Thinking

I've noticed that once I think it's about the be dinner time, I take a break from homework, thinking, "Ok, good. I'll finish after dinner." However, my idea of when dinner time is is consistently very different from when they think dinner time is. Despite that, I still waste time waiting, even though an hour and a half later, when I could have finished all my work, I'm still saying to myself, "Dinner will be....soon. And then I will have the time to do my homework."

I'm an idiot, and I'm hungry.

Thinking

Three things I did today:

1. Took my Physics final at the Univeristy, which was an 1hr40 minute oral exam. I started studying about a week in advance, but none of that seemed to matter this afternoon. I was really nervous, and every time I wrote something on the board, my professor would go, "Ooohla." And then he'd say, "Are you sure about that?" and I would say, "...oui?wait Non.....wait..uh, oui?" Even though I knew it was "oui" and he'd just say "Oohla" again, and scribble something on his paper.

2. Had my last session with the two girls that I teach. As a Christmas gift, I found two easy Roald Dahl picture books in English for them. They seemed to know who Roald Dahl was, and were really excited about the new books, though I kind of doubt they'll actually read them. Oh well.

3. Went to the theatre with my host mom and her friends. It was a 3 hr. comedy of errors, that was really well done and had a massive audience, and I understood presque tout.

Thinking

My host brother, Jacques, baked me cookies this afternoon. And then chased me around the attic, pretending to be a zombie. I think he's trying to fatten me up to eat me.

A Day in the Life

This is a little late, but one day, I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the things I see every day in France.

My house. #17.

The alley way I walk down, where the crazies hang their heads out the window and yell at me.

Poop. There is a lot, a lot, of this by my house.

The church I walk past every day.

Rue d'Alger. Ever single day, I march my booty up this street...

...until I get here (I.E.S building)...

...where I do this (French literature.)

Ha. This was on the window of the house next to mine.

Thinking

Just came back to my room after Sunday lunch, and found Pamela, the house cat, asleep on my pillow. I think this means she likes me.

Edit: The cat is snoring. She kind of looks like a little snoring rug. Adorable.

Thinking

Onwards and upwards.

"You're ever welcome with me any time you like
Let's drive to the countryside, leave behind some green-eyed look-a-likes
So no one gets worried, no
So no one gets worried, no"

--"Blue Ridge Mountains" Fleet Foxes

A Revival of the Archaic

My host father is descended from a long line of nobles, and his family has owned for many years, a "small" 17th century chateau in the countryside, about an hour north of Nantes. The chateau is a national monument, open to the public most of the year and can be rented out for marriages, etc. For now, Geoffroy's uncle, Count Loik and his family, live in the chateau and maintain it, as well as the surrounding park grounds, which are often used for hunting.

When we first got there, I was introduced to Loik, his two sons and their wives and children, as well as some of his son's friends. They hunted during the morning while Veronique showed me the chateau, and then after we met for lunch I walked with the hunters for the remainder of the day.

Geoffroy getting ready to hunt.

Now, the southern side of my extended family lives for hunting. I once spent an enthralling weekend walking through cornfields in South Dakota with my semi-crazy grandpaw while he blasted the hell out of any unlucky pheasant that happened to cross his path. But French hunting is a world of its own. They get about 20 people, line up and walk straight through a section of forest, shooting at anything they happen to see. Two or three hunters will stand the end, so if any poor beast tries to escape, it's caught immediately.

I kind of have a problem with hunting in general, and I really have a problem with this. But I went along so that I can have something besides Obama to argue about with my grandpaw at Christmas this year.

After the hunt, we returned to the chateau for showers and aperatifs, which we took in a room fancier than any one I've ever been in. Over champagne in crystal glasses, Loik, Geoffroy and I argued about abortion (it was right at about this moment how heavily Catholic this family is), but, we left the conversation still friends. While we were in there, Eglentine (the wife of one of Loik's sons) arrived with a massive platter of small sandwiches, and with her, a large party of 20-somethings arrived, all carrying bottles of whiskey, wine, and Coke.

The room we took our aperatifs in. I took this photo standing next to the grand piano.

Suddenly, Loik and Geoffroy had disappeared, and I was standing awkwardly in a room filled with about 13 over-wealthy 20 somethings, all wearing ridiculous tweed jackets, Ralph Lauren, and hunting boots. I thought, 'French people my age! I should try to make friends." But they wanted nothing to do with me, so I left to find Geoffroy and Veronique, to wait for dinner.

At about 11 pm. we finally had dinner with the group of rich assholes, Loik, Veronique, Geoffroy, et moi. The dinner was glorious, and lots of wine was passed around, and all of a sudden, everyone started talking to me. No, not talking, more like making fun of me for being American. So I made fun of them back, saying things like, "Oh la la! I'm soo French." They loved it, and everyone including Veronique and Loik, laughed.

"...et, courant comme un mendiant sur les quais de marbre, je la chassais..."

Aube, par Rimbaud.

It was an interesting weekend.

Thinking

Every day, I walk into town via a small alley way behind my house. Often, when I'm coming home, I pass a girl who seems about my age, is always listening to music, and is always wearing the same clothes. She always looks a bit....deranged, and once, when I passed her, she let out this terrifying rage/scream/feral animal call that scared the hell out of me.

Anyways, I realized the other night while walking home that the reason I see her so often is because she lives in an apartment off the alleyway (she was hanging out of her window as I was walking.) This morning, on my way to lab, I passed her window and it seems she had pushed her entire dining table set and T.V. out the window.

I think I might start walking around the alley way. For my health.

Thinking

I accidentally stumbled across this on the internet while wasting time Google Image Searching 'Colorado.'

Commence puking from lameness

(In the woods at Chenonceau Chateau)

England, the novel.

Last Wednesday night, after 3 classes and physics lab, I took the train from Nantes to Paris, where I spent the night before heading to England for the long weekend. This time, (as well as the other time I visited Paris to meet other Grinnellians), I stayed in hostel called, "Woodstock Hostel" in Montmarte. It's a minute from the Metro station, less than two minutes away from Sacre Coeur, and about 15 minutes from the Moulin Rouge, and I completely recommend it if anyone is going to Paris. They give you free breakfast and they even have a cat. Totally a win in my book.

The next morning, my friend Kelsey and I took the Eurostar from Paris to London (about 2 hrs.) The train goes through the chunnel, which means that instead of looking at pretty countryside, you look at a lot of black for about 45 minutes. Once we got to London, I met my uncle Mark, and Kelsey set off to meet her other friends.

Mark and I navigated the incredibly busy tube stations, and finally made it back to his house in Eltham. Mark's house is older, but is decorated in a sort classic-Russian-meets-modern-London style, and I really like it. As soon as we got there, we said hello to my aunt Luda and my cousin Frances, and then headed off to an auction, where we drank milky tea and watched old men bid on relatively cheap antiques.

That night, the whole family ate Indian takeout by candlelight, and afterwards, Frances (12) invited me to go shopping with her and her friends at Oxford Street the next day. And by shopping, she meant going to Abercrombie and Fitch. Ok. I was once 12. And I once was obsessed with Abercrombie and Fitch. But in the United States, A&F is a label similar to the Gap, only a little bit more pricey. HOWEVER. The English have taken this store to a whole new level.

