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

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 my 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."

"Ke Garne?" 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.

Ke Garne. 

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

 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

 

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.

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

 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.

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

 

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

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

How I Got Right Here (and to London) - 2012 in Review

-->

                                          They said "get thee to a nunnery" and I was like, "yeah, that's probably for the best."

2012 was not an easy year.

At some point in late 2011 I woke up and realized how badly I had fucked up my personal life, and I reacted with a horror akin to a David Lynch heroine in a surrealist nightmare. I had spent years making selfish choices in a cloud of self-grasping ignorance, and one of the most devastating periods of my life was when I truly realized that the choices I had made were in no one’s best interests, including my own.

I could barely live with myself. I tried all of the old remedies to make myself feel better, and nothing worked. I had a new dharma-inspired window of self-awareness that made it impossible for me to bury my head in the sand with quick fixes. I plunged into a brutal depression that lasted four long months of anxiety, rumination and deep, dark sadness. I think the only thing that kept me afloat were the 24 credits I was taking at school – I was forced to stay responsible and not spend all of my time drinking wine and crying, no matter how much I wanted to.

Time passed, as it does, and made things a lot easier. I started a pretty strict regime of yoga, meditation and dharma practice and began eating healthily and drinking less booze and a lot of kombucha. By April I graduated with First Class Honours and was feeling much better – and thank god for that, because I soon had a major bombshell explode: I was denied entry to grad school at McGill University.

I had been so confident that my perfect gpa and spectacular references would get me into the Masters of Communication program at ‘Canada’s Harvard’ that I didn’t actually apply to any other schools. When I was informed that the admissions board didn’t think my proposed research topic (dealing with the ethical issues around UNESCO World Heritage Sites) was suitable for the department I was absolutely crushed. I felt rejected and disappointed in myself. All of the sudden I had an empty calendar ahead of me - 12 months of panic-inducing blank pages.

Good thing I like filling pages.

Within a few days I was feeling better. My mum said, “Vi, I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but this has happened for a reason - you didn’t get accepted because it wasn’t right for you. I promise the right path will reveal itself.” I didn’t know if I really bought her new age garbage, but I did decide that another year of vagabonding was in order.  I wanted to start my journey in Nepal with the November Course at Kopan Monastery and then I would backpack through Africa and the Middle East.

My favourite prof was not jazzed on the idea of me lacing up my nomad shoes - again. “You need to get experience in your field, not only for your CV but also for your grad school applications. Backpacking is not going to help with your goals, Dear.” I knew she was right, but I also knew that I still had unfinished business with my wanderlust. I was at an impasse.

And then I went to Chapters. Normally I abhor big box bookstores, but I was downtown and needed to buy some gifts. On my way to the checkout I noticed that there was a table of discounted books – 2 for 25 dollars. I snapped up a copy of Little Princes, a book about an organization in Kathmandu that works to reunite trafficked children with their families. “Salient to my interests,” I thought. I had no idea how salient until I sobbed my way through Conor Grennan’s account of starting Next Generation Nepal. I went home and drafted a very unorthodox cover letter (it mentioned that I like to make salads and other random Violet Dear facts) and sold NGN on the fact that they needed to let do pro-bono professional work for them. Turns out I had some free time in 2013. About 10 months of the stuff…

Within 4 hours I had sent the email, and two days later I heard back from a very interested Martin Punaks. Over the next few months it was solidified – I was offered a spot on the NGN team. I was (am!) humbled, grateful and excited to start working for this amazing NGO.

My plans to explore Africa were scrapped and instead I started making arrangements to live in a Kathmandu, a city that I once described as magicaland mystical and… filthy. But first, before I could even leave Vancouver, before I could attend the November Kopan course – I had something even more important to attend to. Grad school applications. Oh yeah. Those.

My last few months in Vancouver were a hectic whirlwind of packing, dating (don’t ask. Murphy’s Law.) and tourguiding my little heart out, attempting to save up a nest egg off of which to live as I worked in Nepal. My research on different grad school programs was completed in fits and starts, great energetic bursts during which I would read journal articles by professors with whom I was interested in working, compare course names, peruse syllabi and search tuition costs.

