How the Other Half Lives

Because yes, it lives. And it lives well. Nepal’s rich and not famous (unknown, really) have quite the comfy life in the Kathmandu Valley, where their problems range from what social meetings to attend to choosing the most suitable restaurant for the evening’s culinary desires.

Kathmandu Valley boasts a wide variety of business people from all branches of economic activity, who mostly have international professional affairs, ensuring the well-being of a class that has yet to find all schemes – shady or rainbow-tinted – to churn the last drops of national money and shove it deep inside the safety of their pockets.

Politics happens mostly in restaurants and bars, more often than not over a bottle of the finest import whiskey or other ardent spirit that will seal the deal much better than your average glue. And anyone in need of convincing will be handsomely rewarded with a thick stack of greys: although Nepali banknotes are joyfully coloured, they pass through countless of sticky hands until they reach their destination, and so their overall colour often turns to a muddy brownish grey usually having the consistency of cleaning rags found in restaurants all over the world. And after the local authorities – minor annoyances in the way of prosperity – have been financially oiled and dutifully greased and thus, convinced  the wealthy Nepalis will proceed to deal with a number of equally rich Japanese, Chinese, Koreans, and in times of hardship, even with Europeans.

You may ask: what is it that they in fact do? And the simplest, most illuminating answer is business. That’s the most satisfactory answer I got and it should be sufficient to extinguish any other bothersome questions.

The Nepali rich have a definite idea of having a good night out and that is having an expensive dinner and some expensive drinks in a posh, expensive establishment. The operating word here is, as you might have guessed, expensive. And if you can add some World Cup football on top of that, then it’ll be a really good time. Naturally, if you can bet ridiculous amounts of money on one team or the other and lose more than a whole Nepali family makes in a week, you've just painted the picture of a perfect time.

Another great activity for the Nepali rich is bragging: what about is not usually a concern, but if there is a chance of arrogant gasconading, it will be fully exploited. The best line-shooting I’ve heard was swimming like a dolphin across the World Cup ocean and it consisted of enumerating the ownership of various gold and platinum hotel member cards, and holding that any of the aforementioned prized cards would supposedly get the owner a room (a royal suite no less) at practically any hotel in Brazil, oblivious to the fact that piranhas worldwide have surfaced only to snatch any type of available lodgings – be it royal suite or camping lawn – months ago. The bragging does not, in fact, stop here, as there is an endless supply of noteworthy self-praise. What should be engraved on the marble mausoleums of expired rich Nepalese: the sheer number of bankrupt businesses one can have and talk about with the pride of a toddler who escaped its mother’s protective embrace and is now productively sitting in a puddle of mud having lunch with the frogs. It is simply astounding. But at least you can admire the positivity of the Nepalese rich, who don’t consider bankruptcy a failure on the slope towards impoverishment, but only a slightly annoying setback in the game they never imagine they could possibly lose.

And while seeking to extend their fortunes and absorb material wealth like a dog absorbs water in a tempest; while having the latest smartphones, tablets and computers, and the flashiest gold rings, bracelets and anchor-chain-sized necklaces; while ‘retiring’ before the age of 50; while doing all that these prosperous Nepalese hold themselves the saviours of the poor, the ones who donate and organize charities and other noble causes, concurrently doing what people of their stature and position do best, considering their education and manners: barking orders at low-class waiters, shouting for a napkin when the table’s full of them, or simply disregarding anyone who’s not as well-kempt and affluent to be worthy of their precious consideration.

But do you know who else lives well? Mosquitoes. And do you know what the rich Nepalese people’s biggest living irony is? It’s that mosquitoes viciously attack everyone and only stop to ask about economic prowess when they are full (and they never are).

Post written with wrath and fury (and artistic licence, of course) because the rich Nepalese asked me to go to Brazil with them.