We found A&F on Savile Row (where all the very posh stores, such as Hardy Amies are located) by wandering straight into a queue that wrapped around the block. A queue for Abercrombie and Fitch. People were waiting in line to get into this store. Not only that, but there was (I'm not even kidding) velvet banners creating the line, and, get this, a bouncer. A what. A bouncer. A BOUNCER to get into Abercrombie and Fitch.

The entrance was marble steps leading up into a massive foyer, where a half-naked A&F male model was standing, waiting to have his picture with any girl that wanted it. And yes, Frances and her friends got two (with two different male models, duh.) I was too surprised at first to get one with the first model, but after Frances told me very bluntly, "You want a souvenir, Ruth? That body is a bloody souvenir. Get a picture," I damn well got a picture.

The inside wasn't very interesting, only that it was three stories high, pitch black except for spotlights on the clothes, and had a David-esque statue that was 1.5 stories high, wearing Abercrombie pants. Oh, and did I mention that they had hired dancers? They had dancers dancing on the balconies. What. I tried to explain American A&F to Frances and she just blew me off, saying, "Well Ruth, the English just does it much better. We just do it like we mean it."

So London is probably top two my favourite cities. Before I left, Mark and I went to the British Library, where we saw the Lindisfarne Gospels, the oldest Beowulf, and even the original Alice in Wonderland. Afterwards, I took the train to Leicester, to visit my aunt Claire and my grandparents.

While I was in London, my grandfather called to tell me that my grandmum wasn't so healthy, and wasn't feeling up to seeing me. Luckily, though, by the time I got to Leicester, they were both rested and feeling better, and managed to come over to Claire's appartment, where I was staying. We (once again) ate really good Indian takeout and watched Strictly Come Dancing. After loads of tea, and a lot of yelling at each other, we sufficiently wore each other out, and the grandparents left. Claire and I finished Halloween night by watching a movie and going to bed at 10:30. Wild.

My last day in England, Claire and I ate lunch with the grandparents, went for a walk and played a lot of cards (during which my grandmum got to make fun of me--something she's very good at doing.) They went to mass, and Claire and I returned home, where we ate a dinner of beans on toast, and then came to the conclusion that we should go bar-hopping.

We got dressed to the nines, (meaning Claire looked really good and I tried to make the one shirt I brought along smell a little better) and went to, not one, but two bars. Claire bought the drinks, I taught the bartenders how to make Whiskey Sours with Maker's Mark Whiskey and then we sat and compared notes on our family. It's nice to know she agrees with me.

These are the conclusions we made:

1. I am turning into my father.

2. My father is turning into his mother.

3. Whiskey Sours are really good.

4. So are Gin and Tonics.

Overall, the trip was pretty British. I don't think there is any other way to describe it.

Thinking

My hair is too wild for dreadlocks. Every night for the past two weeks, I've backcombed my hair, and then woken up only to find that my hair has undone the dreadlocks whilst I was sleeping.

Dang.

Thinking

Tonight, my host family had a friend over to dinner. Whenever someone else visits for dinner, it means my host mom cooks an amazing meal and I tend to drink a little too much whiskey/wine and then go to bed in a haze.

So, right when I was about to go to bed (about 11:45 p.m.) my host father questioned me about homosexual rights. It got to the point where I got all flustered and said (in French), "It's difficult for me to defend myself, because I don't speak French. Now, I have homework to do, and I'm going to bed." And I left the table.

...whee.

On Traveling

Last weekend, my friend Vicky (a student at Grinnell, currently studying in Granada, Spain) and her friend Laura came to Paris to meet our friend Davis (also from Grinnell, studying in Paris) to attend a Pixies concert. Vicky invited to me to meet them for the weekend, and since other kids from Nantes were going to Paris as well, I packed and hopped the Friday afternoon train.

Leaving was unsettling; not only because I was randomly going to an unknown city, but the farmers in Nantes were on strike (blocking the public transportation with their tractors and cows) and someone had been hit by a train between Nantes and Angers. But once I got to Paris, met up with Vicky, Davis and Laura in the train station, immediately all feelings of mal a l'aise disappeared.

While Vicky is a little crazy and a lot energy wrapped up into tight hipster pants, Davis counters her with his calm, and between the two of them, Laura holds her own. Needless to say, the four of us combined were a force to be reckoned with. We spent the weekend riding the metro, buying food from street vendors, and visiting the occasional tourist trap. And it was absolutely one of the best weekends I've had in France so far.

(Davis, Vicky, Me)

And to add to the fun, Vicky and friends from all over (Belgium and Morcco) and I had decided to meet the next weekend (this weekend) in Barcelona. My good friend Felicity had suggested this to me, and being not unlike my father, my first thoughts were ones of "Hmm..Barcelona sounds expensive...I don't know" (even though it was only about 70 euros.) And of course, I waited too long, and of course, the prices increased. And, ignoring all rationale and intellect that I have gained over the years, I bought the very expensive tickets anyways.

(Yes. My parents were unhappy. And yes, I spent last week in the grips of paralyzing guilt.)

I went to Paris two nights ago, skipping class, so that I could take the cheapest flight out to Barcelona. I spent the night in the beautiful and stereotypical centre-ville appartment of my host mother's sister (an appartment decorated with antique chandeliers, tapestries, and even a real, stuffed wild-boar head hung up on the wall.) At 4:30 Friday morning, I walked 30 minutes down the large, well-lit parisienne avenues, under trees and vintage lamposts, past churches and cafes and bars that hadn't yet closed, and had no intention of closing. And you know what? I was pretty proud of myself. It was kind of warm, there were people out that weren't going to mug/rape/kill me, and I knew where I was going without the help of Davis.

And then I got to the airport check-in and realized I'd forgotten my passport in my drawer back in Nantes.

I swear to god, I was dropped on the head as a child.

And though I pleaded, through sobs of terror, with the check-in attendant, my frantic attempts were met with a cold, emotionless reply of, "Vous pouvez prendre le train." Yeah, ok, I'll take the fucking train after I just lost 400 euros down the drain.

So I exchanged my train ticket, received 7 euros back (which, when the lady gave me, brought me to tears again) and spent the next 4 hours curled up in the fetal position in a corner of the train station. Think: shards of glass of guilt raining down upon me.

The gross thing is, the only thing (besides the 7 euros) that made me feel slightly better was, when I was walking from the airport terminal back to the train station, I read an advertisement for some insurance company. The ad had a student working out an organic chemistry problem, and immediately, in my head, I thought, "Diels-Alder: the double bonds move between the aromatic rings to connect and form a bridgehead."

Thinking

Tonight I introduced my host family to Snoop Dogg's classic 'Who Am I (What's My Name?)'

Needless to say, they were impressed.

A little late, butt...

(Left to right, back to front: Geoffroy, Mayalise, Ann, Veronique, Ingrid, Claire, Me.)

Last weekend, Ingrid visited me, my family, and Nantes. She chose the right weekend to come, as it was also my host mother (Veronique)'s birthday. For her birthday, the two daughters, Ann and Mayalise (neither of whom live in Nantes) also visited, and the entire family, sans Ingrid et moi, went to an 8-hour play on Saturday afternoon.

