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Seeing this made me get nostalgic for those weird bits of green string with the silver bars on each end. Do they have a name? Answers on a postcard.
At the risk of turning into the nepali equivalent of Victor Meldrew (non-Brits google him), it’s time to continue my weekly diatribe about the perils and pitfalls (with an equal if not higher number of pinnacles, fair enough) of living in Kathmandu. Today’s special? Bureaucracy. Paperwork. Dog-eared folders brimming with what looks like greaseproof paper because it’s been thumbed so many times. Staplers, hole punches, those weird sponges that are moistened so you don’t have to go to the trouble of licking your preferred digit – these are the weapons of mass procrastination that put paid to the idea of any visit to a government/commerical/private/building with a roof being a short one. In a conversation over tonight’s daal bhaat I told a friend that part of the allure of Nepal for me at the moment is that it’s like a passionate fling. Previously, life in California/London was more of the stable, you-know-what-you’re-getting-type relationship (and before you ask these are purely hypothetical relationships I’m talking about). You know, like when you arrange to meet someone and they’re there on time (or if they’re late they text/call you); or where the only disruption to your journey is traffic; or when you need petrol you drive to the next petrol station; or when you need to get to an unfamiliar place, you slap it in google maps on your iphone. No no no siree bob. (Perhaps that should be Bahadur in Nepali). Here, you’ll find yourself stuck behind an elephant on your commute to work; narrowly avoid a cow that has found its comfortable sunbed spot in the middle of dual carriageway; consider it lucky if the person you’ve travelled across town to meet is there, let alone on time; see that since last night an entire 100m stretch of road has been napalmed and garnished with a crowd of onlookers, all balding men in their 40s with their hands behind their backs looking like they lost the tender to redesign it and know they could have done a far superior job; and don’t even get me started on the petrol. (That’s a whole other post I’ll get to tomorrow). Anyway, lest I succumb to my own diversionary ramblings, 2 weeks ago I became a fully-fledged, card-carrying member of the nepali press.
The road there was long and lined with the bodies of fellow hacks, their screwed up application forms crumbled under their white knuckles, their 18 requisite passport photos spilling out of their shirt pockets. I managed to tip toe past the carrion, dodging the inky bullets (matrix-style) fired at me by an official at a certain government dept who shall remain nameless (let’s call him Mr K as there’s more than enough Kafka-esqueness to this, as you’d imagine), submitting ream after ream of published work, references, CVs, family member info, how I like my eggs cooked, etc. It also included a meandering reproach about the fact that I’m not a father: “why not kids? Here we get married for children.” Presumably here meant Nepal and not specifically his govt department. Once all my details had been cross checked and I’d duly made the return odyssey to my beaming local photocopy/passport merchant (who dutifully snapped my passport pictures on his phone, imported them into photoshop and blacked out my grey hairs without any prompt) I was dismissed to buy a 10 rupee stamp for the tome downstairs, where of course they had no change. So I bought a cup of tea next door to the stamp place and the more industrious tea seller said he’d come back with my change in 5 mins. Then on to a different office and the entrance, stage right, of two more RPs (to find out what one of them is, and their role in typical Nepali meetings, you’ll need to read this). The first looks official, the other is a woman who as far I can tell popped in to tell Mr Suit Man (MSM) something and decided to stick around and have her 2 cents. She asks about the years of specific publications as if they were the most important details in the world. Then more questions about the work I’ve done. Then I’m told to wait, and when I come back, MSM has only gone and written an entire essay on my application. Then the guy next to him starts talking (where did he come from?) and suddenly my essay is no longer a priority. Smile, just keep smiling. Then back to the woman, this time in her office, which turns out is just down the hall. Do I have more hard copies of this link? No, it was published online. Can you print it out? It’s all online! Ok, ok it should be fine. Ours not to reason why. Never before has anyone ever read my online work so attentively. At least, not directly in front of me. Come back in an hour. “Maybe have lunch” they tell me. Uh oh that sounds like a nepali hour. When I do there’s a little red book with my name on it! Back to room no. 15 (you’ll need to look on your iphone devanagari app to figure out what a “5” looks like, as no one round here will tell you) and its MSM, who’s now taking his turn to sign it. Only he’s like an 8 year old with ADHD and any new person who pokes their head in the door is invited to come in and have a chat! as if filling out my little red book was the governmental equivalent of eating his greens. OK, it’s done – back to random woman who tells me to now sign the application BUT WAIT! Not in black. In red. (Of course). One final stamp later and I’m good to go. Then there’s the small matter of taking my new credentials to the dept of immigration across town to actually get the press visa which is the whole reason I came here. Oh and Mr K will need a photocopy of that when you get it. Thank you for your time and have a nice day.
No strictly a comic, but technically it still tells the story of the courageous performers of circus kathmandu, who are now using their skills to support themselves (financially and physically, arf arf) after surviving terrible abuse at the hands of traffickers in indian circuses. This is the fruit of a partnership with Freedom Matters, who have provided an annotated guide of sorts to the poster here. Big thanks to the crew Philip, Ali, Ferg, Ashlee, Felipe and Tess for their amazing work, and really looking forward to seeing the show. Not to mention Leslie from the Didi project for the introduction!
