Resonate - 28 May 2025

It can be a mistake to think that the quicker we travel, the more we actually take in | Photo: Rainy Wong, Unsplash

Slow Down, What’s The Rush?

Do you tend to go on whirlwind trips, the kind where you’ve lost all track of where you even are, never mind what day it is? I’m talking about the sort of holiday where if it’s Tuesday, it must be [insert destination name here]. You rush around so much that it’s hard to fully take in or process all your unique experiences, or absorb any interesting information you may be presented with. If that sounds like you… it could be time to slow down.

Regardless of your chosen destination, think about what would be most rewarding: a journey dashing from airport to hotel to airport, overstuffed with dozens of experiences you can’t properly remember, or one where you took your time to let a place reveal itself to you, and had carefully chosen encounters that stay with you for life?

Taking your time to slow down and do less, but enjoy it more, is the answer. Our time is precious, and we can fall into the trap of believing that packing in activities means our time has been well spent. With limited windows for leisure, we may also be rushing around in a frantic attempt to ‘make the most’ of rare opportunities to escape the daily grind; to do something really special.

Yet, however valuable our getaways, or however fleeting our windows to see the world, it’s a matter of paying attention to the old rule — and choosing quality over quantity.

In the past, I’ve written about the need to stop overvisiting destinations that don’t want the extra burden on their infrastructure and ecosystems. I’ve also mused on the freedom of not overstuffing our suitcases. But there’s one more way we can avoid overdoing it, and that’s to keep our itineraries calmer, more curated, and more mindful.

Of course, there can be a temptation to do absolutely everything while in a new place. It’s exciting to be presented with seemingly endless possibilities and choices of experiences. After all, we may pass this way but once, and the Fear Of Missing Out (FOMO) can be strong. When that FOMO is fuelled by a deluge of social media posts telling us what we simply must do in a destination, it’s easy to over-book activities to the point of overexhaustion.

Instead, think about what you’d enjoy most, and at the same time, what would suit best.

There is no law to say that every holiday must leave us in need of another holiday, to actually find the relaxation we should have included in the first place. With possible exceptions like high-energy adventure travel and extreme sports tourism, on most journeys it’s quite pleasant to embrace the challenge of building in some time to just ‘be’ — to people-watch, enjoy the scenery, sit and think, listen to the breeze in the trees, chat to a shopkeeper, read, wander, breathe.

But perhaps you’re the active type — relaxing is great, sure, but you also want to do things on your trip. Being that type myself, I’m trying to find a new approach. Rather than ticking all the boxes on my list (I like street art, museums, food, drink, walks, history, the list goes on and on), I’m starting to realise that I’d get more out of less.

I’m actively trying to discourage the old FOMO, and transform it into travel JOMO — the Joy Of Missing Out, particularly when on a trip. It’s a mindset shift to finding satisfaction and contentment by deciding not to worry about what others are doing, or even what I should be doing, but instead enjoying the moment, and treating the journey as something that will develop and unfold more organically.

At the same time, it’s important to consider how we get to, and move around, our destinations. If we stop thinking about the quickest way from point A to point B, and instead decide that we want to try the most interesting way, the potential for meaningful transit multiplies. Often, what the locals do is what works best.

So there’s no need for a flight if a train journey serves equally well; you can avoid the hire car if a tram will do the job even better; and two feet or two wheels can be the best way to explore, no matter where we go. They may take longer, but the key to slowing down is realising that’s actually the point.

Emily Cathcart

Resonate Team

From her base in Ireland, Emily Cathcart was delighted to join Resonate as a Content Manager and has been revelling in the opportunity to collaborate with writers worldwide ever since. Emily enjoys encouraging authors through the creation process and also helping non-writers to tell their tales — all with Resonate’s ethical principles in mind. When she isn’t busy commissioning or editing, she can be found, camera in hand, seeking out-of-the-way discoveries for her own site that’s literally All About Dublin. And when Emily’s not working on any/all of the above, she’s writing articles and photo essays as a freelance journalist for publications from boutique magazines to national newspapers.

