Volunteer Articles

Wangdi

By Kenmore Thompson November 2011

My roommate Krishna and I got out of our cab into a quickly darkening street in a smallish town just outside the city. I stood and looked around at the shabby-looking concrete buildings while he leaned in through a window and paid our driver, who had seemingly decided to renegotiate his price after delivering us.  When that business was settled we walked over to a small shop glowing with harsh electric lighting and bought two large bottles of soda; one Mountain Dew, and one Pepsi. Krishna had already brought two scarves, but it would have been rude to show up without something else to offer our hosts. We were on our way to Wangdi Sherpa's house for a going away party.

I had gotten to know Wangdi through Krishna over the preceding two months. I was living in Boudha, passing my time as an English teacher in a small language institute founded by a Buddhist monk who was currently living in Thailand. Krishna was my friend, my roommate,  my host, and (as the administrator of the small school in the founding monk's absence) what roughly amounted to my 'boss' as well.  At twenty four, he was about my age, and like many Nepali young people, aspired to a better life than was immediately available.

For Krishna, the obvious way to make that better life available was by learning languages. His knowledge of Japanese helped him get a job with a foreign television company for some time, and his knowledge of of English had led him to his school where he made a small stipend, but for Krishna as it was for so many, the ultimate goal was emigration. The chance to work in a more developed country with a higher wage, to support family at home.  Almost any country would do: anytime I introduced myself as a Canadian someone present would often remark how difficult it is to get a visa for Canada. Similarly, several of my students departed partway through my stay to work in India, and I was constantly meeting people with loved ones in the USA, the UAE, Israel, Saudi Arabia, or a number of other states.

For Krishna the focus was South Korea.  Every week from Sunday to Friday Krishna and a small cabal of hopeful South Korean immigrants paid a teacher to gather with them for an hour in our apartment and practice their Korean. After an hour of study the whole class would go for tea, and I would often join them.


It was over these daily teashop visits that I got to know the group, including Wangdi. Wangdi was about thirty years old, skinny and tall, and was one of the kindest men I met while in Nepal. Krishna once remarked to me that if Wangdi ever went two days without seeing one of his friends, he would go for a visit or call them to make sure everybody was healthy, and if everything wasn’t well, to offer help in whatever way he could. Every other day he would make certain to chat with me, and whenever we would go out for meals he would make sure that I was taken care of.


I remember one chilly day we all decided to go out for a lunch of chowmein after class. When our plates were brought out, I remarked how strange it was to me that Nepali people bury their chowmein in ketchup. Up until that point I had little desire to add ketchup to my chowmein for fear of looking too much like a tourist. The irony there, of course, was the fact that everyone in Boudha ate it that way. I, in my conscious effort to make sure I looked like I belonged, wasn't doing the one thing every local was doing. So that afternoon Wangdi insisted that I apply a healthy portion of ketchup to my stir-fried noodles, and I discovered how foolish I had been. Chowmein just doesn't taste finished anymore without it.

Eventually the time arrived when South Korea started assigning visas to applicants by lottery. Almost the entire class got one eventually, but I remember the first day Krishna told me that someone had gotten a visa. It was Wangdi. I congratulated him over tea, along with everyone else, and then the chatter switched into excited Nepali as everyone discussed what preparations were necessary.

A few weeks later, when we arrived at his going away party Wangdi greeted us at the door with a wide smile and ushered us in. We sat in one of his rooms where two beds, a trunk, and a bench made up a ring of seating around a low table. The Korean class trickled in one by one, and we spent the night laughing and joking in Nepali, Korean, and (for my benefit) English. Wangdi's wife came in with plates of chicken curry, and we shared a few bottles of beer.

Later into the night Wangdi's wife lead their two year old daughter in by the hand. She climbed onto Wangdi and sat in his lap for much of the rest of the night playing with this or that as Wangdi talked and sang with his friends.

Partway through the evening we were plunged into darkness by one of Nepal's rolling blackouts. We lit some candles and continued to sing in their dim glow. After several hours of revelry, one of the classmates, Chokki, directed Wangdi to a chair and set a table in front of him. A bottle of beer was brought, and a glass. One by one every guest retrieved a white scarf. One by one they took the bottle of beer and topped up Wangdi's glass, and Wangdi drank a sip. Then one by one the scarves went around Wangdi's neck, and the scarf-giver hugged him or shook his hand, and wished him luck in the future.

Meanwhile Wangdi's daughter sat next to her father, or climbed into his lap, or pulled at his thickening heap of scarves that were slowly burying Wangdi's head. She was given a scarf or two of her own, to occupy her, and was the source of much entertainment in her own right.

But it was that scene which finally struck me with the sadness of the situation. I had known that Wangdi was married with a child, as were others in the Korean class, and I knew that if he got a visa it would only be for him, not for his wife or daughter. I had already stayed with two families where a father or son was away making money for the rest of the family. And yet, there I found myself, witnessing that moment where life in Nepal ends, and the lonely life abroad without one's family looms. Wangdi sat on a cushion, receiving blessings from his classmates before leaving for Korea, while his scarf-tangled daughter alternated between tying her scarves in more knots and climbing into Wangdi's lap.

When Krishna and I left to return to our own apartment in Boudha, I asked him how long Wangdi would be in Korea for. Krishna said his flight was the very next afternoon, and it would be at least two years before Wangdi returned home.

That was the moment while I was in Nepal that I most felt like a tourist. When I left Canada, I was staring down the barrel of a four month stint overseas. That seemed so huge to me at the time, but even so I knew when I landed that if tragedy struck at home or abroad, then I could have pulled the plug and gone home early. What's more, I had quit my job and put my schooling on hold knowing that I could pick them up when I returned, and that in the meantime I could afford four months without them. That night when I went to bed I felt like I had done some disgusting thing, that perhaps I had taken advantage of my privilege to participate in some form of poverty tourism.

But when I looked back at it a few days later, and indeed today, I realize that what I thought must have been guilt was actually grief: grief for Wangdi. Grief that he lived in a situation where he had to leave his family and travel to an unfamiliar land, not for any sense of adventure or curiosity, but because it was their best chance for a better life. And at the same time I remember the fun that I had with Wangdi, and how he laughed at the Newfoundland folk song I sang at Krishna's birthday, and how he helped me while I was learning Nepali, and how chowmein no longer tastes done to me unless it has some ketchup in it, all because I got to be friends with Wangdi. I remember how graciously he hosted us at his going away party, and how he played with his daughter whenever the focus was not on him.

A few months after my return to Canada I remember hearing a radio talk show criticize 'voluntourism.' Flying to a developing country and participating in whatever accomplished so much less than a humble donation of those funds, argued a guest. Such trips as the one I took to Nepal were about fun and adventure and the ego, less than actually making a difference in the world.

There was an opportunity for listeners to have their say, but I never made the call. I should have. I'm sure there are legitimate criticisms that can be levelled at some agencies, but in my experience the good that can be done on a stint overseas can't be measured in dollars. My friendship with Wangdi, and with dozens of others I met while away, I will carry with me forever. They will affect my thoughts and decisions for the rest of my life. I don't believe anybody can spend time in the developing world like I did, and not come back a more compassionate, empathetic person.

If you haven't volunteered in the developing world yet, avail yourself of the opportunity when next you can. It is an experience you should have. And if we as a global community are going to engineer a more fair and compassionate tomorrow, then it's an experience the world needs you to have.

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