For realtime verbiage and news of my exploits in Nepal, scroll down to the “news” section. More updates coming soon. As ever, if you like what you see and want to help out with putting dhal bhaat in front of me of an evening, you can access the behind the scenes production blog of my nepal graphic novel (accessible via the “Nepal Extras” link above) by paypaling me a mere $5.
A little late in posting this. Put it down to Nepali time, will you? I’ve realized one of the downfalls of keeping a blog current is resisting the urge to finish artwork in order to stick it up with a post, as you’ll never actually get around to it. In a lot of ways, it’s like going to any sort of meeting here: you sit down, you have your contact’s immediate attention, you bat the usual “namaste, casto chhaa…tikay chhaa (how are you, fine thanks)” pleasantries back and forth, you get to the reason you’re there…and just when it’s all going swimmingly, RANDOM PERSON #1 enters the room. Not the same random person (that would be weird – though has happened to a couple of friends of mine and is just as stalkery as it sounds). But suddenly, RP #1, a propos of nothing, jumps right into the conversation. Often this will mean the person you came to interview/have the meeting with taking their time to talk RP#1 through what you’re discussing with them. Now you might as well not even be in the room. Only frantic hand-waving a la those guys on aircraft carrier runways, or faked coughing fits have any chance of re-grabbing your interviewees attention. You might get pockets of interest back from them, including bemused looks at you, sort of half squinting, as they struggle to remember why this large white person is now sat in front of them while they’re having a perfectly nice conversation with RP #1. And so it goes. Anyway, at the risk of rambling, that’s just what my posting process has been like this past week. “Sumiya lag chhaa” as they also say – “It takes time”.
Long story short, I’m going to post more often to the site things that aren’t quite as polished so we’re a little more up to date. What percentage of blog posts, I wonder, are bloggers promising to post more often. This month in particular has been filled with visa issues (finally sorted today, only after getting a press pass, and now, finally, a press visa), bike issues (just re-fixed after only being with me a week) and starting/finishing a new consultant job. Comics, naturally, are in the works. The book’s coming along nicely, though there’s nothing like watercolouring by candlelight to do your mince pies in. Oh and lest I overlook the reason for the hilarious title post, the first of many nationwide strikes, otherwise known as “bandh” (pronounced “bund”). In which I was merrily warned that if I took my new motorbike out I’d get pushed off it and it’d be promptly torched. Happened to a friend of a friend last year. The actual day (this past tues) was remarkably low-key, featuring children playing cricket in the street, shops everywhere closed, and assorted mobs in the middle of empty intersections waving their hammer and sickles about. Turns out the only thing the Maoists are reliably good at is stopping anyone else from doing anything.
UPDATE: turns out the RP rule (see above if you’ve skipped to the end, shame on you) doesn’t apply in reverse: I waited a good 10 mins while mr important bureaucrat man talked with his pal and ate his tiffin (love the ol’ school terms that fell out of usage 50 years ago everywhere else) at the dept of Immigration. All I got was a dismissive hand wave.
Cricket in the abandoned streets
The Maoist Mob takes to the streets
That’s right. You heard me. Through the vapours of my steaming hot shower after the comforting click click click bruuuum of the automatic gas powered shower. I’ll admit, at first I was dubious: the blue plastic hose that hangs across the bathroom wall and goes through the open window at the back, the “switches” on the unit that are more for decoration than anything else, and the weird digital read-out on the front that has 3 lighted up backwards and skips from there to 9 as the flames take hold. From arctic iceberg to boiling lava in just a few clicks. Leaving the soaped up showeree a 1-2 second window to get some water out before risking 3rd degree burns. Still, I’ll take it over an electric shower, or any electrical appliances, any day.
HA Literally as I typed that last sentence my emotionally sensitive inverter pip pip pipped its disapproval followed by the sound I’ve come to hate: the eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that means no more juice for the rest of the day. Or headlight and candles, if it’s past 5:30pm. It’s Saturday morning for crying out loud! Lesser mortals might check the loadshedding schedule, or even figure out which group of the city they’re in to strategize an electricity-efficient plan. Not me. If I’ve learned one thing out here it’s that you can’t predict anything. Even if it’s written down. Especially if it’s written down, in fact. It’s the land of shrugs and head shakes (side to side meaning positive – there’s nowt negative out here – not superficially so, at least – the classic south asian “side nod” TM), not timetables and schedules. Call it a buddhist, non-grasping approach to energy consumption.
Yes, yes, the kettle does boil a million times faster than a stove top, yes, it is nicer to have light that you can point where you want it, BUT if it comes out of a socket, you just can’t trust it. It’s like the flakey friend you always invite over, who’s amazing company when they’re with you, but who always makes their excuses early or sometimes doesn’t bother showing up at all. I say give me the moderately interesting rounded orange top you can rely on every time. Yes, you, my chipped, rusting gas cylinder buddy. With a flick of your yellow switch we know where we stand.