Time to Read: 3 Minutes

Resonate Team: Emily Cathcart

28 May 2025

Category:
From the Editor

Under blue skies on a warm spring day in Kyrenia Harbour | All photos: Richard Powell

Exploring the ‘Other’ Cyprus in Kyrenia

A lot of people don’t know that Cyprus is divided, with the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus only being recognised internationally by Turkey. It may not be as popular — or quite as touristy — as the Republic of Cyprus on the southern two-thirds of the island. Yet there is so much to uncover in this area…

My wife and I were in Turkish Northern Cyprus for a few days with a walking group and decided to take time out to explore the harbour area of Kyrenia, a place populated since the 10th century BC. It turned out to be a wonderful day where we discovered ancient history, fascinating architecture, and the charm of the old city.

This spring day was not too hot, nor was it crowded with too many tourists. Years of experience living further south on the island had taught us to wear sturdy shoes for the stone streets and hats for the Cyprus sun. An easy 20-minute drive from Lapta, where we were staying, brought us to a big car park just behind the castle.

Kyrenia Castle, the result of many historical renovations by various occupiers over time Cyprus | Richard Powell — Kyrenia Castle, the result of many historical renovations by various occupiers over time | Richard Powell

A short walk got us to Kyrenia Castle. The original was built by the Byzantines in the 7th century to protect the city, on the site of an even older Roman structure. After that, everyone seemed to have taken their turn at it — from England’s King Richard the Lionheart, to the Christian Knights Templar, to the last crowned King of Jerusalem, to the Venetians — and finally the Ottomans. Most of what we had in front of us was only 500 years old.

Entering at the castle’s northwest corner gate, we crossed a bridge over what was once a moat. We loved exploring this old building where we discovered remains of churches and temples, royal suites, living quarters, dungeons, stables, ramps up to the top and a Bronze Age tomb.

In one room off the big central courtyard is the Shipwreck Museum, where we were fascinated by the display of part of a hull and cargo of a 14m Greek ship discovered in the waters off the harbour in the 1960s. Sunk in a storm, likely between 286 BC and 272 BC, its cargo and remains were untouched for millennia.

Truly fascinating, but all these centuries of facts could cause history overload in the keenest of heritage buffs! With so much to see and learn, we will have to come back again to absorb the rest.

The sunny harbour, developed during centuries of Ottoman occupation | Richard Powell

Leaving the castle, we walked down to the sunny harbour, developed by the Ottomans over their 400 years of occupation. On one side was the jetty protecting the small harbour with its marina full of fishing boats, powerboats and yachts. We were tempted to go on one of the touring vessels, but the water outside the harbour looked pretty rough.

On our left were the centuries-old carob warehouses, built to store the valuable produce before being shipped. The crop was once known as ‘Cyprus Black Gold’. These have all been turned into restaurants and gift shops; my wife dragged me somewhat unwillingly through some of the latter.

However, I am actually glad that she did. Aside from the usual tourist stuff, there are a few offering beautifully crafted pottery, handmade jewellery and leather work. The prices were very reasonable because of Turkish inflation. Our euros went a long way.

We strolled past centuries-old carob warehouses, now restaurants and gift shops | Richard Powell

We wandered down some of the alleys into the old town, where we found many buildings slowly deteriorating. In between, we came across a few coffee shops filled with old Cypriot men talking loudly and playing backgammon with passion and concentration. We also discovered a few more historical gems in the old town, like the old Ottoman mosque and the remains of Chrysopolitissa Church.

Returning to the harbour, we followed the stone jetty past the old lighthouse. At the end, we had a great 360-degree view of the Mediterranean, the castle, the harbour, and the mountains behind. Tired and hungry, we stopped at a traditional Turkish restaurant overlooking the boats for a late lunch. It turned into two hours of an early dinner with local favourites.

With so much to choose from, the owner talked us into having a meze. The abundant small dishes were a wonderful variety, including village salad, special sauces, fresh seafood, kebabs and my favourite, grilled halloumi cheese. We washed it down with a lovely bottle of the Cypriot white wine made from the indigenous Xynisteri grapes.

Sated with history, scenery and food after such a full day, we strolled back along the harbour enjoying the lively atmosphere and the late sun reflecting off the water. We had one last stop to make: a return to a gift shop where my wife had spotted some unique dark blue ceramics. As she made her selections, I bought a hand-tooled leather backgammon game. It’s a great memento of our lovely day in Kyrenia, though it will be a long time before I can match the old fellows in the coffee shops playing so intently.

