Madness and Beauty

Taxi Cabs, Tears and Puppy Love - The Curse of the Farewell

2013-05-23T02:57:00.000-07:00

We all get our comfort from somewhere.

Today I did something that expats just do.

I said goodbye to someone I have grown to care about. A boy with whom I have been spending time who I care for deeply. The situation, to coin a phrase, sucked.

It was a strange weekend in Pokhara, that mix of happy and sad that can make you feel like you have truly lost your mind - everything is swirling and confusing and foggy. Add a bout of the flu and some afternoons of drinking into the mix and I had a recipe for an emotional meltdown.

Looks like I am good at following recipes. I got messy.

I caught the last flight of the day from Pokhara back to Kathmandu - a flight for which I had no reservation as I just didn’t go to my scheduled flight at noon. (I didn’t call or cancel or anything - as a former travel agent, this is unthinkable) but things are relaxed here in Nepal and this didn’t seem to be a problem. I was handed a boarding pass.

I checked in with literally one minute to spare, arriving for the 4:10 flight at 3:55, having dragged myself sick, shaky body from the boy's arms moments earlier. I knew I may never see him again and yet I still walked out that door and down that street, deciding to just try to feel what was happening. (Turns out that this "feeling stuff" thing is terrible. I do not recommend it.)

This is Gertie immediately sitting down on my foot as I ordered coffee. Dog always has to be touchin' me.

I arrived less than an hour later to the domestic terminal in Kathmandu, notoriously the most scam-ridden place to catch a taxi in the whole city. Normally 300 rupees to my house would be fair, but the driver wanted me to pay 350 and concede to sharing with a stranger to Thamel, a stranger who would pay the same 350/400 rupee price and therefore double the driver's earnings in a really dishonest way. "No, dai." I said, "no sharing. Straight. Straight to Lazimpath." He argued with me gently, cajoling me and telling me "no problem, you have another come with, no problem."

I was hot. I was tired and sick and so, so heartbroken and angsty that I just literally burst into tears. My face exploded and I began to wail. The taxi driver looked horrified and deeply concerned.

"Ohhhh, ma'am. Ohhhh, Didi, what is wrong?" I did my best to reassure him that it had nothing to do with his negotiations, and that if he really wanted to, he could pick up one more passenger (although I dreaded the idea of small talk). He shook his head gently. "No, we go. We go straight Lazimpath."

The entire ride home I was texting and mewling and he finally looked at me, at the tears running pitifully down my face and dripping off of my nose, his face screwed up into a look of deep concern. ""Madam! What is ok? Why are you tearing?" I tried to tell him, and he seemed to understand, nodding knowingly. "You will miss your friend." He said. I nodded as I gulped back tears.

"Yes. I will miss my friend."

"Kay Bayo?" He said sadly. (Nepali for a rhetorical "what to do?")

Best keg party ever.

I decided to go for a coffee rather than wait for Kalinka at my house in the quiet dark of loadshedding. I schlumped out of the cab and noticed that one of the street dogs, a squat guy I call "The Keg," was plunked on the steps. I sat down beside him and began to pat his head, his tail wagging happily as he licked my fingers and put his head in my lap.

I slightly closed my eyes as I let him just be nice to me - I needed something calm and sweet and gentle. A group of Nepali guys (who are always sitting right near where the dog is always sitting) looked at me, and they seemed like they were about to make small talk or jokes but something in their faces softened and they looked away.

Dirts McGerts. Her real name is "Choira" which in Nepali for "Brown." Nope. Changed.

My calm with The Keg was soon shattered. My favourite of all the street dogs in Kathmandu, a gal I call "Dirty Gertie" (for the fact she is FILTHY) galloped down the street and practically launched herself at me. She normally sees me every day and my six-day absence seemed to have upset her. The Nepali men began to laugh as I lavished both Gert and The Keg with ear rubs. "Oooohhh, she like you!" They exclaimed.

“I know. I like her too.” I said in broken Nepali, and they laughed some more.

Within seconds The Keg had gingerly placed his paw on my lap, making a passive aggressive yet territorial move. Gert reared her head and stamped her paw on top of his and they began to literally fight over me on and around me. I jumped up and the men roared with laughter. I couldn't help but follow suit.

Gert is kind of pseudo-owned by the coffee shop, which is open air and doubles as an art gallery that plays good jazz and has fantastic espresso. She followed behind me like a shadow, and when I sat down in my usual chair she climbed up onto my lap like a baby and nuzzled her head so far into my armpit I think I was leaning on her face. She licked my fingers and face and made a “woo woo woo” sound that made me feel both incredibly cherished and horribly, horribly lonely at the same time.

Lose a boy, gain a dog. Nepali math.

I cried. I sat there with that dog (who is NOT a small dog) in my arms and waited for my iced mocha and cried like a little girl who has lost the thing that she wants most in the world, waves of want and regret and just plain sadness washing over me. And Gertie made it feel better (even though I’m pretty sure they were playing John Tesh).

I have chosen this life. I have chosen a life that means I will constantly meet amazing people to whom I have to say goodbye. I attend leaving parties on a weekly basis. But yesterday I said goodbye to someone and it really mattered. Because he wasn’t simply a friend.

With Matt, Kelly, Gemma, Kalinka, Cass, Jess, Attiq, Romeo or the countless pals I have met on this journey and others – I KNOW I will see these people again. We’re travelers. When I next go to Rome or Stockholm or Capetown or Hong Kong or Sydney, I know that facebook will alert me that someone I know is in the same city and we will meet for beers and snacks and laugh like old friends. Because we are old friends, bonded by our nomadic ways.

But this is less simple. When you say goodbye to a person with whom you are romantically involved, there is always the chance you will never see them again. They could meet their future husband or wife – or you could - and even though you would love to just go and grab a Sapporo and some gyoza in an izakaya the next time you are both in Tokyo, it just wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be appropriate. And it could be very dangerous. So you just might never see them again. Fact.

This was an exchange I had with my best friend about it yesterday:

Me: Anyway, I said if he meets a Siberian princess I will understand.

And then I will bottle her.

Christina: Like a true lady.

Me: I would never bottle anyone in a manner that was not ladylike.
Christina: It’s true. You’re a good Canadian girl.

So I am a little raw. A little vulnerable. I leave Nepal towards uncertainty next week and I have no idea what that will bring. I am torn about what to do with my beloved cats when I move to London. My stalker has chosen RIGHT NOW (as in, like, this very minute) as an appropriate time to message me and tell me his opinion on my last blog. I hit my head on the tuk tuk roof hard enough to leave a huge goose egg. Life is a mess.

Violet. I have something very meaningful to tell you.

And that dog, that sweet, sweet Dirty Gertie, is like some chicken soup for my very fucked up soul. She’s beside me right now, looking at me with a mix of love and dumb and just dog.

A reminder that this is all going to be ok. It always is.

Kay Bayo.

The Thamel Fire, or "You're Good at Not Dying"

2013-05-17T01:31:00.000-07:00

A mainstay and place of refuge for over 40 years, gone.

Last night I was less than 100 metres from a massive explosion in Thamel, the main tourist district in Kathmandu. It triggered a fire that raged all night, and I (barely) slept to the sounds of sirens singing in the streets.

Danger, like, real life actual danger, is a strange thing. It's a slow, confusing state during which your brain has to process all of the new information it is receiving, and then it has to figure out which of the appropriate steps it has to take to make you not die.

I had a conversation with my friend Loren yesterday. He is about to embark on a long traveling journey (and we are going to meet in Bangkok), and the advice I gave him was basically, "if you're not scared, you are doing something wrong. You need to be scared. It's how your lizard brain will make sure you won't die."

And when you boil it all down, that is all ANY of us are any good at: not dying. If you are here and reading this blog in your pajamas, eatin' cheetohs (or whatever snack you enjoy) thinking about rent and TV shows and the price of oil, well: good for you. You are EXCELLENT at the one thing you need to be good at doing: not dying. That can change at any minute, but right now you are doing a great job. Kudos.

Sometimes we pass our time not dying in a way that feels really calm and mundane. We live our lives and pay our bills and ride the bus and tuck our children into their beds and we think that we are safe. But really, we don't even realize that we are walking through a minefield of constant terror and chances for death.

Your heart can literally explode in your chest. Your house can catch on fire and you can be burnt to death in the time that it takes for you to wake up and realize what is going on. A driver can have one too many Tom Collins and drive straight into you as you cross the street. You are never "safe," my friends. Never. Safe is not a thing.

I don't mean to sound all Fox News and make you worry about scary foreign men bursting into your apartment and raping your pets ("A New Terrier Terror Strikes the Nation!!!"), but come on. We lull ourselves into complacency that every single moment we are alive is not scary as shit. IT IS. And guess what - you are good at navigating the fear. You have to be.

People say, "Jess, aren't you scared to travel the world alone?" The answer is YES. Of course I fucking am. I'm not an idiot - bad stuff happens here in Nepal, but it can also happen to you while you are sitting on your couch in Edmonton or Topeka. Your ceiling could cave in or a swarm of bees could attack you or you have stroke - and we all know that but we just pretend otherwise. Like my mum always says, "You are going to die somewhere, so it might as well be somewhere fucking interesting."

On the left - messages from Ben, at the time (he thought I was at home).

On the right, message from Matt today.

Last night I was sitting in a pub in Thamel with Matthew Rose and Dan Pritchard, participating in a quiz (like I do every week) when a huge explosion rocked the bar. At first we thought it was a bomb, and then someone said it was just a single tank of cooking propane bursting and so we nearly continued the quiz. It wasn't until the screams and shouts from the street alerted us that something a lot bigger had happened.

Twelve gas tanks (like these ones) exploded at Faces nightclub and the entire centre of Thamel was on fire, and the bar in which I was sitting was less than 100 metres away from where it started. But it was strange - it was like we didn't know exactly how to gauge the danger, like we didn't realize it was a huge problem. I continued texting the boy, even. Time slowed down, and it was only when we stepped outside to see a wall of flames approaching did we realize that it was indeed time to leave, and that is when our lizard brains kicked in and made us not die. We went the other direction.

That's all you have to do. Don't die. And when you do - because you will - and it is in an exotic locale, it's no more shocking than if you were in your bed, surrounded by fat grandchildren. It's death. It is always a possibility. Pretending that it isn't is unhealthy and dishonest. Pretending that it isn't means that you sleepwalk through life and never appreciate how wonderful and treacherous it really is. Pretending that it isn't means that when death does come - and it will - you'll be so unprepared that you'll try to ignore even the very experience of dying. It's one of the most important things that will ever happen to you, so what a spectacular waste.

Today Thamel is in ruins. There are only 7 firetrucks in the entire Kathmandu valley and they all responded, but the fire blazed through the night. One of the most iconic bookstores in Asia, Pilgrims, is gone. Countless people lost their livelihoods, thankfully it seems that no one lost their lives. But life is fleeting, and life is fragile.

I'm going to finish this up with a direct quote from something I wrote to Loren yesterday:
"You made this choice to travel, this amazing choice that like, a eeeenth of the population makes and you know why they don't make it? BECAUSE IT IS TERRIFYING. And that is so, so fucking beautiful."

Take care. Don't die. You're already good at that.

xoxoVD/Jessica O'Neill

***Note - this blog was just republished at one of my FAVOURITE sites, The Order of the Good Death. Check it out there as well. :)

An Expat's Ennui - The Real Reason I Won't Ever Live in Vancouver Again

2013-05-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

I ain't making any apologies.

Here is a maudlin little sentiment spawned by red wine, Fleet Foxes, heartache and impending departures:

It seems like the speed at which Kathmandu and I are ending our relationship is increasing at an alarming rate, and despite my whining and complaining about this city in the dead cold of winter, I don't think I am quite ready for my time here to be over. The boy on the bike may be long gone, but in the meantime I have made some new amazing friends, said goodbye to some old ones and realized that - unequivocally - I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO. GO. HOME.

Listen, we all know that I cried like a baby in February, faced with the daunting number of months between me and the comforts of Vancouver - the food, the familiar faces and the friends who know what a fucking weirdo I am and who love me despite (because of?) it. I then said "fuck it" and booked a fantasy vacation in March, spending money I should have saved for grad school to help pass the drudgery and ease the ennui of the Kathmandu cold. And then I spent April enveloped in the drama and romance of a new boy, one who was destined to leave and break my heart a little bit (let's just say "thank god!" that valium is over the counter in this country).

But now it is May. Now I am nearly finished my report on voluntourism and how it relates to the abuses perpetrated in orphanages in Nepal. I now know how to ride a motorcycle and I am itching - absolutely itching - to stay and ride across Asia. Tempted to apply for one of the myriad UN/Red Cross/VSO jobs dancing at my toes, enticed to stay here, in a country where I can make a difference.

Itching. To stay. To stay and be in Asia and maybe work and maybe travel and just. fucking. live. Because living here feels bigger and scarier and more important than anywhere else. Fuck you, Edward Said - this may be Orientalism, but it sure feels intoxicating. It feels like sex and death and life. My own home country feels like rules and boredom and should. I hate should.

