By Dan
Monday 15th of May 2017
We met Jonathan at the Electric Pagoda, a name that promised modernity with respect to the past. Whilst sitting on floor pillows we discovered this wasn't the first time we’d met with Jonathan; we'd been sitting next to him for most of the day at a cafe across the road! The world was too small. We spoke to Jonathan about many things, from photography, of which he belongs to the “freakishly good” variety, to the current state of American politics, a soft spot for any young lefty. Jonathan then took us to potentially the best cake store in modern society, a little known dive called Snowman.
I would just like to take a moment (and a paragraph) to tell you about Snowman. With the feel of a french bar, where revolutionists discuss the next steps to throwing off the chains of a corrupt government, softened by the jolly fat santa-like owner and his array of baked delights, it is a culinary wonderland. A dichotomy of tension and relief, the store is almost alive, breathing. A constant inflow of regulars and tourists merges easily with the eating of cake. In with the fork, out with the fork, in with the fork, out with the fork, oh finished already, I’ll have to get another. Coffee cake this time? Or what about coconut? Have you tried the chocolate brownie? All three it is! In with the fork, out with the fork etc. The shop earning its name when you are finally needed to be rolled out.
The next day we caught the bus to Takure and added Meryl to our new found friends. Taking turns to stand, as we only had two seats between the four of us, we quickly learned that indeed Jonathan and I were both Too Tall For Nepal. A phrase coined by Jonathan that belongs on a t-shirt.
Four hours and four bruised butts later we arrived at the camp. The first thing I noticed was how welcoming everyone was. Like long gone family members returning home, we were hugged and loved without question. I can imagine for some it would feel alien to be accepted so quickly, but for me at least it was a welcome feeling, a chance to let your guard down in a foreign country.
The area of Sindhupalchowk was the worst hit in the Nepal earthquake. The people of Takure, where the team is based, lost all but one building. Including homes, schools, shops and sheds. Fortune was not kind to them. Unlike other NGOs, Conscious Impact integrated itself into the community, not just helping them rebuild but also setting up sustainable and relevant businesses that locals themselves could run, with the aim for the community to be self-sufficient and without the need of international service. Perhaps it is this integrated way of serving others that acts as a binding agent between all people involved, the place is literally overflowing with love from volunteer and locals alike.
The next few days were spent getting our hands dirty and getting to know everyone. We passed bricks, sieved soil, dug holes, planted plants and learned about the regenerative way of life practiced throughout the whole camp. The good vibes were flowing and were only briefly languished by the three days of storms that forced us to flee our tent and sleep in the common space. Apart from the occasional attack formations of mosquitoes, I can’t say it was something I disliked. I fucking loved it. It was almost like I was finally granted a release from the developed world I had come from. A society that demanded the pursuit of the a “better life” via richly furnished homes, cars that sound like growling beasts and a complete disconnect from nature. Amongst the hills of Takure, on the terraces with Conscious Impact, I felt free.
Until of course, I was struck down by a fierce stomach bug, of which I’d never experienced the likes. The compost latrine became my new best friend and I spent a whole day hugging the ground, fearing the next attack. I tried all sorts of methods to solicit a miracle cure, from eating a clove of garlic, swallowing a myriad of naturopath pills and even going as far to drink a concoction created by and thus the namesake of one of the locals called Mama Juice. I vomited everything up except the juice. After 6 days of on and off suffering, only made worse by my hyperbolic nature when it comes to illness (think manflu), I saw the other side of the tunnel and returned to the normal state of freedom I had felt on those first nights.
A typical day at Conscious Impact looks like this. Wake up at 6:30, unless you’re on the breakfast team then quarter to and cooking by 6. Breakfast at 7, usually consisting of eggs, rice and cinnamon porridge, and every now and then pancakes (!!!) Morning check-in at 7:30, where we nominate ourselves for the day’s tasks, from agriculture to brick building, community visits (where you can meet a Nepali family) to art classes at the local school. Everyone has their favoured tasks and crews. Work usually starts at 8:30-9, depending on the task. For example, if we were moving bricks, we’d start as early as possible to load the 600 or so bricks on the truck and then either follow the truck on foot or ride it if the site was far away. This would usually take up the morning. Or if you wanted a more laid back and peaceful task you could try agriculture, listening and responding to the wants and desires of mother nature. At 12, we’d take lunch, a delicious assortment of local Nepali food cooked by a couple of local ladies, who Conscious Impact employ. Then at 1:30, we’d get back to it. Or not, depending on your aching muscles (or belly). The day finishes at 4:30 and you have the rest of the time to yourself, there’s usually a workshop on, where a camp goer is sharing their skills with others. Unless of course you’re on dinner team, then you’ll be in the kitchen cooking dinner till 7 or so. Dinner is preluded by gratitude, which is announced with the resounding call “GRATITUDE!” by the dinner team. Everyone then joins the common space and gets to talk about what they’re grateful for that day. The subjects of gratitude are endless. I’ve been grateful for my beard, for dogs, chocolate, love, community, the hardworking women who put the men to shame when sieving soil etc. After the love has spilled over, dinner is served. After which you can do what you like. Unless you’re on the dinner dishes team. Quiet-time in the tent city is officially 10pm. But it’s not unknown to hear a drum or song coming from the tee-pee. Repeat.
The pervading feeling of freedom made time travel faster than anything I’d felt before. Like someone had clicked the fast forward button on the remote. Potentially boring to the world left behind, but for the characters within, an amazing adventure that only by doing could ever know the joys of such a journey. The spirit of adventure swept me away and I felt the need to contribute more than just physically to the camp. This manifested itself in the opportunity to help Conscious Impact brand themselves. A process made all the more easier by our current immersion and which is well underway as I write now.
Sadly, like a cake at Snowman, delightful things must come to an end, especially for those who’ve adopted the nomadic lifestyle of an intrepid traveller. Within the time at Conscious Impact, we became earth-building, agroforestry and community-serving enthusiasts. I reignited my passion for chess, learned to play drums and learned to dance without inhibition, thanks mainly to my chore team a.k.a dance team. We eye-gazed, meditated, laughed, loved, gorged ourselves on cob oven pizza, worked our butts off in the sun and connected with not only a group of selfless individuals, but also a larger community, our own selves and the earth. It’s a routine that could easily last a life. As a great Austrian cybernetic organism once said, I’ll be back.
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