Glorious.

Instead, Ingrid and I went out with my friends, celebrating the Grinnell College tradition that is 10/10, which includes maybe drinking a little too much and 'creating community,' or something along those lines. She met all my friends, and we went out to eat at a Tex-Mex inspired resturant called, "The Ranch," where the waitresses don't wear bras and the heads of dead animals decorate the walls.

The next morning, we woke up, had an incredible lunch, and then sent Ingrid off, back to Tours. This upcoming weekend: Paris.

(left to right, back to front: Geoffroy, Mayalise, Ann, Veronique, Ingrid, Claire, Jacques, in front of the entire Western canon, and then some.)

Thinking

It's started to get cold and drizzley here.

Which means the mounds of feces, vomit, and cigarette butts on the sidewalk have kind of melted together to form little lakes of nastiness.

Mmm.

Refresh

A few weeks ago, when I wandered into a tabac to buy minutes for my cell phone, the woman working the counter heard my accent and asked if I would teach her two children how to speak English. I agreed, and since then, every Wednesday at 3:30 pm., for 10 euros, I walk across the city to the same tabac and teach these girls English.

Which is silly, because, as I've come to realize, my knowledge of French grammer far greater than that of English grammer. I have absolutely no idea how to teach English, let alone explain the English language in French.

But it's nice. The girls are adorable, and every time I come, the lady gives me as much coffee as I want, and has always baked a cake for me. And 10 Euros. Did I already say that? 10 Euros and cake. For an hour every Wednesday. I would call that a win.

Besides my famille d'accueil, this lady and her daughters are some of my first French friends. And as I've been getting more comfortable conversing in French, I've developed other friendships, too, in my climbing class, and with friends of my host family. While I have really good American friends, finding friends outside the Institut is surprisingly difficult, as we are somewhat isolated from other students our age. That, and the kids in my physics class at the university are surprisingly cold. The girl who sits next to me is innocent-looking enough, but she wears a pin that says, 'Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck.' Then again, it is physics. Maybe they just haven't gotten to the chapter about 'Social Aptitude' yet.

But, a few days ago, I met a boy while climbing, who ended up walking me home (a 45 min. walk) because he wanted 'to learn to speak better English.' And last night, my host mom drove me to meet up with her godson and a group of his friends, with whom I went to a bar, and then to a discotheque-costume-soiree thingy. And that soiree? Think eurotrash meets Halloween, and then add a lot of whiskey. I left at 4am (earlier than everyone else), and yes, that 9 am class this morning felt just great.

But I have French friends! Finally.

Thinking

Today, I climbed and ate an incredible Indian meal. And afterwards, my host family even let me watch a movie in English.

It was awesome.

Tomorrow: Mont St. Michel and St. Malo.

LOST SHOES. PLEASE HELP.

Of all the stupid things I have done in my life (and they are numerous), I have to say, taking physics in France is pretty near the top of the list.The people at my institute knew exactly what they were doing when they placed me with a psychologist host-mother.

This is going to be traumatic. But in that slightly hilarious way.

What is more traumatizing is the fact that I lost my $140 climbing shoes. Has anybody seen a virtually brand new pair of Dragons?!?! AHh... fml.

Currently listening to...

Not an interesting video, but a good song. Even for those of us who generally prefer Ike and Tina Turner to Wilco.

I heard it on Dooce.

Things I have realized since being France

1. I should start listening to more classical music. This is a frequent conversation in my house:

(Host father turns on classical music, and says to me): 'Tu le connais?'

Me: Uhhh... non.

Him: AH! C'est Beethoven!

How embarassaing.

2. I should really read more. Like, really.

3. My dad was right all along. Dang.

Thinking

Today, my host brother and sister and I finally bonded over Kill Bill, Vol. 1.

You know that saying, "All people smile in the same language"? Not true. All people enjoy Uma Thurman in a yellow spandex jumpsuit and copious amounts of blood in the same language.

How I feel every time I try to speak French.

(Large man, me, Kadidia, Cody)

On Why the French Will Kick My Ass

Today, I marched over to the sports area of campus, signed up for the rock climbing class, and then after class, headed out with my friend Timmy to climb.

And this is where the story goes downhill. So...

1. Timmy and I walk 30 minutes to the climbing wall, and realize we've walked to the wrong gym (the actual gym was on the other side of Nantes.)

2. Timmy and I realize we can take a bus, so we re-walk the 30 minutes, and then rush to catch the bus as it's leaving. Of course, by rushing, we almost get run over by another bus going the opposite direction.

3. Timmy and I laugh about how funny it would be if we were the Americans that got killed by a bus.

4. 15 minutes later, Timmy and I realize we're on the right bus going the wrong direction. The right bus going the right direction? Was the bus that almost ran us over.

5. Finally get on the right bus, some 30 minutes later. Get off at the right place (finally) and follow some random dudes carrying chalk bags.

When we got to the gym, we realized that the French open climb? Is a class designed for training, no matter your level. Immediately, we were doing crunches, planks and pretty much every abdo- workout there is. Then our instructor had us climbing problems he designed, problems we designed, the works. Then: more abdominals.

And as was the theme for the day, Timmy and I were the unfortunate Americans who a.) didn't know where they were b.) weren't necessarily prepared ( I was wearing a skirt and Timmy had never climbed before) and c.) had almost gotten killed on the way to class. I think the instructor felt sorry for us.

I think I've gone soft living in Iowa, where pretty much whenever someone wants to climb, they go up twice and call it good. In Colorado, it's intense, but more relaxed. You climb how you want. But here? Here, I am getting my ass handed to me, left and right.

I am that American that doesn't understand, that isn't as strong, isn't as well dressed, and oh right, almost dies every time she crosses the street.

Voulez-vous couchez avec moi...?

(Left to right: Cody, Angela, Carolyn and me at the beach in Ile-aux-Moines.)

When I was in Nepal, it was always blatantly obvious that you were a foreigner. Whether or not you could speak Hindi didn't matter, because by being almost 6 ft. tall and white made you stick out like a sore thumb. There was never any pretending to be Nepali, because you couldn't.

In that respect, living and interacting in France is almost more difficult. The students that I'm with (myself included) are in this strange conundrum of blending in with the outside world, and wanting to blend in, but at the same time, being almost certain that you can't. You forget that you can understand and speak French. But you can.

Last night, my friends and I went to a hookah bar, and then out to dinner (where I ordered a bloody steak--like, blood was actually gushing out) and then to a carnival. Let me just tell you, the French do not joke around with their rides. The rides go on for a good 10-15 mintues, and are 3x more terrifying than any ride in the US. I spent most of the ride worrying about whether or not my harness was double-backed.

Afterwards, we walked to an area of town called Bouffay, where we bought two bottles of wine (which together? was cheaper than the small bottle of sunscreen I had bought earlier.) Bouffay was bumpin' and we spent most of the night in nice cafe called,' Le Petit Coin,' named after a toilet. About midnight, when we were all slightly worried about how we were going to get home, we headed out. As I live fairly close to town, I headed up the cobblestones to walk through the plazas and home.