Richard Powell

Storyteller

Richard Powell is an expat Canadian freelance writer/photographer. His articles and stories have appeared in local and international magazines and blogs. He also writes both fiction and non-fiction books. Richard’s history/travelogue of Stane Street in South East England was published in 2021. It combined his passions for photography, writing, research, and history. Drawing on his earlier life as an IT analyst, entrepreneur, curios shop owner, and publican, Richard is now applying his enthusiasm to writing on the island of Cyprus where he lives with his wife.

Time to Read: 4 Minutes

Storyteller: Richard Powell

23 May 2025

Category:
Local Stories - In This Moment

No machines hum here; there are just hands, dipping, dyeing, waxing. | Photo: Camille Bismonte, Unsplash

Learning the Slow Art of Batik in Yogyakarta

The air in Giriloyo village, Yogyakarta smells like wax and rain. I’m perched on a creaky wooden stool, clutching a canting, a pen-like tool that drips hot wax onto cotton. My hand shakes, and a wobbly line spreads across the fabric. Across from me, Ibu Sri, a batik artisan with grey-streaked hair, doesn’t flinch. She dips her canting into the wax pot and traces a perfect kawung motif — four circles, like a clover, symbolising purity. “Slow,” she says in Bahasa, her voice calm. “Feel the cloth.”

I’ve lived in Yogyakarta for three years, long enough to call it home. I’m not Javanese, but this city has claimed me. I know its mornings — vendors hawking gudeg at dawn, the clang of angkringan carts, students arguing over charred kopi joss at kedai stalls. Yogyakarta doesn’t shout its secrets; it waits for you to notice. Nowhere is this truer than in batik, the hand-drawn art that’s as much a part of this place as the Sultan’s Palace or the wayang kulit puppets flickering at night.

My friend Rara, born and raised here, invited me to her uncle’s batik workshop in Giriloyo, a village just outside the city. I thought I’d watch, maybe snap photos. Instead, I was handed a canting and told to sit. The workshop is simple — open to the breeze, with banana trees rustling outside. Strips of dyed cloth hang across bamboo poles, glowing indigo and turmeric in the sunlight. No machines hum here. Just hands — some wrinkled, some young — dipping, dyeing, waxing.

Mornings in the workshop start early. Pak Bagus, Rara’s uncle, brews tea while Siti, a teenage artisan, teases her cousin for smudging his cloth. Kids from the village dart past, their shouts mixing with the cluck of chickens. By eight, everyone’s at work, the air thick with focus. Ibu Wulan hums a Javanese tune, her fingers stained blue from indigo.

“Keeps me calm,” she says when I ask.

Batik isn’t just drawing on fabric; every motif carries a story | Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin

Yofyakarta — Batik isn’t just drawing on fabric; every motif carries a story | Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin

These moments — the banter, the hums — make the workshop feel alive, like a family.

Pak Bagus runs the place. He’s wiry, with a laugh that cuts through the humid air. “Batik tulis takes time,” he tells me, gesturing to a half-finished cloth. “Weeks, sometimes months. You learn with your hands first.” So I try. The wax burns my fingers when I tilt the canting wrong. My kawung motif looks more like a squashed mango. Ibu Sri chuckles, not unkindly, and shows me again.

Batik isn’t just drawing on fabric. Every motif carries a story. Parang, sharp and slanted, means strength, worn by warriors. Truntum, a starburst of tiny flowers, is for love that grows, stitched into wedding sarongs.

Over the week, I spend mornings waxing and dyeing, afternoons eating nasi kucing — rice wrapped in banana leaves — with the artisans. There are a dozen of them, mostly women, some as young as 16. Siti tells me she’s saving her batik earnings for university.

“This isn’t old-fashioned,” she says, pointing to her cloth, a modern ceplok motif with bold lines. “It’s us.” Her mother, Ibu Wulan, sits nearby. She supports three kids alone, batik her only income. “My grandmother taught me,” she says. “Now I teach Siti. It’s our root.”

