I was on a crowded bus, as all buses here are, sitting with
my back to driver and facing the riders. A beautiful girl my age got on with
her grandmother and sat in front of me. In order to do this, I had to position
my legs around the grandma so she could place her small body between them. Her
granddaughters arm was around her, they looked like they had a good, loving relationship.
The bus stopped and started constantly, the driver pressing his musical horn. There
are two types of horns here- I am still trying to decipher what they mean. One
is the normal honking sound, but the other is a full couple chords melody. They
use them interchangeably, and sometimes seemingly unnecessarily. There is a
honk to let others know you are coming, one to tell them to move, one for
impatience, and one I swear is just to play the melody when you’re the one who
succeeds in winding out of the traffic first and want to symbol your victory.
Anyway, the old woman was being jolted by the sudden movements and put her hand
on my thigh for support. I smiled at them and started talk to me in Nepali. I
asked the girl how far we were from my destination, and the grandma asked why I
wasn’t with friends. “I have a friend on the bus I said” in broken Nepali. Then
she started pointing to my face, and the girl translated that she was asking
why I had pimples. “It’s very hot and dirty here.” “She wants to tell you that
my aunt is a beautician.” The girl said. I laughed. “Thank you, but tell her I didn’t
come to Nepal
to worry about my beauty. It’s funny though, all grandmothers are the same. My
grandmother doesn’t like my nose ring, so I have to take it out when I see her.”
The whole time her hand was on my thigh, squeezing me with each abrupt jerk.
The touch was comforting me as well. It felt nice to know that I was providing
her support. When they were getting off the bus, the girl gave me her number
and pointed to where their house is. “You see”, she said, “You can see it from
the side of the road, that house there with the purple window and flowers on
the balcony. My grandmother would like you to come over for tea sometime… oh,
and put sandalwood with rosewater on your face for 15 minutes” she said as she
was pushed out the stairs to make room for more people.
On another bus this one a micro packed to capacity, I squeezed
in between a monk and a broad shouldered man. There was a little boy sitting on
the mans lap, and the man put his hand against the boys head so it would not
hit the window as we made our way along the bumpy road. Again, our legs were
intricately woven between each other. I looked out the window as the monk
passed his malla beads through his slender fingers. A few stops later a few
women got off and the little boy with them. The man who held his head did not
even know him. He did the fatherly act of love on his own. I have never seen
anyone else fare so tenderly for another on public transportation before. It led
me to think of the science of touch. There is such an interesting dynamic of
the way people get close and touch each other here. It is a balance between
retaining the modesty the culture calls for, and coping with a large number of
people being around you at all times. It is something I have heard noticed in India,
which is shared here as well. People are modest in the dress style and nudity
is taboo, yet are quick to embrace and the concept of personal space is nearly
extinct. It is also very crazy to see the intense rush and pushing when trying
to get a seat somewhere or needing to wait in line, but once after the chaos
has died down and the shoving subsided, if someone so much as accidentally
scoffs you they will bring their head to the affronted spot and apologize. Such
is the schizophrenic lifestyle of the third world…