Vancouver, my hometown, seems like a cemetery in comparison to the weird thrill and excitement of every moment on this continent, the dirtycrazybiazarre landmass on which I am convinced I was supposed to be born.

Don't get me wrong. I love my friends. I love my family and I am thrilled to be able to see them. I am aching to drink a Starbucks iced tea lemonade and to eat sushi and to wear teensy weensy short shorts and guide walking tours and guzzle triple hopped IPAs on Beer Island. BUT. buuuuuttttttttt......

The four months I will be home between Nepal and grad school in London feels like a step backward. Like a hiatus between this - my real life - and grad school, which is a mandatory precursor to the next phase of my real life.

I can say with confidence that I will never permanently live in Vancouver again. I need to go there now to guide and serve and sell all of my belongings and make as much money as humanly possible so I can live in London (which is financially still up in the air - who wants to help pay for my Masters?! WHEE!) where I will gain the skills and the piece of fucking paper that makes me a legitimate candidate for UN jobs.

And c'mon - I love my city. I love the beaches and the food and the history, but the baggage and dysfunctional personal relationships that follow me around, attached to my neck like a pillory? No thank you.

I would rather be in Phnom Penh or Hanoi or Addis Ababa or Ankara or Guatemala City, trying to make a difference, protecting the built culture of world heritage and trying to stop the exploitation of locals in the name of tourism. And a pretty big part of me wants to stay right here in Kathmandu, eating at OR2K, working on human/childrens rights and spending my Friday nights romancing travelers and dancing at Purple Haze to hard rock cover bands, the taste of cheap local vodka lingering in my mouth.

But that is enough complaining - which I always seem to do. I do miss Vancouver. I am excited to see the mountains and the ocean and my friends. I want to eat at Tacofino and drink Parallel 49 beer and ride motorbikes with Tara and cuddle with Christina and hug all of my pals. I love my city. I love my mum.

I have big beautiful tattoos of the Marine Building and a dogwood to remind me of where I am from. But really? My heart isn't there. It hasn't be for a while. I don't belong in Vancouver.

It's the real reason some of us are expats - it's the curse of a vagabond. I'm a wanderer. I won't be happy in one place - I need to go everywhere. I need the stamps in my passport and the wind in my hair and the roadrash on my knees.

Come meet me along the way.

Soda in Kathmandu - Gamble Pop!

2013-05-11T06:33:00.000-07:00

If you have a job, do the hell outta that job.

Street food is South Asia is a gamble. While a street food feast in Southeast Asia is a glorious and reliable meal, in India and Nepal it can leave you gripping the toilet bowl, crying and wondering why you hated yourself enough to try to eat like a local when you are so clearly a white lady who obviously has a vendetta against her stomach.

Whenever I eat Pani Puri, one of my favourite snacks of all time, I watch the clock like a hawk and hope with crossed fingers that the next twelve hours will pass without, erm, incident. Waking up the morning after a Nepali street food meal with a healthy stomach feels akin to dodging a bullet. "Yay!!!" I find myself thinking. "I survived another plate of buff sandheko/pani puri/bhel chat!"

This morning, as Kalina and I headed to a "Fair Trade Festival" at Bhikrutimandap, we passed a particularly enticing lemon soda cart that advertised his drinks were "with minrals!"

"Let's try one!" She exclaimed, eager to try the celebrated Nepali hangover cure. I nodded enthusiastically, and we both pretended to ignore the fetid tap water, the filthy cups and the near certain bacteria lingering around like a threat to our future happiness.

Can we have the mango soda with no cholera? Perf, thanks.

Fresh lemon soda is a popular Nepali drink, thought to be excellent for the health in the hot weather. Plain soda water, "lemon" (the name for limes here) and a salty masala and mixed together and slugged down in an attempt to stay hydrated. It is available year round in all restaurants, but these carts have only just started to appear on the streets as the temperature heats up and becomes unbearably steamy and humid.

Common sense be damned.

Lemon is normally the default choice, but this chap had all kinds of fruits he was willing to mix into his thick glass bottles of soda - strawberry, orange and even a homemade cola. We chose mango and bravely drank it down.

The salty masala mix is an acquired taste, but for me the salt is less offensive than the sulfur flavour that accompanies it - it kind of smells like a glass of flatulence. However, once I got over the smell I found that the juicy soda was really delicious and tasted exactly like fresh mangoes.

Dudes. These are limes. C'mon. Let's admit it.

We finished up and handed him back the glass, grimacing as we noticed he didn't really wash our cups, more just swirled them in cloudy water and placed them back on the rack to be re-used. Despite our mild hypochondria, we did feel more hydrated, and headed off refreshed to do our shopping in good spirits.

And hey - it's been 7 hours, and I still feel fine.

.....I will let you know how I feel at midnight.

This also happened at the Fair. Do ya like clowns? On ostriches? Do ya?

Learning to Ride at Hearts and Tears Motorcycle Club

2013-05-08T01:41:00.000-07:00

Don't worry mum, we put on helmets when we left the training ground.

Readers will know that I have wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle for quite some time, but I have always been slightly afraid. Ever since an ill fated scooter attempt in Goa during which I nearly crashed into a cow and was almost side swiped by a tour bus I have been reluctant to get back in the saddle.

When I learned about Hearts and Tears Motorcycle Club in Pokhara, that all changed. The owner, Matthew Gardner, claims to be able to take people from "zero to hero" in just a few short days, and he didn't seem even slightly put off by the fact that I don't know how to drive a car or have a license (bad Vancouver girl. Bad!). He was confident that he and seasoned instructor Fern Hume would be able to get me on a bike and onto the road in just two days - and they were right.

I have a little experience with sidecars...(and empties)

I booked the "Expat Weekend" which included one full day of instruction on a Yamaha RX135 and a trip through the mountains the following day. I was nervous - other than skateboarding and cycling, I have never operated a wheeled vehicle without a driving instructor sitting next to me with his own emergency steering wheel and panic break pedal. (Which he had to use. A lot.)

Oh, you pretty girls.... learning how to ride an Enfield is my next goal.

We met on Saturday morning - my birthday - at the shop, and were briefed on the schedule for the day. I was joined by my Kathmandu pal Benjamin, a pilot and novice to motorbikes himself. He had managed to recruit a third attendee, a gal named Katie whom he had met while climbing to the Peace Pagoda the day earlier.

I wasn't sure what to expect and had fears that I would be thrown into the deep end right away, but Fern walked us through the bike and the theory of how to ride in a logical, step by step manner. Within an hour we were seated on bikes and learning how kick start, operate the clutch and work the revs. As we wheeled around the training ground slowly my confidence grew and I began to think I was a natural.

This feeling did not last long.

For my next feat...

I was the only one of the three students who did not know how to drive a car, and so the clutch and the gears were genuinely confounding for me. I stalled once, twice and then three times - this was enough to undermine my newly gained confidence. Remembering to let the clutch out slowly, change gears and rev the engine smoothly all at once, and having my hands do two different things at the same time? This started to confuse my tired, hot brain and I fell behind the others. As they zipped around the training grounds I began to regress, get stressed and stall, stall and stall again.

My nerves were not helped by the myriad pointing children and picnicking adults gathered around, staring and treating us like a sideshow attraction. After lunch Matt arrived and decided that Benjamin and Katie were ready for a spin on the local roads. Fern stuck with me, gave me a new bike with a less sensitive clutch and walked me through all of the skills we had been working on. With her kind, patient one-on-one attention I was back on track, and within 30 minutes I too was ready to get out of the park and onto the road. We cruised around the lake and my spirits were high and my confidence boosted.

The inspiring Fern, who rode from the UK to Nepal and plans to continue on to New Zealand. She's kind of my hero.

While on a thirty minute refresher on the busy Pokhara roads we learned how to navigate the Frogger-like traffic of Nepal (bus, child, goat, cow, cow, child, bus). Fern was impressed by our prowess - the hectic, chaotic nature of the streets didn't phase the three of us, as Ben and I are seasoned expats who know how to walk in the stuff, and Katie has been traveling in India for 5 months. We were all experienced with the strange, swaying nature of the traffic and the neccessary liberal use of the horn. Soon we were ready to set off into the mountain roads of Sarangkot to spend the day honing our skills on the bikes.

Matt led the way, followed by Katie (who, despite her complete lack of previous experience, was a complete natural and a babe to boot!), Benjamin and then me with Fern bringing up the rear. At first, Matt and Fern prompted us when to change gears, but before long it began to feel intuitive and I was zipping up into fourth on my own accord, overtaking buses and beeping my horn at children and dogs to shoo them out of the road. As we began to ascend into the hills, I practiced slowing down around hairpin corners revving like a madwoman to get up hills. I had a few stalls, but nothing too serious and though I was the slowest of the group, I managed to keep up quite nicely and maintain my speed.

You all know this was the best part of my day.

The only real complication of the day was a particularly brutal rocky off-road path that led up to our lunch stop, the idyllic Indreni Cottages. I stalled going up the treacherous terrain and couldn't pull off a hill start, but Fern was to the rescue and made sure my bike made it up the hill. After a visit with the dogs and (satanic) pet monkey and a delicious dal bhat, we were ready to get started on the descent back down into Pokhara.

This monkey actually wanted to see Matt's blood on its paws.

Downhill was definitely more of a challenge, as the dirt roads featured countless winding curves and gravelly scree that required concentration and lower speeds. Fern made sure that I was confident and safe at every stage along the way, and we made our way back down to Lakeside just as a huge thunder storm edged at the corners of the sky.

By the time the rain began to pelt down in earnest we were sitting back at the shop, safely under cover and downing Jack and cokes, discussing the day and beaming with pride at our newfound biker skills. To quote Fern, "when you are driving a car you are watching a movie. When you are riding a bike you are in the movie." Amen.

Benjamin had no idea that his jacket announced that he was a "Pro Biker" and was mortified when I pointed it out to him.

Wearing a ridiculously huge jacket to protect my delicate skin (re: tattoos)

Learning to ride a motorcycle was one of the most fun decisions I have ever made, and I couldn't be happier that that I chose the folks at Hearts and Tears to teach me. In fact, I am so enamoured with the activity that Benjamin and I have planned a daytrip to Pharping this weekend - hopefully one of many to come. My ultimate goal? To get more confident riding bikes and set off on a loooooong solo journey. The 'stans? Russia? China? South America? On a bike, the sky is the limit.

Now to learn to drive a car. Sigh.

Better, Not Older - 31 Things I Did While I Was 31

2013-05-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

Better late than never, little Dear.

1. After many years and a few hiatuses, I completed my Honours BA in Communication - finally- with a 4.0 GPA and a minor in Dialogue.

2. I wrote a lot, and I was published in the Tyee, xoJane, the Under 35 Project, Huffington Post, The Vancouver Courier, Whistler Traveler and Vancouver is Awesome.

3. I was hired as a pro-bono Ethical Tourism Advisor by Next Generation Nepal after I read a book called Little Princes and it inspired me to do something about child trafficking in Nepal.

4. I told a story at Rain City Chronicles (the Vancouver version of the Moth) about accidentally moving into a crack house. (You can listen here - I'm the first storyteller of "Under the Influence.")

Oh, how I wish this was ironic. BUT IT REALLY ISN'T.

5. I saw Neil Diamond in concert with my mum and her pals - we're the "Oh, Neil!" girls. I am a Diamond Head - I love Neil, like, an unhealthy amount, and the concert nearly had me in tears.

6. I hosted couchsurfers - 6 in Vancouver and 5 in Kathmandu - and I feel more and more dialed into its international community of vagabonds, travelers and engaged citizens.

Interestingly, also what I do with men.

7. I marched in the Gay Pride Parade with the Vancouver Orphan Kitten Rescue Association (VOKRA) for whom I have fostered kittens in the past. We won the People's Choice Award for best float, and only about half of the attendees thought we were furries.

8. I spent one perfect day in Singapore visiting my friends Tanya and Peter. I took a Chinatown Walking Tour, ate some amazing chicken rice, visited a hawker centre for frogs legs, char kway teow and wontons, drank fresh beers and won a pub quiz at a huge brewery pub at Clarke Quay. Whew!

9. I spent the next (perfect) day in Kuala Lumpur, taking a food tour, going to see the Petronas Towers and spending an evening alone on a verandah in a thunder storm, listening to music, writing and drinking Tiger Beer.

10. I stored my belongings, said some difficult goodbyes, made some hard choices about my beloved cats and moved to Kathmandu for 7 months.

11. I took the one-month Introduction to Buddhism course at Kopan Monastery, followed by the one week silent Lam Rim retreat.

Me and Ani Drolma moments after my refuge ceremony. I became "Thubten Tsultrim."

12. I formally took refuge in Buddha, Dharma and Sangha and officially became a Buddhist.

13. I applied to University College of London and York, and was accepted to both! I accepted UCL's offer to do my MA in Cultural Heritage Studies.

14. I consumed entrails on the streets of Bangkok on Christmas morning with my girl Jess and spent Christmas Dinner in Columbo eating gluttonous amounts of crab with my Mum and Tim.

15. I took a cooking class and learned to make rice n' curry, pol sambol and egg hoppers in Galle, Sri Lanka.

16. I spent New Year's Eve 2013 on a stunning beach in Tangalla, Sri Lanka with my Mum, Tim, Jess and a bartender who looked like Bruno Mars.