Artisan in Yogyakarta, Indonesia tracing a design on fabric to create traditional batik — These artisans keep going: they use natural dyes, hand-draw every line | Mahmur Marganti, Unsplash

Their stories hit me hard. Batik is survival. Mass-produced prints flood Yogyakarta’s markets, cheaper and faster. Tourists sometimes buy them, not knowing the difference. But these artisans keep going. They use natural dyes, hand-draw every line.

Some, like Pak Bagus, teach workshops to foreigners or sell online — not for fame but to keep batik alive. “If we stop,” he says, “Yogyakarta loses its voice.”

Last weekend, I visited Pasar Beringharjo, Yogyakarta’s biggest market, to see batik in the city’s pulse. Stalls overflowed with sarongs, shirts, headscarves. An old woman haggled over a parang-patterned cloth, saying it was for her son’s graduation. Nearby, a street performer wore a truntum vest, dancing to gamelan music.

Batik wasn’t just for sale — it was alive, worn, celebrated. I thought of Ibu Sri’s steady hands, how her kawung motifs might end up here, part of someone’s story.

Three years ago, I was an outsider, stumbling over Bahasa at the market. Now, I join Rara’s family for Lebaran, help clean the local mosque before Ramadan. Yogyakarta has woven me in, and batik is part of that.

In the market, I see batik everywhere — each pattern like a conversation | Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin

By Friday, I’ve made a handkerchief, my kawung motif: uneven, but mine. The dye bleeds a little, but Ibu Sri nods: “It’s yours,” she says. I keep it in my bag, a reminder of hands that taught me patience.

Batik has changed me. I want to learn more — maybe the parang motif next, or how to mix dyes from scratch. I’ve started showing my friends, telling them about Siti’s dreams and Ibu Wulan’s strength. One day, I might teach someone else, pass on what I’ve learned.

Batik’s taught me to stay patient, to belong, to carry this city with me.

Now, walking through Malioboro market, I see batik everywhere — sarongs, shirts, headscarves. I spot parang on an old man’s cap, truntum on a woman’s skirt. Each pattern feels like a conversation. I think of Ibu Wulan’s stained fingers, Siti’s bold designs, Pak Bagus’s laugh.

Batik isn’t just cloth. It’s Yogyakarta’s heartbeat — steady, stubborn, alive.

This city has taught me to move slower, to look closer. To listen when the stories aren’t spoken but drawn, waxed, dyed. My handkerchief, flawed as it is, holds all of it — the village, the artisans, the home I’ve found here.

Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin

Storyteller

Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin is a content writer and cultural journalist exploring identity, craft, and place. With a deep interest in traditional artistry and contemporary storytelling, Praise's work often centres on local communities and creative practices across Africa and beyond. His writing has appeared in international publications and reflects a passion for immersive, responsible travel. When he’s not reporting or writing, he’s exploring visual culture or learning something new about textile heritage.

Time to Read: 4 Minutes

Storyteller: Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin

16 May 2025

Category:
Local Stories - Customs and Traditions

At a biryani restaurant, steam rises — along with the scent of slow-cooked spices. | All photos: Owais Rawda

Spicy, Fragrant, Unmatched: Karachi’s Love Affair with Biryani

It’s midnight in Karachi. At a biryani stall in Kharadar, steam rises from a giant pot called a daig, mixing into the sky. The server, a man in his thirties, moves with rhythmic precision. With every scoop, the sella rice falls onto a metal plate, revealing layers of white, saffron-stained yellow, orange, and deep brown, with pieces of tender meat and big chunks of potatoes. I collect my plateful and see that the line behind me has folk from around the city — among them families, young people, even tourists — all waiting their turn.

As I take my first bite, I think about how in Karachi, biryani is not just food, it is ritual, celebration, and nostalgia packed onto one plate. Unlike in other cities, where the dish is reserved for special occasions, here it is an everyday essential. It is served at weddings, at funerals when people come to offer condolences, in corporate boardrooms during meetings, and in homes where mothers prepare it as a Sunday tradition.

Every Karachiite has a strong opinion on where to get the best biryani. Some prefer the upscale, gourmet-style establishments, while others favour desi restaurants — providing more of a modern high/low mix. Then there’s the street-style daig biryani that now fills my plate, cooked in the massive aluminium pots, where the rice absorbs every bit of spice from the slow-simmered meat.

