There’re quite a few things reminding me of the 1950s in the US. The sexes here rarely mingle with each other in social and business situations. There’s a strain of machismo in young Nepali men as they adhere to a very masculine archetype of manhood. Men wear aviator-style sunglasses with jackets cut above the waist, especially in photographs, where men pose as if they were Lord of the Dance.
And most Nepali men in their early twenties will have a photo album where they keep photographs of themselves. The photographs are taken from odd angles and assuming poses with them wearing nearly-leather flight jackets with raised collars not unlike yearbook pics of a Leave it to Beaver football captain. The air of cool is laid on thickly, at least for a cocky American who for some reason believes America invented cool—but what about the French?
Sometimes I think this country tries too hard. And it’s different for a country like Nepal. The US has something of an identity, even if it’s the melting pot (or cultural fleecier, as I prefer), which can evolve around what is imported and exported, can develop according to the whims of its masses, but Nepal is small—ask any Nepali.
They are aware of what Nepali is and what it isn’t. When a smaller country is neighbored by others that are richer and more powerful, the cultural impact those countries can have on their neighbors is typically proportional to their economic influence.
For example, think about the stereotypes projected in the US of what it means to be Chinese or Indian. How about Nepali? What is a Nepali like? What does one look like? Are they male or female? Hindu or Buddhist? A farmer or shop owner? I’m not trying to encourage racial stereotypes, but that my culture is unaware of theirs suggests that perhaps India’s or China’s identity has compromised Nepal’s.
Even now when I try and imagine a stereotypical Nepali I imagine a mix and match of its neighbors.
The significance is just an awareness of ignorance. As I begin to understand this culture, I have done so in relatable ways, trying to simplify Nepal into something knowable that I have in some way experienced and can digest for better or worse. And I think about this as I go swimming.
There’s something suggestive about swimming suits, I think. The evolution of swimwear fashion progressed at a tremendous rate, comparatively with other garments, like the shirt. Nepali swimsuits are delightful. Of course Nepali men wear the euro-cut Speedos with something resembling dignity.
The women’s swimwear, however, is completely different. It’s a gender gap. Men wear what the like and women wear what men think is appropriate. I met a couple Nepali women weraing swimwear not unlike you have seen in pool-filled musicals from tphe 1940s: billowing lace coming off the blouse with trimmed, puffy sleeves and shorts covered by something like a mini-poodle skirt.
The statement is “I am a bonified Hindu princess and a master of Western culture.” Watching Nepalis swim is just as grotesquely amusing as watching them govern a country. Nepal is a landlocked country without major bodies of water other than rivers, which regularly kill experienced kayakers, so there isn’t much (if any, really) maritime recreation.
I would say that almost all Nepalis don’t know how to swim, as I understand it. Nepalis aren’t afraid of the water, though while in a pool they hardly venture beyond the waist level.
To translate the Nepali “to swim” into English nearly literally means, “to play in water,” which accurately describes what I see in Birganj’s two pools. One is at a place called City Club, a private club that along with the pool has two billiard tables, a snooker table, and a weight room.
The weight room is just like the one from my high school. The equipment has clearly suffered excessive attention by people who use it incorrectly, or even abuse it, and there’s just not enough ventilation to rid the room of the smell of stagnant BO.
So that’s the City Club. Usually it’s empty besides the creepy attendant, who spends his time playing billiards or snooker. It takes quite a bit of practice to play on the tables since they’ve been warped by years of Birganj heat and humidity. The tables’ surfaces are not unlike those of the Birganj roads, but the attendant, after spending hours of practice, is able to literally play the table.
There’s also the occasional Indian businessman or his daughters in the pool. City Club is truly a family oriented business as it assures those businessmen that their daughters won’t been endangering their honor or chastity (a Hindu with a command of English would call it his daughter’s “truth”) by only allowing women to swim from 3 to 6 PM. Men swim at any other time.
The first time I went to swim at the City Club I went with Robin and Jane-Erie. I had been to the City Club once before just to check things out but I hadn’t noticed the 3 to 6 PM women only rule. Of course we went just as the sulfuric flames of Birganj begin to cool, around 4 PM, so I had to sit aside while Robin and Jane-Erie indulged themselves.
