“Spending Renminbi like it’s US Dollars.” It’s a phrase you might hear whispered in the bustling cafes of Kathmandu or Pokhara, Nepal’s tourist hotspots. It’s a sentiment echoing among a growing wave of young Chinese citizens who are flocking to this Himalayan nation, not for the majestic mountain views or spiritual retreats that typically draw Western tourists, but for something far more practical: affordable training courses. According to a report by Phoenix News, this phenomenon is attracting increasing attention.
For Americans accustomed to seeing global trends flow in the opposite direction – with students from developing nations often seeking educational opportunities in the West – this new phenomenon might seem, as one returnee aptly described it, “post-modern.” Imagine citizens from the world’s second-largest economy heading to one of the UN-designated “least developed countries” for education. It’s a twist on the traditional narrative, and it’s happening right now in Nepal.
This isn’t your typical gap-year backpacking crowd. These are driven, often highly educated, Chinese millennials and Gen Z individuals – many from China’s hyper-competitive urban centers – who are seeking refuge from the intense pressures of their home country while simultaneously investing in their personal and professional development. They are drawn by the promise of high-quality courses in English, music, arts, and various vocational skills, all offered at a fraction of the price back home.
Take Chen Xi, a 25-year-old who spent her days in Pokhara in a way that would make any budget-conscious traveler envious. Waking up to birdsong in a tranquil villa district, just a short walk from the serene Phewa Lake, she paid the equivalent of a mere $140 USD per month for her one-bedroom apartment. From her window on a clear day, she could even catch glimpses of the snow-capped Himalayas. After a leisurely homemade lunch, her afternoons were dedicated to mastering the art of baking at a local café. This wasn’t some fleeting tourist activity; Chen Xi was enrolled in a comprehensive, four-hour daily baking course. The kicker? The entire month-long program cost her around $180 USD. Back in Beijing, a similar 20-day course would set you back approximately $1,200 USD.
Chen Xi is no stranger to the grind. She previously worked for two major internet companies in Shenzhen, China’s tech hub. After a recent layoff, she decided to reroute her life’s trajectory, landing in Nepal in January 2025. She embraced her new chapter with gusto, spending her first two months in Kathmandu, Nepal’s capital, immersing herself in English language studies at three different schools and even taking a coffee brewing course. Her classmates were predominantly Nepalese, and her experience extended far beyond the classroom. She forged genuine friendships, sharing meals, exploring the city, visiting their families, and even participating in a vibrant Nepalese wedding ceremony.
This immersive experience was a far cry from her previous life in China. Nepal, with a per capita GDP of around $1,400 USD – roughly one-tenth of China’s – was a world away from the gleaming skyscrapers and fast-paced rhythm of Shenzhen. Historically, Chinese visitors to Nepal were mainly tourists, businesspeople, or those seeking spouses. But now, a new demographic is emerging: Chinese students seeking affordable, high-quality training. Chen Xi even created a WeChat group for Chinese expats living and studying in Nepal, which quickly swelled to over 100 members, many of whom were there specifically to learn English.
Ji Xiangning, a 90s-born actor who recently returned from his own training stint in Nepal, encapsulates the unexpected nature of this trend. “It’s so post-modern,” he muses, reflecting on the phenomenon of citizens from the world’s second-largest economy heading to a less developed neighbor for education.
These Chinese students arriving in Nepal are a diverse bunch. They include individuals like Chen Xi, recently laid-off from Big Tech companies; “office slaves” who have bravely quit their soul-crushing jobs; culture vultures eager to delve into South Asian traditions; and even mothers bringing their children for international tutoring. Accustomed to the relentless “involution” (内卷 – a Chinese term referring to hyper-competition and societal pressure) of modern Chinese life, they find themselves in a country renowned for its “Buddhist-like” (佛系 – laid-back, easygoing) approach to life. Beyond the incredible value for money in Nepal’s training programs, they are experiencing profound cultural contrasts that are reshaping their perspectives.
“Our Classrooms Have Been Occupied by Chinese People”
While Chen Xi’s baking class in Pokhara maintained a diverse mix with only one Chinese student among five, the scene in Kathmandu’s training hubs is markedly different. Li Yiwen, a 90s-born student attending a music school in the capital, observed with a touch of humor, “Our classrooms have been occupied by Chinese people.” Her school, nestled in a row of single-story buildings, comprised five classrooms. “If a classroom has seven students,” she recounts, “at least four of them are Chinese.”