17. I began volunteering at the Kopan Dog Rescue and fell deeply, madly in love with the dogs there.

The next hill over is called Pubic Mound.

18. I trekked through the Annapurnas in a snow storm with my pal Vilija. Our Poon Hill trek was stunningly beautiful - and incredibly treacherous due to a freak storm that meant we had to descend the steep mountain trails by sliding on our bums/crawling on our hands and knees.

19. I began Nepali lessons and learned how to speak ali ali (a little bit) of Nepali. Ramro!

20. I purchased my first sari and wore it to a glamourous birthday event.

21. I booked a 9 day vacation to Thailand with my gal Jess (again - she's my soul mate) and learned how to dive on Koh Tao. I am now officially SSI certified to scuba dive anywhere in the world.

Two of the many good friends I made this year, Cass and Jess.

22. I added over 100 new friends on Facebook, which means I met over 100 awesome new people who have added richness, humour, art, compassion, wisdom and sass to my life.

23. I discovered (much) younger men and realized that age really doesn't matter when two people have a lot in common. I also heard, "you look so good for your age!" quite often this year, to which I replied, "hunty, this is what 31 looks like!"

24. I had a blast getting covered in coloured powder on Holi - and then had less of a blast when a gang of teenaged boys surrounded me and a friend and groped us. This is common in Nepal, and made me feel vulnerable and ashamed. It was my first sexual assault, and it made me have even more compassion for victims of sexual violence.

25. I learned to love dal bhat, the Nepali national dish that consists of a mountain of rice, lentil soup, vegetable curry and spicy pickle. A bad dal bhat is bland, mushy and boring, but a good one is yummy comfort food. (But to be honest, I ate more pho than anything.)

26. I fell into a giant open sewer hole and was rescued by the Nepali army.

I'm saying, "have you ever tried to help, but accidentally made things a whole lot worse?"

27. I wrote and gave a Pecha Kucha presentation on my research into orphanage voluntourism in Nepal at the 9th Kathmandu Pecha Kucha Night, and I hope to give a similar presentation in London and Vancouver.

28. I co-wrote and presented a pub quiz (that benefits the Umbrella Foundation) at Pub Maya in Thamel. My rounds included questions on Lynch, Bowie, Joy Division, Rocky Horror, Voodoo, Wayne's World, Edith Piaf and Tom Waits.

29. I got a tattoo of a Matryoshka doll in honour of my grandmother. Thar's right: I got a tattoo of a Ukrainian stacking doll by a Swiss artist in Nepal.

30. I learned to open a beer with any available implement. Physics confuses me, but I finally met a boy who taught me the basic principles of levers, so look out science! You're my bitch now.

31. Finally, on my last day of 31 I learned to ride a motorcycle at Hearts and Tears Motorcycle Club in Pokhara. I was surrounded by great teachers, fun friends and a boy who is riding his bike from here back to the UK. At long last, I'll actually be able to put the word "biker" before "babe"(or "bitch").

That's all, pals. Now to get started on a list of 32 equally amazing things for this coming year: bungy jumping, getting back on my skateboard, surf lessons, Greek island sailing, warehouse parties, finding a flat in Brixton and a lot of writing.

xoxoVioletDear

Hey. 32. Bring it. This goth bitch is going to OWN you.

A South Indian Feast in Kathmandu

2013-05-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

Nobody pani(c) - I have this pani puri under control.

When I feel like eating a meal that consists of that otherworldly combination of greasy, sweet, salty, spicy and tangy, I head to Anmol Sweets in Bhat Bhateni and stuff my face with delicious, cheap Southern Indian food.

Indian fast food restaurants are often referred to as "sweet shops" even when they have entire menus of savoury items alongside their dazzling display cases of barfi, gulab jamun and laddu. Anmol Sweets is no exception to this rule, with dosas, idlis, vadas and fantastic samosas all on hand for lunch and dinner.

Can I just have this liquified and put in an IV, please? K, thanks.

Last week I met some friends there for lunch, and my dear Cass and I decided to order a feast. We started with a plate of samosa. These are not your greasy Canadian gas station monstrosities - they were light and flaky pastries jammed with spicy potatoes and peas and dipped in a sweet, sugary tamarind honey water. After downing my portion, I gurgled "I think I'm full!" Cass raised her eyebrows.

"Vi, that.... well, that's just isn't an option. " I sighed. She was right - it was mind over matter and I would persevere.

Pani Puri - salty, briny, crunchy, mushy goodness oh my god yum.

Pani Puri is a beloved Indian street food snack also popular in Nepal, but it is known for making foreigners very sick due to the usage of tap water in the brine - even some local Nepalis stay away from what is sold outdoors! Pani means water, and puri refers to the hollow crunchy cracker balls - the wallah (seller) jabs his oft-filthy thumb into the cylinder, stuffs the inside with a potato curry paste and dips the whole thing into spicy, salty brine. They present them to you as fast as you can stuff them in your mouth, and each delicious ball is less than 10 cents.

While I often take a BIG gamble and indulge in the streetside offering, ordering a DIY Pani Puri plate at a reputable sweet shop is a better bet and is way less likely to leave you clinging to the toilet and cursing your intrepid, food-loving ways (I don't know this from experience, or anything). These were delicious, but I must say, I missed the dirty thumbs of a street-seller.

Dosa, one of the world's perfect foods. (If you are a drunk.) (Which I am.)

Within minutes my main course arrived - a "small" paneer masala dosa. This is a thin lentil pancake stuffed with a rich and creamy Indian cottage cheese curry. You tear small pieces of the dosa with your hands and dip them in the coconut chutney and the spicy tomato sambars. I am always amazed that dosas have never replaced the kebab or the poutine as the ideal late night drunk food, because they would be a lovely latenight guilty pleasure perfect for sopping up booze.

Last lunch with Cass and Nafisa :(

We took a breather at this point - I was positively stuffed with delicious food, but I knew that I couldn't come to a restaurant with "Sweets" in the name and not indulge, at least a little bit, in something sinfully sugary. We ordered some fresh plates of jalebis.

Nothing is more wonderful than fresh, hot jalebi. Nothing.

Ignore the clock behind her - time has clearly stopped. Cass is in heaven.

Jalebis are hollow swirls of wheat dough deepfried and then soaked in sugar water. When they're fresh they are crunchy and sticky and they leave fluorescent orange syrup all over your face and a smile on your lips. I don't think there is a person alive that can resist the childlike pleasure of a jalebi - even the Disney gang loves them. I found myself making a quiet "mmmmmmmm" sound as I devoured the sweet little treat - the perfect end to our feast.

Though it was sad to realize that this was my final lunch with Cass, I am glad we chose to stuff our faces at a sweet shop. The best part (other than the jalebi)? The bill for 6 people was 1136 rupees - about 14 Canadian dollars. I'll be back - solo - and let's be honest. I'mma order just as much food.

$2.33 each. Sold.

Holy Mary - Getting Tattooed at the Nepal Tattoo Convention

2013-04-29T01:29:00.000-07:00

That is not a skirt, it is a modesty shawl to prevent the creepers from photo-ing my bare legs.

When I heard that the Third Annual Nepal Tattoo Convention was scheduled to be held in Kathmandu this month, I was excited to attend - but I did not expect to get tattooed.

There are plenty of good tattooists in Thamel (including the famous Mohan) but a lot of their work is just not to my taste. Tattoos are very affordable in Nepal compared to the West, with artists such as Mohan charging a little over 20 USD per hour. I incorrectly assumed that the conference would attract mostly these local artists, with a few international guests attracted to Nepali art and specializing in Tibetan or tribal designs.

This kind of bummed me out, because there is one tattoo that I have been hankering to get for over a year - a Matryoshka, or Ukrainian stacking doll. Sometimes when you have been working on huge pieces (like my left arm) bit by bit for years, it is nice to go into the studio and get a tattoo, start to finish, and leave. A babushka doll seemed like the perfect one-sitting tattoo for a few reasons:

1. Despite my many tattoos, I did not have a single "old school" design. This was important to me because not only do I think they look badass, I wanted to pay homage to the origins of tattoo - the sailors, sideshow tattooed ladies, carnies and jailhouse madmen who inked simple yet highly stylized women, skulls, ships and sparrows onto their skin.

My granny and a Ukrainian Easter bread. Right after the photo was taken she said, "It looks like a big prick!"

2. My beloved grandmother who passed away 4 years ago was Ukrainian, and I identify strongly with the traditions and customs of the Canadian prairie Ukes. My grandma, who helped to raise me, meant a lot to me and I think about her every day. I helped my mother (barely - my mum was the rockstar and should get ALL of the credit) nurse my Grandma through her final days of leukemia and it was both an honour and one of the most painful experiences of my life. It fundamentally changed me as a person.

I did not expect to get this tattoo in Nepal.

As I walked into the opulent ballroom at the Hotel Yak and Yeti, I saw booths set up with artists from around the US, Europe, Japan and India as well as the local Nepali contingent, but none of the designs moved me. I thought about getting a Dharma wheel, but I decided that that tattoo could be done in Thamel without a crowd of gawkers. I was content to stroll the convention floor and call it an afternoon.

Y'all know I love branding and fonts. This is the way to attract me to your tattoo shop.

But then, as it so often does, some particularly attractive branding caught my eye - Steel Workshop from Switzerland. I glanced at the tattooist, Johann Morel, and saw that I liked his tattoos (not always important, but a good indicator of style) and so I picked up his portfolio book. It was laden with inventive, clean old school designs. My interest was piqued - and then I saw it: a page of old school matryoshka dolls done in the exact style I had envisioned in my head. My pulse quickened. I gasped. I booked an appointment.

Stencils Johann created for clients during the convention.

After a Pizza Hut pitstop, my lovely friend Kalina and I arrived at the convention on Sunday and I viewed the stencil. I loved it. Johann got started right away, making minor adjustments to the font and discussing the colours he had in mind.

Hard at work.

Johann was a fantastic tattooist. He was calm, steady and despite creating thick, old school lines he wasn't at all heavy handed. I had never been tattooed at a convention, and it was a little strange to have people (ok, real talk: MEN) wandering by, snapping photos. By Nepali standards, I was practically nekkid - wearing a pair of short shorts - and I was a tattooed woman getting more tattoos - escandalo!

Kalina was my vicious guarddog - she allowed men with press passes, tattooists and dudes with tattoos themselves to take pictures, but the conservatively dressed Nepali men with cel phone cameras insistently angling to try to take pictures of my bare legs? SHOO!

Some pretty ink bottles; a smiley Johann; a grimacing Jess nearing the end of the session.

The entire tattoo took two hours, and remarkably, it wasn't very painful (it is today, though - holy hell). By the end of the session I was sore and flinching a little bit, but I just kept smiling and breathing deeply. My tattooist in Vancouver, the phenomenal Jeremy Riley, says he is going to get a sign for his shop, Tattoo Union, that reads, "Be a Man, Sit Like a Girl" in reference to the fact that women tend to be less wimpy while they get tattooed. I wouldn't want to make him a liar. ;)

The finished product! (Check out dem gams. A lot of men sure did. *shudder*)

I hadn't planned on including my Grandma's name in the design, but at the time it just felt right. Oddly enough, even though she was in her 80s, she loved my tattoos and liked to show them off to strangers and admire their pretty colours. She was truly a unique rebel and a batty old broad and I miss her very, very much.

I also know that my mum misses her dearly, and so I suppose that part of my decision to get this tattoo was to honour her relationship with her mother (and plus, "Lorraine" is a lot of letters). I recently read this article and I realize that I do not tell my mum often enough how much she means to me and that I love her. I hope that every single time my mum sees my Matryoshka tattoo she is reminded of these words.

***

Johann Morel is a great tattooist and if you get a chance to get work done by him at his shop, Steel Workshop, or at an international convention, I highly recommend you grab the chance. As for me, for the next few days I will be hobbling around, admiring my pretty little Matryoshka - and thinking about two very special broads.

Mad love for my bitchez.

Down In A Hole - An Inevitable Accident

2013-04-26T01:34:00.000-07:00

Not even Courtney Love could save me.

This is a little tale about how I fell down into a hole.

Now, I don't mean a metaphorical hole of despair and depression, although there certainly were a few weeks in the harsh chill of February that I was a despondent mess. No, I mean I literally fell down into a sewage ditch on the side of Lazimpath Road.

The city of Kathmandu undergoes constant roadwork, and is littered with pits in the road and sidewalk that are dug and then filled at an alarming rate. Uncovered manholes, open sewers, trenches and big random pits are commonplace, and they appear and disappear daily. No caution tape or pylons - just a bigass open hole. Combine these unpredictable chasms with loadshedding - the scheduled power cuts that leave this city pitch black for most of the night - and you have a recipe for disaster.

Two weeks ago I was walking through Sanepa with my friend Gemma and we passed a series of deep, narrow holes in the road. I clung to her arm and hissed, "I have always been afraid to fall into one of those." She recounted a story of nearly tumbling into one herself, and I had to get her to stop. "No," I said, "my knees are weak just thinking about it."

