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.

Sights Sounds Smells

It’s amazing how quickly you get used to drivers honking their horns at you. In fact, in just 10 short days, I’ve developed quite an appreciation for the sheer variety of horns, particularly the shrill, melodic, air-horns and their usefulness in saving me from death or at the very least maiming under the wheels of a gaudy transport truck. The thing is, the horns have to be loud to make it over the cacophony of life in Kathmandu. What with the packs of stray dogs barking, the Hindu puja bells ringing, the street vendors bartering, the traffic rumbling, and the throat clearing and spitting, there’s no place for pansy little toots.

Especially when you’re so distracted trying to nail down what on God’s green Earth that smell is. Is it the unidentifiable globule in that pile of rubbish, or fermenting fruit, or whatever skin disease that dog’s got, or the after effects of the curry that man clearly had for dinner? No. Bad, but kind of sweet. A unique blend of garlic and unwashed clothes and incense. And strangely, not altogether terrible…

Which really just compliments the view. Florescent pink fairy floss on a forest of sticks carried like a bunch of balloons. Beggars with twisted limbs and hollow eyes. Lush foliage bursting out of every unlikely brick nook and cranny. Gold and turquoise and fuchsia and red and green saris. Flies converging on a boar’s head and fresh meat cuts at the butcher’s stall. Elderly women carrying baskets of bricks held by a strap across their forehead. Boxes of stereo equipment leaning on ancient Hindu statues.

It’s an assault on the senses – and they love it!

Roots and Wings

I’m going to go out on a limb and say I have the best family in the world. Hands down.

I’ve always known they were great, but their collective reaction to us going away has really driven home the point. My mother-in-law battled cobwebs and climbed behind blinds to clean windows and my mum spent a day up to her armpits in my grotty oven and stayed upbeat about the whole thing with us despite her misgivings about us heading off in the wilds of Asia. Our friends, the family we have chosen for ourselves, brought their ruthless packing skills, laundering and administration services, hospitality, and just-at-the-right-time laughs to bear on the chaos. But the image that really illustrates the familial experience for me comes courtesy of my aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins – my “blood” family, as they jovially like to define themselves.

Grandma has made it a tradition to farewell all members of the family by waving a red scarf in public places – airports, train stations, bus stops. This has been met with various levels of embarrassment from all of us at some point or another and so is indelibly woven into the fabric of our shared experience. As we left my parents house for the last time, both my grandmas and my parents and brother were at the gate to wave us off, Grandma with her customary red scarf. We had a chuckle and drove off, but as we rounded a corner of the driveway, there were my aunts and uncles and cousins (just out of Grandma's range of vision), frantically waving anything red immediately at hand – towels, tablecloths and most notably the lid of the Weber kettle BBQ.

There’s nothing like knowing where you’ve come from and where you’ll end up.

Sqwark

I like to think of myself as quite a rational person. But it has become apparent to me that I have no adequate defences against the chaos that descends when one packs up a life. I keep finding myself sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of clothes and high school memorabilia and Tupperware that would put a bower bird to shame with not the foggiest notion of what to do next and an overwhelming desire to either cry or punch someone.

I hate packing with a vengeance and when we moved into our current house I told Matt I never wanted to move ever again – a comment I just know he’s very stoically resisting quoting back at me, since this whole Nepal venture was my brainchild. But that move was nothing compared to this. Not just packing to transport, but packing to store; not just packing of any description, but also mail redirecting, house renting, dog billeting, bill forecasting and paying, and so on and on and on.

I recognise that I am not the first person to have endured this particular form of torture, but the whole assault is exacerbated by the fact that Matt and I are both hoarders. I have progressed to the acceptance stage while Matt is still in denial but the truth remains. This means that we not only have little boxes full of basketball collector’s cards popping up left, right and centre, but that we are physically unable to throw them away. St Vinnie’s has helped alleviate this condition to an extent on some fronts, but even for a good cause, I am unable to part with my perishing purple feather boa or my jellybean jumpsuit from when I was 8.

Only slightly less traumatic than the actual packing experience is the realisation that if we ever are to cure ourselves of the hoarding affliction, the time is now – but the window of opportunity is closing rapidly and there’re no indicators that either of us is prepared to dive through. On the upside, at least we’re in it together – although Matt doesn’t know it yet!