सामाजिक कार्यको सेरो फेरो

सामाजिक (~ voluntary) कार्यमा लाग्नु सत्कर्म हो। यस सत्कर्ममा आवद्द सबै साथी हरुमा स-सम्मान नमन।

सामाजिक कार्यका मामला मा केहि नितान्त व्यक्तिगत विचार (opinion) यहाँ प्रस्तुत गर्न चाहें।

Voluntary शब्दको डिक्सनरी मा अर्थ यस्तो रहेछ:
1. done, given, or acting of one's own free will
2. working, done, or maintained without payment

हाम्रो समाजमा माथिका दुई मध्ये आफूलाई पाएक परे, क्रेडिट लिनु परे अर्थ "1"; गाह्रो साह्रो परे तु अर्थ "2" तेर्साउने प्रविर्ति देखिन्छ।

सामाजिक कार्यमा लाग्दै गर्दा व्यक्तिगत तथा संस्थागत मुद्दाहरु व्यवस्थापन तथा पार लगाउनु पर्ने हुन्छ। यसका लागी समय दिनु, काम फत्ते गर्नु तथा व्यक्तिगत र पेशागत जीवन सन्तुलनमा राख्न निरन्तर धेरैनै मिहेनत र लगावको खाँचो हुने गर्दछ। यि सबै गर्न सक्नु धेरैको बसमा नहुने मात्रै नभई निक्कैले त आट्नै नसक्ने रहेछन् भन्ने तथ्य सत्य हो। यो जो कसैको बसको बात होइन। शायद यिनै कारणले सामाजिक कार्यमा निरन्तर लाग्नेहरुको जमात सानो नै हुने गर्छ र यसमा लागेका हरुको हालत अलि दयनीय नै हुन्छ।

अब अगाडी लेख्नु अघि पाठकहरु माझ एउटा सानो हल्का अनुरोध - कृपया यो लेख पढ्दै गर्दा यहाँ भित्रको अरिंगाल प्रविर्ति प्रस्फुटन हुनै लागेको भए कृपया यस भन्दा अगाडी पढ्ने कस्ट नगर्नु राम्रो होला। अरिंगाल साथी, लौ बाई बाई। सूर्यको प्रकाशमै सप्त रंग मिस्सिएको हुन्छ भने हामी मनुवामा सबल दुर्बल पक्ष हुने नै भयो। कालो सेतो देखि सप्त रंग मिस्सिएर पनि निर्मल र कन्चन रहन सक्ने क्षमता राख्ने प्रकाशहरुलाई हेरेर केहि सिक्न सके लाइफमा केहि होला। होइन भने फूलको आँखामा फुलै संसार ...।

अब अरुको कुरो गर्न र ठेक्का लिन त मिलेन। गर्ने सक्ने भनेको आफ्नै कर्म, अनुभव र सिकाई बुझाईको कुरो हो। बुँदागत रुपमा सामाजिक कार्य संग जोडिएका सात बुंदा तल राख्न चाहें। यसलाई 7 habits of highly effective social workers भनेनी भो। 

१. यो दिने थलो हो। लिन आउनु भयो भने निराशा बाहेक केहि पाउनु हुने छैन। निक्कै देखियो, हेरियो। एस्सो घोत्लिएर विचार गर्नुस् त पाँच मिनेट, यो तथ्य यहाँलाई छर्लंग हुने छ। 

२. लागे पछि समय दिन सक्नु पर्छ। नत्र नलागेकै राम्रो। ल्याङ्ग ल्याङ्ग गर्नु समयको सत्यानाश भन्दा अरु केहि होइन। समयको बर्बादी महा पाप हो। 

३. काम गर्दा गुणस्तरिय नतिजाको लागी भरमग्दुर प्रयाश गरिनु पर्छ। निशुल्क गरेको काम हो भनि लापरवाही गर्नु गैर-जिम्मेवारीपन हो। Voluntary शब्दको अर्थ "1" मा फोकस गरे भिजन क्लियर होला कि? 

४. झिना मसिना (minor issues) बात हरु पन्छाउदै समग्रमा (big picture) हेर्न प्रयाश गरिनु उचित होला। यति भन्दै गर्दा यो पनि ख्याल राखौं कि - devil is in the details. झिना मसिना बात "minor" होलान तर unimportant चाहिं होइनन्। हवाई जहाजको पनि सानो भन्दा सानो पाट पुर्जा पनि उत्तिकै महत्वपूर्ण हुन्छ। तर हामीले पाट पुर्जा केलाउदै बस्नी होइन।  हवाई जहाज उडाउने हो।   

५. इत्तर र उत्तर (us and them) का बतासे बात होइनन् प्रक्रियागत तथा नियम कानूनका हिसाबमा चले आफ्नो, सहकर्मीहरुको र समग्रमा समाजकै लागी स्वस्थकर होला। 

६. असहज र प्रतिकूल परिस्थितिका वावजुद पनि निर्णय गर्ने क्षमता हुनु र समाधानको बाटो खोजि सबैलाई साथमा लिएर अगाडी बढ्न सक्नु नेतृत्व गर्न चाहने हरुमा हुनु पर्ने एक प्रमुख गुण हो। वा सो क्षमता विकाश गर्ने खुल्ला सोच राख्नु पर्ला। सानो भन्दा सानो निर्णयमा पनि ल्याङ्ग ल्याङ्ग गर्न थालेसी के होला र, दिमाग खराब बाहेक?