****

Last Friday I was heading home at midnight (which in Kathmandu might as well be 4am) after a few vodka sodas (always has been my drank), and my taxi overshot my lane, pulling to a stop about 50 metres too far up Lazimpath Road. I crossed the street toward my flat and then, whoooooosh.

I disappeared down a sewage-filled rabbit hole.

The first thing I remember thinking was, "thank god I do not appear to have broken my pelvis" because I had been mid-stride when I dropped into the trench, my legs were splayed akimbo and I was now down in it to my ribcage (thank god for yoga, man). My knee instantly throbbed and my right foot was strangely warm. And slimey. And oh my god what was that smell?

There was a flurry of panicked voices and a fleet of Nepali soldiers ran over to me. This was the most surreal part of an already surreal experience - the Army conducts drills at night along Lazimpath Road, and they just happened to be marching past. Within seconds, two men had my arms and had hoisted me out of the muck.

"Ma'am! Are you ok?"
"THIS HOLE IS NEW! WHY IS THIS HOLE HERE?" I shrieked in surprise. I stood on the edge of the pit and tried to parse what had just happened, and began to thank the soldiers for their well-timed assistance. At this point they noticed that I was shoe-less, and one brave man went down into the hole to retrieve my Steve Madden flats, a very kind action considering most Hindu castes will not ever touch others' shoes.

The soldiers insisted on walking me up the lane as I sloshed my way to my apartment, asking my name and what country I was from and trying to introduce themselves. The absurdity of what had just happened started to sink in - I kept groaning, "ewwwwww" and then laughing in a sort of resigned way, like a person who realizes they have been beaten and has.just.given.up. It is hard to have any ego at all when you are covered from your knees down in shit.

For the next few days, whenever I would run into my Kathmandu expat pals they were absolutely horrified when I told them I had fallen into one of "the holes."

"Oh God! I've always been afraid of that!" They would exclaim in horror.

"Yeah. I know the feeling."

In Hot Water - An Ill-Fated Boat Trip on Lake Fewa

2013-04-22T09:24:00.001-07:00

Relentless grey skies. I felt right at home.

It was a lovely day for a boat ride.

At first.

I spent Nepali New Year's Eve in Pokhara, a lakeside resort town at the base of the Annapurnas, visiting some friends and decompressing away from the mayhem of the big city. Saturday, April 13 marked the changing of the calendar from 2069 to 2070, and Rahul, Ben, Jo and I celebrated the occasion by pouring liberal amounts of rotgut local spirits down our throats.

The amount of fun we'd had at the Old Blues Bar the night before was therefore directly correlated to the shuddering, jittery messes that sat around the brunch table at Perky Beans. We were a veritable UN of foul language, R. Kelly quotes and bad jokes; Rahul (Australia) was wearing Jo's (Netherlands) hot pink sunglasses, Ben (UK) was mercilessly teasing me for my Canadian-ness and I was my usual hangover hot mess of inappropriate humour and equally inappropriate cleavage.

My milkshake brings a good 40 - 45% of the boys to the yard.

It was sickly hot and muggy - the thickness of the air clung to my skin and got caught in my throat. We debated what to do - lay indoors and watch a movie? Sit in a pub and drink beer all afternoon? Climb up to the Peace Pagoda? Jo piped up and suggested that we rent a boat and take it for a spin around Lake Fewa. It was decided.

Fonts! I love fonts!

The boat cost 350 rupees (4 bucks) for an hour, and it seemed like the perfect antidote for the clammy weather. It was overcast, and the idea of being out on open water seemed dreamy.

We had one lifejacket for the four of us.

We began to lazily navigate the murky waters of the lake, regularly remarking about how nice it was to be out in nature. How calm it was. How a boat trip was the perfect antidote for the hangovers we were all nursing. How this was probably the best idea ever.

Jo is a babe. And a little bit crazy.

I like that.

Rahul photobombs my lovely boat memory. Well done, buddy.

But see, Lake Fewa is actually pretty big (although teensy by behemoth Canadian standards) and we were paddling further and further from shore with little mind to the time or even to the slightly shifting wind.

It was around this time that I started to notice the weather changing. The gentle waves turned a fierce shade of olive green (like m'eyes) and the temperature dropped. A fine mist of lake water began to spray across our faces as the wind picked up and the boat began to feel unsteady.

"Hey, guys. Are we paddling into the wind?" I asked casually. Everyone got strangely quiet. We were now quite far away from shore. Jo checked the time and saw that we had twenty minutes left on our rental, and the boys began the arduous task of paddling us back to the dock. Or at least, attempting to paddle us back. The boat was not moving toward shore and began to rock and pitch. With every stroke of the oar, the wind seemed to push us right back to where we started. I began to fear, in earnest, that we would be struck by lightning.

The wind began to switch!

I am normally a brazen, loudmouthed, smut-talkin' firecracker when I am hungover, but for the next fifteen minutes I was (nearly) silent, frozen with dread and the conviction that my passport, camera, iphone and I were all going to take a bath in the putrid waters of Lake Fewa.

The boys finally muscled the boat closer to shore just as the thunder and lightning started. A Nepali paddler came zooming past us, shouting warnings about the storm, and as we got near the docking area a cadre of young men rushed to pull us into safety. While we were never really in much actual danger, I was overcome with relief when my little b allet flat-clad foot hit the muddy banks of the lake.

Violet Dear needs to take a Nepali chill pill. No, seriously. They are called Tramidol.

It was quickly decided that afternoon beers were indeed in order, and as we walked back to the main drag of Pokhara, Jo piped up. "Hey, guys, did we even check the weather as we got into the boat?"

Thunder cracked overhead. No one answered her question.

Kathmandu's Tooth Fairy Shrine

2013-04-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

Offering money for healthy teeth! Like the Tooth Fairy on opposite day!

One of my favourite things to do in Kathmandu is stroll through the labyrinthine streets between Thamel and Durbar Square. The sheer number of weird treasures - shrines, stupas, relics and architectural marvels - contained in this area never ceases to amaze me, and I find myself shaking my head with a mix of wonder and confusion at nearly every turn.

Nothing is stranger than Kathmandu's toothache shrine, known in Nepali as Vaisha Dev. This gnarled hunk of wood sits at an unassuming chowk (intersection) just past Thahiti Tole, and it is where locals come to make an offering to the god of sore chompers.

No shit, Sherlock.

The shrine is smack dab in the middle of the dentist district, as oral surgeons and orthodontists - and this is Nepal, so it is mostly just guys with pliers - know an opportunity when they see one (they usually see them in the mouths of twelve year olds, but I digress). The logic is sound - people with tooth problems come to visit the shrine and on their way perhaps they are lured in by one of the brightly coloured signs advertising the dentists in the area.

Lovely signs, less lovely dental conditions.

And who wouldn't be? As a signage historian, Nepal's myriad handpainted signs compel me, and the dental offices are always home to my favourite examples. Human labour is still cheaper than printing costs in most of Asia, and so signs and adverts often have a charming retro feel. Sadly, this is a dying art - mass produced signs are slowly taking over. In Cambodia, artisans have recognized their appeal to tourists and have started offering one-of-a-kind signs for sale in shops and cafes, but I like mine used and dirty (like mother, like sign). My goal before I leave Nepal is to acquire one of its many dentist signs - hopefully it will be the one below. *Swoon*

This is probably the best thing I have ever seen.

The shrine is absolutely covered in coins - apparently there is a teeny tiny little idol inside of the main hole of the tooth god's shrine, and so devotees hammer a coin onto the outside of the wood in the hopes that they will have problem free pearly whites. I practically stuck my head inside the thing and couldn't see the bitsy god, but I trust that it is in there somewhere. (Hey! That is how all religion works! "...and Violet Dear learned a very important lesson that day....")

The Tooth Fairy shrine is legitimately the strangest thing I have seen in Kathmandu, and despite its confusing location I think it's something every visitor to the city should try to find. Even if you get lost, you are guaranteed to stumble onto many other bizarre treasures - and read some pretty cool signs along the way.

It kind of looks like the Elephant Man. "You're so kind..."

(And longtime readers will recognize this shirt.)

Holi Hell!

2013-04-09T00:56:00.004-07:00

Requisite Holi selfie.

Last week Kathmandu went mad (more than usual) for one soggy afternoon - Holi!

Holi is the Hindu Festival of Colours that is celebrated in India and Nepal to venerate Vishnu on the eve of Spring. The cold, dry Winter is ending and the lush tropical heat of Spring and Summer is about to begin and a bit of madness and, yes, (groan) beauty is in the air. Children and adults alike douse each other with water and throw handfuls of technicolour tikka powder into the air with wild abandon.

I haven't partied with so many baggies of powder since I was 22.

My neighbourhood was redolent with the blossoms of blooming jasmine as I stepped out of my apartment on the morning of Holi. I was armed with a backpack super soaker and dressed in my cleanest whites (as is the custom - all the better to see the powder!) as I dodged water balloons and made my way toward a huge party at 1905, a renovated (ish) manor home built at the turn of the last century. 1905 is legendary amongst expats and Nepalis alike for its fantastic late night parties (3am seems like a godsend in a country where bars are forced to close at 11pm) and its Saturday Farmers Market, and I had heard that they throw one hell of a Holi party.

I heard correctly.

I could hear the pounding boom of dubstep from blocks away, and when I entered the courtyard I was blown away - at least five hundred Nepalis and expats were packed onto the dancefloor, shaking their asses under the spray of dozens of sprinklers. A rainbow of coloured powder seemed to hang suspended in the misty air and everyone had a beer in their hand despite the fact it was just past noon.

I pretty sure I saw the Venga Bus pull up outside.

The party was the hottest event in town, so much so that not all of my friends could get inside. I cracked my knuckles, batted my lash extensions and used the doorman-wooing skills I acquired as a hot electroclash mess in my early twenties. Miraculously, it worked and before long my nearest and dearest Kathmandu buddies were inside the gates and ready for an adult waterfight that eventually included water from the nearby ponds (*shudder*).

Holi Moly.

The whole day was a debauched, hallucinatory blur - equal parts Holy Mountain, All Summer in a Day and Lollapalooza 94 when everyone's Punky Colours hairdye would drip down their face after getting soaked in the moshpit. Despite looking like the victim of a Carebear bukkake attack, I was pleasantly buzzed on a weekday afternoon and dancing in the sunshine with my similarly hued friends. The best part about it? I was home, showered and (mostly) sober by 7pm.

Til next year, Happy Holi!

My colleague Romeo and I enjoy a hard day at the office.

A Breath of Fresh Air - Learning to Dive on Koh Tao

2013-03-29T00:06:00.001-07:00

Hard day at the office.

I have been vagabonding all over the world for damn near 15 years now and whenever I visit a lush, tropical beach I strap on some fins and shove a snorkel in my mouth. I LOVE the ocean, and I have snorkeled stunning reefs in locales such as Mexico, Hawaii, Fiji, Maldives and Indonesia.

Drifting far above a busy reef and watching the fish play amongst the coral and kelp is a relaxing, calming hobby, one that I indulge as often as possible. But I have a secret confession. Despite my tattoos of ships and seahorses, I am a little bit afraid of sea creatures.

(That was a lie. I am A LOT afraid of sea creatures.)

That’s why I have always preferred to jump off of a boat to snorkel rather that wade out from the shore – it gives me more leeway and keeps the creepy crawlies and the pointy anemones from accidentally grazing my rather ample tum. I like to give them their space. It’s not exactly fear, more like a deep-seated horror aimed at the strangely fecund depths of the ocean and its slimy, slithering inhabitants. When I would see scuba divers below me navigating their way through caves and reefs I would feel a sick sense of claustrophobic panic, and think to myself, “no sir, that is not for me. I like to be 3 metres above the action and quietly observe.”

Until now.

When I made plans to visit Jess in Thailand, I wanted to make the most of my holiday and learn a new skill – how to ride a motorcycle, how to surf, how to open a beer bottle with a lighter (ok, that one is less daunting) and so Jess suggested getting our diving certifications. In the heat of the moment and with a positive attitude I would later doubt, I agreed.

The obvious choice was Koh Tao, known for its mellow travelers scene and thriving dive industry, and with that settled I began to look for a reputable school. My friends on Facebook threw out some valuable suggestions, but I decided to rely on trusty ol’ Tripadvisor. The ratings were clear – Roctopus Dive School was our best bet. I was still nervous, but there were still weeks of time separating me from the daunting task at hand and it slipped to the back of my mind.

As the days counted down toward my first oxygen-tank aided dip into the big drink, I began to feel a small amount of trepidation, but Bangkok’s promise of good beer, MAC make-up and skimpy clothing went along way in soothing my jangly nerves and my excitement trumped my fear. For a while....

Is doing it wrong (or right?); still wearing L'il Bub tank top instead of Roctopus tank top.

Soon, though, it was go-time. We arrived on Koh Tao bright and early after a night bus and catamaran, and were greeted at the 7/11 by Westy and driven to the Roctopus office. Unlike a lot of the bigger schools located on the beach, Roctopus is a 15 minute walk inland and attracts a more serious clientele who have done their research and are attracted by their impeccable online reputation. We soon met our classmates Rachel, Andy and Pau and our instructor Jay Hayes and we all began the process of acquiring our SSI (Scuba Schools International) Open Water Diving Certification.