Class interruptions became a regular occurrence. The school’s Nepalese receptionist, a friendly man with a shaved head, would often peek into classrooms, leading new students for orientation. Behind him, Li Yiwen would invariably spot a familiar East Asian face – another Chinese student joining the ranks. The teachers, often pausing their lessons, would greet the newcomers with their limited but enthusiastic Mandarin: “你好吗? (Nǐ hǎo ma? – How are you?)” and “我爱你，中国 (Wǒ ài nǐ, Zhōngguó – I love you, China).”
Zhang Luyao, another 90s-born student who recently returned from Nepal, experienced a similar demographic shift. During her tennis lessons in Kathmandu, three out of the six students across two courts were Chinese. While the proportion was slightly lower in her boxing classes, Chinese students still made up a noticeable presence, with two out of six to ten students in each session.
Even during the Chinese New Year period, when many Chinese students returned home for the holidays, Ji Xiangning found that Chinese students still constituted about a third of his electronic keyboard class. His coffee school even offered dedicated classes specifically for Chinese students, where he and two Chinese girls were the sole participants.
Despite the burgeoning Chinese student population in Nepal, the initial arrival can be jarring for many. Kathmandu’s Thamel district, the typical first stop for foreigners, is considered relatively developed, but it can still present a significant culture shock. Li Yiwen described her first impressions: “The main streets are paved with concrete, but some areas are still dirt roads. Many of the buses are old, second-hand vehicles from India and Japan, practically obsolete. When I rode a motorbike taxi behind one, the black exhaust fumes engulfed me, like an octopus squirting ink.” Dust particles were visibly suspended in the air, swirling with every gust of wind. Children would approach, begging, mimicking the action of putting food in their mouths, pleading for sustenance.
In those initial moments of disorientation, Li Yiwen questioned her decision: “Why did I come to Nepal?”
However, the allure of incredibly affordable training courses quickly overshadowed the initial discomforts.
“Wow! The cost is unbelievably low, it’s just crazy,” exclaimed Li Yiwen, upon discovering that a month-long English class, with daily small group sessions, cost a mere $70 USD – less than $2.50 USD per lesson. She was ecstatic.
She enrolled in a three-month program at a local music school, learning electronic keyboard and drums. The school operated from 10 am to 7 pm, offering courses in guitar, bass, and vocal training alongside keyboard and drums. While the initial enrollment stipulated one instrument and one hour per lesson, in reality, these rules were loosely enforced. Students could effectively study from morning till evening. The entire three-month program cost her just over $90 USD. In her hometown, a third-tier city in Anhui province, just one hour of drum lessons would cost upwards of $30 USD. The price difference for other courses was even more striking. A Chinese friend told her about a drawing class in Nepal that cost around $30 USD per month, with up to five hours of daily instruction – translating to a mere 30-40 cents per lesson.
Ji Xiangning, who hails from Beijing, echoed the sentiment. Finding a private tennis coach for $40 USD per hour in Beijing is a challenge, he explained. In Nepal, comparable quality private tennis lessons are available for around $10 USD per session.
“Spending Renminbi like it’s US dollars,” Li Yiwen reiterated, describing her Nepal training experience as “geographical arbitrage.” Growing up in a small county with limited financial resources, she never had the opportunity to learn musical instruments. “Finally, I can spend the least amount of money to learn what I’ve always wanted to learn.” She saw this cost-effective learning opportunity as a chance to “re-nurture” herself.
Li Yiwen had quit her job in China in May 2024. At 28, with a modest educational background, she had held a variety of roles back home: office clerk, receptionist, obstetrics and gynecology consultant, customer service representative, sales, and agent for cinema products. The final straw that led to her resignation was a demeaning encounter with a female customer while working in customer service. “She implied that because I didn’t study hard enough when I was young, I could only do this kind of job now.” Li Yiwen felt deeply insulted. She harbored a sense of “cultural insecurity.” Upon discovering the existence of affordable training courses in Nepal online, she became determined to go.
