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"Journey Into an Unknown Culture- Nepal Twentyeleven"

A new year, a new age and a new adventure. A big new adventure characterised by a healthy mix of apprehension and anticipation. Change is wholesome. It’s dynamic, exhilarating but also daunting. So it begins by leaving behind the eerily perfect Changi airport and landing among a throng of desperate taxi drivers at the small brick building that is Tribhuvan International Airport, Kathmandu. The majestic scene of the Himalayas soon gave way to a more humbling reality of life in Nepal; poverty, haphazard development, pollution and confusion permeating some aspect of everybody’s life. Locals elucidate how ten long years of Maoist civil unrest halted any form of industrialisation and development. Fast forward to now and you have a society in transition – lost, trying to play catch up with little coordinated planning. It is one that is hopeful, albeit. Optimism is an intrinsic part of everyday vernacular and that can’t help but raise your spirits.

Despite the experiences of conflict people are amazingly hospitable, exhibiting a raw humanity that sparks something deep inside. In Thimi, home away from home, locals are intrigued, tilt their head and shyly respond to our greeting- Namaste. Kathmandu is a different ball game. Standing on the hotel rooftop you are omnipresent being, peering into people’s life- the struggles, the rituals, the peacefulness. In all directions the cityscape sprawls towards the mountains, lapping at her green edges but unable to pass the steepness of the ascent. Streets form a spider web across the city eager to lure whatever prey into her domain. It’s nonsensical but magical, chaotic but organised to those who crawl its sticky web. Below, the city is alive. I wander the vibrant streets of Thamal, tempted by the bright fabrics of delicate shawls, a tower of incense and intricate Thangka paintings. People approached, seeking the first sale of the day, it’s winter and the season is slow. You want to help but can’t buy all.

A little east at the sacred Hindu site of Pashupatinath, orange clad Sadhu’s adorn ashrams worshipping Shiva. Inhaling ganja they effortlessly transcend their spiritual selves, the continued hum of “Bam Shankar” echoing around the room, the smoke creating an unsettling haze through the warmth of the sun’s rays. A copious amount of tea is consumed as the afternoon beckons in the night. Just 5 kilometres north Boudha, a hub for exiled Tibetan Buddhists, moves at a much slower pace. At it’s centre stands the great stupa, Buddha’s pervasive blue eyes keeping watch on each four sides. You cannot help but get swept up in the graceful pull of the clockwise movement around the base. Saffron robed monks on the inner, spinning prayer wheels in a deep meditative trance; locals in the middle coming for their daily practice, turning prayer beads as they walk; unbeknown tourists gazing in awe at the outskirts, taking pictures and fumbling over the uneven payment as the tide of people pull them along. To be considered even half a local, five months may not be enough.