७. स्वार्थ र राजनिती सब तिर हुन्छ। आफूलाई मन परेन भन्दैमा तिनका उपस्थिति नकार्न मिल्दैन। जो छ, सो छ। स्वार्थ र राजनिती व्यवस्थापन गर्ने हो। समस्या बाट भाग्न नसकिए झैँ स्वार्थ र राजनितीबाट पनि भाग्न सकिंदैन। यत्ति केहि कुरो खयाल गरौँ - स्वार्थ व्यक्तिगत मात्र नभई संस्थागत पनि हुन सक्छ। राजनिती आफै खराब होइन, यो विचार हो। खराब व्यक्ति र आचरण हुन्छ। विचार सोच हो। सोच आफैमा जैविक रुपमा निर्जीव हुन्छ। तर त्यो वैचारिक रुपमा भने सजीव हुन्छ।  सबै राजनिती नकारात्मक र पार्टीगत मात्र हुदैन। न्यु जिल्याण्ड मा भर्खरै प्रधान मन्त्री जसिण्डा आर्डर्नको सकारात्मक राजनीति हामीले देख्यौं। जहाँ एक भन्दा बढि व्यक्ति भेट हुन्छ, त्यहाँ राजनिती हुन्छ - घर, परिवार, साथी-भाई, अफिस र सामाजिक संस्था- सर्व ब्यापी छ राजनीति। स्विकार्नुस सजिलो हुन्छ। नकार्दैमा जो छ, त्यो बिलय हुदैन।

लिन सबले सक्छन, दिन सक्नु गाह्रो काम हो। दिन सक्नु पो महान हो त। यो लिने दिने कुरो गर्दा, दिन सकिने वा योगदान गर्न पाईने पैसो मात्र होइन भन्नि बुझ्न अत्यन्त जरुरी छ। नगद दिनु दान गर्ने धेरै मध्येको एक उपाय हो। तर नगद दिएर मात्रै पुग्ने, ठूलो हुने र राम्रो हुने भन्नि जस्तो सोचाई चाहिं सामाजिक कार्यको अलि साँघुरो बुझाई हुन्छ होला। नगद दिन सकिने मध्ये अलि सजिलो तरिका हो। लिन दिन गाह्रो र अप्ठ्यारो हुने जिनिस विचार हो। पैसो दिए पछि दिने सापेक्षिक रुपमा गरिब र लिने सापेक्षिक रुपमा धनि हुन्छ। यस अर्थमा पैसोको लेनदेनको प्रविर्ति गणितीय हुन्छ। उता विचार भने लेन देन पछि पनि दिने पनि धनि, अनि लिने पनि सम्पन्न हुन्छ। माया पिरेम जस्तै।

अन्तमा, सामाजिक कर्ममा आउदै गर्दा समग्र समाजको सोच (collective thinking) को अवधारणा अघि राखेमा समाज सेवी र समाज दुवै स्वस्थ हुन्थिए कि? सच्चा समाज सेवी सबैमा फेरि एक पटक हार्दिक नमन।

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The good, the bad and the ugly sides of Sydney’s transport planning

This is based on my personal experience in Sydney couple of weeks ago in the month of April. With 4.5 million population, Sydney is the most happening place in the entire Australasia. I love sydney. I can’t help but fall in love with this city every time I visit there. The city has vibe like no other places, even when compared with its nearest cousin Melbourne. I’m sorry, though I’m an Aucklander and it may boast itself as “the world’s most liveable city”, it comes nowhere near Sydney in almost all areas of urban vibes. Comparing Sydney and Auckland are doing that between apple and oranges. Melbourne has its own identity but Sydney is “the” cosmopolitan city to be among the Aussie urban aggregations.

Sydney’s transportation system is one of the most sophisticated in this part of the world. Residing in Auckland, Sydney’s train system is something I envy with great sense of resentment towards the slack mass transport policies of Auckland. During the three days of my stay in Sydney, things were going fantastic until 2.9 days. Things went horribly wrong in the final few hours.


Downtown Sydney just after dusk

The morning of Monday 29 April was the first day after school holidays, but that should not be a reason for Sydney’s train and airport systems to crap out. To catch a flight to Auckland in the late morning, I was at Revesby Train station before 7:45 AM. After purchasing my one-way ticket to the airport, I headed towards the platform. Until then, I had not realised the PA announcement at the station that the train system had some signal failure issues and that many services had been cancelled or delayed. A train that had been delayed by an hour or so arrived but it even didn’t stop as it was too full. Checking frantically on website for train timetable, following the announcements being made in the PA system at the station, and upon re-checking with my friend, I decided to catch a cab just before 8AM from Revesby Station.