Qin Xiaoman, another 90s-born student, arrived in Nepal from Chengdu in February 2024, also seeking training. Three months prior, she had been laid off from an internet company. Her initial reaction was relief: “Finally, I can take a break.”
After the Chinese New Year, she began job hunting, but also stumbled upon information about Nepal’s training programs on social media. Her husband supported the idea. “I wasn’t going on vacation. I was going to study,” she emphasized.
Qin Xiaoman had considered training programs in Thailand and the Philippines, particularly the latter, which had become a popular destination for Chinese students seeking English language immersion. However, Nepal held distinct advantages: its proximity to China, allowing for overland travel back to Chengdu; visa-free entry for Chinese citizens, unlike the more complex visa requirements for the Philippines; and most importantly, Nepal offered the most affordable training programs among the three countries, with a manageable learning intensity.
A friend who had studied English at a language school in the Philippines for a month described a grueling “Spartan-style” experience. Classes started at 8 am, with nine lessons per day, plus three mandatory self-study sessions. It was exhausting. The school, offering room and board, charged over $1,400 USD per month.
In contrast, in budget-friendly Nepal, Qin Xiaoman enrolled in one-on-one private English lessons, totaling 15 sessions at approximately $6.50 USD per session.
Chinese Students Fueling Local Training and Rental Markets
Chinese students consistently praise the quality of Nepal’s training programs, despite the country’s developing nation status.
Qin Xiaoman, who also played tennis in China, found that coaching standards varied significantly, with many coaches being “academically trained” – graduates of sports academies with theoretical knowledge but limited practical experience. In Nepal, her tennis coach was a retired member of the Nepalese national team – a 100% “practice-oriented” instructor. “He’s very professional and incredibly skilled,” she noted. Over time, her coach proudly shared that several of his students had won Nepalese national junior tennis championships in the 10, 12, and 14-year-old age groups.
Qin Xiaoman was delighted. Tennis isn’t a mainstream sport in Nepal, with limited participation. In China, hiring a coach of comparable caliber would likely cost thousands of dollars per session. Her small group class in Nepal, costing around $4.30 USD per session, was officially capped at a certain number of students, but often, she found herself with only one or two classmates, effectively turning it into a semi-private lesson. Sometimes, she even enjoyed a private lesson for the group class price.
At her boxing school, the young, bespectacled coach revealed that he had nearly qualified for the Hangzhou Asian Games. He had competed for a spot on the national team but lost to a teammate who ultimately went to the Games.
Boxing classes also included complimentary weekly yoga sessions. Qin Xiaoman attended four sessions with a teacher who had been practicing yoga for over 30 years. Beyond traditional yoga practices similar to those in China, the teacher introduced “laughter yoga,” a technique to promote relaxation through laughter, which Qin Xiaoman found refreshingly novel.
For Chinese students, honing their English listening and speaking skills is often a primary goal. Zhang Luyao, despite passing China’s College English Test Band 4 and Band 6 exams without specific preparation, realized her limitations in conversational English when traveling abroad. “I just couldn’t speak fluently,” she admitted. This time, she aimed to address this gap.
To find a suitable English school, she trialed classes at four or five different institutions in Kathmandu. Some Nepalese teachers had strong accents, making comprehension challenging. She ultimately chose a school with two instructors: a British man in his fifties with extensive global English teaching experience, and an Indian man raised in the UK, currently residing in Nepal. She enrolled in a small group English class with four to six students, using Oxford University Press textbooks. The school’s website advertised preparatory courses for IELTS, GMAT, TOEFL, and SAT exams.
“The teachers here don’t nitpick grammar like teachers in China, forcing you to memorize vocabulary. They focus more on encouraging you to speak and discuss – which is exactly what I needed,” Zhang Luyao explained. Whenever she spoke, the teachers provided ample positive reinforcement, praising her as “pretty good” and applauding her efforts, “just like coaxing a child.” Class time also included ample opportunities for free-flowing discussions and interactions among students.
“Every class felt like a mental bombardment. You had to concentrate intensely to understand; even a slight lapse in focus and you’d get lost,” she said. Initially, she took one class per day, but later increased it to two. Outside of class, she actively sought opportunities to practice English with Nepalese locals. She felt her confidence in speaking English growing significantly, along with noticeable progress.
