Lost in Translation

We have been broken into teams and sent out to Thamel, Kathmandu's tourist district, on an "Apprentice" style scavenger hunt. Each team has received 500 rupees and a list of items to purchase for the lowest price possible. The team which obtains all of the items, which include things like an unusual fruit, something to teach with, something someone might purchase during a "gap yar", and something sweet, and manages to haggle well enough to spend the least, wins. 

My team consists of people who have not yet had the chance to exchange currency or purchase a Nepali sim card, and is running behind because we have to take care of these tasks first. We have no real chance of winning this challenge, but we decide to do our best and have fun with it. 

We make our way through the busy streets of Thamel, alternately trudging through thick mud, or stumbling over uneven cobbled surfaces. Street vendors approach us trying to interest us in their hand carved stringed instruments from the mountains, miniature chess sets, versatile wire trinkets, and tiger balm. The man selling tiger balm refuses to take no for an answer. He follows me for about ten minutes before finally giving up.

Store fronts display trekking supplies, golden Tibetan singing bowls, colorful clothing and wall hangings. On the streets further away from the center, live goats are tied to a post, eating some vegetation that has been placed in front of them, and chickens are jammed into wooden cages. Not far away, a recently butchered goat hangs in a store front. We turn our heads as a man finishes skinning it.

A toddler, 2 or 3 years old, sweeps the floor of a shop with a bundle of straw switches almost as tall as he is. 

Dogs are curled up under store fronts, napping. Occasionally, one hops up to follow us, sniffing at our legs. They stop to lap water from brown puddles. 

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The narrow streets are noisy, congested with honking vehicles. We frequently move out of the way as motorbikes and small cars fight their way through, competing not only with each other, but with the many pedestrians.  

We stop to spin Buddhist prayer wheels at a small shrine before returning to the hostel with our photographs and purchased items.

Buddhist Prayer Wheels

Then I see something that stops me. In the center of a four way intersection, a man sits in the mud. His black hair is long and unkempt. Swarms of people and honking motorbikes rush past him. He looks up at them, but no one looks down at him. There is mud on his chin. He pulls his knees to his chest, encircling them with his arms. His gray feet, caked with dried mud, are flexed, toes pointing toward the sky. 

I keep looking over my shoulder trying to process what I'm seeing, but we are moving too quickly away for me to understand. 

"We are all one  family," echoes through my head. 

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Namaste