calf. I thought about all the times I heard of professional athletes playing through injuries. I now knew how they felt. Normally, in recreational games, if you get injured you rest until you are healed. In competitive sports there is no delaying a championship match to accommodate your injury schedule. I had a new found respect for the professional athlete who plays through injury. While I was lying in bed, the team manager called to tell me tomorrow was a rest day. Wednesday would be the championship match against KEC. During the day off, I walked a little, jogged a little, and limped through all of it. I would be good enough to play, but I didn’t know how well. It would also be obvious to the opposing team that I was injured. I didn’t want to be the weak link in the chain of our team game. Again, I thought about Michael Jordan. I thought about the old Gatorade ads that had the song “I wanna be like Mike”. Limping around the dorm building, being like Mike seemed a lot less glamorous than everyone made it out to be.

Wednesday afternoon brought our appearance in the tournament finals against KEC. While the other teams were playing for third place, I greeted children and shook their hands. Afterwards, I sat in the shade, thinking that today was the right day to play the best basketball game of my life, injuries or not. I warmed up with my teammates, skipping the stretches that I couldn’t perform in my current state. I practiced jogging a little on the court, only to find that my limp was more pronounced. At tip-off, the other team’s tallest player beat me out for the ball. In the first quarter I had two fouls. Two fouls of my five foul limit were already gone. I played solid defense against the same club player as last match, holding him below his normal scoring level. On one run down the court I slowed down and watched my team pass me on offense. Limping slowly forward I watched a missed shot rebounded by the defender. I only thought about how it should have been my rebound. I resolved to play harder. I couldn’t afford to give up easy plays simply because I wasn’t willing to limp my way faster down the court. The game continued through the second and third quarter, each team trading the lead a few times. At the start of the fourth quarter, we were down by three points. In the break I thought about Michael Jordan and how this was the time for him to come alive.

Taking the court for the final quarter, I put forth all of the effort I thought I had left. We were still down by one when I fouled an opposing player, sending him to the free throw line. Standing alongside the key, the team captain talked with the referee and then subbed me out of the game. I went to the sideline, thinking that I only had four fouls, but somehow I must have fouled out with five. I was disappointed that I had to watch the rest of the game from the bench. I screamed and yelled with the rest of my sidelined teammates as the man I was previously guarding took his free throws. He made the first and missed the second. His teammate got the rebound and they retained possession. Fire shot through my veins as I saw the rebound that should have been mine. Again and again, my blood boiled each time I saw the opposing team get “my rebound”. I cursed my bad fouls and started unconsciously flexing every muscle in my body each time a missed shot posed a potential rebound for whoever would take it. During a timeout, Naveen came to the sideline. I asked him if I had four fouls or five. He motioned for me to come out on the court. I gritted my teeth and said, “You know it,” as I stepped into play.

Walking to the other side of the court, I walked passed our point guard, Silas. He held his hand out for a low-five as I walked by. Lightly tapping his hand, I looked in his eyes and said decisively, “Every board is mine.” I walked passed our two-guard, Lojang, and said to him, “You can do it. Take the shot. Make the shot.” I wouldn’t suggest to him that he would miss, but walking away I knew that if he did miss, I would be there for the rebound. I walked over to my waiting position, a few feet outside of the key. I nodded at our small forward, Sasank, on the other side of the key. My limp had disappeared without me realizing it. Our first possession was a long one. Naveen missed a shot and I crashed the boards with everything I had. I got the rebound and passed it back to Lojang. He made a move off of the dribble and shot a jumper from inside the key. Seeing the off shot, I crashed the boards again, pulling down the rebound and passing out to Naveen. This time he made the shot, a three pointer. Running back for defense, I said to Naveen, “That’s how we win the game.”

We played solid defense throughout the fourth quarter. On offense, Naveen created almost every opportunity, with me there making a play for the rebound any time he missed. Twice I put a shot back up. Every other time I passed the ball back out to reset the offense. With the game tied 41-41 the other team had the ball on a fast break with 15 seconds left. With the other team’s missed shot on the break, Naveen took the final shot from half court, missing by inches. This set up a five minute overtime to decide the tournament champion. During the break, bench players slapped my hand and congratulated me on good play. All I could think about was the next missed shot, the next rebound.