I got out of the station and looked for a cab. Unfortunately, in panic mode of looking for a cab, I happened to walk towards Marco Ave that is located to the north of the station, which is on the other side of the railway track from Coles, where my friend suggested me to find a cab. Once I realised this, I decided to head towards Coles across the station. Luckily, there was a train in the platform waiting to leave, and it was stopping at the airport. I made it to the train just before it took off but only after rushing, pushing and shoving other passengers. Phew, on train finally just after 8AM. Never mind my luggage and difficulty to stand straight. But it was an All Station train and the trip to the Sydney International Airport Station from Revesby Station took about than 30 minutes. At a number of stations, passengers could not board the train as it was already running beyond full capacity.


The envious mass transit network of Sydney. www.railmaps.com.au

Finally, I made it to the airline check in counter prior to two hours of my flight. The que at check in was very long but I was aware that is normal for Sydney International Airport. Things got even more interesting after check in. As I headed to Customs from check in desk, the que to get into the Customs was a snaking line from the furthest check in counter to the Customs gate, wrapped around nicely but twice. It must be a good more than a kilometer of line. You can imagine my situation because there was less than an hour left before the flight. By then I had already given up any hope of making it to the boarding gate on time. The good thing was this kilometer long que was moving.

30 minutes prior to the flight, I made it to the x-ray station. I passed through this capsule where they make you stand on two yellow footprints and the machine circumnavigates you. I could not help but think of the planet Saturn with its rings and the image of an electron whizzing around nucleus of an atom as I stood there in the middle of this machine and it made all those mechanical sounds. A rude (yes, he was rude. No manners; no etiquette. He seemed to be of South Asian origin) staff pointed me to the screen located to the left of the capsule and rudely said I failed the inspection. He goes, “are you wearing a boot”. “Yes, of course”, I said. “Go back, take off your shoes, put it in the tray and pass through the machine again”. On this side of the Tasman we are used to hearing two magic words - “please” and “thank you”. No, not in Sydney International Airport. It felt like the place was too busy, and as if those unproductive simple words of courtesy maybe got sucked out of the frantic and panic ambience that hangs in the air all the time inside the terminals. Second time through the high tech x-ray machine, I passed the security test but it meant I lost 5 more minutes. I was literally running towards my gate by then.




Chaos at Sydney International Airport in the morning of 29 April 2019. www.9news.com.au

Once at the boarding gate, there was even more frantic chaos. The staff were operating like headless chicken, including the passengers. Murphy’s law, “whatever can go wrong, will go wrong” is amazing. Even more astounding is that it will go wrong at the wrong moment. Somebody spilled their salad at the bottom of the escalator leading to the gate to the aircraft. This is not your few pieces of onion and leaves but a big pile of shit scattered all over. You had to dodge those litter on the floor over the metal parts of the escalator. Could have easily been a case of serious health and safety incident if anyone slipped over it.

After successfully circumnavigating the horticultural mayhem in the form of the spilled salad, I finally got to the level of the terminal leading towards the Passenger Boarding Bridge. Thing were still continuing to go downhill in terms of customer service. One staff shouted to call passengers of our flight and asked us to proceed to our craft. No PA announcement but on the top of their lungs. Immediately, a few seconds later another guy ordered (not asked, but rudely told us off) us to stop, and instead called passengers from another flight. Within matter of moments, we were again told off to board our craft. Finally, I got to my seat in the aircraft.

After the safety demonstration, the pilot announced that the engineers identified a problem and that he needs to shut the engines off. You can imagine the sigh and grunts in the airplane from the already annoyed passengers. Luckily, it was announced after about 10 minutes that the engineers gave the craft green light. We did not have to get off the plane and we were good to fly. “Once engine shuts down and restarted, the safety demonstration has to be repeated”, the pilot announced. The poor flight attendants, who were by then red as a ripe strawberry presumably due to having to manage the chaos on board, had to do the boring safety demonstration once again. There was no enthusiasm or any life, by any standards, in that second round of safety demonstration. I wasn’t watching; I was busy fiddling with my phone notifying my friend and family in Auckland that my flight was delayed.

Why am I reciting this typical “first world problem”? Here is why. The “Regional NSW Services and Infrastructure Plan” as part of “Vision for 2056” states that “our vision for regional NSW is a safe, efficient and reliable network of transport services and infrastructure that recognises and reinforces the vital role of …”. On that couple of hours in the morning of 22 April, the transport network in the heart of Sydney was neither reliable nor efficient. The train system gave up (to their credit, they offered solution by offering additional services) and there was apparently system breakdown at the airport that was affecting the Customs checking and clearance. Now, if this was a Third World airport not big deal. But Sydney International, Hello?

