The tanned man’s burden

It’s a common disease of the tropics, on a par with malaria and dengue fever. ‘If I’ syndrome. It isn’t deadly – as far as I’ve heard – but infection among well-meaning whites is a nigh-on certainty. You don’t notice it at first; it just creeps up on you. But, with forewarning, you can spot it in its early stages.

You arrive in a third world country, you check the place out, go for a walk or whatever. And then it happens. You look at the mess around you – the badly behaved traffic, the sincere lack of dustbins, the dirt-caked street urchins, the emaciated pariah dogs – and a monologue comes to life in your head. ‘If I was in charge, I would do….I would introduce…I would ban…I would round up and shoot…’ It’s a high-pitched, cut-glass voice which clears its throat and starts up whenever you step outside; and it refuses to pipe down. If it wore a hat, it would be a pith helmet. A colonial hangover, a nannying impulse, the irrepressible conviction – embarrassing though it may be to the liberal mindset – that it is precisely you and your expertise, gleaned from a first world upbringing, that this benighted country needs in order to do things ‘correctly.’ The very same voice must have plagued the British East India Company, when they first decided that extending their dominion beyond the banks of the Hoogly wasn’t such a terribly bad idea. It is, ultimately, a refusal to accept things for how they are.

I thought I’d eradicated my (particularly virulent) strand of ‘If I’ syndrome during my seventh months travelling in Asia in 2007 – and this took long enough. But it was merely laying dormant, ready to erupt as soon as I stepped off the plane in Kathmandu. Like syphilis, you think it’s gone, but then it comes back and fucks up your brain. But, after a month, I think I’ve managed to tame it. This is largely through talking to Nepali people; who, you soon discover, are just as aware of the country’s problems as you are – often painfully so. You are no longer a long voice in the wilderness, but simply one of many observers. Humbling, but also reassuring.

*

The internet has speeded up our lives in many ways, from shopping for DVDs to organising international terrorism. But it has also turned procrastination into an art form. I think we can all attest to this, students especially. With unfettered internet access comes unfettered dithering. And this is a major part of the work I do for Himal, with occasional breaks to fact check articles and write up briefs on South Asian geopolitics. But I like to think my procrastination is more refined than that of the average desk monkey. I don’t surf for Russian brides, football scores or humorous videos featuring anthropomorphic cats.

My vice is internet media – news, commentary, and the like. I try to keep abreast of world events and trends, in an effort to be more informed than everyone else. Frankly, it’s a losing game. The more you read about ethnic grievances in the Nepali Tarai or cargo cults in the Solomon Islands, the more ignorant and helpless you feel. It’s like being one step behind a fat giant, picking up the biscuit crumbs he drops behind and pretending to be satiated. Seriously, you will never be ‘on top’ of world affairs. The world is too big and your brain is too small.

However, I have become something of a connoisseur regarding internet news outlets. This, people, is the future of journalism. The bloggers shall inherit the earth – unless the newspapers and magazines continue to pump money into their websites. And some of them are looking very sleek indeed; top prize has to go to the Guardian, even if their commentariat is a ghastly coven of bunny-huggers, eco-fascists and shrill feminist hags, whom you read at your peril. Anyhow, Himal has begun to grasp the importance of the ‘hits’ made to its website, and is busy trying to sex the thing up. Indeed, most of the ‘briefs’ I write for Himal are intended solely for the website. By all means take a look:

http://www.himalmag.com/Himal-s-take-on-cross-border-news-from-northern-Southasia-for-the-week-of-July-10_dnwc83.html

*

I took another weekend in the country. Fresh air seemed like a good idea. So, I caught a bus from Ratna Park station – oh, how I will miss it – to a one-horse village called Sangkhu. From there I trekked up to a temple on top of a hill (where temples often find themselves). On the way up I met an English couple who were spending a few months teaching English in a village school nearby. With their loose clothes and bangles they had tried earnestly to ‘go native’ – the man even had a tika on his forehead – which, as with all such attempts, only emphasized their whiteness.

Once back down, I determined to walk the steep dirt-road to Nagarkot, a hill-station at 2000 metres. Half-way I wimped out and caught a bus heading up – the last one of the day – quite a human sandwich. The mist began to close in as the bus negotiated the potholes. By the time arrived I could barely see a few metres in front of me.

I got chatting to a shop owner about places to stay. After giving me his spin on the village economy – apparently men come up regularly from Kathmandu with prostitutes, to ‘have quick fuck’ in one of Nagarkot’s many ropey hotels – he suggested I stay with his family ‘not too far away.’ Well, first came a rather lengthy ride on the back of his motorbike, and then he dropped me off at a muddy trail head, where his two five-year-old-ish sons lead me for what seemed like rather a lot of minutes to their farmstead – by which time it was pitch dark. It was very much a ‘traditional’ dwelling, made entirely of mud and wood; the animals (six goats and a buffalo) slept downstairs, the family upstairs – along with me. Before bed we gathered around the stove as the housewife knocked us up some daal bhaat (rice and dhal, the Nepali staple). Yes, all very bucolic.

The next day I took the bus down to Bhaktapur, what used to be one of the three independent city states of the Kathmandu Valley – along with Patan and Kathmandu itself – before the Gurkha invasions of the eighteenth century, led by the Prithvi Narayan Shah (still highly revered as the father of Nepal), which led to the unification of Nepal as we know it. It’s a beautiful place; a rabbit-warren of wooden temples and winding back-alleys. But it rained all day, in a slow drizzle that never broke into a satisfying tantrum. My umbrella truly came into its own. From now on, it remains beside me, no matter what – my take on the Gurkha kukri knife.

I got back to the flat to receive an angry note from Suresh the servant boy. I hadn’t told him I’d be away that Sunday; I didn’t know I had the whole weekend off till Friday evening. Well, the note appeared angry; I really couldn’t read the thing. Give it a try yourself: ‘Been eat food this is I am not see list look not fine why ary you aways in Nagarkot Ben. I worke is bed why what not good food I try ok writ this coy note book.’ And so it went. It’s times like these that remind me of how very crap I am in failing to attempt the Nepali language. No excuse, really.

All for now.