The rivalry between these styles runs deep, with debates often becoming as heated as the dish itself. Each neighbourhood has its legend: Liaquatabad’s nalli (bone marrow) biryani, Pakistan Chowk’s OG favourite, or the famous Khatri biryani, from Khatri Street.

Whether it comes from a humble street vendor’s daig or a high-end restaurant’s kitchen, the dish is an unshakable part of Karachi’s culture.

Even visitors to Karachi quickly realise that its biryani is unlike any other. I spoke to a traveller who had tried it from multiple places across the city, and he was shocked by how no two plates from different places tasted the same.

Some were spicier, some had more tender meat, while others carried a distinct aroma. Yet, he noted one thing they all had in common: a unique depth of flavour that he hadn’t found in any other city’s biryani. “Every plate has its character,” he said. “The taste varies, but the essence of Karachi is in all of them.”

To understand Karachi’s biryani culture, one must also look at how it has evolved. While the traditional versions — beef and chicken — still dominate, newer fusions such as prawn, tikka, biryani cooked in a clay pot, or matka, and even a haleem variation have emerged.

These fusion styles cater to the trend of incorporating new flavours and the desire to create Instagrammable food moments and go viral on platforms like TikTok.

Biryani is a leveller enjoyed by people from all walks of life, and an anchor in an ever-changing city | Owais Rawda

The beauty of biryani in Karachi is that it goes beyond class and status. The same dish served in elite restaurants is also sold by vendors on pushcarts for as little as 120 Pakistani rupees (under 50 cents in euro or US dollars) a plate. It is one of the few things in the city that acts as a leveller for people from all walks of life. Company managers, peons (office boys), students, and rickshaw drivers all gather around the same stalls and restaurants, wiping sweat off their brows as they dig into the same spicy and fragrant meal.

But biryani is more than just a beloved and omnipresent dish, it is an anchor in an ever-changing city. A dish that unites us just like chai and cricket. As Karachi modernises, with international fast-food chains and continental European cuisine making its way into its food scene, biryani remains untouched. It is a symbol of localisation, comfort, unity, home — of something steadfast in chaos. No matter how much the city evolves of how many new food trends come and go, biryani remains the undisputed king of Karachi’s culinary landscape.

While I’ve been eating my meal, people-watching and musing on the nature of the unique biryani culture in Karachi, the generous portion on my plate has gradually vanished. At the same time, the server has cleared the huge daig of its fragrant contents, filling plate after plate for hungry customers. A full pot comes to replace it, and the line continues to grow, snaking away from the stall and spilling onto the sidewalk.

There’s a buzzing undercurrent, a sense of urgency as people eagerly await their turn. Yet, amid the frenzied excitement, there’s also an underlying calm, an unspoken understanding that everyone will be served. And a certainty that we will be seeing each other here in line another night, all waiting our turn together for our favourite plate of biryani as the love affair continues.

Owais Rawda

Storyteller

Owais Rawda is a freelance journalist, regulatory policy researcher, and bird conservationist based in Pakistan. He specialises in the energy and technology industries from emerging markets and has published work in Asia Times, Power-Technology.com, The Friday Times, and Business Recorder, among other publications. An avid traveller, he has explored several countries across Asia and Europe, aiming to bring unspoken cultural narratives and local stories to the forefront through his writing.

Time to Read: 4 Minutes

Storyteller: Owais Rawda

9 May 2025

Category:
Local Stories - Food and Drink

Taking flight in Kathmandu Durbar Square | Photo: Sean Martin, Unsplash

Reflections on Resilience: Marking 10 Years Since the Nepal Earthquake

On April 25, 2015, Nepal was shaken, literally and figuratively, by a 7.9 magnitude earthquake that would claim thousands of lives and leave countless more changed forever. Amid the chaos, loss, and confusion, something extraordinary surfaced: the quiet, determined resilience of the Nepali people. This is a personal reflection on those early days of the Gorkha Earthquake in Nepal — aftershocks, acts of kindness, civil society rising — and a deep dive into what fuels our unshakable spirit in the face of disaster.