To maximize their “geographical arbitrage,” Chinese students often enroll in multiple training programs concurrently.
Qin Xiaoman’s daily schedule in Nepal was packed: wake up at 6 am, boxing class from 6:30 to 7:30 am, followed by breakfast at her guesthouse (included in the room rate), coffee class from 9 to 11 am, lunch and a nap, private English lesson in the afternoon, English study time back at the guesthouse, and tennis class in the evening. On Mondays, when she also had a yoga class, her schedule became even more tightly packed.
During his month in Nepal, Ji Xiangning was equally busy: tennis class in the morning, followed by two hours of coffee class and two hours of electronic keyboard class in the afternoon. He also purchased a month-long gym membership, adding evening workouts to his routine. “Classes that require physical exertion, classes that require mental effort – the whole day was filled with these, I was completely overwhelmed,” he recalled.
This influx of knowledge-hungry Chinese students has spurred growth in local industries and related sectors.
Zhang Luyao observed the emergence of English tutoring centers in Nepal operated by Chinese individuals, some offering courses specifically tailored for Chinese students with zero English background, taught in Mandarin. “Business is quite good,” she noted. Her landlord, owning two three-story buildings with two to three rooms per floor in each, rented primarily to “Chinese people who have come here to study.”
Chinese students have even contributed to a localized increase in rental prices. When Qin Xiaoman arrived in Kathmandu in February 2024, she stayed at a local guesthouse, paying approximately $6 USD per night for a single room with a private bathroom, including breakfast. Just over a year later, Zhang Luyao found that the same price range only offered single rooms with shared bathrooms. She felt that, aside from training course fees, other living costs in Nepal weren’t particularly cheap.
In Kathmandu, Ji Xiangning’s meal expenses rarely fell below $4 USD per meal, “prices are almost comparable to Beijing.” Qin Xiaoman noticed that Chinese food was indeed pricier than in China: rice noodles for $3.50 USD, Lanzhou拉面 (Lanzhou hand-pulled noodles) for $2-2.80 USD, with added meat costing around $3.50 USD. However, she discovered that Nepalese dishes like momo (steamed dumplings), fried noodles, and fried rice were much more affordable, costing only around $1 USD each. Interestingly, these dishes themselves had Chinese origins, with the Nepalese pronunciation for fried noodles directly borrowed from Mandarin. She opted to forgo Chinese food altogether, finding that many Nepalese dishes tasted similar to Chinese cuisine anyway.
Big Tech “Involution” Meets Culture Shock
For Chinese students, this study-abroad-lite experience in Nepal provides their first opportunity for in-depth interaction with Nepalese people.
In Chen Xi’s English class, her Nepalese classmates were mostly between 17 and 25 years old, with a few in their late 20s. When China was mentioned, some only knew of Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee. However, several male and female students expressed their fondness for Chinese youth idol dramas, such as “Love O2O” (微微一笑很倾城 – Wēi Wēi Yī Xiào Hěn Qīng Chéng). “Some of them have watched even more than I have,” Chen Xi remarked. They were familiar with young Chinese stars like Leo Wu (吴磊), Zhao Lusi (赵露思), and Zhao Jinmai (赵今麦), as well as Kris Wu (吴亦凡) and his subsequent “scandalous downfall” (塌房 – tā fáng, internet slang for a celebrity’s image collapsing after a scandal).
“The English proficiency rate in Nepal is remarkably high. Most people can speak English,” Ji Xiangning observed. While accents might be present, he was surprised by their fluency, vocabulary, and grammatical accuracy. This held true even in rural Nepal. During his training in Nepal, the TikTok ban in the US became a hot topic. He and his Nepalese classmates discussed the “influx of American TikTok refugees to Xiaohongshu” (小红书 – Xiǎohóngshū, a Chinese social media and e-commerce platform). Many Nepalese students even followed suit, registering for Xiaohongshu and WeChat accounts. “Young people from two countries, who might otherwise never interact, began engaging in cultural exchange. It’s quite fascinating,” Ji Xiangning commented.
Cultural clashes, however, quickly followed.
In one three-hour English conversation class, the teacher presented several discussion topics: Do you support the legalization of abortion? Would you choose a marriage arranged by your parents or free-choice love marriage?
