Cows are standing in the middle of the street in front of us. Chewing on cud as the road traffic swerves around them.
We arrive by motorbike, and chat by the roadside before moving towards our favourite evening hangout. Most of the vehicles that past us are human powered – people walking trailers, bicycles, rickshaws.
We move across the dusty courtyard, taking up our seats our seats on the bench outside, waiting to be called in for dinner.
There is a dusty courtyard between the restaurant and the road, and as the sunsets the random assortment of students, grandmothers and dogs move about in a kind of dance, sometimes interacting, sometimes not.
I see the man who is Nepali, but looks so much like a foreigner that I tried to speak to him in English when I first met him. I am reminded how much people here look like members of my own family.
Baby goats scamper around feet. They are waiting to be fed left overs – and the owner of the restaurant happily abides – patting them affectionately on the head, like dogs.
The restaurant is family run, the wife always speaks directly to my face in Nepali. It is amazing to me how much I can understand what she is saying. I love that even though I have been coming there on and off for 2 months, she still does this – continually refusing to give up and talk to me through a translator.
The sun is setting behind the trees covered in red flowers. “Not native” I am told.
Like me I think.
Totally out of place, and yet not out of place at all.