In the 56 seconds that the earth shook during that first quake, the Kathmandu Valley rose by a meter and shifted three meters to the south. Countless aftershocks followed — most notably a 6.4 the very next day and a 7.3 two weeks later. Over 9,000 people lost their lives, and thousands more were left homeless and displaced.

Looking back, much of it is a blur. But one feeling stands out clearly: an overwhelming pride in the resilience of my people. In this piece, I want to share some personal memories that emerge from the fog of those early days and explore what might be the source of that remarkable resilience — something I hope we can retain as a community.

Resilience - Visitors around Boudha Stupa — Visitors around Boudha Stupa | Photo: Meghraj Neupane, Unsplash

The moment the shaking stopped, it was clear something massive had happened. Helicopters were already in the sky. My family and I had rushed out to our garden. We decided not to go back inside for a few days. Mobile networks were down at first, but flickered back soon after. I quickly typed a “we are safe” post on Facebook and focused on setting up tents in the garden. A quick call to my friend and outdoor education mentor, Chandra Ale, got us another tent to go with the one I’d already grabbed from the house. We were set for a few days of outdoor living.

The quake had struck at 11:56am. By 3pm, Chandra and I, both trained outdoor responders, met at Pulchowk crossing. The streets were packed with people and ambulances. We discussed how we could help — keeping in mind that safety was still a priority, especially with the aftershocks. We walked toward Patan Durbar Square and the inner parts of Patan, hearing reports of collapsed structures.

But everywhere we went, locals, police, and army personnel were already hard at work. We realised our help wasn’t really needed there. We decided to regroup the next day and head out to Bhaktapur or the outskirts, where support might be lacking. We returned home, amazed at how quickly people had organised themselves.

That Facebook post — “we are safe” — turned out to be crucial. Friends and family across the globe heaved a sigh of relief. But they also had questions. So I began sharing regular updates online, giving a view from the ground — messages of recovery and resilience, something beyond the blood-and-gore headlines that dominated the big media channels.

Here’s something surreal: right after the quake, Kathmandu airport shut down temporarily. Air traffic controllers had fled. Planes in the sky coordinated among themselves and diverted to India. Domestic planes, more used to visual landings, simply landed, communicating directly with each other. By the next morning, the airport was cleared, and the first international flight — Turkish Airlines — landed at 6:30am with rescue teams on board (impressive, how fast they mobilised) and big media crews.

These journalists, arriving at a functioning airport, travelling along perfect roads, staying in operational 5-star hotels, quickly ventured out and reported only destruction. No nuance. The world was left thinking the entire country had crumbled.

Life with a mountain backdrop | Photo: Christophe Noel

Meanwhile, I had checked in on my team. One member had lost his mother and sister when their house collapsed. The rest were safe, checking on relatives and home villages. My next worry: our travellers. At socialtours, we had clients in remote areas. Most were fine — though some had terrifying stories — but one case was tragic.

A French couple trekking in Langtang was caught in a landslide triggered by the quake. The husband was swept away. The wife, with a broken back, and their porter-guide, with a broken hip, were rescued by locals and sheltered at a lodge in Tharepati. It took us three days to get a chopper up there and evacuate them to Kathmandu. Meanwhile, other clients made their way back, so we could shift focus from tourists to recovery.

The next morning, Chandra gathered a group of his students. By 9am, we had loaded a pickup with medical supplies and were headed to the outskirts. Everywhere we went, people had already taken care of things — the injured taken to hospitals, the dead cremated, livestock buried. Again, we felt redundant.

We finally reached Bhaktapur around 11am, where the damage was more severe. Locals requested help removing debris from a collapsed house. As we formed a relay line to clear bricks, a 6.4 aftershock hit. We evacuated immediately — there was no sense in becoming casualties ourselves.

That day, we only managed to assist an injured man with a broken ankle and help re-dress another’s wound. Still, we returned humbled. Communities were impressively self-organised. Meanwhile, back home, my Facebook updates were now flooded with support and goodwill. That warmth lit a fire — we needed to pivot from rescue to relief.

