I’m in a microbus with windows that slide open and my head is out in the cool air like a dog. The early evening sky is clear and the pictures I’m taking of the snowcapped Himalayas would look a lot better if our driver didn’t swerve so much. The road’s not paved and boulders the size of full grown cows (as well as full grown cows) often materialize in our path.
I sit on a plastic chair outside the Pokhara bus port and sip black tea. I’ve been here for more than two hours, just waiting. I’ve watched the sun burn off the morning clouds. I’ve watched the vegetable sellers wheel their carts full of eggplant, cucumbers and potatoes down the hill towards the bazaar. I’ve watched children, dressed in school uniforms, sidestep the puddles from last night’s rains on the broken sidewalks.
There is one way down into the Dalit settlement. The sun bites the back of my neck and the sweat crawling down my forearm almost causes the camera in my hand to slip. I am nervous; I feel like a trespasser, an outsider who has come to gawk. I descend the rock staircase as two old women with bags strapped across their head pass me going up.
I’m looking out over Phewa Tal. A boy, maybe 14, asks if I’d like a boat ride. I would love one, I think, but I can’t stay by the water. At this hour the lake is peaceful and inviting, but I’m meeting Prem Nepali in a few minutes at Serenity Hotel. Prem is a freelance reporter who is tied with JMC’s network of Dalit journalists. He is the first of 16 Dalit journalists I will be visiting.
This morning I woke to the sound of a man violently hacking up flem in the alley next to our flat. My windows face all four cardinal directions and although I’m on the third floor, even soft sounds will reach my room. It would be uncomfortably hot to shut the windows, so I have become attuned, almost familiar with the daily sounds of the neighborhood.
Today I went down to the holy Bagmati River to take some photographs. I find serenity by bodies of water. The river is a five-minute stroll from my room in Thapathali. Once I cross the brown clumpy waters of the Dhobi Khola canal, I am in Buddhanagar, although I can’t be sure of this.
Overstimulation: the overload of sensory perception. It’s exhausting, yet it’s what I love about being in a different and new place – the complete unfamiliarity of it all. It’s like being 2 years old again – the world is so amazing, so incredible. When we are introduced to new environments, we become aware to a greater degree because it is different and new.
While working on the Clean Hands Project, I blogged for the Advocacy Project, Jagaran Media Center, and the International Dalit Solidarity Network. These writings were published and shared across many networks to raise awareness of the Clean Hands Project. The following posts were written and sent during that project.
As a trip leader, photographer, and filmmaker with National Geographic Expeditions, I’ve taught photography to high school age students throughout the world.
One Step at a Time follows the story of three men as they work to overcome addiction and homelessness to move forward in their lives.