Sometimes, I think that my impulsive nature makes others crazy. Actually, I have no doubt that it does. I directly attribute my fathers grey hair to some of my more rash decisions.  I also have no doubt that I am a bit off the wall at times, and realize that I do things without fully thinking them through, but I have never really been scared of consequences. I tend accept consequences when they do arise and move forward. Some people may think this sounds a bit risky, I just call it life.  Even so, in the cases where I do think things through their outcomes differ very little from those decisions that I make in an instant.  Case in point, my new restaurant. I wanted to create a restaurant in Kathmandu using a strange concept that has not really existed here previously. Good food that does not take 6 hours to prepare and does not make the consumer sick within hours of eating it. Ok, I am being a little cynical, I admit. There are some fine establishments in this city, but one also pays dearly for eating at them. They are expensive! Not U.S. prices, of course, but when one only makes the equivalent of $300 US per month, it is difficult to justify a $30 meal for 2. Unless it is your birthday of course.

No less, this new quest of mine was pretty thought out, especially by my standards. I knew the location I wanted to be in (Thamel), I knew I wanted it small, and I also knew the type of food I wanted to serve. So, I did a bit of research, and decided that this is not an intangible; I could very well make it a reality. Thank god I have made so many connections here; I also knew this was a fantastic asset, and thus far has proved to be invaluable.

Those here that I know with established restaurants, even small established places, tend to have better lives than those of us working stiffs that may or may not be paid by our bosses (things really do work differently here, I have often had to ask for my salary. My roommate had to wait 6 months for hers.) And I still wish to continue social work, but more on grass roots, non bureaucratic level. For example, I wish to take 5% of all profits and directly lend to women in the neighborhood. Also, there is a very intelligent girl I see almost daily, with no formal education, and Sanepa could be unstoppable if she were able to attain an education. I would be quite happy if my work could make that a reality.

Luck of all luck, I found a place quickly. Good location, and a lot of potential (read: I must work my a** off to make it look good inside), with inexpensive rent. I couldn’t be happier. That is, until I found out what it means to rent a space in Thamel.  Ahhhh…nothing is ever free in life, or simple, is it? The current owner of the restaurant there, Santi, said she would be happy to sub let me the space, as she no longer wants it, but first I must pay her $6,000 US. Huh? In a nation where the GDP per capita is only $340 USD per year, that sounded a little steep. So the negotiations began.

I explained to Santi that I did not want to keep the name Mustang Kitchen, nor did I think I would need any of her recipes, or maintain a restaurant that in any way resembled the Mustang Kitchen, so why must I pay her $6000?!?!?! She said she needed the money to move to Pokhara so she could be married to her boyfriend. Like this was a totally logical explanation and I would some how say, “Oh! Why didn’t you tell me?!? OF COURSE! Heck, why don’t I pay you $7000 and we will call the extra thousand a wedding gift!”

After I found the strength to close my mouth, as it pretty much fell to floor, although I found admire her frankness. And one hand of honesty deserves another.

I simply said, “No. I will be more than happy to purchase to equipment that you no longer have use for, such as the coolers and refrigerators and the tables, but that is it.”

Santi said “Ok, then we will not leave and I will not rent it to you.”

We had four more days of conversation like this. I even went to the landlord, who she rents from, and he replied, “When you have the space, you will choose who to rent it to and how much they will pay you for the privilege of the space, why shouldn’t she?”

Hmmmm…yet another new concept of business in an underdeveloped nation. Bribery for the privilege of renting a space. It makes sense in some ways, as real estate, especially prime real estate in Thamel is in short supply.

Finally, we struck a deal. I offered her half, and much to my surprise, she said, “O.K.” shook my hand, and got up to get the keys. No joke.

I still felt like I was spending more than I should, as the inside of the place is little better than a Taco Bell in the middle of the ghetto, but after speaking to various business people I know in Thamel, they were amazed I got by so cheap.  Cheap wasn’t really the word I would use to explain it, but it is done now.  And I am happy.