Taking the court again we played the same game we did in the fourth quarter, solid defense and lots of rebounds. On each play fire ran through my veins and I was unaware of any injuries I had. Numerous fouls by players on both sides set up a free throw shooting contest to end the game. With our team up by three I was sent to line for two shots. Naveen came up to me and said that one shot made it a two possession game. The makeshift basket was a backboard of plate steel and a bent steel rod for a rim. It was notoriously unforgiving. I missed both free throws, each one rattling in and then impossibly out. My teammates were unable to get the rebound. After a defensive stand, I was fouled after getting the rebound. Again Naveen told me to make it a two possession game. Again I missed both free throws and my teammates were unable to get the rebound. Another defensive stand led to Naveen being fouled and going to the line. I walked up to him and said, “Make this one Jordan and we go home winners.” He missed the first free throw. It rattled in and out just the same as mine. I walked up to the line and said again, “Make this one Jordan and we go home winners.” Naveen made the shot putting us up 48-44 with twelve seconds left. The other team’s fastest player ran down the court for a quick two points. He missed the shot and we held the ball for the remaining seconds.

As soon as time ran out, the celebration began. Our fans flooded the court as we yelled congratulations at each other. When things calmed down, I told Lojang about the American college tradition of cutting down the net. He told me he had seen it before and he had a pair of scissors with him. We cut down the net together. After he wore the net for a moment, I put it on, wearing it for the rest of the day. Naveen was awarded the MVP of the tournament. He scored 30 of our team’s 48 points. After the celebration had calmed down, the team manager came up and congratulated me. He told me that I had done the best at the end. He knew a Nepali phrase for it but had forgotten the English one to describe it. I told him it was called “coming through in the clutch”. I added that I hadn’t come through in the clutch at the free throw line, but I had done it with defense and rebounds. The only three points KEC scored in overtime were free throw shots made at different trips to the line. Later the small forward, Sasank, told me that I played well at the end of the game. He added that if I had played like that all day, the match would not have been close. I told him what turned things around was being forced to sit on the sidelines for a few minutes and watch the team play without me.

At the end of the day, I did not play like Michael Jordan. But, I did play like another champion. A champion whose off-the-court antics have made many people forget what a great team player he truly was. He won 5 championships with 2 different teams. He was a great role player who knew his role on the team and executed it to perfection. He was an excellent defender and an amazing rebounder. No one played his role better than him. As the NBA website says on his bio, “one of the few players in basketball who can change the course of a game without taking a shot”. At the end of our championship game, I had played the power forward position for all but a few minutes. I had 4 fouls, 5 or 6 points, 2 or 3 blocks, 1 or 2 steals, well over 20 rebounds, probably over 30 rebounds, with at least 10 of those rebounds coming at the end of the game. For our final game on that court, I didn’t play like Michael Jordan, I played like Dennis Rodman, and our team won the championship.

Epilogue

I left the Dennis Rodman persona behind when I walked off the court. I didn’t emulate him in his personal life. I enjoyed the post party by drinking in moderation, my hair is still its natural color, and I have no plans to purchase ladies clothing.


Halftime photo. No, my jersey is not painted on.
It's actually the one-size-fits-all Nepali team jersey.



Post-victory photo. Lojang, the starting two-guard, is
the person furthest to the right.



Post-victory goof-off photo with the team and some fans.

Lights, Camera… …Reality.

This blog entry is done at the risk of sounding cheesy. Truthfully, sometimes real life is stranger than fiction and sappier than drama.

Before coming to Nepal, I had spent many hours in Houston mentoring engineering students. One thing I talk about is experiencing all life has to offer while you are young, then moving into a stable job when you have a family to take care of. A stable job at age 22 is not necessary. Especially if you are going to sit at a desk performing a mundane task, then get your fill of drama, action, and excitement by going to the movies each weekend. A real life of adventure and service is so much more rewarding. You don’t have to sit and watch the movie, you can live the movie. Later on you can enjoy the stable life, where raising children is the right reason to remove some of the risk from your life.

Here in Nepal, as one might guess, I stand out from the crowd. When I am visiting a grade school, children will often come up to me and ask my name, where I am from, and what my caste is. For the final question, I tell them that I am American, so I do not have a caste. In a discussion with a fellow M.Sc. student, the two of us traded ideologies of religion and culture. He asked if I believed in reincarnation. I explained that I am Christian and that I do not believe in reincarnation. I believe that each person has only one life and afterwards they either go up, or they go down. Gesturing with my hand, he understood what up and down meant. He explained to me that while he believes in reincarnation, it’s not as simple as coming into your next life based on your previous life. Everyone gets 83,000,000 reincarnations and they will permanently go up after any life where they have lived properly. If they have not gone up after all of their chances of lives, then they will go down. We continued by talking about the caste system in relation to reincarnation.