“Their viewpoints were completely different from mine,” Chen Xi recalled. When she asked a Nepalese female classmate why she didn’t support abortion legalization, the classmate responded that children are gifts from God. Chen Xi pressed further: what if a woman became pregnant due to rape? What if she was only 18, unable to support a child, and the man offered no support? “Perhaps they’ve always held the ‘gift from God’ belief, they haven’t considered these scenarios,” Chen Xi speculated. Her classmate remained silent after her questions.
Another Nepalese female classmate in the class had an arranged marriage. She had only met her husband twice before the wedding. Chen Xi asked her, what if you don’t like the person your parents have chosen for you? The classmate countered with a question of her own: what if you choose your partner through free love, but your parents disapprove?
Chen Xi then asked: if your husband becomes abusive or unfaithful, would you divorce him? The classmate said no. Chen Xi probed further: even if he hits you, you wouldn’t divorce him? The classmate maintained no, only separation.
“Later, I understood. Firstly, because of public opinion here, and secondly, because many women here are not economically independent,” Chen Xi reasoned.
Nepalese male classmates inquired about her monthly income in China. When she revealed a figure that, while relatively low for Big Tech standards, was still substantial, a male classmate exclaimed, “Rich woman.”
While Chinese students generally found Nepalese people to be peaceful, relaxed, and friendly, Chen Xi also observed, “Their concept of time isn’t as strong.”
Her early morning English class was scheduled from 7 to 8 am daily. Initially, the class had 12 to 13 students, but gradually dwindled to five or six – some Nepalese students stopped attending. Among those who continued, some were often late. On one extreme occasion, Chen Xi arrived punctually at 7 am, only to find herself and another Chinese student as the only attendees.
Punctuality was deeply ingrained in Chen Xi’s work ethic. Missing or being late for something would trigger a day-long sense of guilt. During her time at her first Big Tech company, during peak periods, she routinely worked overtime until 10 or 11 pm, returning home around midnight, and waking up at 6:30 or 7 am the next day to be on time for work. The situation was similar at her second Big Tech company. “After working overtime the previous day, leaders never said you could arrive an hour late the next day.”
Her direct supervisor often uttered phrases like, “Is this task difficult? If you can’t finish it now, take it home and do it tonight.” and “Others can complete it, why can’t you?” She also overheard a senior leader berating her direct supervisor in the pantry, using highly offensive and humiliating language.
One day, due to exhaustion, she fainted on the subway. Passengers helped her to a seat. She felt “possessed” at the time. Upon regaining consciousness, her first thought wasn’t about her physical condition, but “How am I going to explain this to my leader?” She dared not admit she had fainted from exhaustion, fearing her leader would perceive her as weak and incapable of handling demanding tasks. Instead, she fabricated an excuse and took a day off.
“Three years in Big Tech, I feel like I’ve aged several years,” the 25-year-old Chen Xi confessed. Before being laid off, she was already contemplating quitting due to physical and mental exhaustion.
In Nepal, one day, she overslept and missed her morning class. The next day, she nervously apologized to her teacher, expecting criticism. Instead, the teacher reassured her: “It’s okay, it’s normal, don’t worry about it.” “I was taken aback by those words,” Chen Xi admitted. She believed that in China, a teacher would at least scold or remind her to be on time.
“People here don’t judge you. They are more tolerant of themselves, and also more tolerant of others. Here, I don’t feel any high expectations from anyone,” she said.
During a discussion session in her English class, when she mentioned working overtime until 10 or 11 pm, her Nepalese classmates were astonished. They told her that in Nepal, many people finish work by 5 pm, and that Chinese people are too “卷” (juǎn – involuted, hyper-competitive).
On another occasion, Chen Xi arranged to meet a Nepalese friend for shopping during his work hours. He replied, “It’s not too busy today, I can leave early.” By 3 pm, he was already waiting for her.
Money and Spirit: A Sharp Question
Among the Chinese people Chen Xi encountered in Nepal, some had indeed embraced the “Buddhist-like” lifestyle, contemplating settling down there permanently. Others had found temporary respite, but their underlying anxieties remained. She met a young woman who quit her job and came to Nepal for less than 20 days before returning to China. The woman came from a wealthy family and didn’t need to work, but her father kept urging her to return. She herself couldn’t settle down, feeling insecure without a job. “Completely lying flat, I would also feel anxious,” Chen Xi admitted. Having been in Nepal for over two months, her mother had already begun asking about her plans upon returning to China.
