Sometime ago as I was strolling the main
street in Kathmandu’s Boudhanath neighbourhood looking for things to shoot with
my camera, I was accosted by a small woman with an even smaller girl in tow.
Both were dressed in traditional Indian outfits. Their line was—as I heard it
often is—we don’t want money from you, but can you please buy some milk for the
child. This is supposed to be a scam. An unsuspecting foreigner buys the milk,
but there’s an elaborate scheme by which the woman will then sell it further for
a profit. Irrespective, I figured, these are poor people; if they turn a small
profit, good for them! The child, Shalu, didn’t look like she was suffering
from malnutrition because her mother traded away her milk. So I agreed to
follow them to a convenience store and bought some milk powder for them. The
lady, Kamala, professed thankfulness and said they lived in the nearby
shantytown. If I would be so kind as to follow them, she would make me tea. I
again agreed, this time also indicating that I had my camera and would like to
take some photos there.
I followed Kamala and Shalu to a side street down from
the Boudhanath main drag and just within a couple of blocks we left the
officially built area and entered an open field with makeshift shacks covered with
tarpaulins. Just below the busy main street there was a shantytown where lots of
people lived. Beyond the area was the Tribhuvan International Airport. Kamala
led me to her hut. It was neat and tidy, with a variety of coloured posters on
the walls. Some had Jesus Christ on them (others had Hindi models and Bollywood
stars), so I asked her whether the family were Christians. Not at all; the
pictures just looked attractive.
Other family members started showing up:
Rakesh, a young man dressed in red jeans and a baseball jacket, said he was an
art student; Rahul a smiley boy of 10; Kadjel, a beautiful young woman with an
infant boy, Golu. Shalu made the promised tea, which I gladly accepted. Sitting
down on one of the beds I heard the family story, which involved drunken and
abusive husbands who consumed the money the ladies and the young man scraped
together. The family was from Rajasthan and frequently made the trip between
their home country in India and Nepal. They earned their living through shining
shoes, doing some other odd jobs and, obviously, by getting foreigners to support
their milk habit.
Kadjel offered to take me around the shanty.
The place was rather well organized and orderly. In the centre opening there
was a well with fresh water for the residents to use for cooking. Laundry was
hung between the huts. One of the huts contained a small shrine. Kadjel told me
that the land was owned by a Nepali landlady who collected Rs. 1,000 (about
US$11) per month from each of the families, a significant amount in a country
where almost a quarter of the population lives on less than the equivalent of
$1.25 per day. There were rather many children, as could be expected, but
nobody looked destitute. In fact, I saw one young man in white trousers and red
shirt emerging from one of the abodes and walking determinedly towards the main
street while talking to a cell phone.
Informal settlements, such as this—many
much larger and much more messy—are springing up everywhere in the developing
world as people move into towns. Despite the dire situation many countries
face, with poverty, high unemployment, poor or non-existent social services,
crime and other troubles, cities still provide more opportunities for people to
improve their lives than the stagnating countryside. One of the greatest false
myths of capitalism is that countries and people are poor because they are
lazy. People in the West would be hard
pressed to work as much and to be as entrepreneurial as these slum dwellers.