Now, here comes my judgemental and highly opinionated statements as an urban planner. Once again, I love Sydney. The Local Government and the NSW government seem to be getting many things right in the city in urban and transport planning matters. But it seems like the city is choking in its own success and the unprecedented amount of growth. Without even having the benefit of referring to the official numbers, it is obvious that Greater Sydney must be one of the fastest sprawling cities in the world. High density living is being promoted but it obviously is not dense enough as, anecdotally, new low-rise suburbs are mushrooming on the edge of the town everywhere in all directions around the fringes. 40 local governments (councils) within a region of that size sounds far too many and fragmented.


www.theconversation.com

Greater Sydney is already a great place. It has got all the fancy planning strategies and plans printed in those glossy papers and uploaded in those sleek looking websites. It could be even greater if Sydney could fix those niggling small matters, that at the end of the day, really matters. I wish to see a seamless transition from train station to airport on my next visit to Sydney. Is that a big ask?

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What to do about Nepal's Urban Decay?

Vol. 1: Looking back at what went so wrong, when and how

The intention of this write up is two-fold. Firstly, to revisit how it all went wrong. Secondly, I will lay out ideas to tackle the worsening problem of urbanisation in Nepal. What better option do we have than to talk about Kathmandu on this topic? However, the discussion here should be applicable to any urban area of Nepal.

Volume one would probably be a depressing exercise of looking back at how did we get it so wrong. Volume two will be forward looking and will offer some solutions.

Unlike a well-polished academic publication, readers will come across lot of raw emotions and first person account. I have on purpose chosen to retain the human element in this writing as this is a real-life story that is unfolding right before our eyes, literally. And of course, it is greatly opinionated. 

The Himalayan Shangri-La

To consider options for solution, firstly we need to understand the problem. On that note, I will tell you a story to start with, albeit a depressing one. The description may sound fictional but they are based on my life experience. This actually happened, just in case you might wonder.

Looking back, Kathmandu was a near utopia when I was growing up in the 1980s. Don’t think we need to add any qualifiers here to describe the Himalayan Shangri-La. This is self explanatory. I am afraid, I won’t be able to do justice by daring to express the feel of those times through written words. It almost feels like any description, no matter how hard I try, fails to capture the essence of growing up in Kathmandu in those gone years. Words are failing me here helplessly. I am feeling like getting lost in translation between my feelings and articulation of them in black and white. I will try anyway.

I grew up in Siphal, which is a tole (suburb) located adjacent to Hija Khusi. Hija Khusi is newari name for Dhobi Khola (translates to washermen river in English). Dhobi Khola is one of the eight rivers that originates in the mountains of the valley. The other rivers are Balkhu, Bishnumati, Tukucha, Bagmati, Manohara, Hanumante and Nakkhu. These eight river systems converge into a single Bagmati towards the central part of the valley and exists to the south through chovar galchhi. Now, you might call this utterly sentimental and find it so from previous millennium but I used to play and catch hile machhaa in Hija Khusi. This species of the pieces is a small fish that dwelled around muddy parts of the river in Hija Khusi.

Let me paint a more vivid picture for you so as to set the context. The water in Hija Khusi was so crystal clean you could see the sand grains rolling at its bed. You could see school of fish (including white bait and catfish) swim in water, as if you are looking into a giant fish bowl. There were even eels (locally known as baam machha), that my kakas (paternal uncles) used to catch ingeniously with help of a thread around its neck. I caught fish (small fish, not eels) in regularly with my cousins. Well, I didn’t catch them, literally. I held them after my brave cousins caught them by thrusting their hands under the nooks and corners of the river banks. These fish often reside under root system of the weeping willow that grew prolifically over the river banks. Our mums never had to buy those sagun machhas (dried small fish used for cultural offerings) during those days when we used to be the river fishermen.

Bagmati near sankhamul, circa 1950. Photo: Wikipedia

Residents used to wash and farmers irrigated their crop with water from Hija Khusi. Yes, directly without any treatment. The water table was high enough for the river water to be pumped into the fields without much effort. One downside of the high water table in the river was that the monsoon flood often and regularly breached its banks. Flood water spilled over into the adjacent paddy fields after almost every heavy monsoon rain.

I was told by my parents and senior relatives that the water from Hija Khusi was used for drinking purpose until the late 1970s. This should hardly be a surprise if you have ever been to the origins of Hija Khusi in the catchments of Shivapuri mountains to the north of Kathmandu or if you have been to Sundarijal. The mountains and forest canopy of Sundarijal is the catchment area of Bagmati river. Water of all rivers of Kathmandu are still pristine, fit for drinking (with basic treatment), at their sources even to this day. Once the water leaves downstream from the catchments, and as it passes through civilisation, tragedy strikes. The pristine water gradually turns into an open, black and a stench of a thick slurry of sewer. How tragic is that? And we still call it Holy Bagmati. We worship our rivers, yet we shit on them everyday. How hypocritical is that?

The banks of Hija Khusi were rich biodiversity - both flora and fauna. Weeping willows branches not only kissed the river but their root systems also provided safe haven for the local fish. The young weeping willow branches also served as a tool to transport our catch. We would weave the fish like beads through the thread-like branch. Numerous species of birds such as barbet, fruit trees like chestnuts, and wild flowers lined its banks. Now and then, to our horror, we would see snakes as long as probably more than 3 meter long. The water loving swallow birds not only frolicked over the river water but they also frequently built their nest and raised their young ones on the wooden ceiling beams in our house every year. 

