I  AM  WILDRICE.  JOURNALISM  PHOTOGRAPHY  

CULTURE  STYLE   ISSUE  2  

 Let’s  Talk.    

I  AM  WILDRICE.    

jessica.rhian@gmail.com  @wildricetweets  

 http://wildriceonline.com  

TEXT  &  PHOTOGRAPHY  BY  JESS  SAXTON  

“Have  you  ever  been  to  the  Asia    before?”  he  asks.    

“Uhm,  yeah  I  guess,”  I  reply,    “I  spent  a  week  in  Tokyo  once.”  

 He  smiles,  brown  eyes  twinkling,    and  I  can  tell  this  is  going  to  be    like  nothing  I’ve  ever  seen  before.  

 

Welcome  to  Nepal...  

There is a goat in the little hatch-back next to us. He’s standing in the back

where the luggage should be, face pressed against the window with a contented look

on his little face, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. I look at him

from the back eat of our own little car and he looks at me. Then they are gone,

swallowed by the heaving web of traffic cascading down the pot‐holed roads of

Kathmandu.

 

 

I’m tripping through the streets of Thamel, doe

eyed and foggy, with the sights and sounds of

Nepal’s capital closing in. At least we are

moving, that’s important right now.

We need to keep moving because the ground feels like it’s getting away on us.

I’m surrounded by lights poking holes in

the thick dust that chokes the streets. The dust creeps in through your mouth and fills

you up, sliding beneath your skin.  

It  seems  that  the  children  known  a  lot  more  English  than  the  ladies  running  the  home,  but  we  manage  through  a  mixture  of  

charades,  broken  Nepali  and  basic  phrases.  One  phrase  that  seems  to  have  stuck  is  ‘so  nice’,  used  to  describe  anything  from  our  hair  to  our  clothes,  the  food,  the  

view  and  anything  else.    And  why  shouldn’t  it  be?  Why  shouldn’t  we  see  everything  before  us  as  ‘so  nice’...  

I  was  scared  to  be  seen  as  another  white  person-­‐  a  pocket  full  of  cash,  drifting  through  life  purely  because  of  the  luck  of  the  country  I  was  born  in.  I  should  have  realised  why  that  is  how  we  are  seen,  rather  than  trying  

so  hard  to  deny  it.

The  children  were  living  on  one  floor  of  a  building,  shared  with  two  other  

families  and  another  living  next  to  the  kitchen  in  the  muddy  courtyard.  They  had  a  box  each,  stashed  

under  the  hard  beds,  where  their  clothes  and  school  

books  were  kept...no  more.  Yet  what  else  could  you  want?  Each  day  brought  with  it  the  elephants-­‐  first  walking  past  on  their  way  into  the  jungle,  then  

returning  home  at  dusk.  Each  day  brought  the  certainty  of  a  roof  over  their  heads,  someone  to  play  with,  an  opportunity  to  learn  and  plenty  of  rice  

to  fill  their  bellies.

How  nice.  To  be  housed,  fed  and  loved.  What  a  

wealth  these  children  have,  a  richer  life  than  those  who  have  ‘everything’,  but  cannot  find  happiness.

Then  it  hits  me.  Finally.  

It  was  the  night  that  did  it.  Isn’t  it  always  the  smallest  things  that  mean  the  most.  This  is  the  last  time  I’ll  look  out  into  the  same  night  as  them.  The  tears  finally  came  and  they  did  so  without  

reserve.  I  sat  alone,  with  no  one  to  hold  me  and  tell  me  they’ll  miss  me  too,  as  the  

sobs  racked  my  body  and  the  tears  I’d  wished  for  flowed  down  my  face,  soaking  my  

scarf.  

 

You’re  leaving  your  family,  I  tell  myself,  again  wishing  tears  

would  stream  down  my  cheeks  so  they  would  have  some  idea  how  much  they  mean  to  me.    

 They’ve  all  come  to  see  you  off,  and  you  can’t  even  manage  one  tear.  What  a  heartless  bitch.  

 I  walk  through  the  dusty  halls  to  the  departure  lounge,  boarding  pass  and  pillow  in  hand,  looking  for  a  place  to  wait.  It’s  pretty  crowded  even  for  the  red  hour  flights  departing  this  late,  so  I  

end  up  perched  on  a  window  sill  where  I  figure  at  least  I  can  pass  the  time  by  staring  outside.  

 

Leaving  Kathmandu   Excerpt  from  

WildRiceOnline  

We  are  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  earth…  

The  entire    world  just  seems  to  drop  away  in  all  directions,  

dissolving  into  grey  as  thick  clouds  engulf  the  range  we  are  standing  on.  

 

As  we  climb  higher  along  the  ridge,  the  clouds  close  in  to  kiss  our  cheeks,  leaving  our  skin  slightly  damp  and  cold.  We  are  3000m  above  sea  level,  between  Tadipani  and  

Ghorepani,  and  on  a  clear  day  this  ridge  would  award  trekkers  with  360  degree  mountain  vistas;  but  for  us,  

we  will  have  to  wait  another  day.  

Excerpt  from  WildRiceOnline