British women require what now?

Grade me. Graaaaaaaaade Meeeeeeee. Evaluate and rank me!

My fear began to rise, but the course was taught in a very logical progression, and Jay went a long way in soothing my jangly nerves with his calm demeanor and occasionally dirty acronym jokes. We were required to watch 6 DVD lessons and complete 2 nights of homework before learning how to assemble our gear and getting into the water for a basic skills session. At this point I had always assumed that I would be a messy ball of panic, but I felt fairly calm and prepared as I did a wide step into the ocean, laden down with weights and a bloody heavy tank of air.

Rock n' Roll Dive School.

As we hit the water I felt a bizarre sense of cognitive dissonance as I discovered I could indeed breathe under the surface. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, and my initial reaction was to flounder my arms around and try to swim normally. It soon became apparent that my arms were useless little T-Rex appendages and my legs were really where it was at in terms of steering and forward momentum. My heart rate started to settle as we knelt down on the ocean floor. Jay led us through a series of important basic skills - clearing our masks, retrieving our air (in the event it comes out of our mouths) and attempting to understand buoyancy (something that continues to confound me).

My BC and my weights, some of my underwater thingamabobs.

It was exhilarating, exhausting and strange – and I couldn’t wait to do it again.

Over the next two days we went on four more dives, down to a total of eighteen metres. We dove at Japanese Gardens, Pottery, Chumphon Pinnacle and Twin Peaks and with each dive my confidence increased (I wish I could say the same thing about my ability to blow bubbles or like, understand how buoyancy works).

It turns out that I am still pretty creeped out by coral, seaweed and most fish, so while everyone else was pretty jazzed about peeking into suboceanic caves to catch a glimpse of moray eels, I was more like, “naw, I’ll just be floating around over here marveling at breathing underwater, you g’head, g’head.” I simply enjoy being under the water, descending into the foreign depths and swimming around, and that is A-OK with me.

Me and my new BFF.

Pau, Jess, Rachel, Andy and I all passed our course with flying colours, and we were awarded our SSI Open Water qualification that entitles us to dive anywhere in the world. I plan to go on to take my Advanced Course as soon as time permits, and I even feel keen to do some diving in Vancouver, which is said to have some of the best cold water sites in the world.

So, while I still need to learn to ride a motorbike, surf and yes, open a beer bottle with a lighter, I have discovered a new hobby - and an entire new world.

"Bottom Time" made me laugh every damn time.

Life's A Drag - The Ladyboys of Koh Tao

2013-03-27T00:10:00.001-07:00

Oh, the glamour of it all!

On our way to the drag cabaret on Koh Tao, I had the following exchange with my friend (and diving buddy) John:

John: I can't believe you changed into a dress and red lipstick to impress the ladyboys.
Me: You don't know me very well.

It's true. I love drag shows. I acquired a fake ID when I was 16 and the very first thing I used it for was to go to the Odyssey (RIP) to see Willie Taylor, Mandy Kamp and Carlotta Gurl perform in Lips Inc. While I slammed 99 cent shots of butter rum schnapps (*shudder*) I fell in love with the glamour of it all - call me a fag hag or a fruit fly, but sister, I have been back to that show- and others - dozens of times over the past decade and a half.

Thailand is a fantastic place to see a drag show. Kathoeys, or ladyboys, are an accepted part of Thai culture, and you will see them working retail and restaurant jobs alongside other women and men. That is, if you can clock them - some kathoeys are more feminine that I could ever dream of being, with willowy waists, perfect skin and flawless make-up. For those with the desire to perform in a revue style show there are thousands across the country, and the Ladyboys of Bangkok is said to be one of the best in the world.

While on Koh Tao, an island that seemingly has everything, I was delighted to discover that they have a ladyboy bar called the Queens Cabaret! I was thrilled to get prettied up, pre-drunk and head to the 11pm show for a night of entertainment and glamour and.... it was... well, it was just ok.

The outfits were a little wilted, the lipsynching a little messy and damn, those girls didn't really know how to beat their faces. BUT we still had a fantastic time - John and Pau got called onstage to participate - and with no admission fee and only a one drink minimum I highly recommend the show. So gurl, break out that MAC Red and your best flip flops and head to the Cabaret!

I actually asked them if they watch RuPaul's Drag Race. They had no idea what I was talking about.

John, me and Jess ready to watch the show. Tres excite!

No T, No shade, hunty.

What is the correct term for a group of ladyboys? A cluster? A murder? A glitter?

That's it. A glitter of drag queens.

Pau, or the Spanish Tom Cruise "Tomas Cruz" shows off his ladyboy kiss with pride. I later heard him have a conversation in the 7/11 with a big dude from South Africa about how much they respect the ladyboys.

With love from Kathmandu (but dreaming of Koh Tao),

xoxox Violet Dear

The Mellow and the Sleaze - A Week on Koh Tao

2013-03-23T07:01:00.003-07:00

Me and my little Jennifer Grey lookalike in the back of a pick-up truck, on our way to a dive.

I just left Koh Tao, a little emerald jewel off of the East coast of Thailand, and I am sitting on a coach speeding toward Bangkok, reveling in post-island glow. This was the best short vacation I have ever taken, complete with great food, new friends and the most amazing sunsets in the world.

I arrived last Friday for my eight-day trip (which explains my absence here, sorry ‘bout it), nearly weeping with joy when I touched down in my beloved Bangkok. A certain amount of weary fatigue had hit me in Kathmandu, and so I decided to make a brief sojourn to Thailand. The flight was cheap, no visa was required and everything is developed and easy. My expectations weren’t high, I just needed some time in a bikini with a bottle of Sang Som in my hand.

My life is probably the best life.

I made plans to meet up with my friend Jess (you may remember her from Sri Lanka) and we chose to go to Koh Tao based on its proximity to Bangkok, its beauty and its easy going reputation. We decided we would get SSI/PADI certified and learn to dive, something both of us have wanted to do for a long time.

Koh Tao means “Turtle island” and it wasn’t settled until the 1950s. The varied dive sites nearby, beautiful coral reefs and the lack of existing industry proved the perfect conditions for the island to become a diving mecca. You cannot walk 10 metres down the pleasant, pedestrian footpaths of Sairee Beach without encountering another dive shop – only Cairns, Australia issues more certifications each year.

Sunset Singhas.

I shouldn’t like Koh Tao. It’s near Koh Samui and Koh Phangan, two “party bro” islands famous for full moon parties and foam bars, and it does attract some of the same clientele. But, Koh Tao has one major difference, a difference that prevents it from being completely overrun with package tourists and drink-til-you-puke bucket specials: diving, diving, diving. People are there to study and try to get the most out of their dives rather than to engage in a hedonistic orgy of booze. Well, that is, until the last day of diving lessons….. ahem.

The nightlife is a solid mix of pubs showing films, beach bars with the pre-requisite firespinners, and casual clubs where djs play drum & bass and house music - but it lacks the exploitative debauchery other Southeast Asian backpacker haunts (my friend Jay would scoff at this sort of behaviour as “amateur bullshit”). The crowd is definitely older than on Phi Phi or Samui, but not too old, at least in spirit. My diving group and I had one really big night out, and let’s just say that I felt younger (and prettier) than I have in a while. (We can now disregard some of this angst. Huzzah!)

I’ve been to Thailand seven times, and I really thought that I had seen it all, done it all, and that its party-prone beaches weren’t really for me. That’s all changed – I’m in love with Koh Tao. The sun was hot, the boys were pretty, the food was spicy and the drinks were cold – what else could a fatigued Kathmandu expat ask for? It was like a Thai version of “How Violet Dear Got Her Groove Back.”

Me in my Summer Black. Guys, this is how I will dress when I live out my skeezy destiny - but my shorts will be shorter.

I found myself scheming ways that I could abandon grad school and my career and just stay on the island, becoming a dirtbag dive instructor with black hair to my waist, a deep cocoa tan, a mild to moderate drinking problem and a constant Spank Rock/Mickey Avalon playlist. I’d ride a motorcycle and get a dog named Thai-y Tim and have visible abs, carrying out my 30s in a blaze of mildly self-destructive one night stands and recreational drug use. This is hard to resist, but alas, responsibility calls. For now. Until I head back to Koh Tao do the Advanced Course next year….

Barefoot beers. Living the dream.

My Favourite Place in Kathmandu: Community Dog Welfare Kopan

2013-03-11T02:42:00.001-07:00

I should have titled this entry "Bob Loblaw's Dog Blog"

Anyone who spends more than twenty minutes with me learns one thing: I love dogs. Some days as I walk the streets of Kathmandu I feel like I have hit the jackpot - so many street dogs to pet and hug! I am very careful; I have a surefire system (it is really just me asking "Are you a good dog? Are ya?") that involves a cautious approach and an analysis of how much bum-wiggling is occurring. A lot of bum-wiggling? Proceed. No bum-wiggling? Move on, sir.

While locals and expats alike look at me like I have lost my mind, I find that Nepali street dogs are generally really friendly and sweet. This just makes evolutionary sense - a nice dog has a higher chance of survival (gets fed, doesn't get killed for biting children) and therefore 'gentle dog genes' get passed down more often than 'aggressive dog genes.'

While cruel abuse does occur, Nepalis are generally very kind to the street dogs, and the famous Newari love of meat means the dogs get a lot of scraps and bones. While there is still a stigma placed on "lowly" street dogs versus "highly desirable" and costly purebreds, the technically owner-less dogs of Kathmandu still often get some love and care from the neighbourhood softies.

Until they get sick. When a street dog contracts mange or any other contagious affliction they become pariahs, outcast by the folks who used to feed them. This is also sometimes the case with owned dogs who fall ill - people can barely afford their own medical treatment, and the notion of paying to heal a sick dog is not widely accepted. The pet that seemed cute and innocent as a puppy is now a burden and is exiled from the home. Sometimes it is a case of laziness and neglect, but often people just genuinely cannot afford to help their pet. I have deep empathy for what must be a tough decision to have to make under the duress of acute poverty.

This is when the wonderful people at Community Dog Care Kopan step in and help the countless needy dogs of Kathmandu. Longtime expats Kate and Doug Clendon (26 years in Nepal!) operate a shelter where sick dogs with seemingly insurmountable health problems are healed, loved and re-homed in the community. They even arrange international adoptions when visitors and expats fall in love with these amazingly resilient creatures.

I go up to the rescue every two weeks for an afternoon of dog-walking, puppy-socializing and laughter. It is truly the best part of my week and I look forward to each and every visit. Kate and Doug thank me profusely and provide a delicious lunch, but I feel like it is me who should be thanking them for letting me spend time with these guys! I genuinely believe that the dogs do more for me than I do for them, and I can't wait to see them again. *chest bursts with puppy love*

Left - severe mange and broken legs. Right - six weeks later and all healed!

Meet Maggie. The first week I went to the Rescue Maggie was nearly hairless, had two broken legs and was recovering from an abortion and spaying (she was too ill to carry her pups to term). When I posted the photo on the left on my facebook, a lot of my friends were worried she couldn't recover from this degree of mange, because we in the West often do not see such advanced cases of neglect and illness (there are much, much worse cases in Nepal). But look on the right! Same dog, only SIX WEEKS later! She is a firecracker and quickly went from sick patient to the boss of the house.

Oh you had a baby? I guess that's nice, but it isn't this puppy, so....

This little babe was one of two pups who arrived last week, and sadly her brother passed away. She is adorable, and her little googly eyes make us think that she is part pug. In the top picture we had just swaddled her because it was getting cold and stormy, and it is so cute I think I might die.

I want to borrow this dog the next time I have cramps.

Nothing is better than a hug from Jade. She feels like a hot water bottle, and looks like a Peruvian hairless temple dog. Her mange is all cleared up, but it was so incredibly advanced that she suffered from permanent skin damage and her hair cannot grow back. We call her Baldy, but I think that offends her femininity, so I call her Princess Baldy.

Just a buncha bitches.

Some of the guys just relaxing in the shade after a nice long walk. Believe it or not, most of these dogs had advanced mange when they arrived, and many had broken limbs. The level of care and standards of the Shelter rival those in the West - these dogs are truly lucky. Some of them will be re-homed, but some will have to be re-released back to the neighbourhoods in which they were found - there is simply not enough space to wait until each dog is adopted.

Big Red

Adopting shelter or street dogs is not yet a part of Nepali culture, but hopefully that will change! I mean, look at the story of Rikki - he had rickets and tetanus, but was successfully cured and adopted by a local Tibetan family who absolutely ADORE him. Kate is going to enter him and the gorgeous dog pictured above in the next dog show in Patan, under the "non-breed" category, and I think they will sweep the competition. More and more, Nepalis are learning to accept that street dogs are often better pets than the oft-inbred and costly pure breds imported from India and treated as status symbols for the rich. There is even a new campaign to "Adopt a Nepali Mixed Breed!" But seriously - just look at Red here. What a stunner - I call him Gorgeous George.

Unlikely friends!