On the way home, I passed a window, out of which someone was blasting, 'Lady Marmalade,' by Pink, Christina Aquilera and others. I also passed three teenage boys puking in a corner.

It was a good night.

Thinking

The bamboo patch outside my window is rustling. And the drunks in the street are cackling.

Yeah, France. You're weird.

When in France....

SO. I arrived in France almost a week ago. I've met my host family, made new friends, gone to the beach, ridden bikes all over an island...virtually done every stereotypical thing there is to do in France.

And all I've learned so far is: Le Francais ees berry deefeecult.

Seriousement.

I arrived in Paris, at the Charles de Gaulle airport (which, btw, is not as a fabulous of an airport as Hong Kong. You want a good airport? Hong Kong. All I'ma say,) and met my friend Esther for coffee in one of the poorer arrondissements. Afterwards, I borded a train towards Nantes, and had a very interesting 3 1/2 hrs. with the Cambodian boy next to me. We mostly discussed money and his pinstriped suit. It was l'adorable.

When I arrived in Nantes with the 5 billion other IES students, we were taken to our Institut, which is located in a 19th century building, and is gorgeous. Our families picked us up, one by one--something very similar to toddlers picking out their first puppy at the pound--and we were whisked away to these random people's houses, where undoubtedly, a very awkward conversation ensued.

My family, Veronique, Jeffrey (pronounced 'Jeff-wah') and their children Claire and Jacques are beautiful, own an aborable little house, and are apparently very well read. Veronique is a psychologist, Jeffwah deals with finances, Claire just turned 17 and Jacques is a nicer version of my own 14-yr.old brother. We talked about Asia, religion, politics, Equus, and the role of psychology in France. And let me tell you: my French hasn't been as good this entire trip as it was that night. If ever there was a night to be on, that was it. That was probably my peak; I'm sure it's all downhill from here.

The next day, IES took all the students immediately on an orientation trip to see Bretagne (Brittany.) We stayed in a very expensive hotel in Vannes, were served incredible meals every day, and were driven on buses all over the countryside (meaning Ruth was tres, tres carsick.) We visited Ile-aux-Moines, and rented bikes to ride all over the island. We saw Rochefort-en-Terre, and drank wine and looked at all the roses. And we even went to a Festival de Huitres, or Fesitval de Oysters (50 cent fresh oysters cooked with pesto? Oh. Yes.)

Over the course of these 3.5 days, I made good friends with a girl named Leah, from Kentucky, a boy named Cody, from Ohio, and two other girls, Kadidia (AKA K.Diddi, from Manhatten) and Kelsey (from god-knows-where.) Leah and I were roomates and the four of us spent a lot of time riding bikes, eating, drinking, walking into town--hell, Cody and Leah even stood guard while I peed on the wall surrounding Vannes! I'm really grateful to have made these friends so quickly, though I'm not quite sure how much of them I will see in the weeks to come.

Well. We will just see.

Thinking

(I'm sorry, goodbye, see you soon.)

I leave to go to Nantes, France tomorrow, where I'll be studying until December.

And all I can think about is how I don't really speak French, but that maybe? With a little extra wine? The language will just flow.

Yeah. That's what I'm banking on.

Thinking

I've been home from Nepal for almost a month and half now, and I haven't really accomplished anything. In the time since being home, I have:

1. Built a box out of styrofoam, and called it: 'Research.'

2. Made a large vat of bio-diesel and called it: 'Research.'

3. Rock climbed a lot in Rocky Mountain National Park.

4. Been visited by Megan Ratliff, the volunteer I did my rounds with at Helping Hands in Nepal.

Megan stayed in Nepal for 2 weeks after I came home. Once she was settled back at home in Arizona, she took a quick flight to Colorado to visit me, which, needless to say, was amazing.

But now she's gone, and I have quickly reverted back to my continual state of doing nothing. All this time, and I still haven't managed to write a blog post about my last day in Nepal, when we visisted an orphanage.

Or teach myself Calculus. Still haven't moved on to that one yet.

Last Day at Helping Hands

Originally uploaded by ruth.e.campbell

The last day at Helping Hands was like any other day. Megan, Joyce and I arrived at the hospital around 11, and headed straight towards Dr. Gupta's office. Per usual, Gupta was no where to be found, so we killed time by going to the ER.

When we arrived in the ER, there was a younger doctor on duty--one we had never seen before. Like all the other young doctors, he ignored us until we forced him to talk to us by asking annoying questions about the patients. There were only a few patients in the ER at the time, and one of them was a sickly, older woman who had traveled from the villages to get help. After a bit of prodding, the doctor brought us to the woman, and showed us how to do a full physical.

The woman was anemic, and was very malnourished. He showed us how to examine her entire body, starting with the eyes and fingertips, all the way to her breasts, abdomen, and toes. Her fingers were clubbed and stained (she was a chronic smoker), and her skin was coated in a thick layer of dirt. He stripped her, and showed us her chest (her breasts were barely there) and had us count all of her ribs. We spent a full hour with the woman, just doing one physical, but we learned more in that hour, than we had in the week we had spent being ignored by the other doctors.

Afterwards, we found doctor Gupta and sat on his examination table, while he saw patient after patient in his tiny room. Nate eventually joined us, and after lunch, we learned that there was a surgery on a hydrocele. A hydrocele is when a sack, surrounding the testicle, fills with fluid, causing the scrotum to swell. The surgery involves cutting open the scrotum and the sack, draining the fluid, reversing the sack (so that it won't fill again), putting it back in the scrotum, and sewing it back up.

Nate, Joyce and I went to it, while Megan went home to sleep. Once we scrubbed in, the nurses offered us tea and cookies, and we got to talking with the head surgeon and the anesthesiologist. They told us about the surgeries they do, the complications, and how difficult it is to be a doctor. They even offered to let Joyce and Nate assist in surgery after they are there for a few months. We finished our tea, went into the OT, and watched on as the surgeon cut open the sack and fluid sprayed out onto his face and clothes. But a successful surgery, nonetheless.

As I was leaving, the surgeon, who had never really talked to me before, took my hands, bowed to me and told me that the hospital would miss me greatly. I'd be lying if I said I didn't tear up a bit.

Thinking

It finally rained in Kathmandu. Now we can use more than just one bucket of water to bathe!

Thinking

I have eaten 8 billion Jelly Belly's in the past day. Soooo nauseous.

Blood

The past few days, Megan, Joyce and I have been on rotation in the Gynae Ward. On Monday, we spent the morning looking at cervix infections, yeast infections and pregnant mothers until the gynocologist invited us to follow her to the post-natal ward. Two mothers had given birth earlier that morning, and she was going to check on them.

She walked up to the first woman, directed her to spread her legs, snapped on a glove, and started poking around inside the woman. After a few seconds, she started scooping out large chunks of membrane and placenta, which spilled out onto the bed and ground. The four other patients and their families crowded around and watched, as she finished pulling out the remaning membrane, and then moved on to the next patient.

After finishing in the ward, we went back down to meet with other patients. A girl, about 15 yrs. old, came in with her friends and boyfriend, and discovered that she was pregnant. Without even considering it, she immediately signed the sheets and paid for the abortion. So, Megan, Joyce and I watched another abortion, and then went to lunch.