I explained that in my culture as an American and religion as a Christian, every person has one chance at life and all people are created equal. I explained that children in bad places are not considered to be placed there as a punishment. Furthermore, children are considered to be innocent and not responsible for their own livelihood. Adults are always responsible for children’s standard of living. From what I understood, Buddhists consider it a great deed to build a resting place under a tree. For Americans, one of the greatest deeds you can perform is to help a child who is in a bad place. I continued by explaining that the Jewish and Muslim faiths, as well as many developed nations, also have similar values when it comes to orphaned children. I also emphasized the fact that those who are fortunate only have one chance at life too, so it is imperative that they get things right to ensure going up, instead of down. My friend explained that more developed Nepali culture was starting to move in this direction. The caste system was outlawed by the government, but there were still many people who believed in it and supported it.

To illustrate my point, I gave him an example that most people know. I talked about the crime boss in Slumdog Millionaire who takes the children’s eyes out. I explained that he would never survive in the USA. He would either be jailed or killed there. I explained that there would be no impunity for anyone in the USA who did that, no matter how rich or powerful they were. Because children are considered innocent and often helpless, it is each adult’s duty to prevent such a grave crime against children from taking place. I added that if the legal system in the USA failed to punish him, there would be criminals that would end his life. I explained that some of those who are either common criminals or organized-crime gangsters would be angered by a man who harmed children. They would take the law into their own hands and ironically enough, they would see it as a good deed to remove him from this earth. This mentality regarding children is so engrained into our culture that some of those who are viewed as bad people still will not harm children, they will even protect them. I continued by telling him that the homeless panhandling children in Kathmandu would not exist either in the USA. They would be picked up and placed in orphanages and foster homes. Where there are children like this, it means that they have repeatedly run away from the homes they have been given through charity. I even explained that there are NGOs in the USA that will look for these children and give them things like soap and clothes, since they will not accept the gift of living in a home.

That’s enough of an introduction, why don’t I get to the real story?

Since it was Saturday today, the equivalent of Sunday in the USA, I decided to finally go see a movie that I had wanted to see for some time. It was a Nepali movie, but I could recognize from the poster that it would be mostly physical humor and I didn’t need to understand the words in order to laugh. I called up a friend on the other side of town and we agreed to meet at a theater that was not too far from where I lived. I set out walking towards the theater. I left my neighborhood where there are countless headquarters for international organizations, passed through the tourist section on my side of town (I showed my student ID to avoid paying the tourist fee), and walked to the edge of the Ring Road that surrounds the city of Kathmandu. Just on the other side of the dusty and trash laden road was the movie theater. This theater showed only Indian and Nepali movies. As I walked up to the theater I realized that I was the only foreigner in sight, probably also for a mile in each direction. The last foreigners I had seen were near the tourist area. There was a tall and wide staircase leading up to the theatre entrance. The top three steps were the only ones shaded and many people were standing and waiting in the shade. I walked up to the top of the staircase and stood on the second stair. I sent a text message to my friend to tell her that I had arrived. She replied that she was on her way and would be there soon.

After waiting for about 15 minutes, I realized that a small homeless boy had setup camp directly behind me and was counting his begging earnings. At first I thought it was strange that he was only a few inches behind me. I soon realized that between the front wall of the building, a column, and the legs of a foreigner, he was surrounded on three sides. This was the safest place for him to count his money. He was wearing a skirt from a prep school girl’s uniform, something that had probably been lost or thrown out by its original owner. His shirt had several holes and it appeared to be 3rd or 4th hand clothing. His dark brown skin was made lighter by the dust and dirt that he was covered in. His dirty clothes also made it obvious that he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground. The boy counted his paper money and then began making little stacks of coins to count them. When he was done he put everything into his skirt pocket. He wore the skirt sideways so that the pocket was directly in front of him. As he got up to move, several coins spilled out and down the staircase. Another man and I pointed out each coin to him so that he could pick all of them up. As he moved to pick them up, more coins spilled out of the pocket. The man and I pointed out those coins as well, still more coins fell to the ground. It was obvious that there was a hole in his pocket. Now holding all of the coins in his hand, the boy flipped up his skirt to inspect the pocket. I looked away since the boy didn’t have any underwear. He then sat down a few stairs in front of me, coins in his lap, wondering what to do.