This is Callie meeting a little calf. Callie has severe mange and malnutrition, but with good food, medicine and a lot of love and kindness he will recover and hopefully will look as lovely as Maggie. I took this picture two weeks ago, and he is already starting to look a lot better - he's still bald as a baby rat, but his sores are healed and he is gaining weight.

It's kind of like Club Med for dogs. Club Pet? Club Well-Fed? (I'll stop now... Club Dogsled?)

Finally, here is the idyllic location of the Rescue, nestled in the valley below Kopan Hill (quite near to the monastery, but not affiliated). Here the dogs can bark and run around and no one complains. While Kate and Doug say they initially faced skepticism from the neighbours (and the occasional angry line of questioning about why they help dogs and not people) they are now a well-loved member of the community. They provide free sterilization, rabies vaccinations and medical treatment for the dogs nearby, so locals quickly saw the benefit of their programs. I am inspired and humbled by their work, and honoured to play even a miniscule role helping the dogs of Nepal.

While you are in Kathmandu I highly recommend taking the walk from Boudha and visiting Kate and Doug - and of course, all of the dogs! Who knows - you might run into me there, covered in dog slobber and happy as a clam.

You like me! You really, really like me!

For more information, or to donate or inquire about adopting or sponsoring a Kopan dog, please visit their website - http://www.communitydogwelfarekopan.org/how-you-can-help/

US$ 10 covers the cost of vaccination against distemper, hepatitis, parvo-virus, leptospirosis and para-influenza

US$ 20 feeds a dog for one month

US$ 50 pays for neutering a dogThanks guys! xoxoxVD

A Day Trip to Bhaktapur

2013-03-03T09:56:00.002-08:00

These guys are totally a Vice Magazine "Do."

The medieval town of Bhaktapur is one of the most impressive sights in the Kathmandu Valley, a storybook city complete with towering temples and bustling artisan squares. Bhaktapur was once a powerful kingdom that regularly battled nearby Kathmandu and Patan and was the capital of all of Nepal in the 15th century. However, its glory faded (no one ever sees it coming, do they?) and by the 19th century the formerly grand district was relegated to a market city, eventually falling into decay.

The situation was dire for Bhaktapur's architectural treasures by the 1970s. Thankfully, a German development fund stepped in and provided money for restoration work, and the city is now a major tourist attraction and an example of a UNESCO World Heritage Site known for 'living heritage." People live, work and play alongside ancient temples, and so the buildings feel less like roped-off exhibits and more like a rich and vibrant part of daily life.

So why on earth did it take me, the big heritage nerd, four months to get here?! Bhaktapur is only 45 minutes from Kathmandu (if the traffic is good) but it always seemed to elude me. Something always came up - a leisurely lunch, a day of yoga, a monster hangover after a good 1905 party - until today. I happily headed to the city (also known as Khwopa in the local Newari tongue) with a couchsurfer and a new pal for a day of touristy sightseeing.

We spent the afternoon strolling the pedestrian-only streets, stopping to admire the architecture, gaze up in monolithic squares and sip chai in darkened shops. Here are some of my favourite images from a picture-perfect day in "the city of devotees," Bhaktapur.

I've got a feeling that it might have been blessed

So I've just got to put these wings to test

People come to chat and mingle on the temple steps. Beats hangin' out at the mall.

The dumb smile on this horse's face made me laugh all day.

Crafting gorgeous pots by hand in Potters Square.

The aptly named Potters Square, one of the many artisan sites around the city.
(insert pot joke here)

A 14th century temple.

A small winding street.
If you lived here, you'd be home by now.

Totes reminded me of Sweetums.

Half-peeled Hanuman on a pretty pink wall.

In the words of British art historian Percy Brown, this solid gold gate is "the most lovely piece of art in the whole Kingdom; it is placed like a jewel, flashing innumerable facets in the handsome setting of its surroundings'."

Nyatpola Temple, a five story structure built in 1702.

The stunning Durbar Square at sunset. Goodnight, Bhaktapur!

An Ode to Looking Up - The Petronas Towers

2013-02-25T09:44:00.001-08:00

My first glimpse.

"There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them. Snow, rain, and mist highlight, drench, or conceal the vast towers, but those towers, hostile to mystery and blind to any sort of play, shear off the rain's tresses and shine their three thousand swords through the soft swan of the fog." - Federico Garcia Lorca, A Poet in New York

I love buildings.

Buildings make me feel intense rushes of passion; I form weird attachments to them. In Vancouver I have special buildings that I go out of my way to 'visit' - a few 19th century houses in Strathcona, crumbling art nouveau facades in the Downtown Eastside, a forgotten art deco temple on West 10th, a mid-century modern car dealership along Kingsway. Simply being near these buildings satisfies some kind of childlike yearning that I have for fantasy and a fascination with the past.

I tend to form attachments to unlikely structures - I prefer them battered, beaten up and clinging to life. While I love to see a building revitalized and given a new purpose (and of course, as a heritage activist, that is always the goal) there is a part of me that prefers my architectural crushes to be ravaged old beauties; hulking Grey Gardenseque tragedies on the brink of madness and decay. (No comparison to yours truly needed, kthx.)

I'm committed to my hobbies. I'm getting a boarding pass tramp stamp next.

The 1930 Marine Building in Vancouver is a perfect example of this fuckery, a whimsical old art deco brute that I love so much I have its stained glass and facade tattooed on my forearm. I'm a bit of a fatalistic, impulsive creature, but I don't regret my choice one bit.

I remember the first time I saw a picture of the Battersea Power Station in a Lonely Planet guide to London. It was like seeing an old friend, or more accurately, like my old and slightly menacing landlady who lived in an apartment stuffed with taxidermy and broken mirrors. She was comforting, yet unsettling.

I took the tube far out of my way to go and see the power station in person. The neighbourhood was eerily empty for the middle of a weekday, and I had to walk through a series of housing projects to get to the river, across which was the huge brick structure. I knew that I was drawing closer, but row houses impeded my view and I remember my pulse quickening as I grew closer. I looked up, and there it was. It felt like my vision rippled a little bit, and I found myself kind of scared - unnerved by this yawing, monolithic monster. A David Lynch soundtrack played in my head and I wanted to just look up and stare and stare and stare.

I told you. I love buildings.

By now, with the way I just waxed rhapsodic about early twentieth century industrial structures, you probably think that, like many heritage nerds, I abhor modern architecture. Nothing could be further from the truth. I love the brutalism of the the '70s, I love the idealistic pomposity of the '80s and I love post modern skyscrapers, the kind that dot the skies of the newly monied Asian capitals: Beijing, Singapore, Bangkok, Shanghai. The beauty and twisted grace of a tall slab of concrete fills me with delight, and after growing up in a city with a near-universal 40 story limit when I have the opportunity to crane my neck upwards I eagerly take advantage.

Yet after many trips to the low cost airport in Kuala Lumpur, I had never managed to make it to the city itself and to see one of its most tantalizing attractions - the Petronas Twin Towers.

Now I will be honest - I don't particularly love the towers, the tallest buildings in the world from 1996 to 2004 (until they were usurped by Taipei 101) but there is something about their sheer scale that makes my knees a bit weak. As an dedicated 20th century architecture nerd, I wanted to just be near them and look up. Looking up when I am in a city is such a simple action, an action that makes my life so fucking rich and interesting, but it is one that so, so many people forget to do.

The Marine Building in the '50s. It's now surrounded by tall towers.

I have up to 30 visitors with me when I guide tours through the bustling downtown core of Vancouver, and we all stop and stare up - and then something amazing happens. Locals - businessmen in their professional-guy drag, gaggles of office ladies sneaking clandestine cigarettes, food truck avowees waiting for their tacos - they all stop too and curiously point their gaze to match mine. And then I hear them recite my battlecry: "I never noticed that before!" I have had seasoned downtown office workers tell me that they had never actually seen the details on the Marine Building until they saw me nudging a group to love its form as much as I do.

That's the magic of a weird building. A strange, unexpected design forces people to look up, drags their attention from their antfarm day to day paths and reminds them that there is something beautiful and special and bizarre in their lives. That someone had magic in their brain, they put it on drafting paper and then they conducted an orchestra of details to produce something so organic yet so very alien in the centre of a city.

The last time I was in Kuala Lumpur I made sure to go and see the Towers. As I wandered through the gridlock of traffic and tropical heat my pulse quickened, and when I saw the geometric skyscrapers a giddy smile spread across my face. While they do seem a little dated and I am not the biggest fan of their design, their power and their grace was undeniable.

Art. Skyscrapers are art. To quote my favourite poet, Lorca they are "poetic and terrible."

My favourite combination.

Nerding out like a building groupie.

Kandy Land: The Three Temple Loop

2013-02-20T11:54:00.001-08:00

A rolling Buddha gathers no moss. (So not this one.)

Kandy is the cultural capital of Sri Lanka, and most visitors to the country choose to spend at least a few nights there, visiting the Temple of the Tooth (where it is alleged that one of the Buddha's teeth resides), taking in some Kandyan dance and making the day trip to Sigiria. As this was the final stop of my blissed out Christmas "escape from Kathmandu" we ended up booking four nights in order to be able to rest and relax, and so that I could have some quality time with my mum.

As a result, we had time to really soak in the ambiance and attractions that really make Kandy a special place - the Ceylon Tea Museum, Helga's Folly Hotel (one of the strangest places I have ever been - more on that another time), the Royal Botanical Gardens and the Three Temple Loop.

One morning we set out to do the 'Loop' - relishing the chance to get out into the countryside surrounding Kandy and explore some of the ancient Hindu and Buddhist temples nestled in the hills. Though some folks choose to do this as one long-ass walk, we hired a driver for the trip, and it was well worth the extra cost.

We visited three temples: Gadaladeniya, Lankatilaka and Embekke. Though ostensibly Hindu temples, each had a strong Buddhist presence (Hindus believe that the Buddha was the ninth incarnation of Vishnu, so he wasn't that out of place). Here are some of the most striking images of the day!

You go, girl.

A lotus flower pokes up out of a murky pond at Gadaladeniya, a temple built in 1344 on a rough shield of rock. Depending on who you ask, lotuses symbolize purity, overcoming challenges and/or enlightenment because they must fight their way through muck and yet they emerge a stunning flower. It was a lovely way to start the day.

Waterfight! Oh. No? That's offensive? Oh.

After touring the interior of the shrine and circumambulating the stupa, I encountered these multi-coloured plastic vessels scattered about the backside of the temple. They are filled with the water that is used for Hindu puja (prayers), and they totally reminded me of a Fisher Price kitchen.

Best part m'day.

To be honest, this was probably my favourite part of the day. This little guy followed me around the temple grounds, squeaking and tumbling and being the puppiest puppy ever. The old men at the temple tried to tell me to take him with me, and my mum was like "Do. Not. Tempt. Her."

Serious Business.

They kind of look like hipster ladies with stretched ears. Did I meet you guys in Portland?

A huge Buddha and sculpted apsaras at the Lankatilaka Temple. This was the largest of the three sites that we visited, a vast complex spread out on a hilltop overlooking the valley. Huge Sinhalese and Tamil inscriptions were painstakingly carved into the rock in the 14th century, and many stupas and buildings cover the grounds. There were also fantastic shops outside of the gates, and my mum bought some carvings from a local artisan.

Anyone have a bobbypin?

Dirty Dancing? Nobody puts Parvati in the corner! (sorry.)

The third temple on the loop is the most famous - Embekke Devalaya. This is the only site of the three that has no Buddhist presence, and is dedicated to Murugan, a Hindu god popular in the South - (I have always loved him because he rides a peacock. And he's green!) Murugan is Ganesha's brother and the son of Shiva and Parvati- that's a pretty kickass family tree.

The temple is most famous for its Drumming Hall, a wooden structure that was painstakingly carved in the 14th century. Each ebony pillar is decorated with intricate carvings of animals, dancers and musicians - it was a whimsical place, and well worth the trip.

Kandy is one of those cities that people either love or hate, and I have a sneaking suspicion that those who dislike it are the ones who breeze through and don't give it a chance to charm them. So stay a few extra days - soak it all in, enjoy the art, and make sure you schedule some time for the three temple loop.

After all, you might meet this guy. Isn't that enough incentive?

Little Kandy dog. I'd name him Gum Drop. Or Sugarpie. Or Wayne.

Idiot Compassion, Orgies and Self-Imposed Writer's Block (and a Little Perspective)

2013-02-17T08:29:00.001-08:00

Looks prettier covered in blood....

I need to write. But it's nights like tonight that I sit and struggle with exactly what I want to say and how to say it. I know I want - no, need - to write something, but it feels overwhelming and complicated, something I don't know how to do - like those days that you sit at work and wonder "hmmm, when will they all realize I have NO IDEA what I'm doing?"

Part of me wants to write poems, but I need to scrawl those messily by hand - my brain won't communicate poetry to a keyboard. But it's Nepal and the power is off and as romantic as writing by candlelight sounds it isn't really possible when your eyes are as terrible as mine. That leaves me with the laptop and either this journalish 'personal essay' stuff or fiction, and I will be honest: fiction scares me.

