— On a vacant field in the middle of this quake-ravaged capital, a community of 600 survivors has formed. Everyone in it is homeless, and many escaped their apartments with little but their lives. Most are strangers, stranded far from village roots in a devastated city where they moved to work or study.
Yet in little over a week, the inhabitants of this emergency tent colony — one of a dozen set up on public parks or vacant land in the capital since the that killed more than 7,500 people — have established a collective identity and purpose. A committee of male residents has been formed to register each family for relief aid and manage its distribution.
After the initial chaotic flight from disaster, the informal colony known as Chuchchepati has also developed a daily rhythm. The routine is anchored by the midday arrival of relief trucks from an India-based charity with vats of rice and lentils, a festive and crowded occasion that relieves the ennui of waiting and lifts spirits.
Other activities range from the mundane, such as carrying buckets of washing water from a public tap, to the exotic, such as a visit Tuesday by a team of Chinese volunteers who had cans of disinfectant strapped on their backs. They spoke not a word of Nepali, but they sprayed the liquid on themselves to prove it was harmless, then doused a crowd of excited, squealing children who held their hands out.
“We are working hard to get things organized, to count the people, find out what they need and find ways to get it,” said Sobas Rai, 30, a member of the resident committee, which has set up an office in a white tent with a single table and chair. “When someone comes with supplies, we make sure they get distributed properly.”
Among the hundreds of thousands of Nepalis left homeless by the quake, these displaced urban residents have certain advantages over . Although they lack traditional community bonds or safety nets, they are better educated, easier for relief groups to reach, and close to city services and shops.
Many of the adult men in Chuchchepati have finished high school and speak some English, as do dozens of the children. Several men, who described themselves as professionals or business owners, are now out of work and struggling to accept their new circumstances.
Khamma Singh, 35, was reading classified newspaper ads in his tent this week. He dug into a satchel and brought out reference letters sheathed in plastic, all from international charities where he had once held field office jobs. He said it was already hard to find work in the city, and the earthquake had been the last straw.
“I am so sad and frustrated,” Singh said, brushing back tears. “I need to provide for my children, and now we have nothing.”
An hour later, though, he was rushing from tent to tent with a pen and clipboard, accompanying a team of donors as they passed out blankets. For a while, the camp and its needs had revived his self-esteem.
Many of the new residents have worked to build the best shelters they could, a hodgepodge of pup tents, teepees and poles draped with an assortment of vivid plastic sheeting and tarps. Enterprising campers have used scavenged bricks for floors and surrounded their tiny plots with lengths of metal garden fencing.
Inside the tents, conditions also vary. A few families managed to rescue mattresses and bedding, stoves and dishes, suitcases of clothing, and even their pet dogs. Others have virtually no belongings and have not changed their clothes since escaping the quake.
“I wish I had my cooking pots, but I barely saved myself and my children. We are afraid to go home,” said Maindi Moltan, 35, a mother of three who is eight months pregnant.
Medical supplies and treatment are more readily available, due mostly to the camp’s central location. On Tuesday, an Indian Sikh charity set up a tabletop dispensary manned by two Indian doctors, and long lines quickly formed. Mothers carried infants with rashes, and elderly people hobbled up with foot sores.
The camp was swarming with children, all idle because schools have been closed nationwide since the quake. But they were constantly in motion, improvising forms of recreation. That afternoon, a group of young boys competed to see who could somersault into a garbage pit without falling, drawing a sizeable crowd that cheered and laughed at their clowning.
“I want to be a cricket player and my favorite team is Nepal and my favorite player is ,” Moltan’s 10-year-old son, Biraj, wrote eagerly in a reporter’s notebook, referring to the national team captain. The boy was disconsolate because he had broken his cricket bat after rescuing it from the quake. But by later that afternoon, someone had tied it up with a bandage, and Biraj was showing off his batting skills again.
For older youths and adults, the quake cut off a major social pastime as well as a vital means of communication: their cellphones. With no electricity available outdoors, most phones died days ago, leaving teenagers in the camp visibly bored.
On Tuesday, though, a minor miracle occurred. A squad of uniformed police brought a small solar panel and set it up on a slab of concrete, with multiple charger connections attached. The intent was to connect families with relatives , but soon dozens of Facebook-starved teenagers were flocking to charge their devices.
Over at the camp committee tent, more mundane but critical issues were under discussion, specifically the lack of sanitary and cooking facilities. Two latrines had been dug and curtained with plastic at each end of the field, as well as a series of shallow garbage pits, but the rudimentary arrangements were hopelessly inadequate. And too many people were trying to cook dinner with gas inside small flammable tents.
“We have to make a plan,” one committee member shouted above a din of opinions while trying to take notes. “We will gather all the stoves and cylinders and put them in one place and make a common kitchen. We have to have a proper way to feed all these people.”
Again the surge of suggestions rose; all well-meaning ideas from worried family men with no future plans and too much time on their hands. This was their community now — a cluster of ragtag tents in a trampled field — and they appeared determined to make the best of it.
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