After lunch, we went into the ER, and immediately ran into a woman with a heart rate of 243 and climbing. The other interns were in there, watching on as four doctors and tons of nurses ran about, injecting her with Adenine and Verapamil, and trying to check her blood pressure (almost non-existent.) The woman's heart rate peaked at 300, but after a few minutes on the drugs, her heart rate dropped to almost completely normal.

Pokhara, the novel.

On Thursday afternoon, five of us (Megan, Joyce, Nate, Amanda, and I) decided to go to Pokhara, Nepal. To get to Pokhara, one takes the same rickety bus down the same terrifyingly steep road out of Kathmandu, as if one were heading towards Chitwan. However, this trip is different, as it heads more west instead of south, and climbs higher into the mountains, instead of going into flat lands.

Pokhara is a small town located in the foothills of the Annapurna mountain range. On a good day, you can see many of the famous mountains, but more often than not, it's too cloudy to see a single peak (while we were there, we only briefly glimpsed Macchapucchre.) Besides the mountains, Pokhara is idyllic--the town is hidden away in the hills, and centered around a large, clear freshwater lake. In the middle of the lake is a small island, upon which a Buddhist temple is located, and perched on top of a hill, overlooking the lake is the World Peace Pagoda.

When we arrived in Pokhara on Friday afternoon, after a long, dusty and bumpy ride, we met up with two other interns, Carly and Melissa, who had stayed with us in Kathmandu a few days prior. They had been moved to Sarangkot, a little village on a hill above Pokhara, to work in the health clinic there, and were waiting in Pokhara to be moved to their homestay. After dropping off our bags, we immediately headed for the town to eat dinner, and then to the lake.

Some of the best Western food I've ever eaten in Nepal came from this one restaurant in Pokhara. In Nepal, if you want good food, your best bet is to order Nepali food, but often, places trying to cater to tourists will attempt to make Western food (note: not always a good end result.) But this place was so good, we actually didn't eat anywhere else the entire time we were there. After dinner, we grabbed Pringles, Pepsi, and whiskey, rented a boat and made it onto the lake in time for the sunset, which, I sure you can guess, was spectacular.

After we returned the boat, we wandered back to our hotel room (which was called 'the dormitory' because it was actually just three barren bunk beds), told stories and played games until one of us puked (they actually puked into my hands), one of us cried, and all of us fell asleep with no pants on.

The next day we woke up late, ate an amazing breakfast at our favorite restaurant, and immediately rented another boat. Carly had been feeling fairly nauseous after a rough bout with ED (or, explosive diarrhea) and this morning, she decided to sleep in.

Note: The moment we had arrived in Pokhara, Carly had started pushing the idea of staying later and trekking for four days in the Annapurna range, which none of us were expecting to do, or were prepared to do. Most people didn't want to go, and the idea of trekking with her feeling ill, and the rest of us also having bowel movements the consistency of water, was constantly on the back of my mind during the trip. Ignoring everyone else, she displayed how intent she was on doing it by yelling through the bathroom door to us about just, 'how awesome it would be.'

So while Carly was recovering (to make sure she could trek), we rented a boat and fishing rods, and headed out to a small cove across the lake. The poles were a mess, so we forgot them, stripped down to our undies, and dove into the water. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon swimming and climbing onto thick trees that hung out across the water so that we could dive in. Seriously, picturesque.

We dropped off the boat and picked up Carly, and wandered into town to do some serious shopping, which turned out to be quite fruitful ($56 North Face Jacket? Don't mind if I do!) We ate another great dinner, and then watched a cultural dance. At the cultural dance, we met another Canadian man, and Englishman, and a few drunk Nepalis. They wandered from touristy bar to touristy bar with us, telling us about how they too were interns, and they'd been living in Nepal for over 7 months. While we hadn't had much to drink, we were a smaller group of females (Carly had to run off to the squatter again) with a bunch of overeager men. And so Nate took care of us.

The next morning we awoke to Carly sitting on our beds, telling us that she was really, really sorry, but she just didn't think she could go on the trek. Nobody was too heartbroken. Instead, we decided to hike the two hours to the Peace Pagoda, which would be difficult, as it was 7:30, we still had no pants on, and she had to be back by 10 am to go to Sarangkot. We quickly got across the lake and started the hike at 8:40, and managed to make it to the Pagoda by 9:20 in what was probably one of the most intense and miserable hikes of my life.

Pokhara, like Chitwan, is very hot and very humid. The hills are covered in rainforests. But it is still at an incredible elevation. I hike a lot, but I have never sweat so much, and felt so out of breath in my life. I can't even imagine what those people taking pictures must have thought as I dragged my completely drenched self up to this pure, clean, white pagoda with this massive gold Buddha, trying not to simultaneously vomit and poop everywhere. I know they laughed. After a few minutes, Carly made her way up to me and said, "Maybe it's good we didn't trek--I feel like my water just burst."

We literally spent five minutes on top, took two pictures, and ran all the way down, where we caught a boat and made it back to the hotel by 10:15. The girls left for Sarangkot, while the rest of us hopped on a local microbus headed back to Kathmandu. The ride was wonderful, cheap, clean and fast. They even played Nepali pop music the entire way.

Thinking

Did you know that you can make brownies in the microwave?

Literally, microwave brownie mix for 6 minutes, and make brownies.

Thinking

The monsoon season is late this year, which explains why we have no water to shower. People are getting very sick and many are dying because of the drought.

Bhaktipur and the Gyno

On Saturday, Joyce, Erin, Maddison and I went to Bhaktipur. Kathmandu used to be divided up into three different kingdoms: Kathmandu, Bhaktipur, and Patan. All three of them had city centers where the main palaces and temples are located, known as Durbar Square. When Joyce and I arrived, we rushed past the men at the front, trying to convince them we didn't need a guide. And then we proceeded to get very lost in the actual town of Bhaktipur.

Eventually, we made our way to Durbar Square and met up with Maddison and Erin, who, coincidentally, had a tour guide showing them around. After many pictures of large temples and pagodas, we ate lunch and headed back home to Marhajgunj.

Three of the interns, Anne, Kelda, and Allison were leaving on Sunday, so we celebrated their time here by going out to a great dinner at La Dolce Vita, and then getting cocktails at a restaurant called OR2K (both in Thamel.)

The next day, the three girls left and were immediately replaced with two new girls, Megan and Carly. Megan, from Arizona, would be working in Helping Hands with most of the other interns, while Carly, from Juneau, Alaska, would be working in a clinic in Pokhara, Nepal (about 6 hours away from Kathmandu.) Both girls are really charismatic and fun, and both have the same love for the mountains and the outdoors as me. Unfortunately, Carly had to leave for Pokhara in two days, so Monday night we, once again, celebrated her time here by visiting OR2k.

Megan began her rotations with Joyce and me, and this week we started in the Gynae (Gynocology) Ward. The gynecologist here is very good, and she is the only female doctor in the hospital. She discusses every case with us, and lets us look on during every physical examination. So far, we've seen a prolapsed vagina, cervicitis, vaginitis (yeast infection) and today, an abortion.