I realized that as much as I love the theory of Communication Studies, my interests are now more allied with Anthropology. I wanted to marry my love of architecture, travel and heritage, and lo and behold – the United Kingdom actually has many grad programs dedicated to just those things! I knew that I wanted to obtain a Masters Degree in Cultural Heritage Studies, and that I wanted my longterm career to involve working with governments of developing nations to manage their built heritage in a way that does not maintain or create the oppression of vulnerable minority groups. As I researched schools, one choice came up again and again as a perfect fit - none other than the University College of London.

Now, I learned a lot from my experience with McGill – it’s foolish to only apply to one school. Do not do that - rejection stings, yo. But I also didn’t have the one valuable asset that I needed – time. Applications take forever, and my departure date coincided almost perfectly with the opening of UCLs application portal, so I knew that I would be applying in the literal last hours before entering a month of silence. I carefully pre-planned all of my references, my essays and my personal statement and waited for November 1^st to approach. I also chose a back up school – the University of York. I submitted my packages online and headed to Nepal.

Schools in the UK do things a lot differently. In North America there is a deadline for grad school applications, a date by which all applications must be submitted. At that point a panel compiles all of the candidates and goes through each one by one, deciding all of the admissions at one time. In the UK, nuh uh. New students are all decided on a first come first serve basis, and I knew that I would receive a yay or nay answer within 10 business days. So, let’s do some math (or maths – I am heading to England, afterall):

November 1^st – I applied

November 11^th – I checked into Kopan for a month of meditation 

November 15^th ish – answer sitting in inbox

December 11^th – Sprung loose from the monastery; allowed to check email

Fuuuuuug.

By December 5^th I couldn’t bear it any longer. I was positively brimming with nervous anticipation for news that I knew was so close, yet so far away. I snuck out to an internet café and there was indeed an email announcing that I was accepted to the University of York. I was pretty elated, but still no answer from UCL. I trudged back up the hill to Kopan and let everyone know. I got a lot of high fives, and it was nice to be a confirmed for something, but I was still hoping for London.

Two days later we took a massive group trip to circumambulate Boudhanath Stupa and many people decided to stay behind to grab lunch and a coveted espresso before returning to Kopan Hill. After a gut busting lunch of momos I guiltily snuck away to a small internet café. I was about to announce the trip a bust when amongst all of the spam and junk I noticed a message with “Congratulations” in the subject line. I clicked on the email and began to cry. It was from UCL, advising me that I had been offered a spot in the Masters program for 2013/14. Did I want to accept?

Yes. I did.

It’s been a month, and the news still hasn’t sunk in. I am a future alumnus of a school that was ranked fourth in the world this year (nbd, nbd) and that feels awfully weird for the white trash spawn of a teenaged mother from Surrey. I have a morbid fear that everyone will be all Eton-y and fancy and I will be way out of place with my tattoos, course little trucker’s mouth and my love of John Waters. BUT. That doesn’t really matter when I think about how excited I am to live in LONDON, a city that I love. One of the most exciting, interesting and fun cities I have ever visited. A city that looms large in my imagination as a place I’ve always felt I belonged. And if I am worried about my white trash roots, honey, this is a country that has spawned Little Britain, The Sex Pistols, Vivienne Westwood, The Arbour and Geordie Shore. In this company I’m all class.

2012 started off unbelievably terribly, and when McGill turned me down I thought that it was only getting worse. But, it turns out that my mum was right – THANK GOD I WASN’T ACCEPTED. It was not the right thing for me. Right now I would be sitting in Montreal working on a degree that doesn’t really fit what I want to do for a career. I would not have gone to Kopan and met hundreds of amazing people and learned more about dharma – and myself. I wouldn’t be the Ethical Tourism Advisor for NGN, a position that will enable me to help countless vulnerable children and learn about my field, and I wouldn’t currently be in Sri Freakin’ Lanka. Most importantly – I would not be moving to London in October to attend my dream school.

So, 2012, you taught me a lot of lessons. You kicked me around a bit, but you were filled with a bounty of surprises and wonder by year’s end.

And 2013? I like you already.

Lots and lots of love. Go follow your fucking dreams, bitchez.
xoxoVD

2013 is off to a good start.