So now, I am reinventing myself again. Now, I am Jill, restaurant owner in Thamel. This is going to be so cool.

O what a night

It is exactly 2 am, and I sit here writing in my bed, giving off a little start every time the power surges and the lights become so bright they look like they might pop. The sound of the rain should be calming, as it is constant- not pounding, but always there. But the rain is part of my little problem.

Why up at 2 am you ask? Well, when else would I get up taking turns with my boyfriend, running for the bathroom to expel the evil falafel that has over taken both of our digestive systems?  During my last run to the facilities, I encountered something I never have before here in Nepal, and just when I think I have seen every oddity, every strange encounter, every exotic dress, reality comes and smacks me in the head and reminds me I have just seen the tip of the ice berg for strangeness here.

As usual, I digress. I left the bathroom praying I wouldn’t have to go in there again till morning, when shock of all shocks, somehow in the time I had been in there my “lobby” as they call it here, or entrance way as we call it in the west, was over taken with frogs. Was. Ha, there is no past tense, they are still there.  Tons of frogs. Little frogs, big frogs, high jumping frogs and skinny frogs. The rat of course, was not to be outdone by the frogs and made an appearance. We have seen traces of his existence, left huge amounts of poison in every corner of the house, but never actually seen him. That is, until tonight. I will not describe monster mouse as a rat- for a rat he is not. He is more like a Persian cat with a really long tail. Not a small Persian cat, not a kitty, but a full grown monster of a Persian cat with a bad temperament caused by age and the certainty that I am trying to kill him.

So, we have drawn the lines, this nasty rat and I. We both can see in each other a worthy nemesis, and neither one of us is going to leave the other without a fight. I have decided to do something I would not ordinarily do, I have decided to get a cat. Not that I am cat adverse, I actually like them. It is just that I feel bad getting any animal if I am away from home so frequently, as I am. But I am sure the cat will be on my side in this matter and take care of the rats, frogs and snakes that seem to enter my home on their whims, rather than my invitation.

Fast forward a few days….

I am reading what I wrote only days before and thankfully, feel so far removed. Today is my happy birthday, and I am sitting in a beautiful, clean hotel room in the resort town of Pokhara with an amazing view of Machhupachaare- or Fish Tail Mountain; called such because it suddenly jumps up from the rest of the Himalayas, coming to a perfect triangular point.

I have always been a birthday lunatic. A seriously self absorbed, make everyone celebrate for me, birthday fanatic. I don’t request attention on my birthday, I demand it. I know this sounds like a rather unlikeable trait, but once I make everyone around me aware of my birthday- I also make them participate in the fun of it. What is a birthday rather than a celebration of not having to face the alternative? And if for just a little while we remember this, rather than think of all the life sucking normal daily activities, then I consider my birthday a success. I can’t help but get a little squishy and sentimental here, but looking back and now looking out my window, I cannot believe what a good life I have had. I have done some truly amazing things, met remarkable people, traveled to places that many just read about. So thank you, my parents for having me, and thank you, my Ricky for letting me.

Today is not any ordinary day for Nepal, either. Today, the government will finally be formed. See, we have a different perspective in the West about what is and what is not government like behavior. Here, all bets are off. When we have elections in the United States, for example, the candidates do not try to kill the other one, or kidnap their relatives. Our candidates just spend lots of money on plane tickets and TV ads.  When a candidate has been elected, we have predetermined dates when they take office. That would be far too simple approach for the government of Nepal. Since the elections usually don’t happen on time, (this last one was postponed three times), there is no way to determine when and how who has won will actually ascertain their position by, oh, I don’t know, actually making government based decisions.

Even though I know I personally have nothing to do with it, I still think it is cool that this is the day the government decided to “form” and hold their first real meeting to make some (hopefully) forward moving decisions for this little nation. On the check list of things to be done for the nation from a publication called the Nepali Times:

·         Keep the peace process on track

·         Reassure the people of Nepal that a State still exists

·         Provide consumers with basic needs (petrol, cooking gas, rice)

·         Ensure food for the neediest, Nepal is now on the UN’s hunger hot spot list

·         Crack down hard on those blocking highways on whatever pretext.