All I need now is for Al Gore to rise out of the cistern on that extendable crane he used in An Inconvenient Truth. Preferably when the electricity’s back on, as otherwise the water doesn’t get pumped in. Did I mention that?
I’m typing this by candlelight in the midst of daily load shedding as my inverter (battery backup when the main power goes out) squeals in disgust when I even look at my desk lamp. It’s headlights and candles all the way, which was romantic at first, but the novelty’s well and truly worn off after only a few days. Ysee, when I moved into my new place in Kathmandu, I thought I had it made: large lounge/work area, big separate bedroom, hot water HOT WATER I tell you…of course it’s the little things you don’t notice on the first walkaround that get you. Like the fact that the flat is flanked by a ironmongers, who fire up their welders late into the night, ironically providing the only bursts of actual light in the entire neighbourhood , albeit like a pissed up firefly. There was I thinking I’d stumbled across enlightenment while meditating in the dark…With all this power outage jiggerypokery (up to 14 hours a day, though apparently the PM’s pulled strings to bring it down to a miniscule 12 hrs now, which will mean 18 hours of darkness once he finally sashays out of power) I find myself rationing the minutes on the computer’s battery life, juggling the russian roulette of wifi connection, which is not ideal when skyping into a conference call with a potential funder, let me tell you, and slowly realizing that perhaps this is the universe’s way of telling me to stop drawing pages after 10. Or at least, stop starting to draw my daily page after 10pm. Speaking of which, new coloured artwork is now up over at Freedom Matters, an anti-trafficking NGO I’m partnering with who are the pioneers behind Circus Kathmandu, which takes kids who were trafficked into the circus in India and gives them training from an international cast of big top performers from Columbia and the UK among others. UK folks they’re coming to London in March – details on the FM blog via the link above.
I’ve also spent the last week pasting several different translations into my new comic due out for the BBC very soon – so any Urdu, Arabic, Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Ukranian, Persian or, of course, Nepali readers will be able to check it out in their native tongue. Funny how some languages take 5 lines to say what another says in say, 3. In case you were wondering, Ukranian is the most space-friendly of the contenders, and Persian proved most greedy in the caption-box-filling stakes.
I was going to close by saying at least the beauty of the blackout is the quiet stillness that comes from everyone being off the streets, but right on cue some entrepreneurial spirit has just started his midnight shift next door. Cue the accompanying chorus of stray dogs.
I’m now a few months into my Nepal project (for more, click the links below), which has seen me moving around the country interviewing survivors of human trafficking. The highly flattering picture above is with an interviewee who was tricked into selling his kidney, only to then be short-changed and left with permanent health defects. I’m posting pages from my graphic novel in progress on the Nepal Extras page, though you’ll have to pay a princely $5 for access – all proceeds go towards the Daal Bhaat (rice and lentils in Nepali) fund/living expenses while I’m out here until May.
A brief interlude away from the Nepal trafficking project to share my latest interactive piece done for Stanford University’s CISAC. Wondering what the difference is between a worm, a backdoor and a trojan? Or why you should break that habit of naked skype conference calls? Then read the comic here. Roll over the red dots when you hover over the pages to call up interactive markers housing audio, video and hyperlinks.
Last week I was in Mahendranagar, way out on the far western border of India and Nepal. The above sketches were done “live” by the Maiti Nepal outpost, where Maiti staff watch for suspicious looking folks who they think might be attempting to traffick girls across the open border. Just as I arrived, one of these very cases happened right in front of me – the young boy and the girl had two very different stories and it reeked of foul play. For more sketches from my recent trip, or a glimpse at my graphic novel in process on human trafficking in Nepal, click on the button in the right hand sidebar (it’s $5 for access, payable via Paypal).
Another interview from the far western region of Nepal where I’ve been this week, working with Nepal Youth Foundation to speak with ex-Kamlari girls who were once forced to work as domestic servants. Leela (pictured above) actually sold herself to pay for get school fees. Hit ‘previous’ for more info on the Kamlaris and to read other sketch interviews from this week. Comics from the open border at Mahendrenagar coming tonight.
Click on the Nepal project panel in the right sidebar for how to support this project via PayPal, or watch the intro video via the Kickstarter link on the left.
Continuing my experiment of posting from the field, this was sketched directly in ink while interviewing Sharada this morning. For background on the Tharu community, hit “previous” below and read yesterday’s post. I’m finding time and time again that drawing live creates a curiosity and connection with the subject that I just don’t get when I take their photo. It just feels more respectful, and somehow allows the shyer girls I talk to to come out of their shell as I draw them. Especially as they see me with pens in my mouth, a watercolour set on my lap and ink all over my fingers. Off to Mahendrenagar on the far west border with India first thing tomorrow to see just how porous it really is.