The abortion was done via sucking the 6-8 week fetus out of the uterus with something that looked like an overlarge syringe. Surprisingly, this was one of the more sanitary procedures that we've sat in one, despite the fact that the gyno was wearing re-used latex gloves that had sat in an open container of bleach for a week. Throughout the entire procedure, the patient was crying and was holding tightly onto the hand of the nurse. The gynecologist talked the patient quietly through the procedure and after about 15 minutes of a disgusting squelching noise, the abortion was done.

The gynecologist told us after the procedure that the woman's husband was paralyzed on his right side, and getting pregnant was very difficult for the couple. The woman had desperately wanted the child, but after 8 weeks with no heartbeat and a lot of bleeding, the woman had decided to abort it.

It was good to see the doctor talking the patient through, and letting the patient display her emotions. It's fairly uncommon to see Nepali people talk about their feelings, which often results in conversion disorder (something the interns and I see frequently in the ER.) Conversion disorder is when the patient is stressed or upset, and has no way to get it out. Instead of discussing their feelings, the feelings present themselves physically in the patient. For instance, one patient in the ER became totally unresponsive when stressed. And the atmosphere of the hospital doesn't help matters.

Helping Hands Hospital is the cheapest private hospital in all of Kathmandu. The doctors that work there are not paid--the time they spend there is purely voluntary. Because of this, and the way Nepali culture is structured, patients come in and out as fast as possible. Spending more than 15 minutes with a patient is a rare thing, and if admitted, the patient literally becomes a number (even the interns refer to the patients in the ward by their bed number.)

Being in the ER and the OPD, you lose touch with the sensitive nature of medicine. Dr. Gupta, at OPD, will see 3 different patients at one time in a room that wouldn't even fit one person back in the States. There is no such thing as privacy in the Ward; no such thing as patience in the ER. But the Gynae area gives a nice balance between the hypersensitivity of the US and the lack of privacy of Nepal.

Thinking

I found a climbing wall 10 minutes walking distance from the house!
It's about 50 ft. and it looks pretty challenging...I'm sooooo excited.

Thinking

I have 8 million bug bites on one foot.

Mountains

Two nights ago, Jumong (an ex-Everest guide, who now works as the travel agent for The Mountain Fund) came to our door, offering a good deal on a flight that goes to Everest. Two other girls, Kelda and Anne, and I immediately bought our tickets, and the next morning at 6 am, were sitting with Jumong in a tiny taxi headed towards the airport.

After numerous body searches, we boarded a tiny airplane with 15 other passengers (not one of them white), and took off. Five minutes later, we came out above the clouds and immediately saw Langtang (above.) Then, a few seconds later, the entire range came into few, with thousands of craggy, rocky peaks everywhere, and some of the world's highest and most famous mountains directly in our line of view.

We could get up to take pictures, and the size of the plane allowed us to wander into the cockpit for a better view, and a quick chat with the pilots. The hostess came to each of us, pointing out the peaks and directing our cameras for better pictures. At one point, she had us all sit back in our seats, and then coming to each of us, she quietly said, "You see that one? That one with the perfect triangular top, that puts all the other mountains in its shadow? That's Everest. And the one on its left is Lhotse and on the right is Nuptse."

Everest is huge. The stewardess was completely right when she said that it puts all other mountains in its shadow. Looking out across the range of other Himalayan mountains, none are as prominent or as supreme. But that's to be expected--it is the biggest mountain in the world. So, after many pictures, the plane turned right around, and we were down, back in Kathmandu in time for breakfast (French toast and milk tea.)

After breakfast and laundry, we made our way to the hospital, where Joyce and I did our rotation in the ward. The day before we had noted a man with a disease known as Koch's Abdomen, something we'd never heard of. Today, the doctor was in, so we asked about it--Koch's Abdomen is another name for abdominal TB. The man had TB in his abdomen and lymphnodes, keeping him from eating or retaining any nutrients. Despite being TB, this type isn't as contagious, as it isn't in his lungs, and they had him on the DOTS treatment, a treatment endorsed by the World Health Organization.

In a lot of cases, doctors (including the physician at Helping Hands) will begin the DOTS treatment with one drug, and then add in other drugs a few weeks later, to ensure that the patient will be treated. If the DOTS program is badly installed, though, the patient has a chance of becoming resistant to not only one TB drug, but many.

The book Mountains Beyond Mountains tells the story of Paul Farmer, the creator of Partners in Health (PIH) and the founder of many health clinics in Haiti and Peru. A good percent of his work is dedicated towards work with TB, especially multi-drug resistant strains (MDR) of TB. MDR often occurs when the patient forgets or is unable to complete the full course of drugs for the disease. It happens frequently in third world countries with many different types of antibiotics, because often, the patients come from rural areas where their customs hinder them from being able to fulfill the drug course.

So, hopefully that man comes back for his drugs.

Thinking

My feet haven't cracked once since being in Nepal! And I wear sandals everyday!
Maybe this really is Shangri-la...

The Most Useless Organ in Your Body

Now that we're back in the city, we've been shoved right back into the hustle and bustle of the hospital. Because there's so many of us, we've been put on set rotations, allowing a few of us to be in different areas at all times. This past week, my roomate Joyce and I were in the ER.

The cases we saw included a broken wrist, lots of gastrointitis, enteric fever (another name for typhoid fever) and even frostbite (the sherpa had gotten stuck at Camp 2 on Everest.) The ER at Helping Hands is considerably less busy than any ER's in the States, due largely in part to the fact that there are only 5 beds in the ER ward. Because of this, we are allowed to wander to other parts of the hospital and attend any surgeries that are available.

Yesterday, there were three surgeries: a hernia surgery, an appendectomy, and the removal of a fistula in the sphincter. These surgeries are all back to back, in the same room with the same surgeon.

So, after a heated debate over lunch at our favourite fry-shack, the other interns and I finally decided who would see what. Mike, Devin, and I would go to the appendectomy; Kelda, Maddison and Yujin would go to the hernia, and Nate and Joyce decided that their laundry back home was more appealing than the sphincter operation. The girls went to the hernia operation at about 4, and at 4:30, the boys and I started scrubbing in.

When we walked in the room, the patient was awake, and sitting naked on the operating table. She was a young girl, about 20 years old, and was terrified. After a few seconds, I realized that the anesthesiologist was crouched behind her, injecting a local anesthetic into her spine. After he had finished, she lay down, and the nurses doused her entire body in iodine, to keep the patient clean. They started the procedure, cutting and burning through the thick fat, making sure to not let her bleed out, and eventually tied off and cut out the appendix (which is much smaller than you might imagine--think earthworm.)

The room is tiny--3 interns at max can fit in the room, along with two nurses and an anesthesiologist. It holds a surgery bed, two gas canisters, a large bureau of a variety of drugs, and two buckets of bleach, where they clean their latex gloves, tools, and vials (to reuse at a later use.) The OR is more sterile than the rest of the hospital, but that isn't saying much. Only the surgeon and the nurses taking part in the procedure wear masks and gloves, but the other doctors will come in and out of the OR, without changing clothes or re-scrubbing their hands. The general rule is that if you stand back 2 feet, you don't need to be completely sterile.

