The Traffic Light Cocktail

Amongst the staggering beauty of Pokhara with it’s lake and mountainous back drop there is something lurking as sinister as its murky waters. It’s a feeling of desperation. With only a smattering of tourists trickling through to feed the surplus of cafes, restaurants and shops Pokhara really does feel like a beautiful parcel wrapped in wet news paper, especially during the monsoon.
Tourists totter around with invisible monetary symbols shining above their heads like halos, here more than most places I feel like a badeshi (foreigner). Set on the lakeside is the most picturesque bamboo bar which should be a busy bustling hangout for travellers, with its circular bamboo structure and comfortable cosy cushions, I try to make sense of its emptiness.

When my friend’s traffic light coloured mojito arrives a story is revealed. This bar is run by an Australian couple who have not provided cocktail making training to their staff. As my friend tries to return her dissatisfying cocktail the female cook comes to talk to us, she explains that if we return the cocktail of 400 npr/s ($4.22) then the two members of staff who work there will have to pay for it themselves from their meagre salary of 4000 npr/s ($42.00) per month which is the amount that I will pay for five nights accommodation in my Pokhara hotel. The stark contrast of our lives is so apparent I can almost touch it and my friend is faced with a morale dilemma to pay herself or to let the two staff members pay for her unwanted traffic light cocktail.

The female cook goes on to explain in a friendly chit chat manner about her life, she is careful not to reveal her untouchable dalit caste which I recognise from her ‘Nepali’ surname, although the caste system was abolished here over 50 years ago it’s very much still alive, so I am not at all surprised that she doesn’t volunteer this information, who would. I liken it to my grandfather who changed his Jewish surname after the Second World War, the word is full of discrimination based on names and what they supposedly represent.

Her husband left her 13 years ago when their son was just 1 month old and 1 year later she adopted an orphan who had been abandoned by his parents, she has a kind heart. Now she not only works as a cook in the kitchen at the bamboo bar, she also sleeps there by herself at night time as a security guard. The open layout of the bar makes me think about whether I would be brave enough to do the same, probably not. This place is basically her life. She presents us with the written instructions for making cocktails, they are written in Nepali English with the word mix substituted for the word muddle, it’s like a comic cocktail making script.


My friend agrees to pay for the traffic light cocktail, which I am not surprised at and advises them to check out mojito making instructions on google, which will not be an easy task. I finish my beer which is always a safe bet, though this place has left a bitter taste in my mouth and we say good bye to the cook and the untrained bar man knowing that while we are sleeping safely in our comfortable hotel beds tonight, she will be sleeping here on her own.


This article was published in the Republica 10th July 2013 http://www.myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=57543