·         Ensure Maoists return seized property, stop YCL hooliganism (the YCL is the Young Communist League, the youth section of the Maoists, and currently their out of control three year old.)

·         Reform the police to prevent more mutinies, warn them that they are being watched.

There are many more, but these are the main points that jump out at me and remind me so frequently that I am in the “Wild West”. Up until a few years ago I never thought societies like this really existed. There has been more of an anarchy here for the past two years than there has a functioning form of government. Sure, the whole place seems to fall apart at the seams at times, like when garbage is not picked up for weeks on end and is left roadside, blocking traffic and even cows from passing by, but the people here pick up the pieces when the government can or will not.

So, today is the celebration of the birth of a functioning government in my adopted nation and a celebration that I am here to witness it. Birthdays are so much better than the alternative.

I am doing it once again. I am leaving. That long trek across the globe that is as unforgiving as it is tedious. No longer do I feel the excitement of being on a plane, traveling unfathomable distances in mere days. Instead, knowing that I have done this before, I give into a quiet resolve. Only counting the day before I arrive into the parallel universe that is my other home, Nepal.

There is a strange cocktail of emotions that I experience every time I leave. Nostalgia, sadness, excitement at seeing what has changed, anxiety, trepidation, missing my family and friends even before I have left them. I inevitably try to cram in as many experiences as possible to produce fond memories until the next time I see them…

And, of course, a certain amount of inner chaos, guilt, and questioning goes on in the days leading to my flight… “Why do I do this? Why do I leave? Am I doing the right thing? Will I ever settle down again?”

The answer is always compelling to me, because I am not certain “why” I just “know.”

I am fully aware what is in store for me. I am taking the route I enjoy the most and with the best in flight movies. I love leaving Newark, New Jersey and waking up in New Delhi, India. It feels like crossing worlds, not continents.

As soon as I step off the tarmac, pass through immigration and grab my luggage and make my way towards the crowds of people yelling, the smell always hits, this overwhelming masala of smells that can only be found in Delhi. It is a combination of rotting garbage, sweet smells of chat stalls, curries, exhaust, and the essence human beings all mixed into an aroma that is choking the first time you smell it. Then and only then does the brain register the heat.

The heat is impossible, or one would think, but millions of people are still able to live- and thrive- in it. It just takes the body a little while to realize “I can do this…” All it takes is a little more focus than usual on breathing, and realizing that it really is impossible to suffocate because of the dense nature of the air.

I know I am going back to a Kathmandu that is in the throws of political chaos, fuel, water and food shortages, and limited electricity, which is really nothing new. In fact, I love getting a front row seat to the beginning of a new (maybe) Republic.

So this is just the beginning of yet another adventure. I invite everyone reading this to come along, as I am certain it will be as uncertain, chaotic and entertaining as before.

The ride to Rania was a roller coaster. Great America’s Screaming Eagle with its shockless, wooden construction comes to mind. Zana’s no-name car was the epitome of luxury—beige and gold, proof of purchase still stuck to the windows, digital dash, cruise control, compact-disc player and leather interior with head-rest to floor-mat dog-fur covers. Unfortunately, drivers below the age of 40 from developing countries who have managed to somehow own a car tend to drive as fast as they possibly can whenever they can. This includes the fifty meter space between Kurdistan’s frequent speedbumps, which makes the halt they come to five inches before the speedbump rather difficult. But steady breathing, focusing on the black smoke of a distant horizon-perpendicular oil well and absolutely no reading make it doable. Besides, by now we have stomachs of steel. We have eaten straight grease, unpasteurized milk, tap water-washed vegetables and other unidentified objects from many living-room-floor spread plastic picnic cloths and have yet to become truly ill.

