a general post office kind of day, being a damsel in distress, ah-cone?

When planning a trip to the General Post Office, you need to maximize your zen-buddhism: plan to use the whole day, encounter delays, and use many means of transport. Thus i set off on Thursday morning, intent on completing my quest and picking up the three packages waiting for me in Kathmandu, especially important as my mother mentioned some Easter goodies in one of them. The bus ride, as ever, was crowded and hot, and i decided to stretch my legs and walk to Thamel for an early lunch before going to the PA Nepal office to pick up my package slips. The early lunch turned into a two-hour lunch when i got involved in conversations with a Dutch guy who also works in Sankhu, and a New Yorker who gave me some solid trekking advice. Unfortunately, this led my anxious-prone self to power-walk to the office, horrified that i might not be able to get my packages out before 3:00, in only two hours, at which point they would stop, mid-signature, on my form, and throw me out on the street (at this point sad music would play and i would walk, rejected, into the sunset).
My fears were un-realized, although Indira, the President of PA Nepal, was in the office, and did break the news that she wanted me to have the final photo show for the PhotoPals program in Kathmandu in a gallery, to which she would invite many dignitaries and important people. As great as i envisioned that kind of publicity and recognition of the kids, there would only be perhaps 6 days to prepare, during which my dad would arrive, and my final five days at the home in which to let him see this world that I feel so close to. I really really didn't want to deal with the complication of presenting in a new space and bringing only the photo students to kathmandu, all instead of a 'house party' that all the kids could be a part of and that could double as a kind've goodbye treat with lots of snacks and soda pop. Despite her intensity, I stood up to her surprisingly well. Indira mentioned the other night that her nicknames range from "chocolate caramel" (hard on the outside and soft on the inside), and "bull dozer". These both seem totally appropriate to me, as she is definitely a power-house of a woman, hard to interrupt and harder to question, but i have also seen her stroking the cheeks of a sick little girl and flicking away the bad energy, chanting softly in Nepali. Everyone is multifaceted, i suppose, now I'm starting to wonder what my nickname is...
Actually getting my packages out was easily the quickest part of the day: perhaps 30 minutes, some quick paperwork, and friendly workers, made the experience quite pleasant. Just to make it easier to imagine, this section of the post office is all concrete, mostly one open room with a small desk in the middle and rooms in the back in which packages are piled haphazardly. Everything is filled out by hand in a ledger, and it's still surprising to me that the process actually manages to successfully bring me easter eggs and dove chocolates from Tennessee.
When i arrived at the bus park, packages stacked to my chin, there were no buses in the line to Sankhu due to a four-day festival in my (normally) quiet little village. I finally got on the bus, and slumped, exhausted, over my packages, breathing little puffs of cooling, polluted air through the crack of the window. I watched out the window until we were a ways out of the city, and then fell into a kind of stupor in which i began to feel nauseous and dreaded lugging the packages up to the home in my extreme tiredness. Finally, after perhaps two hours, the bus stopped and everyone started getting off. This didn't worry me because Sankhu is the end of the road, but when I looked out the window I quickly realized I wasn't IN sankhu. Shit. "Sankhu Janchu?" I asked lamely. "No, no! This i Alitpur!" everyone responded, as if i was crazy. A small crowd of children gathered round to laugh at me, and more adults came up and discussed my silliness in rapid Nepali. Feeling like I was going to cry, I started to laugh. The whole situation was so ridiculous- my arms full of packages, this bus, clearly stopped for the night, and no other vehicles in sight, and an utter lack of comprehension over where I might actually be. After five minutes one of the Nepali guys, wearing some impressive aviators, walked off, and his friend waved a hand at me, which i interpreted to mean 'please wait madam'. This aviatored guy drives up on his dirtbike, and the next moment I've been helped onto the back and the packages balanced in my lap. The kids waved goodbye, despite their mockery, and we were off, cruising in great loops around corners and talking about all the English bands my savior could name (Avreel, ah-cone, seen kingston). This is the way to travel! Cool breeze, lots of space, the fields whizzing by and the sky above- I wasn't falling in love with Naples (the name of aviator boy) but this was far preferable to a bus or even a nice American car. When he dropped me off he was quite gentlemanly, and although he did ask to come visit me again, he was quite polite when I told him I would be leaving soon. This incident, and several others since then, have slowly transformed my attitude towards Nepali men, which was quickly approaching complete hostility. I walked the rest of the way towards my home with a smile on my face, my energy very much boosted by so much friendliness and help where I expected only disaster.