There were two young women swimming that day. Their mother sat poolside, calmly watching the children entertain themselves in ways clearly beyond her appreciation.
I took a chair next to Grandma Moses to wait my turn. The two girls were trying to teach one another, through self-discovery apparently, freestyle swimming. Jane-Erie took to paudi keldihunuhunchha while Robin began swimming her laps. That morning Robin had her first experience in Birganj of sexual harassment.
A Nepali man had followed her a ways as she walked to school and said foul, vulgar things to her in English. She informed her school and her fellow teachers and headmiss took to the area asking pasal owners if they had seen or knew the man. No one was apprehended, but people were made aware, which was a step towards prevention.
What does this have to with swimming? Nothing, really, just one of the more frustrating realities of being a female volunteer in Nepal. Robin had to deal with her frustrations and did so by swimming laps that afternoon. She had handled the situation professionally and smartly, but now it was time for her to work off her frustrations.
The two young girls asked Jane-Erie to teach them how to swim. Really. Jane-Erie hadn’t a clue how to instruct these girls so I walked around to the pool and began to talk with the girls about how they could improve their technique. But these girls didn’t want to have anything to do with me. They were clearly uncomfortable talking to a male while they were completely naked, or at least in their bathing suits.
A little frustrated with Nepali culture, with the reality that because I am a male I’m not able to teach these girls. So I went back to talk to Whistler’s Mother. Whistler’s Mother was a classic Hindu woman. She spoke English well, but in an odd way. Sort of barbarically poetic.
There’s a certain beauty of language that can only be expressed by someone who isn’t comfortable with the language. She watched her daughters struggle to master their freestyle stroke and then turned to Robin who swam several different strokes, performing underwater flip-turns, and said, without a hint of emotion, “She is champion.”
Indeed, Robin is champion.
The other place to swim is the Vishuwa Hotel, which caters to the Chinese and exceptionally rich Indian businessmen. The Vishuwa is on the northeast side of Birganj, just off the Ring Road (sort of the loop that buses and trucks take around Birganj to and from India).
This place is a palace. Rob and Luke frequent the Vishuwa often enough that they Vishuwa gives Peace Corps volunteers a 20% discount. This place has a few necessities for life in Birganj other than the pool—namely Guinness and pizza. The pizza is OK.
Their menu is a scream, though. Most Nepali menus are printed in English because a Nepali is only interested in getting daal bhaat takari. My favorite header/section of the menu is entitled “The European Odyssey.” The best menu I’ve come across in Nepal is from the Siddhartha Restaurant in Nepalgunj.
The menu should be rated R for foul language. You’ll find cold drinks under the “Drink cock” heading. There are other, less significant typos, like “schnakes” instead of snacks, but nothing even comparable to their completely inappropriate misspelling of Coke.
But back to the pool. Swimming at the Vishuwa is expensive (NRs. 200), twice as expensive as the City Club. To make it relatable, an average meal at a restaurant in Birganj is NRs. 40 and a nice meal at the Vishuwa will run you at most NRs. 120.
Just trust me, NRs. 200 is a lot for a dip at the Vishuwa, especially because you’re going to eat there afterwards. In dollars, though, NRs. 200 is nearly US$4, which should help you valuate how much a PCVs lives on. The swimmers I find at the Vishuwa are of a different caliber.
When I was in China I found that people didn’t really swim either. On the beach one evening in Quingtao (Tsingtao, the city of Chinese beer) I found that the locals would venture out into the water at just above ankle depth, but rarely father. Perhaps it’s because of the dubious quality of Chinese government instituted shark nets or the ominous presence of oil tankers not fare off the beach.
But the privileged few who make it (God only knows why) to the Vishuwa in Birganj seem to have a better understanding of what swimming is. They seem to understand that swimming is as much about getting in the pool as lingering in lawn chairs with a cold drink and a book.
Overall I prefer swimming at the City Club. I’ve never had anyone ever say that my friend is champion at the Vishuwa, nor would the patrons of the Vishuwa ever let themselves come across as not being savvy of Western culture and refusing the attention of a former swimming teacher.
