It's an Aussie Thing

It’s funny how being thousands of miles away makes what it is to be Australian much more obvious, and so much more pertinent to talk about with other away-from-home Australians. Firstly, there’re all the characteristics that we already know about and are part of our articulated Waltzing Matilda national identity, the things we wear like a badge of Aussie pride on our travelling backpacks. For instance:

Being larrikins. It wraps up all those expectations of being the first of an international group to do the bungy jump and the last to stop drinking the night before, all while cracking jokes and refusing to take anything seriously. And we love this about ourselves – one of the greatest compliments for a travelling Australian is being called a larrikin. Inherent in the larrikin concept is also…

Limited respect for authority. It’s part of the tall poppy syndrome I guess, but there is no kowtowing among Australians. This is evidenced by the fact that each time we meet the Australian Ambassador our group of volunteers has to keep reminding each other to call him “Your Excellency”. This is not because he’s not worthy of the title, but just because it seems so foreign to be so formal with anyone. There’s also a distinct absence of unquestioning faith in the leadership in Australian culture. While trekking through the remote hills along the Tibetan border, where none of us had ever been before, we Australians thought it perfectly reasonable to question the guide on his choice of direction at a crossroads.

Independent. Closely related to the limited respect for authority notion, we like to decide ourselves how things will be done. We want to have access to all available information on anything vaguely related to ourselves and we will purposefully argue in favour of the opposing view, just so that side of the picture comes out. This is not to say that Australians aren’t team players – just that they want to lead it, or at least reserve the right to ignore it.

Belief in the Fair Go. Another concept we’re proud to tout. An incident in which a high caste man walked onto our bus and looked at a lower caste man sitting in the back row until he got up and gave him the seat left us seething with righteous indignation.

And then there are the characteristics that generally, we’re not so aware of at home:

Sarcasm. A sense of humour is integral to our much loved larrikin, but often the rest of the world doesn’t get our jokes. Americans in particular often think we’re just mean to each other.

Preoccupation with time. Somewhat in contrast to our reputation for being laidback, part of the love of independence is a need to know how long something will take, the estimated time of arrival, how long someone has been doing something for. This is particularly obvious in Nepal, where time is fairly low on the priority list and even among the best English speakers, questions about timeframes are rarely understood or clearly answered.

Low tolerance of falsehood. Australians have a gift for identifying a liar or a kissass from seven leagues off. Tall stories might be tolerated in a fishing legend, but insincerity or dishonesty is met with disgust. No ego stroking please, we’re Australians!

Justice for Some

Today I saw an emaciated man lying naked on the footpath, writhing around in the dirt.

What does it mean to all the people that stepped around him, getting on with their business? What does it mean to a country at war for 10 years to fight for social justice? What does it mean to me, the Badeshi, driving along in all my white glory, seeing it and sighing at it but not letting it interfere with my lunch plans.

Should I have stopped the car? Found some money or food or hope to throw at him? It would have appeased my conscience, which has been piercing me ever since. And maybe it would have meant something to him too: not just the response to the physical need, which must have been extreme, but the difference between the whole world ignoring the agonizing reality that must have triggered that reaction and a member of humanity reaching across an ocean wide divide and connecting with another.

But it’s hard. Nepal has no government funded health and welfare hotline that I’m aware of, few charities with time to spare for one hopeless case. There are so many other very valid causes jostling for attention.

So that leaves it to me – or one of the hundreds of other people who saw that man today. But a real live person, not a department or phone voice, to get dirty and be made afraid and step into that messed up life and do something. Honestly, I don’t know if I have it in me. But I hope one of us does.

Scarily Enough

Scarily enough, I think I’m starting to get it. Reasoning that completely escaped me just four short weeks ago has become seamlessly woven into my consciousness.

I understand that it can take six hours to pack a bag, be picked up from a hotel, and be transported to another location just 15 minutes away.

I’ve caught myself surveying peaks at least 3,000 metres above sea level and categorising them as hills.

I embrace the fact that a chocolate bar costs the same as a curry, naan bread and a drink or the tailoring of both a shirt and pants or a 20 minute taxi ride or a handwoven bamboo floor mat.

I recognise that there are approximately a gazillion meanings of the word “hajur” and it’s unlikely I will ever fully understand them.

I have come to terms with shopkeepers who try to extort huge amounts of money from “the badeshi” and then burst out laughing when they are caught.

I know the true meaning of feeling outrageously happy on a sweltering, sunny day, because despite the flies and sweat, it means a hot shower.

And most tellingly of all, I accept that there really is no plug in the entirety of Nepal that will fit my kitchen sink.

I’m not sure what this will mean for my eventual assimilation back into life in Australia, but it definitely makes life in Nepal more relaxing!

Happiness is a Dry Fart

I’ve always thought it was bizarre how all the previously private details of a woman’s bodily functions seem to become fair game during pregnancy. But our group of Aussie volunteers has reached a depth of disclosure that makes those Grade 10 Science videos on childbirth in the 70s seem like dinner conversation.

This new found openness is owed to the sheer variety and pressing nature of stomach complaints that accompanies life in Nepal. Diaorreha constituted an awkwardly large component of our pre-departure medical briefing, but I hadn’t really considered its potential to become such an all-consuming focus of my day-to-day attention. From the moment I wake up in the morning, I begin a micro analysis of today’s stomach status. Am I feeling cramps? Of course. Is it hunger or bowel? Too low for hunger. Just wind? Ummm….no. Have to go, right now. This thought process is eminent in my mind at most times, and I can only assume a similar situation for the other members of the group, as discussions on the scale of diaorreha, the nature of projectile vomiting, the specific location of feelings of unwellness and the possible root causes, which perhaps would be considered over-sharing at home, have become commonplace.

Thankfully, I’m not suffering debilitating stomach issues – they don’t stop me from going to work or to play and the other day I even had a Nepali cooking class during a bout of seediness and got through it ok. But one of our fellow Aussies has fallen victim to a particularly nasty round of bad-gut that kept her bedridden for two days and that’s served as something of a warning to us all.

If nothing else though, the unpleasantness is always a reliable topic of conversation. We’ve appropriated as a catchcry a philosophical quote one of the Aussies found among toilet graffiti in India: Happiness is a dry fart.