This is a huge change from the amount of sanitation in the US hospitals, where you wash your hands every time you leave/enter a room. When I watched a procedure in a cathader lab in the States, I wore new scrubs, a little overcoat, new gloves, and a new mask. And all I did was stand in the corner. But despite that, hospitals in the US have a fair amount of transmitted diseases in the hospitals--people get diseases from their neighbors, develop staph infections, etc. But here, where they have a man with TB in the same small, cramped, dingy room that's filled to the brim with 8 other patients, they have no records of any diseases transmitted throughout the hospital.

This could be from lack of records, because I think that if it can happen in the terribly sterile environment of the hospitals back home, the Nepali hospitals can't be that lucky. But when asked about it, they reply that they've never seen it happen, and that nobody has ever come back to complain about it, or charge the doctors with malpractice.

When I asked Dr. Gupta about whether or not patients claim to have caught diseases from the hospital, like they do in the U.S., he replied, "I do not practice in the US because there, doctors are the scapegoat. Here, doctor is god, and the hospital is his heaven. People expect to come to the hospital and get better--not worse. If a patient became sick with something in this hospital, they would never believe it was from the hospital, or the doctors."

Chitwan

Today is my first day back in Kathmandu after a long weekend in Chitwan National Park with 8 other interns. We left at 6 am Friday morning, on a rickety, jam-packed bus, and made our way down incredibly steep hillsides to the lowlands of Nepal. Kathmandu is located in a valley, so once the bus climbs up over the small foothills surrounding the city, the view opens up onto a massive expanse of very steep and very green hillsides.

Due to mining and farming, these hills are carved into steppes, and the farmers have also created thousands of little stone pathways up the hills, that all come out at this one road. The road that we followed was a supposed 2-lane road that went straight down the hillside towards the bottom of the valley, completely lacking any guardrails. And the traffic is almost the exact same as in the center of Kathmandu--motorcycles, trucks and massive tourist buses all fight for the right away down this hill, often resulting in a major accident. In fact, as we were driving, a truck went over the edge, flipping and coming to a stop at the bottom of a sheer 45 ft. cliff, near the river.

We finally made our way to Chitwan, where we were picked up by a jeep and taken to a lodge in a little village named Terai. At the Hotel Jungle Lodge, we were presented with Tang, hibiscus flowers and bindis, and shown our rooms (little wood huts.) After cleaning up, we walked around the village, which was incredibly poor. The natives are known as the Tharu, and for the most part, they live in mud/straw huts with thatched roofs. In this part of town, malaria is rampant, and as we were walking, we came across many underfed children washing their dishes with mud.
After the walk, we ate dinner and went to a Tharu Community Welcome Dance, and then crawled under our malaria nets and tried to sleep. Nepal is a country that starts early and ends early. Every morning in Chitwan, we were woken at 6am, and anywhere (even in Kathmandu), everything closes at about 8:30 pm. So, after an early breakfast, we canoed down the river that runs through Terai, hoping to see crocodiles (there weren't any.) We did barely see Anapurna though, and the other mountains in the range. Then we walked back through the jungle, hoping to see tigers and rhinocerouses--neither were seen either, but we did see a spotted deer which was...more than fascinating.

After we ate lunch, we washed the elephants in the river. We got in our swimsuits, and were allowed to climb up ontop the elephants (bareback) and then the elephant trainer told the elephant to fall over into the water, and we did everything we could to hold on. The water was amazing, even though we were downstream from other elephants depositing their fecal matter, and after the bath, we went on an elephant trek through the woods. I would like to say that I'm not afraid of heights, and I never really have been. And that the height of the elephant didn't really bother me. But every so often, when the elephant would shrug? And the little chair ontop that four of us were perched on shifted drastically downwards, sending us oh, so close to flying off? Made the ride absolutely horrifying. Oh, right, and that moment when our elephant started charging another elephant in the jungle. Oh. My. God.

The worst part about the ride, and the whole elephant experience, was the fact that the people who own the elephants a.) know close to nothing about animals and b.) do not care about the animals in the slightest. Everything in Chitwan focuses around the breeding of the elephants, and they have areas where they keep the elephants specifically for breeding so that they don't have to domesticate wild ones. The owners range from old men, stuck in their ways, to bratty teenagers, trying to prove their manhood. They use, get this, bamboo sticks, things that look like fire pokers (but with an extra spike), and even hatchets to try to control to elephants. The elephants have scars and massive holes all over their ears and bodies. If the elephant tries to graze, the owner just wails on its head, beating it until often, the elephant rears up, trying to throw the owner off. Every once in a while, an owner is killed--the elephant will literally tear his body to pieces. And the people we talked to would agree he deserved it.

Chitwan was beautiful--it is the stereotypical paradise. But after 4 days (we had to stay an extra night because the Maoists were striking again, and again, the buses were closed), we were dying to get back to Kathmandu.

A note on traffic

Picture this:
1. There are only two major roads in Kathmandu, upon which everyone travels.
2. There are no lights or stop signs.
3. There is no such thing as 'lanes,' and the pathways running in front of houses/shops are often used as roads.
4. There are no crossing areas or sidewalks.
5. There are no speed limits.
6. The idea behind driving here is: be as agressive as possible, and use your horn frequently
7. There are: pedestrians, vendors, people pushing carts, tractors, motorcyclists, busses, taxis, cyclists, chickens, cows, dogs, and even people living on these roads.

The best part about all of this: There are more accidents every day in the US than there are in Kathmandu. Since being here, I have yet to see an accident or an animal/person hit, and I've only seen one ticket given out. There are rarely traffic jams.

China

As part of our orientation yesterday, Renjan took us to a fairly popular temple known to tourists as the Monkey Temple, and to locals as Swayambunath. The grounds of the temple extend on for many acres, over a major hill that has pathways carved into it that hundreds of Buddhists walk on in prayer and meditation (the full path takes about 4 hours.) We walked to the top, where the stupa is located, and watched the rhesus macaques flood the grounds. After Renjan gave us all bindis (the red mark on the forehead), we went to lunch at a sherpa cafe.

At the cafe, we were sitting and waiting for our food, when a road child came up behind Joyce, an intern, and tapped her on the back (begging for money or food.) Immediately, the waitress yelled for the owner, who came charging out towards the child. The boy just stared up at him as the man slapped him directly across the face. It wasn't staring due to shock; more like staring from being high, and not really understanding what was going on. This sort of catatonic state from the boy continued, even when the owner grabbed a long reed stick and chased the boy down the road, whipping him across the back.

As we discovered tonight after going to dinner in Thamel, a good percentage of the road children here are severely addicted to drugs, most popularly, glue. We saw over 20 children tonight wandering the streets in packs, with more than half of them holding paper bags to their face, so as to properly inhale the glue.