I have a few ideas for stories brewing but they involve themes that are still too raw and so I am avoiding them, thinking to myself "oh, that? Yep. I'll write that later." as I slink away and hide and read jezebel instead. I know that the best thing to do would be to plunge my hands in up to the elbows and get messy and haunted with my particular muse, but I have to work in the morning and I have no whiskey in the house (oh, look at me being all tortured and writerly). It's also just easier just to let myself slack and get away with avoiding the big, scary work.

So instead I will give you a piece about my week that will start wanky and Holden Caulfield-y (or Lena Dunham-y, see link above) but get progressively more self-aware, I promise.

It has been a bizarre week. Last weekend I found out that two of my ostensibly "straight" exes are...erm, 'romantically involved' in a 'group setting' on the regular. This news was obviously unsettling, and a bit upsetting - and also kind of hilarious. (I'm pretty sure neither of them read this, but if they do - hi guys!) Now, should I be relieved or offended if they don't ask me to join them? Just kidding. (Am I? Mostly...)

After a weekend filled with spontaneous laughing jags, on Monday I had to perform a "friends-off" and tell a particularly toxic pal in Kathmandu that I could no longer be in their life. It felt shitty to abandon someone who is obviously in need of mental health help, but allowing their abusive behaviour to go unchallenged was not doing them any favours. In this case, I really like the concept of idiot compassion that has been popularized by Pema Chodron. In her words it is defined as "the general tendency to give people what they want because you can't bear to see them suffering. Basically, you're not giving them what they need. You're trying to get away from your feeling of 'I can't bear to see them suffering.' In other words, you're doing it for yourself. You're not really doing it for them."

Had I stayed friends with my buddy after they repeatedly treated me badly (and swore it would never happen again each time) I wouldn't have been helping them, I would have just been enabling them - and that isn't compassion. It's actually cowardly and selfish on my end. Avoiding idiot compassion means that I can be a compassionate Buddhist (or Buddh-ish, depending on the day) without being a fucking doormat. But that doesn't mean it is easy, and I had to be careful that I was reacting in a calm and measured way and not out of spite or anger. I'm proud of how I handled the situation.

To top off the week, I found out that an old flame has moved on - a fact that came to light in a weird, roundabout way. I wasn't at all shocked, and I wasn't really upset. I was just caught off guard and a little bummed, as I think anyone would be. I'm actually more upset that there is no one in Kathmandu with whom to have an ill-advised 'moving-on/kind-of-bored/my-bed-is-freezing' fling. I live in the expat-lady capital of the world (development work is largely a vagina-having thing to do) and so I have pretty much zero options when it comes to dating. Nepali guys are incredibly handsome, yes, but I have weird ethical qualms about breezing into a developing nation for seven months, banging the men and then leaving.This leaves me expat men who are either a) older and married, b) younger and frat dude-ish or c) OH WAIT THERE IS NO C.

By mid-week I was sufficiently feeling like garbage. It was then that I found out that my pal had been attacked in rural Nepal. Mere hours after hearing this terrible news I learned that a Tibetan monk had just set himself on fire in Kathmandu. My heart sank and tears welled up in my eyes, a heavy weight in my chest. This marks the 100th self-immolation in the past year, and the first of its kind in Nepal (the other 99 have been within Tibet and China). The act took place at Boudhanath Stupa (which is located right near Kopan) and I go there quite often to circumambulate and recite mantras. My recent visit to Boudha made the monk's pain and desperation feel more tangible, more urgent. Yesterday I found out that he has passed away from his burns, and this news put my whole 'sorry' week into perspective.

Basically, while I have a few woes with friends and exes, millions of people in Tibet are being stripped of their human rights and their millennial-old traditions are being lost. They are so disenfranchised that they are resorting to a brutal self-inflicted death to try desperately to draw international attention to their plight. While I grumble about the cold and the rain and the lack of dating options my friend sits in hospital with a fractured skull, her career and travel plans dashed (temporarily). Through this ordeal and all of her suffering she has had the most inspirational attitude and positive outlook. I'm humbled.

So I can get down in the dumps and lonely and even stuck with a bit of writer's block, but I lead a charmed fucking life. I don't want to forget how lucky I am and feel sorry for myself when things get angsty - instead, I need to get busy spreading this fortune around. The only things that I know I can do to make this world a better place are meditate, be compassionate, work hard on meaningful projects and write. When I avoid writing fiction or poetry about painful subjects because it's easier to avoid them than confront them, well that's just idiot (self) compassion, and that doesn't help me or anyone. So I need to write.

It seems fitting to end on that note, because it is also where I started.
Good night, chickens.
xoxoxVD

Some Thoughts on Violence this Valentine's Day

2013-02-14T08:28:00.000-08:00

Today, all over the globe, millions of people will take to the streets to demand an end to violence against women. The One Billion Rising movement's website demands that we pay attention to the fact that "1 in 3 women will be raped or beaten in her lifetime," and rightfully calls this an atrocity.

I was supposed to attend the Kathmandu event, titled "RISE, PATAN!" with a friend who lives in rural Nepal, but last week she was violently assaulted and is in the hospital recovering from surgery to repair her fractured skull. I would like to make some kind of a witty joke about the ironic timing of the attack, but the sad fact is that with statistics like 1 in 3, it was inevitable that this would happen at least one of the hopeful women who clicked "attending" on the facebook page.

I don't know what to do with how this makes me feel. I am angry. I am so fucking angry.

The news in the past few months has been filled with horrific stories about violence against women, particularly rape (I do want to be clear that my friend was not sexually assaulted). The Delhi gang rape. A woman in South Africa who had her abdominal cavity filled with shards of glass during a gang rape. The Steubenville, USA "rape crew" of high school football players who assaulted a girl in public for hours - and who some still rush to defend.

I've heard some people wondering "why now? What is going on? Why are all of these women suddenly being attacked?" but the sad fact is that this isn't some new epidemic - we are just hearing more about these kinds of stories. Social media and internet access has connected the globe like never before, and news can go viral based on people's immediate interest in the topic. For most women, stories of gender-based violence hold a sick fascination and we tend to read them and share them amongst our networks as morbid cautionary tales.

Ever Mainard, a female comedian, went viral a few months ago with a stand-up routine entitled "Here's Your Rape!" She describes the strange feeling of inevitability that women feel about their "impending" attack. You know, like when you are out walking at night and something seems a bit hinky and you think, "well, this is when it happens. This is when I get raped." It's a brilliant piece of the darkest humour I can think of. And it is scary as shit that she is right.

In Kathmandu I am scared when I walk the short distance from the main road to my flat if it is past 8pm. I find myself mentally preparing for a potential assault, and I envision all kinds of scenarios that could occur. As was recently demonstrated in the Delhi gang rape case, in South Asia the onus is on the woman to not get attacked, rather than on the man to not attack. The Steubenville case has clearly demonstrated that this is obviously the case in the West as well, but it is accepted without challenge here. I have honestly wondered if the authorities in this city would take the crime seriously if I was assaulted late at night. I honestly don't think they would.

My lovely British friend was clubbed over the head with a piece of firewood as she walked between villages after a weaving class. It was 6pm - still light out. The man stole her bag and took off on his motorbike, leaving her for dead on the side of the path. She has been recovering from surgery for the past ten days and is awaiting her doctor's approval to fly back to the UK. While this was not a sexually motivated attack, she was targeted by a man and I am willing to bet that if she was a tall, burly Western male the mugging would have looked very different.

Listen, I don't want to minimize the violence that is perpetrated against men - I am anti-violence in all cases (and I don't want to risk the ire of these fucktards. Oh wait - yes I do). But guys. One in three. ONE IN THREE. And I am willing to bet that most men do not have what Mainard describes - a recurring, vivid visualization of being raped or attacked in the street when someone merely walks too closely to you. It's a kind of pre-traumatic stress reaction that women learn to acquire. And that is the worst thing that I can think of. My culture teaches me to be afraid for just existing - and it is right - I need to be.

I could go into all kinds of theories on why men do this to women. I could show you examples of violence against women in the media, and I could detail the history of patriarchy and present multiple theses as to when and where this behaviour emerged in human development, but I won't. Why? Because it is exhausting, and I am tired and I don't think it will help anything. You're reading this because you agree with me or because you like me. Either way, thanks - but I am preaching to the choir.

There's only a few things we can do, and one of them is DON'T STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS. Don't let the sudden uptick in reporting on gang rape become a passing media fad. Don't let any instances of normalized violence against women go unchecked. And please, please recognize the connection between the obsession with how women's bodies should look and the ownership and violence this perpetuates.

And hell - get out there and dance. It's bed time here in Kathmandu, pals, but there is still time for those of you in North America and Europe to get out and find the local "One Billion Rising" event and dance yer azzes off. If I am reaching you too late, well, get out there next year or organize another event in the meantime (I'll attend! Promise!) Show the world that you're pissed off and you are not willing to be a part of this any longer.

And for good measure, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” - Margaret Mead.
Preach, sister friend.

Happy VD
xoxoVD

Five Metres, One Pin: Sari Shopping in Kathmandu

2013-02-12T11:07:00.000-08:00

Before the sari-fication: In my 'uniform'.

Last week I truly became a grown-up: I bought my first sari.

A woman's first sari-buying excursion is a milestone in South Asia, and at my ripe old spinster age of 31, I will admit that I am lagging behind. I knew that I wanted to buy a gorgeous silk sari while living here in Kathmandu, and in typical Violet Dear fashion I assumed that it would happen in a mad rush two days before leaving the country. This would have undoubtedly been the case had my lovely friend Sarah not decided to host a Bollywood themed party for her birthday. As the date approached, all of the sudden I had a legitimate reason to rush out and buy one of the prettiest things a woman can own.

The word Sari literally means "strip of cloth" and people have been wearing them in India for about five thousand years (nbd, nbd). They range in length from five to seven metres, and it is with a series of expert tucks and folds and twists that the simple length of material becomes an exquisite gown.

Now, I know myself. I am a picky broad. Sure, 90% of the time you'll see me wearing black, grey and olive green in some kind of combination of leggings, ripped up band t-shirt and jean jacket (see above), but when I buy something beautiful and keepsake-y I like to make sure that it is really perfect. I spent a few days before my shopping excursion planning exactly what colour I wanted (with the help of a facebook poll): deep emerald green, not too blangin' with too many sequins or bric a brac hanging off of it.

It was with this ideal sari in mind I headed to Dili Bazaar with my pals Vilija and Anjali.

What do you have in a dashiki or a caftan?

K, have you ever been in a sari shop? Up to this point, I had not. It was like fabric shop absolutely packed with different materials and patterns all folded up tightly and stacked floor to ceiling. You can't "browse" - you tell a man (and it always seems to be a man) what you're looking for and he selects different options to drape in front of you. The process can be quite simple if you fall in love with a style right off the bat (like Vilija did with a gorgeous yellow number) or it can be baffling and complicated ordeal. Three guesses - and the first two don't count - how the experience went for me?

Forest green and gold. I looked like a matronly Christmas tree.

The salesman showed me dozens of green saris, and nothing seemed right. As he ran out of options in my price range (I wanted to spend no more than 3500 rupees) he started to get a bit exasperated with me and was starting to flop mint green sequined monstrosities in front of me. "No, bhai," I said repeatedly, "this green. Dark green, not light." He wanly presented me with a lime green chiffon. "I don't like that." I said. He showed me some murky sage covered in crystals. "Bhai. I hate that. I actually hate that sari." We were engaged in a standoff.

I stood up next to the shelves and began to feel the fabrics up close. I was about to call the trip a bust, envisioning myself at the party wearing a frumpy salwar kameez or kurta, when it happened. I fell in love.

"How much?" I asked. When he answered my face fell - it was double what I wanted to spend. I tried it anyway - a rookie mistake that anyone who watches marathons of "Say Yes to the Dress Atlanta" when they are hungover (who, me?) could tell you. Never try the expensive dress you can't afford, because it makes all others that follow feel cheap and gaudy.

Oh, you pretty thing.

I tried to play it cool, but he could see that I loved it. It is a Banarasi sari, which means that the silk is from Benares and took between 15 and 30 days to craft. Banarasi are characterized by gold or silver embroidery and are considered the finest quality in India. While the price was not cheap, it was literally a quarter of what it would have cost me in Canada and so I relented and decided to splurge.

Wearing a ripped up Pixies shirt to my sari fitting. All class, this one. All class.

The next step was alteration. Once you choose your favourite 'strip of cloth,' the end is hacked off and turned into a wee little crop top and a matching muslin "petticoat" is crafted to wear under the sheer fabric. Sarees are worn with the side of the midriff exposed, which has always baffled me in a part of the world where even the slightest hint of cleavage is considered scandalous.

Visible boobs or knees? Whorey Mcwhoreson from Whore Chowk.

Exposed stomach? Nice respectable lady.

I have to give the tailors and the salesmen at Selection Sari Shop mad props for not even batting an eye when I took off my sweater for measurements. They acted like my tattoos were no big thang and got on with the important task of making sure my garment would be completed in two days. Our tight timeline before the party meant that we had very little leverage in the eternal battle of wills that is hard bargaining. I managed to knock the price down about 2000 roops, but I probably could have doubled that had an air of desperation not been wafting off of us. And lord knows what the price for a Nepali would have been....

