TracyFood

Foto Friday: Holla Back edition. 25 April 2008 7:07 pm

Posted by Tracy in : nepal, travel, feminism, pictures, meta , trackback

So to quote the late, great Bill Hicks, “Boy, I’m in a mood.” What’s more, if you follow my Flickr photostream, you may have noticed that it’s sort of dried up on the Nepal trip front. There’s a reason for that, and today I am harnessing the power of my mood to confront it. If you’ve come to TracyFood for sunshine and happiness, I’m afraid today is not your day. Tomorrow I’ll be all lighthearted and liveblogging America’s Test Kitchen, but today I’m so serious it might take more than some Pralus chocolate before I recover. So.

The title of this post is a reference to the Holla Back websites (the link goes to the NYC original), where (as I was recently reminded by the inimitable Twisty Faster of I Blame the Patriarchy), the quick-thinking and camera-wielding meet online to post pictures of the people who harass them in public. (I almost called this post a Friday Fuck You in honor of that awesome tradition at Feministing.com, but then I saw Twisty’s latest and opted for a cuss-word-free title, but it was a tough decision.) Anyway.

As I’ve mentioned before, my mom broke her ankle shortly before the Nepal trip, and as a family we sort of ganged up and said we wouldn’t go without her. Our fantastic sirdar, Nawang, hired two porters to carry her on the trek, and as you can imagine, this arrangement was met by some strange looks, to put it mildly, but most people were polite about it until we reached the tourist-dense Everest Highway, north of Lukla. For whatever reason, the worst of it came on October 30, the day we left Namche Bazaar. (We’d encountered one particularly obnoxious harasser the day before, on the trip down from Tengboche, but unfortunately that was only a taste of what was to come.) Anyway (again).

I was all choked up after saying goodbye to Kanchha and Ang Lhakpa, so I was in no mood to deal with any aggravation on our way out of Namche Bazaar. Spinning all the prayer wheels in arm’s reach on the way to the town gate almost helped me ignore a gang of really loud British tourists in such high spirits that they were singing. When they first spotted Mom, one of them made some remark like, “What does that cost?” but when a big fellow with full-sleeve tattoos started to take her picture, I turned around. I reared up all of my 5 foot 8 inches of fury, and at 11,300 feet above sea level, where there really isn’t enough oxygen for me to make any sudden movements, I ran up into his field of view, got right into his face, and asked, “Ever heard of asking permission?”

He stammered something stupid like, “What, for taking a photo?” and I said, “Yeah, it’s really polite.”

Now either I looked as enraged as I felt, or else he was just taken aback, but I had turned around and gone well on my way before he shouted after me, “What, you think you’re someone special?” Whatever. I was out of there, and I had managed to avoid throttling him like I really wanted.

Eventually he and his mates passed us, without a word, and somewhere around that time I realized that even as I was losing my shit at him, I’d by instinct mapped out a strategy for kicking that guy’s ass if the need arose. That realization made me even happier to have gotten out of there right after shutting him down, because I had subconsciously been planning to deal some significant damage. I don’t think of myself as a particularly violent person, but I would have kneed him in the nuts, then gone after his mates with my trekking poles if they tried anything. Later in the day, I discovered that I would have had plenty of backup in such a brawl, but that’s getting ahead of myself.

As we continued down away from Namche Bazaar, we had plenty of other opportunities to confront the kind of people who don’t even think to ask permission before taking a picture. Eventually I started working the guilt trip angle: “Excuse me, but my mother is injured and you’re taking a picture without asking if it’s okay, let alone whether she’s all right?” Let ‘em assume she was hurt on trail and we’re having her carried out to medical help, I thought; I haven’t lied. I had more or less successfully adopted this strategy (to particular success when I broke it out in French at a guy who tried to pull “I don’t speak English” on me) when Dad nearly came to blows with a fellow who took serious umbrage at the fact that he’d been asked not to take a picture. All I overheard of that altercation was the guy demanding, “Is this your country?” as if he owned the place, and something about how Dad needed to watch himself — big words from someone who would have to turn his back on us and trust our goodwill not to trip him as he crossed the Dudh Kosi. But whatever.

I had my camera ready to go, but never got a chance to take this winner’s picture until later, when he was stopped in Monjo (?) and we passed by. Again he took a picture without asking, but this time I was ready, and got a great shot of him. He tried to block my camera with his hand, but was too late, and I was probably grinning — and he freaked right the fuck out, leaping across the trail, grabbing me by the arm and trying to grab for the camera, which I’d already stowed. “Who are you taking pictures of?” he yelled, again with that lovely, demanding, entitled tone of voice of his. “I’ll smash your face in!”

Piett claims I told him, “You look beautiful,” at this point, but I don’t remember saying anything, just being really glad to have stepped on this jerk’s metaphorical dick a bit, and also thinking, geez, overreacting much? But then jerkface had to drop my arm because Dad was there, getting all “That’s my daughter you’re messing with” in the dude’s face, with Piett right behind. Seconds later, Nawang and maybe Nawang-Gélé as well got in and broke them up before it turned into a real fight.

As I scooted out of there as quickly as I could, I could hear the guy and Nawang yelling at each other in a language I don’t know — the only word I could make out was “Nepali,” so along with his earlier “is this your country?” line I thought maybe we were dealing with some kind of crazed nationalist, but no.

Later, Nawang-Gélé told us that Mr. Charming was from India, and judging by his behavior I’m guessing high-caste Brahmin, convinced the sun shines out of his asshole. Nawang-Gélé explained that Nepalis are generally not well-treated in India, as his father experienced while living and working there for several years, so I’m guessing his superpowers extend to knowing just how to tell that guy off. Further evidence to that supposition came from the fact that we met up with jerkface again when he stopped for lunch at the same place we did later in the day (Waterfall View Lodge & New Sherpa Restaurant) and passed us by without saying a word. Oh sure, I know he’s too good for that, but if looks could kill, I doubt either Dad or I would’ve survived that encounter.

So. Back to that infamous picture, to wrap up the story. It is, if I do say so myself, an inadvertent masterpiece, capturing my new friend at the height of his arrogant glory:

and y’know what? I’m really proud of that picture. So fuck you, Mr. Guy, and all your little rude-ass tourist cohorts too, but especially you. I would’ve happily returned your favor by taking pictures of all your moms, but they weren’t available.

There. That’s my Friday Fuck You, and I feel better for having written it. Best of all, now I can finally get on with posting the rest of my Nepal trip pictures — it’s been soooo loooong. Dear readers, if you’ve managed to follow me this far, thank you. I wish you similar, if not far greater, success in overcoming any and all aggravations.