The natural playground under the sky on the banks of the river

Hija Khusi was my playground. Back in those days, there were no electronic devices. Not even TV at our home even after Nepal Television was launched in January 1985. After Nepal TV came into the airwaves, my childhood friend Bikash and I used to go watch TV series such as “The Professionals” and “The Old Fox” at our another childhood friend Bikash’s home. Dad of this Bikash with TV was a CDO, that was all we knew back then. Bikash and I made sure we washed up our hands and feet before going into the TV room. I’m getting distracted here. That is what these devices do. But this is related to the river here because since we didn’t have anything much else to do, what did we do? We go down the river.

Outdoors was our abode. We flew kites for countless hours on the open banks on either side of the river. Kiting went on until our eyes turned as red as ripe tomatoes and our skin peeled off from our wrists where the lattai came in contact with our wrist. We applied maajaa in our own and our friends’ dhaago (string). Maajaa recipe may at times contain live molluscs and broken down fluorescent tube lights.

As young children, we grew up in those river banks. We learned swear words. We learned about adult life. We learned secrets (often dark secrets) about our friends and parents and siblings we never know about. We learned about who was in love with who in our tole. We even learned why that guy sitting next to the mandir used to play flute every night so passionately for so long.

After every monsoon, the river would leave wide banks with sand so white, that reflection from it could blind you if you stare long enough at the sand without any eye protection. This was perfect because our long holidays of Dashain and min pachaas were after the monsoon season. Those sandy banks were our athletics arena. We raced, high-jumped, long-jumped, wrestled. You name it. We have had odd fist fights too in those sandy banks. Let me put it this way - those sandy banks were no less than combined stadium and colosseum for us. It was our arena for coming together, hanging out, playing, building camaraderie and what not.

On a more sinister side, Hija Khusi used to swing dance now and then every few years between Siphal (eastwards) side  of the bank and Maali Gaun/Haadi Gaun (westewards) side of the bank. These two areas are about 200 meters apart Siphal to the east and the other to the west. The river used to break the banks, carve out the edges washing away significant size of paddy fields and whatever on its way. Once it washed a bridge and since then the place is known as Bhatkya Pool (broken bridge). We could hear the river roar while we slept at night. Our home was good more than 50 meters from the river. Once the monsoon deluge subsided, the devastation that was left back across the river would seem as if tide has just gone out to the sea from a sandy beach. It was the river cleansing it’s system, as if our excretory systems got rid of impurities from our body so often. 

The beginning of the end - death by thousand cuts

Apparently, my brother Ramesh (kaka’s son) often used to boast about our Hija Khusi adventures with his son, Aniket. Aniket, a millennial, got so irritated by this incomprehensible story that Ramesh kept playing so often like a broken record, he apparently once said this to his dad, “baba, you are so dark because you played in that black river”. Well, Ramesh's completion is not as if coloured but he is a bit dark bronze, you see. Humour aside, how ironic is that in terms of the perception of the river to the new generation who did not see what it was like? I like to call this tragedy of the millennium.

Fast forward one decade since my childhood and disaster struck. By the 1990s, numerous injuries were inflicted to the river, one blow at a time. We severed life out its soul, one cut a time. I do not wish to go anywhere near painting the horrible graphical account and the acrid stench from the open drain that Hija Khusi has turned into today. Today every time I go to Kathmandu and happen to pass over the river over Kalo Pool, something in me dies. Every time. Every single passage. I’m seriously saying this. I get goosebumps. I try not to look below but I can’t help. Then something in me dies. One more time. Every time. I got goosebumps even when I was writing this.

In the early eighties, while we were fishing in Hija Khusi, occasionally, and typically late afternoon, we would see pitch black water and we’d skirt out of the water until the water turned back to its normal colourless state. In hindsight, that blackening of the water was one of the first blows to the river’s gradual decline. Little did we realise back then that the black water was due to the wastewater being dumped to the river from the leather shoe factory. Bansbari chaalaa Jutta Karkhana (Bansbari Leather Shoe Factory) used to be located north east of Kathmandu, just outside the ring road on the way to Budhaniklantha. It is hardly a surprise that Hija Khusi flows about half a kilo meters south-east from the location of the factory which now houses the Sahid Gangalal National Health Center.

Man pissing next to the open sewer of Sankhamul today. Photo: Wikipedia

Late eighties and early nineties saw a rapid decline in the health and life of the rivers of the valley. Among the fatal blows, the brightly colourful azo dyes were one of the top culprits. These synthetic dyes were the nasty Carbon and Nitrogen based chemicals used to add colour to the wool that were being used to weave the hand-made carpet. Carpet industry back then was booming and mushroomed in literally every location within the valley and its nooks and corners. The industry was Nepal’s one of the top export dollar earners until the issue of child labour case shut down the industry beyond revival in mid nineties. Unfortunately, the unregulated and untreated direct dumping of the azo-laden filthy polluted water into our rivers sucked away life out of our rivers, including that from my beloved Hija Khusi. The water quality and biodiversity that used to thrive in Hija Khusi in the past was wiped off the face of the river by the mismanagement of a single reckless industry.