Hard bargaining. I lost.

She trussed me like a turkey. I felt like I was at Sin City.

We returned on Friday, literally enroute to the party. The sarees were ready and the owner's wife agreed to help us in the Herculean task that is getting the thing on your body. Using only one strategically-placed safety pin (one pin! for the whole thing!), she pinched and pulled and tugged and squished, and finally got my flabby (I'm 'skinny fat') translucently pale self mummy-ed up into my gown. I added a ton of make-up (the most I have worn in Nepal, by far), a bindi and an armload of bangles to complete the look.

I was still a strange, goth-y tattooed white lady - but by god, now I was a strange, goth-y tattooed white... beautiful lady in a gorgeous Banarasi sari! I plan to wear it every chance I get in Vancouver and London - Indian weddings, non-Indian weddings, New Years parties, bar mitzvahs, Eid feasts and funerals - so just get ready... and hope that my one loadbearing pin doesn't come unfastened.

The final product. Sari bout it!

Tricking My Ass (onto the cushion): A Meditation Mistake

2013-02-09T06:05:00.001-08:00

A spinning prayer wheel at Swayambunath Temple.

I arrived at Pranamaya yoga studio this morning at 9:10. The class wasn't due to start until 9:30, so I was a little bit surprised to see a small clutch of people waiting outside the studio door. "Eager!" I thought.

This was my first yoga class in months, and I was eager to stretch and limber up. I have, admittedly, been a pretty epic slacker in my spiritual practice since leaving Kopan, only meditating once a week at the FPMT centre in Thamel. The cushion can be a scary place, and so I thought the yoga mat might be a more suitable place to ease back into mindfulness and battle some mental demons in a physical way.

The class was described online as a "dynamic" Vinyasa flow, which was good, because I kind of needed something to kick my ass. It has been a long, strange week filled with disturbing news about exes, and last night I broke my self-imposed Kathmandu sobriety in order to down a bottle of red at a Bollywood themed party. I woke up this morning still able to taste the menthol cigarettes I had greedily sucked down, and I was dangerously close to being hungover.

But not so close that I was willing to break my plans for some Saturday morning yoga. I stood amidst the crowd of people and waited for a few minutes, until an American guy came blustering into the studio. "Sorry guys!" He announced. "So sorry I am late!" I was really confused. What did he mean, late? It was still fifteen minutes before the class was scheduled to start!

We all headed into the room, and I set my handbag down and popped over to the loo to take a quick pre-yoga pee (always important). When I returned I noticed something strange. The others were sitting on blankets and bolsters. No yoga mats, and the teacher, Frank, was already instructing despite the fact that it was only 9:20. What in the holy hell was going on?!

The first word I registered Frank saying was "death." It slowly started to dawn on me. This was not a yoga class. This was a meditation class.

I glanced over at the schedule on the wall and it was confirmed: This was the 8:50am Saturday morning meditation. The "9:30" class that I had viewed online was indeed taking place.... all the way in Patan at one of Pranayama's other studios. I had misread the website, and ended up in a meditation.

Now, that was not the only fateful coincidence. On any other Saturday, had I made the same mistake I would have arrived at the studio and been faced with a locked door, the class half-completed. I would have checked the posted schedule, realized my mistake and left. However, this week, the one week that it mattered - Frank was late. He arrived 25 minutes late, seconds after I myself had arrived.

When I put all of this together in my head and realized that we were about to do one of the meditations I find most meaningful - death meditation - tears sprung into my eyes. "What a wonderful karmic surprise," I thought, "and how fucking terrifying."

See, karma or fate or God or pure chance - however you want to look at it - something got me on that cushion today. Some kind of wheel turned and set into motion the weird series of coincidences that led my sore post-trekking ass onto the floor of the yoga studio to sit and watch my breath and confront my own mortality.

The purpose of vivid death visualizations are to remind you that at any moment you could die, and so you should never put off the important things in life. You should apologize to people you've wronged. You should forgive everyone who has wronged you. You should do things you love. You should pray to whatever you believe in. And most importantly, death meditation reminds you that you should fucking meditate.

I tried to hide from the cushion, from the meditation - but it found me. Thank god. Thank Frank. And thank me.

A Canadian Living in Kathmandu: Part Two

2013-02-06T09:52:00.001-08:00

A wallah (one who sells things) dealing in plastic goods from atop his head. Magical, strange Nepal.

Last week I posted a list of some of the shocking, wacky and wonderful realities of being a Canadian living in Kathmandu, and since then my fellow expat friends have inundated me with suggestions for a second edition of that blog. Something tells me that this is going to be a regular feature here on M&B....

MORE things that I have learned as a Canadian living in Kathmandu:

I'm always at least kind of sick. If it's not a rumbly tum, it's a gas fume headache - and it's pretty constantly a low, gravelly hack. The air quality in Kathmandu is ranked at near the bottom of global rankings and it is brutal not only for pollution, but also for particulates. As a result, everyone has a deep, hacking cough that I call "Kathmandu Lung." Makes me think of a old time-y afflictions like Breakbone Fever or Milk Leg, and I like that.
Bed time is pretty universally 10pm on weeknights and maybe 11pm on weekends. Oh - you don't have to go to sleep at that time, but everything in the city shuts down and the streets become eerily silent. This usually corresponds with loadshedding, and so the streets are not only silent - they are pitch black. As a single gal who lives alone, I am particularly sensitive to this - I'm usually home by 9 at the latest. In any other city this would make me lame, but in Kathmandu I am quite the night owl. Parties often start at 5pm and everyone is pleasantly tipsy and home in bed by 10.

TV is heavily censored here (which is technically an Indian thing, as the satellite is coming from south of the border) but I don't always realize when it's happening. For instance, I was stoked to watch Homeland every night at 11 on Star TV. "Yay!" I thought. "I don't have to download the whole series!" After eight episodes I was talking to my friends Matt and Kelly and I realized something was awry. "What do you mean, all the sex scenes?" Yep. The lack of sexual content wasn't a 'bold stylistic choice', it was censorship. But don't worry. Matt has downloaded seasons one and two for me, so soon enough I will get my fill of naked Brody. FINALLY.
You know when you read old children's stories or 'Twas the Night Before Christmas and the men and women are wearing sleeping caps? When I was a kid, I was all like, "why is that man wearing a clown hat to bed? Houses are warm as shit." Well. Now I know. When your house is not heated, your little head gets freezing cold and cold head = cold lady. I wear a knitted cap to bed every night, and if it falls off while I am sleeping I inevitably wake up shivering and grope around for it like a groggy child reaching for its blankie. It's a pretty tame nightcap, but it's the only one I indulge in here in the 'du. (Seriously. I would love a nightcap. Send me some good whiskey and some chocolate porter asap.)

Passport photos are practically currency here in Nepal. I am not sure what the reasoning behind it is, but a passport photo must be attached to pretty much any permit, application or paperwork issued in the country. Perhaps it is due to a lack of a centralized system of record-keeping, but anyone fearful of identity theft should stay the hell away from this country. When I applied for an internet dongle, I had to supply NCell with:
- a copy of my passport and visa
- two passport photos
- thumb prints
- my mother or father's name and my grandfather's name
- a vial of blood drawn from a virgin on a clear solstice eve
Ok, maybe I am exaggerating on that last item, but the rest are true, promise. Everyone carries a stack of passport photos with them at all times. The other day I looked at my pal Vilija and said, with no irony at all, "Oh shit! I only have three passport photos left! I better get some more." Where else on the planet is that even a thing?
I know that I mentioned the lack of addresses on the list last week, but I think it bears some more inspection. Sure, I can't get mail delivered, but there are other inconveniences involved. For instance: because there are no marked addresses on any buildings and only the largest streets have names, it is nearly impossible to find a new location on your own. Landmarks help, sure, but if the area looks unfamiliar on google maps, honey, you're gonna have to take a taxi. As for the addresses themselves, hell, I am not even sure if they exist on paper somewhere. But if they do, there is a passport photo attached.
It's hard for me to wrap my head around it, but buying lunch in a local restaurant or chai shop is cheaper than bringing lunch from home (lunch is usually under 50 rupees - around 65 cents). I am still stuck in the opposite mindset, but I really do need to stop trying to bring food from home. Feels weird.
In North America, we have phone numbers pretty figured out. You have your area code, your first three digits and your last four digits. Phone numbers are therefore always spoken as "123 pause 456 pause 7890." Now, when I first got here, I was delighted to see that Nepali mobile numbers are also 10 digits. "Easy peasy!" I thought. I thought wrong. There are no designated pauses when rattling off a phone number and this is more problematic than it sounds! I am constantly having to get Nepalis to repeat their numbers over and over again, a problem that is exacerbated when they throw in "triple six, double two, one, double five" - when this happens I am left reeling and confused. During a training exercise last week, a co-worker read the classic mock phone number "555 5555" as "Triple five, triple five, five." I couldn't contain my giggles.

That's it for this time, but I am sure that I will have a new list for you within a few weeks! In the meantime, lots of love (and lots of passport photos) - Violet Dear

A Saturday Stroll with the Himalayan Hash House Harriers

2013-01-31T05:20:00.001-08:00

A A stroll through the terraces with the Himalayan Hash House Harriers.

A few weeks ago I did the most expat-y thing one can do - I joined the Himalayan Hash House Harriers. The "Hash" is a weekly social event/running club that promotes a mix of expats and locals running (or hiking), drinking and engaging in general buffoonery - and it was a damn good time!

There are hundreds of Hash clubs around the world, but it all started back in 1938 in Kuala Lumpur, where, according to Wikipedia, the goals were established as such:

To promote physical fitness among our members
To get rid of weekend hangovers
To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel

I was lucky enough to not only find a fantastic flat upon moving here to Kathmandu, but I just happened to move in below Jo and Jimi, a Scottish/Dutch couple described to me as "the king and queen of the local expat social scene." Jimi is the weekly emcee of the Hash, and he made sure that I was invited had a ride to get to its obscure starting point in the Valley.

Every week the location changes, and two people arrive in advance to set out a challenging course. They use a series of markers on the trail, complete with false detours and special pitstops at which you have to do a silly task or take a drink. They then lead the run, and they are called the "Hares" - they are tasked with making sure they do not lose their runners.

I carpooled with some Finns, a Spaniard (I don't know why, but that demonym always looks racist to me) and a lovely American gal and we made fast friends along the way. Since I was the only one with a little pack I was put in charge of the car keys and wallets, and we joked that I had "made myself valuable."

Now, I want to tell you that I joined the runners.... but that would be a dirty lie. After six weeks of sitting on my rear end and staring at my navel, I am in NO SHAPE to go on a 10k run (says the lady who is going on a four day trek tomorrow - eep) and so I opted to do the walk instead. It was still challenging, and this way I got to gab as I got my exercise. And you know I love to kiki, hunTy! (Sorry. Way too much RPDR lately.) Before the run we were advised on some of the Hash terminology. "On On" means "this way" or "way to go," and a "down down" is a way of teasing or 'punishing' someone for non-Hasherly behaviour.

If I circumambulate in the opposite direction at this fertility temple, will it work as birth control?

The walk was stunning - we trekked up the side of a daunting hill to a Hindu fertility temple and then back down through a village and past some weird and wonderful old art deco buildings. The walkers totaled about fifteen people, and I was talking in a small group with four others. All of the sudden, very close to the end of the 2.5 hour walk, the five of us who had been chatting noticed that we were alone. Eerily alone. The regularly placed trail markers that let us know we were on the right track had disappeared, and we could see hide nor hair of our Hare (groan).

Gorgeous abandoned art deco building, whatchoo doing out here?

Remember, Nepal has no addresses, and the village meandered through the hills in a haphazard way. We had no idea which direction we were supposed to head toward and we couldn't really ask any of the locals to direct us to "the field that we started from" so we wandered aimlessly for about 45 minutes.

Meanwhile, back at the finishing line, my absence was alarming to quite a few people. Sure, Jo and Jimi were worried, as they had brought me along and probably felt somewhat responsible for the green Canadian gal, but I was much more important to the folks who had entrusted me with their keys and wallets. A search party was sent out to look for me (at this point they thought I was out there alone!) and when we finally found the big Hash group they were well into their beer and snacks. Sure, I was teased for getting lost - but teased even more was my Hare, who had set a record for losing five people out of a group of fifteen.

Amanda, an American lawyer, forced to don the Hash hat and drink a huge chalice of beer.

The real Hash fun starts after the exercise is over. We all gathered in a circle and sang a series of drinking songs. Local village kids and adults alike gathered around us to gawk at the weird bideshis carrying on like fools as people were called out and made to drink and sing for being newbies, having missed many Hashes, for leaving the country and for pretty much any other excuse you can think of. It's no wonder they describe themselves as "a drinking club with a running problem."

These are sports drinks, right Lance?

While I live here in Kathmandu, I think I would like to do the Hash a couple times a month. It's a great opportunity to get out of the smog of the city and a good way to meet people from all walks of life and backgrounds. Just remember - always make yourself valuable if you don't want to get lost.

ON ON!

Some of the walkers - maybe one day I will grow up to be a runner. (yeah. That's not a thing, Dear. Good luck!)