A few stairs below the boy was an empty potato chip bag. The boy grabbed it and looked inside at the few small broken chips leftover. He dumped the chips into his lap and then began putting all of the money into the bag. When the bag contained all of his money, he ate the few broken chips in his lap and then stood up. He removed 10 Rupees from the bag and then placed the bag into his pocket. He now had an effective pocket liner and change purse to hold his earnings. I watched him as he walked over to the edge of the stairs. There was a smaller and younger boy sleeping on there. As the older boy shook him to wake him up I looked at the older boy’s body language and facial expressions. Whether they were blood brothers or they had become brothers in the streets, it was clear that the older boy was the guardian of the younger boy. Their age difference couldn’t have been more than 2 years. The older boy continued to shake the younger boy without much success in waking him. He began pawing around the younger boy’s shorts looking for a pocket. When he rolled the younger boy over, I could see a few open sores on the younger boy’s face. Finally finding a pocket, the older boy stuffed the 10 Rupee note inside, gifting it to his sleeping younger brother. The older boy then sat on the stair above, placing his legs over the younger boy, protecting him from rolling off of the stair in his sleep.

The two stayed in this position for a few minutes. A lady came up to the older boy and he immediately stood upright while the younger boy slept. She reached into her purse and gave the boy a 2 Rupee coin. It was an appropriate amount for a single person to give the boy. Afterwards, he returned to his protective pose over the younger sleeping boy. I continued to look out at the street, watching the two boys out of the corner of my eye. I stopped and thought about the things I had shared about American and Christian culture a little over a week back. I thought more about where I was. There were many panhandling children and families that targeted the tourist areas of the city. There are also notable scams in these areas involving children asking for milk and children reciting the capitols of expected tourist nations. (I once had a little girl tell me that she thought the capitol of America was London.) These two boys were nowhere near any of these areas. Everyone I had seen since arriving was Nepali. Looking at the tea shops and restaurants, I knew that tourists and foreign nationals didn’t stop here to eat or shop either. I thought about how much I should give to the older, awake boy. 33 Rupees would easily double his bankroll. Still, for an American, I would be ashamed to only give him the equivalent of 50 cents.

I decided that 330 Rupees was more appropriate for today, the 4th of July. In reality, I was still sacrificing virtually nothing and I knew I wouldn’t walk away with some pompously swollen sense of pride. With the boy still protecting his younger brother in the corner of my vision, I took out my money and began sorting out 330 Rupees. The boy saw what was happening and he walked over to me and stood next to me. I rolled the money together, placing the smallest bill, the 10 Rupee note, on the outside. I turned and handed it to the boy. He took the money from my hand while looking at the 10 Rupee note, something which he saw regularly enough. He walked back to his younger brother and shook him awake. This time the smaller boy awakened and he watched as the older boy unfolded the money, exposing the three 100 Rupee notes inside. The two boys got up and walked over to me.

The younger boy sat down at my feet, facing away from me, still waking up with his head propped up in his hand. The older boy stood three stairs down from me. He was looking up directly at me with a big smile. I was still looking out over him at the street. After 30 seconds of the boy smiling at me I looked down at him and smiled back. I returned to watching the street. After 30 more seconds the boy was still smiling at me. I looked down at him and waved and said, “Hello.” I went back to watching the street. After another 30 seconds of the older boy smiling at me, the younger boy had awakened fully and he stood up. The older boy walked the younger boy down the stairs. As they walked off together, the older boy put his arm around the younger boy, waved the finger of his other hand high in the air, and exclaimed something enthusiastically. The two of them walked into the nearest tea shop, either to get something to eat or to give the money to their pseudo-caretaker. I resumed waiting for my friend to arrive.

Today there were no fireworks, no American flags, no red, white, and blue clothes, and no one I knew said, “Happy Fourth of July!” Still, this is the best Independence Day I have ever celebrated. I love the USA, everything it has taught me, and everything it has facilitated me becoming. Today I give thanks for the vision of the founding fathers, everyone who believed in that vision that followed, and everyone who has fought and died to protect this ideology.


Happy 4th of July little slumdog. I hope that someday soon your country will generate the excess income needed to take care of you. More importantly, I hope that someday soon everyone in your culture will truly and genuinely believe that all people are created equal, so that they will have the strongest desire to take care of you.


P.S. My best wishes go out to Freema Davis, a Rotarian from Oakland who is currently fundraising to create a pilot model orphanage in Nepal.