The second strike to the rivers’ decline, ironically, was the cost we paid in the name of freedom. The "wind of change from Berlin" gave us prajatantra (democracy) on the early morning of 8 April 1990 via a televised decree from then King Birendra. The newly achieved 

our version of freedom was soon followed by haphazard and rushed economic liberalisation half-cooked by semi-trained economists from the US Universities. As a result of such misguided and confused policies and general migration pattern, a significant amount of activities occurred in the real estate market of the valley. 

New houses, or rather “Bihari Boxes” started to pop up in the middle of paddy fields, literally everywhere. “Bihari Boxes” was aptly coined hybrid phrase invented after builders (dakarmis in the local vernacular) who came from Bihar of India and shape of the houses that they built that looked like match boxes. A new concept emerged in the name of “Baneshwore-isation” - the unregulated, unplanned and ruthlessly uncontrolled swift process by which the lush paddy fields in the locality known as Baneshwore vanished to give way to Bihari Boxes. Baneshwore is an area located adjacent to the west of the Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu. Anecdotally, Baneshwore-isation, I was told, is taught as “what not to do” in terms of urban development in civil engineering courses in India. I have no evidence to corroborate this sad but ugly truth. But nevertheless it is a good example of the byproduct of our neglect, incompetence and myopic vision in regards to urban planning. 

In the world of Baneshwore-isation and Bihari Boxes, most of these houses would initially have no vehicle access when they were being built. Many houses would never have direct link to the vehicle access grid. Basic infrastructure such as roads, water and drainage, if any, followed these boxes after many years from completion of construction of the buildings. Forget about your site having to be accessible, serviceable and buildable. These three attributes are the basic requirements for a piece of land to be able to be urbanised in a well-planned city. Our micro-sized (approximately 60 square meters / 2 anna) land parcels are a byproduct of our ingenious “plotting” system that has no standards for minimum size of land. The existence of heterogeneous random buildings with no sense of aesthetics on such “plots” is an outcome of having no rules (development controls in urban planning terms) about what you could build or how big or how high or where on your land.


The road to nowhere. Bihari Boxes with no amenity or urban quality. Photo: www.airpano.com

Once the houses without basic infrastructure started to mushroom, the urban problems started to multiply. Without a reticulated drainage system, everything and every time residents flush their toilet or wash their vegetables in the kitchen, the waste water ended up directly in the rivers. This happens to this day. Imagine millions of people flushing and washing in the rivers; that is today's Kathmandu. 

Booming real estate industry of the 90s needed construction materials. One of the chief ingredients was sand. Where did the sand came from? The rivers. The river bed was mined as if it was being skinned one shovel a time. It was not long before that the previously high river bed sunk so low that the foundations of the bridges started to reveal themselves as if ribs of an animal exposed after chronic malnutrition.

Our environmental disaster of the new millennium must be dumping the household waste on the river banks and compacting them to build roads. Imagine where did the leachate from those washed out after rain. And we know how incessant monsoon rain could be in the valley. The final nail in the coffin of our rivers is the stone and concrete walls that we have constructed to channel the rivers. This is us formally declaring the rivers an open sewer. It was as if we have no notion or appreciation of riparian zone. A riparian zone is the interface between land and a river or stream. All possible chances of restoring and reviving the river back to its natural state died on the day some fool decided to channel the river by confining it within the impervious concrete and stone walls. 


The silliest job ever: sealing the banks of river beyond repair and restoration. Dhobi Khola today. Photo: afaceofktm.wordpress.com

As the pressure of in-migration continued so did the escalation of our social disparity. Homeless people, known as sukumbasi, started to encroach the banks of the river where they built their tarpaulin or plastic huts. It is widely contested to this day if they are the “real” homeless, but that is a topic for another day. The life on the banks of the river in places like Sankhamul, in my view, is a humanitarian disaster. You may visit and see for yourself - those squatters are living in slums next to an open filthy drain that only a few decades ago used to be a thriving river.

Talking of slums, we should not be that carried away. The entire settlement of Kathmandu valley, by any urban planning standard, is nothing more than a slum. I am utterly sorry to say this, but I am only being a messenger here. Just look for yourself the definition of slum below:

UN-HABITAT defines a slum household as a group of individuals living under the same roof in an urban area who lack one or more of the following:

1. Durable housing of a permanent nature that protects against extreme climate conditions.
2. Sufficient living space which means not more than three people sharing the same room.
3. Easy access to safe water in sufficient amounts at an affordable price.
4. Access to adequate sanitation in the form of a private or public toilet shared by a reasonable number of people.
5. Security of tenure that prevents forced evictions.

What I have described above maybe a case of an area around a river catchment in Kathmandu valley. Sadly, the rest of the country has now caught up with the Kathmandu-style urban decay. And they seem to be catching-up fast.

