uplifting and I soon turned away to observe the interior of the room.
In one corner stood a large, padlocked tin trunk, which I rightly assumed to be the ‘safe’, and on top of it were piled a number of poorly-printed paperbacks in Nepali, indicating that the money-changer – who of course would also be a trader – had had some education. Several garish Hindu oleographs were pinned to the walls between a large photograph of King Mahendra with Queen Elizabeth II and a TWA picture calendar for 1952. And, presumably as a demonstration of strict neutrality, small photographs of Nehru, Gandhi, Chou-en-lai, President Kennedy and Khrushchev were huddled companionably in a corner by the door.
I had become thoroughly bored by these gentlemen when at last Rambahadur returned with our fellow-conspirator – a lean little Chetri who looked sharp-eyed but honest. Having scrutinised my cheque, passport and various signatures very closely he requested me to write both my local and home addresses in his ‘register’ – a scruffy exercise book. Then he took the key of the trunk from round his neck, walked to the corner almost ceremoniously and finally, after much muttered counting and recounting, handed me the cash in brand new notes. I couldn’t help wondering what practical purpose my credentials could serve in these circumstances; if my cheque were a dud there was no method of legal redress open to him and equally, if his notes were duds, I was debarred from protesting officially. In fact this was the most pleasing part of the transaction: it demanded a high degree of mutual trust – and so far his notes have not been questioned. I also wonder, being conspicuously ignorant about financial matters, how and where such cheques are eventually cashed. It is said that in many countries with an unstable currency they are never cashed, but are passed from hand to hand as legal tender; yet this seems unlikely, forthe simple reason that they would disintegrate comparatively quickly. Even now in parts of Nepal the country’s own paper currency is unacceptable for the same reason.
This afternoon I spent four and a half hours buying medical supplies for the refugees in Pokhara – a fascinating experience, unlikely ever to be repeated elsewhere. To begin with most of the stocks – imported from India – have passed or are rapidly approaching expiry date and the anxious salesmen look at you pathetically when you point out that this terramycin or that sulphaguanidine has been useless since last March. They then explain hopefully that local doctors unquestioningly use these drugs every day (which doesn’t surprise you in the least) and having declined to follow the doctors’ example you resignedly move on to the next chemist. Naturally everything takes ten times as long as it would at home – finding the articles, searching for the semi-illegible invoices, painfully and not always accurately pin-pointing the relevant articles on the invoices, typing the account with one finger on a machine that looks like the first of its kind, checking, packing, un packing because that box was too small, repacking, finding straw because the other box was too large … If one were new to the Asian business scene (of which Nepal is admittedly an extreme example) one would go mad within an hour; even though reasonably adjusted I very nearly did go mad after four and a half hours. But mercifully the petty dishonesty so common in India seems to be much less evident here; every night I leave Leo in Sigrid’s garden – an act of faith which no one but a lunatic would make in India.
It will sadden me to leave this warm-hearted little household, which has recently been augmented by two domineering hens, bought by Donbahadur to provide Sigrid with really fresh eggs. At dusk they come strutting into the living-room, watched by a disapproving but discreetly unprotesting Puchare, and demand to be put to bed in the kitchen under the standard Nepalese wicker coop.
In one corner stood a large, padlocked tin trunk, which I rightly assumed to be the ‘safe’, and on top of it were piled a number of poorly-printed paperbacks in Nepali, indicating that the money-changer – who of course would also be a trader – had had some education. Several garish Hindu oleographs were pinned to the walls between a large photograph of King Mahendra with Queen Elizabeth II and a TWA picture calendar for 1952. And, presumably as a demonstration of strict neutrality, small photographs of Nehru, Gandhi, Chou-en-lai, President Kennedy and Khrushchev were huddled companionably in a corner by the door.
I had become thoroughly bored by these gentlemen when at last Rambahadur returned with our fellow-conspirator – a lean little Chetri who looked sharp-eyed but honest. Having scrutinised my cheque, passport and various signatures very closely he requested me to write both my local and home addresses in his ‘register’ – a scruffy exercise book. Then he took the key of the trunk from round his neck, walked to the corner almost ceremoniously and finally, after much muttered counting and recounting, handed me the cash in brand new notes. I couldn’t help wondering what practical purpose my credentials could serve in these circumstances; if my cheque were a dud there was no method of legal redress open to him and equally, if his notes were duds, I was debarred from protesting officially. In fact this was the most pleasing part of the transaction: it demanded a high degree of mutual trust – and so far his notes have not been questioned. I also wonder, being conspicuously ignorant about financial matters, how and where such cheques are eventually cashed. It is said that in many countries with an unstable currency they are never cashed, but are passed from hand to hand as legal tender; yet this seems unlikely, forthe simple reason that they would disintegrate comparatively quickly. Even now in parts of Nepal the country’s own paper currency is unacceptable for the same reason.
This afternoon I spent four and a half hours buying medical supplies for the refugees in Pokhara – a fascinating experience, unlikely ever to be repeated elsewhere. To begin with most of the stocks – imported from India – have passed or are rapidly approaching expiry date and the anxious salesmen look at you pathetically when you point out that this terramycin or that sulphaguanidine has been useless since last March. They then explain hopefully that local doctors unquestioningly use these drugs every day (which doesn’t surprise you in the least) and having declined to follow the doctors’ example you resignedly move on to the next chemist. Naturally everything takes ten times as long as it would at home – finding the articles, searching for the semi-illegible invoices, painfully and not always accurately pin-pointing the relevant articles on the invoices, typing the account with one finger on a machine that looks like the first of its kind, checking, packing, un packing because that box was too small, repacking, finding straw because the other box was too large … If one were new to the Asian business scene (of which Nepal is admittedly an extreme example) one would go mad within an hour; even though reasonably adjusted I very nearly did go mad after four and a half hours. But mercifully the petty dishonesty so common in India seems to be much less evident here; every night I leave Leo in Sigrid’s garden – an act of faith which no one but a lunatic would make in India.
It will sadden me to leave this warm-hearted little household, which has recently been augmented by two domineering hens, bought by Donbahadur to provide Sigrid with really fresh eggs. At dusk they come strutting into the living-room, watched by a disapproving but discreetly unprotesting Puchare, and demand to be put to bed in the kitchen under the standard Nepalese wicker coop.
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