Resilience- Manjushri Statue — Manjushri statue above the mist | Photo: Sagar Mali, Unsplash

At the same time, a small civil society group was organising at the Yellow House in Lalitpur. I joined in. It was fast-moving, transparent, and action-oriented — mapping needs, raising funds, delivering supplies. Tools emerged overnight: digital maps, shared spreadsheets, coordinated relief drops, even helicopter missions. This network, and others like it, filled the vacuum left by a slow-moving government and large donors. We were nimble. We were effective.

One area we had worked in for over 10 years — Gati, in the Bhote Koshi corridor — was near the epicentre of the 6.4 quake on April 26th. With comms down, we didn’t know the damage. Five days later, we reached them with tarpaulins, food, and medicine. Almost every house was rubble.

Yet, they were fully organised. Temporary shelters were already up. Our tarps were like dinner napkins compared to what they’d built. And their spirits? Intact. One woman quipped, “Living in a tent is great — I don’t have to clean the house.” A man dismantling his damaged roof joked, “The earthquake didn’t do a good enough job, so I’m doing quality control.” They insisted we eat with them before we left. We were in awe.

In the months that followed, I saw a different kind of energy — a shared mission. Every Wednesday, tourism professionals met at my office to figure out how to rebuild the industry safely. Cyclists strapped GoPros to their bikes, filming routes from the airport into town to show that those roads were fine. Riders pedalled into alleys to capture daily life. One elite mountain biking group became the lifeline for inaccessible areas, delivering supplies where vehicles couldn’t reach.

By the end of June, we launched the “I am in Nepal NOW” campaign. Tourists (including my Austrian wife and daughter) held placards in Kathmandu. The campaign went viral, reaching over half a million views. It morphed into “I am going to Nepal NOW” and eventually “I wish I were in Nepal NOW.” The government took it over, and it’s still being used for crisis communication via nepalnow.travel.

Some of the many supporters who joined the ‘NepalNow’ campaign | Photo: socialtours on Facebook

I could go on with the stories, but I’ll stop here. As I reflect, I wonder: what makes us so resilient? I’m no behavioural expert, but here’s what I think:

Lack of government support
We’ve never relied on the government to act fast — or at all. This forces self-organisation. If there’s one upside to ineffective governance, it’s that it breeds strong, self-reliant communities.
A common problem
When the crisis affects everyone, it unites us. This isn’t unique to Nepal, but I’ve seen it here again and again — from the quake to the fuel embargo later in 2015 to the Covid pandemic.
Fatalism
We are a fatalistic people. It allows us to accept the uncontrollable and focus on what can be done. That acceptance, strangely, is powerful.
A lifetime of small crises
Nepal is chaotic. We live in a constant stream of small problems. This trains us in crisis management. We even have a term for the workaround mindset: jugadh. It’s a source of pride.
The concept of impermanence
Deep down, we believe in impermanence. We may not talk about it, but we live it. It helps us cope, adapt, and move forward.
Cultivated goodwill
Our easygoing, hospitable culture has earned us goodwill. During the earthquake and in every crisis since, that kindness has come back to support us.

I’m sure there are more reasons. But these are the ones that stay with me. As we mark the passing of this sombre anniversary, I hope we can hold onto these strengths — our resilience, our humour, our kindness — and face whatever comes next with that same quiet courage. With a smile, as always.

Our resilience, our humour, our kindness | Photos: Top, L-R Christophe Noel; This image, Ayush Shakya, Unsplash

Raj Gyawali

Resonate Team

Based in Nepal, Raj Gyawali is one of the driving forces behind Resonate and Ethical Travel Portal. He has over two decades of specialist knowledge of responsible tourism in practice and ground-level experience building, developing his company socialtours as the first in Asia to be sustainability certified. Working in Ghana, China, Myanmar, Nepal, Bangladesh and India, he's kept a finger on the pulse of developments around the world of tourism. Raj consults on responsible tourism for organisations, especially on destination development. Through consultation, he helps governments and communities create more sustainable practices. He is the expert Dreamweaver for Asia and adventure-related experiences, drawing from his passion for soft adventure. Raj loves most to be in the mountains, leading a multi-day hike or on a bike trip, or researching new experiences!

Time to Read: 7 Minutes

Resonate Team: Raj Gyawali

1 May 2025

Category:
Responsibility in Focus

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Afolabi Praise Oluwadunsin

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