We saw children like these today during our first real time at the hospital. Working at the hospital can't be better explained than describing it as being a full-fledged medical student. The interns and I are put on rotation--we go from ward, to ER, to surgery, to O.B./GYN, and then back again. But medical students? Have no where near the amount of freedom we have. Today, for instance, we strolled into the ward, having not yet met up with Dr. Gupta (it was 11, he wasn't in yet--very normal), and picked out a patient, looked at her x-rays (in front of her family and herself) and requested her file (high WBC, fever, abdominal pain--suggests enteric fever.) We did this for every patient in the ward, without even seeing an actual doctor the entire time. We even wandered into the lab to check out the equipment and the nurses didn't even look up at us.

As Dr. Gupta puts it, "You are white--you are 3/4 of way there on journey to being doctor."

Which is not to suggest that the Nepali doctors are in any way incompetent. In fact, every doctor I've met so far is more qualified to be a doctor than the woman I see in Grinnell, IA, who lets me prescribe myself. The major difference is a.) funds and b.) sanitation, but it is hard to have such standards of sanitation without the means to provide. What they do here for less than 1 USD here, we do for over 1000.

Interesting.

Thinking

People are studying for the MCAT's here.
Righttt...

Sister, you play?

Because of the Newari strikes yesterday, the whole house was stuck inside the gates and restless. After wandering around the house many times and attempting to read, I finally convinced an intern, Erin, to try to find the Buddhist monastery that you can see from the rooftop of the house with me. We wandered down the alleyways that run near the volunteer house, and eventually found it. Even though we were not allowed in, we were able to hear them chanting and praying.

On our way back, we passed a seamstress and her husband who invited us into their shop to sit on their couch and talk with them. The two of them were sewing, one in front of the other, and working together on the same pants and shirt set. They were young, and very Hindu (they were dressed in traditional garb, and posters of Shiva and Ganesh covered the walls.) After buying us both mango drinks from next door, the two very energetically started a very basic and halted conversation, lasting more than an hour. We learned that they were very young (27), he was a songwriter (he sang for us twice), they had three children, and that they were very poor. Finally, we left, but not before the husband insisted on giving us his mobile number and their full names, written on a piece of paper that he had written, "I love you" across the top. I think I'm going to buy a sari from them.

After getting back, the other interns and I played a good game of soccer with Bibu and Kritan, and Renjan (the 20-yr. old who helps the interns.) Then, because it was Angela and Jenny's last night in Nepal, we went out to a shisha (hookah) bar in Thamel, the touristy district of Kathmandu. The taxis had started up again, and, ignoring the weird tension created by the uprising, we found two to take us to Thamel. 3 girls went in one car, and 6 of us crammed into the other one, piling on top of each other, arms and legs splayed out the windows. At the shisha bar, we smoked a good hookah and drank good, cheap, beer and everything was lovely.

Thamel is a place that caters to westerners. It has Italian food, The North Face stores (knockoff) and other fun attractions. However, when we left, there weren't many taxis, and the ones that were there had had barely any business (notice: weird tension from uprising.) 3 of the girls went in one taxi, and when we tried to cram the 6 of us into another, the Neapli boys who had followed us insisted that Nate, an intern, get on the roof, which he accepted. Once on the roof, one of the Nepalis tried to get in the car with me. And of course, me having had a mite too much to drink, this is how it went down:
Him: "You like Nepali. Yess, you like Nepali."
Me: "Yeah right. Get. Out." *shoves him back out the door and shuts it*
Him (from outside): "But I'm very nice."
Me (at this point I realized Nate was still on the roof, and thus opened the door quickly, slamming it into theNepali's chest) : You're slimy. Get out of the way...Nate, get in the car!"

And then we zoomed (sort-of trundled, due to the immense weight of 7 people in a car meant for 2) into the darkness.

In the days since being here, I still haven't had my orientation, but I have managed to wander around a part of the city, and go to the hospital.

The first day, I met the program coordinator, Scott (from Albuquerque, the heart of the southwest), his wife Sunita, and their children Bibu and Kritan, and helpers Santi and Susila. I also met a few interns, Mike and Nate, who work with me at the hospital.
Since Saturday is a holiday, and nobody works, Nate and Mike and I went to Bhouda, a well known holy area about 15 minutes away from the volunteer house. Bhouda is known for its stupa, a giant concrete mound, often containing the Bhudda's ashes.

We entered through an alley way, so as not to pay the entrance fee, and as we did, a small child followed Nate, tugging at his pants. The child (or 'road-child' as they're called here) was homeless and about 5 or 6, and was carrying his younger sibling on his back. He was covered in dirt and grime, and the sibling was crying. Neither of them really had clothing--just torn pieces of fabric That image is so stereotypical of this country--it's just so poor.
The roads don't have lanes, there are mounds of trash and excrement everywhere, and people blatantly sleeping on the sidewalks. We pass about 3 or 4 slums everyday on the way to the hospital.

The hospital sees many people everyday, and when I first was shown into the examination room to meet Dr. Gupta, there were 3 unrelated people being seen at once. Helping Hands is community hospital for people who can't pay--so people come from all over, including remote villages ( we saw a few Sherpas).

In the exam room, I was allowed to help with the physical examinations--notice: this is my second day in Kathmandu--I haven't even been oriented yet--and I felt a girl's swollen fallopian tubes, met with a woman with dysentery, and watched a man go through alcohol detox. All in about 20 minutes. Afterwards, the other interns and I came home (after a horrible lunch at a place called 'Umbrella 66 Fast Food', which started playing 'Apple-Bottom Jeans' on repeat when we walked in,) played with Bibu and Kritan, and watched the sunset on the rooftop.

Today: Maoist revolution and the buses are closed, so we can't really go out.

Thinking

Maybe I shouldn't have gone outside during a Maoist uprising.
And that moment when the whole crowd started surging towards police? Who were carrying double-barrel shotguns? Tense!

Just a moment

U.S. to Hong Kong--in retrospect: Beef was a bad choice.

Hong Kong airport is one of the cleanest, calmest airports I've ever been in. Which says a lot about the city. Hong Kong is a port city, made up of skyscrapers with varying architecture. Even though it's located on the sea, the hills directly behind it make Hong Kong big, but not spread out. The tropical rainforest really adds to it as well.

Of course, I would have never known this had I not stepped outside the airport during my 12 hr. layover, and I wouldn't have stepped outside, had I not met Jim.
Jim was the quiet, soft-spoken Punjabi grandfather who sat next to me on the ride over the Pacific. We ended up spending the entire day together: taking the train, riding the ferry, going to coffee and eating lunch, all which he bought for me (except the coffee-- I paid for that one.)

After he left to go to Dehli, I got on my plane to Kathmandu. This was easily one of the craziest flights I've ever taken. There were 3 major Nepali families, all with upset infants. The mothers would get up, pass the crying children around, yell at each other and at the poor Chinese stewardesses. I met a girl Alicko (?) from Canada, who was coming to Nepal to study Buddhism. We went through check in together, and almost had our bags run-off with an overeager worker at the airport trying to make some cash. I met the girls picking me up for the volunteer house.

The drive into Kathmandu was crazy--stray dogs, trash and people milling about everywhere, but the volunteer house is beautiful. It has a garden, marble floors, and children running everywhere. I have two roomates, plenty of other volunteers and orientation tomorrow.

(sorry if this is a repeat post--the buttons here just say "?????", so posting is kind of trial and error.)

Thinking...

I wonder what I should eat for lunch.