Nepal One Year Later: Foreign or Familiar?

Namaste and Happy New Year to my friends, family, and fellow ethnographers (professional and lay alike)!

Many of you have been following my emails, and I thank you for transferring over to my blog. The purpose of this blog is to cyber-publish my raw anecdotes and unadulterated contemplations on a more frequent—and brief—basis. I’m sure some of you more reluctant readers might be relieved at this.  Additionally, as a disclaimer, some of my updates may be recycled from my past emails. After all, Nepal has become more normative to me, scenes that shocked me a year ago I barely notice now. And, let’s face it, I can only make so many poop jokes.

This week marks a year since I first started my adventures in Nepal, and I have been reflecting on how my perspective and international skills have developed or stalled.  Have I learned anything? Do I fit in any better than a zebra wearing polka dot pants? Can I call myself an anthropologist? Let's examine this one facet of life in Nepal, that once seemed so terrifying and intimidating to me. 

December 31, 2012---I’ve finally figured out (but of course will never master in practice) Nepali traffic regulations. I’m still surprised that I have yet to witness a vehicular homicide on the streets of Kathmandu. Small cars, mopeds, bicycles, pedestrians, even the occasional cow, compete for purchase on the narrow thoroughfares.  Although seemingly chaotic and lawless, there is a method to the madness. The rule of thumb is this: if there is a space you can fill with your body or vehicle, you are expected—no, obligated!—to do so. This, of course, results in many cut-offs and a cacophony of car horns and cuss words, but nevertheless, I’ve yet to witness an accident. Nepali drivers do not drive defensively, rather than are aggressive and act in self-interest, but not in a particularly hostile way. You can imagine, I’m sure, that these rules of the road pose a unique challenge to the foreign pedestrian, such as yours truly. Crossing the street is a fine art to be mastered by the seasoned traveler: you partially glance both ways, step out onto the street with confidence and poise, walk at a uniform and relaxed pace, and pray to your god that the oncoming phalanx of rickshaws stop in time. I like to call this tactic the “Mister Magoo”: it is always successful. DO NOT, however, use the “squirrel” method: eyes panicked, direction uncertain, and velocity unpredictable. This will surely get you killed, if not by a taxi, then from a heart attack. Needless to say, I’m still a little squirrely.

           

A comparative examination of my current traffic dodging skills gives a resounding "NO" on all accounts. Still terrifying, still intimidating. Although I still live, observing the rules of the road was about as far as I progressed in my mastery of pedestrianism. I still squirrel out every time, and I know drivers think I’m a FOP (Fresh Off the Plane). In this case, although I haven’t been completely removed from the gene pool, I haven’t advanced any further than prospective roadkill, such as possum, deer, and other small-brained mammals. FAIL. 

Perhaps I'll find some facet of Nepali life where I've progressed. Stay tuned.