So when we pulled onto the shoulder in the middle of nowhere, chose a bright-red-and-white chicken, watched a man cut its head off and stick it in a blood-draining funnel, and then wrap it up in a plastic bag which we then put in our trunk and ate with rice the next day, neither of us even flinched.

We’d been invited to this mountain town by our couchsurfer’s students, Zana and Nejad, for the weekend.

The rockstar alert was a little higher here in Rania. The fair faces of the Kurds stared and followed us through the bazaar full of kebab stands, barber shops, lurid god jewelry displays and basic goods like power strips, soap and spark plugs. Some Kurds pumped our hand with a grateful glee, some said “Hello!”, others couldn’t bother. One clothing store clerk with a friendly, eager and somewhat sad smile started a conversation in English and invited us to take a seat. His story gave us chills.

“From Kirkuk, but I lived to UK for two years, but then they make problem to me. I must leave. My father, he worked to Saddam. My brother he killed someone two years ago. I was just a little boy. But people make problem to me. Now I am in Erbil. But people make problem for me here, too. We will see. ”

Stories of Kurds escaping to the UK was common. One of our hosts, Nejad, had lived there for four years. He lived in a low-income London suburb with his brother, worked day and night in a Soho falafel shop, then sent the money home to his parents for rebuilding, medical costs, basic needs.

But other kids were luckier. Zana’s father lives in Norway and sends money home to provide for the family. Zana attends the University of Kurdistan and goes home to visit his mother, the patriotically-named Kurdistan and his sisters Soma and Sonya every weekend (which in here, is on Friday and Saturday). Kurdistan is a warm, busty woman with skin the color of muddy coffee and henna-highlighted hair. She hugs me tightly and instantly and lets me help in the kitchen, a rarity. The bathroom here, like all others we’ve seen so far in Rania is a wet squat without toilet paper.

Zana took us through family albums in the living room portraying a typical teenager’s life with friends, relative’s weddings, picnics and graduations. Except Zana has two grandmothers because his grandfather had two wives

Just another day in Northern Iraq.

The Pashmerga, the Kurdish police and security officers, were everywhere. At intersections. At fountains. At soccer games. There were never any less than four guards at the gates of our compound, which includes ten-foot high walls. There were always two or three in front of the school, where our couchsurfing host taught English. During the drive to Rania with two University students, we encountered four checkpoints, two which required a look at our passport.

But our first real run-in with the police happened while taking photos there last week. We were caught off guard by two Kalishnakov-swinging camoflauged men who were not especially friendly. One minute there were two of them, the next more than 10. Our host’s face lacked reassurance or comfort.

So we followed the soldiers through mountain-surrounded Rania, a town known for its clever strategies and participation in the 1991 Northern Uprising in Iraq. We walked casually past the cement walls which contain brown courtyards, marble pillars and squat toilets. Past the women in their headscarves and ground-length velor housecoats, past the children in their fluorescent, synthetic clothing and rubber sandals. Past bench after medieval cart of men in their olive-drab traditional Kurdish garb, a cross between a Carhart worksuit, and a brown cummerbund-wrapped tuxedo, minus the bowtie. Past the Armani belt buckles and pin-striped suits. Past a Jack Daniels-bragging liquor store, sometimes a sign of a Christian neighborhood.

At the police station, four gun-wielding guards chaotically search us for a mobile phone. It was hard for them to believe we didn’t have one. Soon, we were herded toward a room and told to sit down. In the next sixty seconds, at least 15 people came into the room. We couldn’t tell if we were the excitement of the day or if they considered us a serious threat. Soon, it was another room. Then another. I wanted to hold onto Michael, but I couldn’t. Not here. Still, no one smiled. Still, our host was expressionless. I was calm, but fearful. I tried to look simultaneously scared, friendly and apologetic, my passport in my hands, ready to submit. Finally, a man behind a big desk in a heated office examined Michael’s passport. He waves mine away. I am just a woman, after all.

No problem. We can go. We can take all the pictures we want. They just had to make sure we weren’t Turkish spies gathering information about the PKK.

Cool.