(Coming soon... Vol 2: The way forward; considering the solutions)

The curious case of the international students of Nepali origin (Vol. 1): My story

The curious case of the international students of Nepali origin (Vol. 1)

My story

This two volume article is a mosaic of stories about the ups and downs in life of international students of Nepali origin. In volume 1, I will succinctly narrate my own personal account of the story as an international student in Europe and New Zealand. Volume 2 will ease into the contemporary story about the international students in New Zealand.

The write up is based on my own story, and my observation and personal accounts shared with me by international students. Any omission or mis-interpretations should be viewed as the author’s limitations.

A privileged boy from Kathmandu in the Scandinavian winter

I got shock of my life when I arrived in København, Danmark (Copenhagen, Denmark) for my studies on 25 August 2002. My University started on the second week of my arrival in Copenhagen. By the third week, I had landed on my first part-time job. My first job in Copenhagen was to distribute magazines in apartments. This job was a “graveyard shift” - a typical shift started at 2AM in the morning and ended around 6AM before daylight. Weekends would start earlier around 12AM. The role involved collecting the daily newspapers, “Politiken” and “Berlingske Tidende”, from depot located in central Copenhagen, and distributing it to the households (predominantly 4-5 storey apartments) in the central and fringe kommuner (suburbs). Simple, right?

My mode of transport on and off the job was a trashy bicycle reassembled from salvaged parts. That was all I could afford back then. I vividly recall that one of my proudest moment during my stay in Denmark was when I bought a brand new bike. Danes drive to the right side of the road, in contrast to what I had been accustomed to until I arrived in Copenhagen. Until many months, I spoke only two phrases of Danish with full confidence. Those two phrases were “hi” and “hi hi”. The twin word means “bye” på dansk. på dansk = "in Danish language".

August, my month of arrival, is considered the warmest month in Denmark. By Danish standard, that is. September, my inaugural month on the job, is sort of beginning of the autumn season. In the hindsight, I was unaware and was so unprepared for what was coming, weather-wise. In a couple of week on the job, my course at the University began to progress in full speed. During weekdays, when I had to juggle both job and University, I would not have time to catch enough sleep. At times, I would be on the go without any sleep for 24+ hours. I vividly remember those times when I would be like a walking zombie. Sleep deprivation, apparently, is considered one of the worst form of torture. The University course was full on with frequent group work with colleagues. So often, my colleagues would have mercy on me and would generously offer to help me out of my sleep deprivation. At times, when they noticed that my eyelids were in the auto mode of shutting down, my colleagues would ask me to take a cat nap for a while during the group work sessions.

Soon after few weeks of arrival in Denmark, the reality and full brunt of Scandinavian winter hit me. In the middle of winter months of November to February, there would hardly be any sunshine. The sky would almost always be covered by think dark cloud hanging so low above your head, that it looked like ceiling of your apartment. I experienced minimum temperature of below -20०C for the first time in my life. And I would be on the job biking outdoors braving the howling headwind. The wind chill would probably be -25०C or even less. Tears due to this level of bitter cold would freeze at the corner of my eyes. Warm air from my body would crystallise on the periphery of my nostrils. I distinctly remember the feeling as if the cold air entered from my right ear, pierced through my brain and shot out from my left ear. Harsh. It was harsh and ruthless cold.

All those reality of life’s struggles in the early days of arriving in a foreign country occurred during the month of September and October 2003. The months happened to include the festive season of Dashain and Tihar, the two most important festivals celebrated nationally in Nepal. The home sickness was simply too much, in the face, during Tihar for the simple fact that grew up with four sisters at home. There I was braving Scandinavian chill during Tihar, including on the bhai tika day (the day when brothers receive special blessings from sisters). You may imagine what a privileged (sort of) newar boy from a typical traditional family might have gone through in his head while going through all those emotional rollercoaster.

Have you realised I haven’t yet written much about why I was in Denmark in the first place? This is the irony and the reality of our international students. They arrive in the foreign education institutions as students but life takes priority over the necessity to survive. Study comes only after that, needless to mention.

The madness of the clash of cultures

At the University of Copenhagen, not only the level of expectation sought from the course supervisors was too high but also the students were expected to lead their own study programme. My course, MSc International Development, was one of the rare few courses offered in English. There were students from more than 15 countries. I kind of felt that I was there at the University representing my country and that I needed to succeed to earn respect for myself and Nepal. I wished not only to succeed but to succeed well. That would soon prove to be an unwise self-induced pressure. In hindsight, a bit too unrealistic and so unnecessary.

One example of having to deal with a new education system was that for the first time in my entire academic life, my opinion was being sought and valued. In classes, I would be almost daily and frequently asked, “what do you think about this, Mr Maharjan”? I found those wh questions the hardest to answer. Until then, I had never learned or practiced to answer those sort of open-ended question. It was not necessarily that I did not know the answer to those questions. It was intimating because I was never trained to articulate or speak up about my personal opinion. From childhood, my brain was institutionally inculcated to be humble. Both in social and academic life. I was taught that banging my own drum was not our culture. That speaking up was rude. I was frequently being told what to do. Note, “told”, never asked. Even worse, almost always reminded what not to do - don't do this, should not do that, and so on.

The stark reality in the different approaches to teaching and learning never occurred to me so clearly until then. I was a product of an education system where the goal was to be an expert in taking exams and scoring higher grades. How much percentage did you score in the annual exam was the sole indicator of success. Learning was hardly ever consciously or proactively offered at school and college. As a student, I have no recollection of making learning a conscious choice. Those things were completely missing from the pedagogy environment, unfortunately. Back then, education almost was mostly about, “passing in the upcoming exam”.  It was more a vicious cycle of route learning, regurgitating and forgetting.

The ongoing cultural shock since arrival and the countless instances of not being able to deal with or respond to the basic language and simple etiquette would occur frequently on a daily basis.  The cold and dry danish humour continued to be something I could not fathom to find a trace slightest funny even after three years of my stay over there. The resulting embarrassment from such lack of social skills started to morph into shame. Knowingly or inadvertently, it gradually contributed towards a greater degree of withdrawal from other than must-do activities or social exchanges.

Happy days - gradually and finally

In 2003, about a year since arriving in Copenhagen, things started to change. I started to build networks, and finally got a job as a crew member in Burger King at the heart of Central Copenhagen. The store was one of the busiest in the entire Denmark. It was situated at a prime location in Vesterbrogade, which is one of the busiest streets in Copenhagen. The store was right in front of Tivoli which is the second-oldest operating amusement park in the world. It was located only about 50 meters from rådhuspladsen (City Hall Square). Though it was almost always crazy busy, I loved my new job. My first reason for the new found happiness was that it was an indoor job. I no longer needed to navigate -20०C in bone chilling conditions. I chose night shifts as they paid twice the day rate. I worked long hours. At times, I would do back-to-back full shifts during summer months when there would be no cap in student hours.

In about one and a half year, with the money saved, I made a trip to Scandinavia, Western Europe and Australia before heading to Nepal for my masters’ thesis. In June 2005, I graduated with Masters in International Development. I did it with good grades. In my research methodology paper, I scored the highest you could score in the Danish grading system. By the end of my stay of three years in Denmark, I had a degree in my hand. I managed to forge life-long friendship with colleagues and teachers from the University. Some of them are very close to my heart even until this day, and we still keep in touch on an on-going basis. I learned new cultures as I had colleagues from all over the world in my class. I learned to speak a few new languages (Spanish and Danish), albeit only a limited number of phrases (in addition to “hi” and “hi hi”, and "uno, dos, tres"). As part of my course in 2004, I travelled to South Africa with about 50 University students from three different Universities of Denmark. It was an exchange programme with Universities in South Africa. That exchange taught me a lot, both about the course material and the post-apartheid South Africa.

Doing it all over again - similar story and different place - but better results

I arrived in New Zealand on 25 September 2005. In the first week of my arrival, I had an interview in a consulting company, Anzdec (now FCG Anzdec). Of course, I did not get that job. It went to someone with 15 years of experience in the United Nation. As I continued to get turned down from all the jobs (maybe 20+) I applied for, I took on odd jobs of working in fast food outlets (Burger King and Mcdonalds) and call centres. I did phone surveys. I braved the Auckland rain and wind to door knock in Papakura and Otara in the evenings of winter months to sell Sky TV packages to customers as the world was eagerly waiting for the FIFA World Cup of 2006, held in Germany (the one in which Zinedin Zidan head butted Marco Materazzi, and managed to blow up the final match).

Once I realised that my European degree was not more than a piece of paper in the land of the long white cloud, I decided to enrol for another Masters course at the University of Auckland. The course began in mid-term 2006. Unlike in Denmark, this time, I decided to focus on my studies and did not work while studying. However, I ended up stacking up a huge amount of student loan at the end of my University days. Student life was not as bad as that was in Denmark. I guess, I had learned to navigate my way in the Western education system by then. On 13 November 2007, I was awarded the “most promising student” on my achievement in the first year of the course, Master of Planning Practice. In May 2009, I graduated with honours.

A few good things started to happen in 2007/8. I was working as a planner in Incite, a consultancy based in Central Auckland, Symonds Street. I went back to Nepal in 2008 and trekked in the Annapurna Region. I taught a Resource Management Law course for one term at the University of Auckland. Most importantly, in August 2008, I was offered the role of Policy Planner by the former North Shore City Council - my gateway to the professional achievements in New Zealand. All this occurred even before I received my formal degree from the University. Within few years, I paid all my student loan. Within few months of joining North Shore City Council, we bought a house in Auckland in February 2008. My parents visited us in summer of 2009/10. We had our first baby girl in 2010.

The graphical accounts of my personal experience above is deliberate reciting of events. The purpose is to remind us the reality of “what it takes” to arrive to the shores of a new country as a self-funded international student. It hopefully paints a picture of what do we go through as we build our lives one piece at a time. Bit by bit.

I have told my success story, hopefully, to give us hope that there is a light at the end of the dark tunnel. Things will change, if you hang in there.

The curious case of the international students of Nepali origin (Vol. 2)

Painting a picture of a typical Nepali international student in New Zealand

Coming soon …