“You already have good material conditions, why are you still so anxious?” a Nepalese classmate asked Chen Xi, perplexed. Chen Xi considered this a profound and pointed question.
Many Chinese students observed that Nepalese people prioritize religious faith above all else. They are deeply devout, frequently visiting temples. Li Yiwen respected this deeply, believing it to be a key factor contributing to the Nepalese people’s peaceful mindset. Indeed, Nepal’s tranquil atmosphere offered a degree of anxiety relief for many Chinese students.
At the same time, Li Yiwen still felt somewhat puzzled – why people willingly spend time and money to worship “deities,” which are “possibly illusions created by their ancestors to rule them?”
Chen Xi noticed Nepal’s strong Indian cultural influences, including the caste system, which implies a belief in predetermined destiny. The promotional video for a Nepalese English training school even boasted, “My English teacher is from Nepal’s highest caste.” A Chinese friend of Chen Xi’s, doing business in Nepal, employed two Nepalese workers in their forties. Whenever he invited them to eat together, they always declined. Chen Xi later learned, “People of lower castes here feel inferior and believe they cannot eat with people of higher castes.” In their eyes, foreign employers were also considered high caste.
Chen Xi, however, believes in “equality for all.” Moreover, she was raised with the idea that “you must stand out and become successful.” A saying prevalent in her Chaozhou hometown goes: “Rather sleep on the floor, than not be your own boss.”
But when the pursuit of worldly success and material gain goes too far, emptiness and anxiety emerge. At this point, some Chinese students begin to envy the Nepalese “Buddhist-like” attitude.
A Chinese girl studying at a training school in Nepal formed a relationship with a Nepalese boyfriend. He was talented but earned a low income. One day, she couldn’t help but ask him why he wasn’t willing to leverage his skills to earn more money.
His reply: “I don’t want to lose my freedom.”
A Nepalese friend told Li Yiwen: “Chinese people worship money.” “In China, most people prioritize buying a house, finding a good job, and making money. Many young Chinese people haven’t figured out what they truly want. Besides making money, they don’t realize what else can prove their worth,” Chen Xi said. This was akin to her telling a Nepalese female classmate to be a free woman, but the classmate couldn’t grasp what that meant. “People are influenced by their environment.”
However, while spiritual needs might be met, the harsh realities of life cannot be entirely ignored.
Zhang Luyao asked her Nepalese friends why Nepalese people tend to be “Buddhist-like” and not overly eager to make money.
Her friend offered another explanation: “In Nepal, there aren’t many good job opportunities.”
“Many Nepalese people are hardworking,” Li Yiwen observed. She personally witnessed human-powered rickshaw drivers in Thamel soliciting customers until the early hours of the morning, then wrapping their rickshaws in plastic wrap to keep them clean before sleeping inside – the rickshaw serving as their home. One of Ji Xiangning’s Nepalese friends, running a fever of 102 degrees Fahrenheit, still insisted on attending his tour guide training course early in the morning.
Ji Xiangning, who had taken anthropology courses, conducted research before coming to Nepal. He discovered that Nepalese people often attend English training programs to seek work abroad – many Nepalese migrate to Middle Eastern countries like Kuwait, UAE, and Qatar for employment, driven by economic necessity.
He observed that Nepal’s thriving training industry exists because many young people cannot afford higher education and must enter the workforce early. Short-term training programs lasting a month or a few months offer a quick path to acquiring marketable skills and certifications needed to find jobs. His coffee teacher and tennis coach, both in their early twenties, were examples of such young professionals.
Local incomes are significantly lower than in China. Chen Xi’s coffee teacher in Nepal earned less than $140 USD per month, and jobs paying $280 USD per month are rare in the region. On TikTok, Ji Xiangning’s Nepalese classmates could see images of Chinese cities and high-speed trains. Yet, Ji Xiangning’s own bus journey from Chitwan National Park back to Kathmandu in Nepal, a mere 100-mile trip, took nearly 10 hours.
At times, Ji Xiangning sensed a subtle sense of inferiority in his Nepalese classmates. “It’s human nature.” When interacting with them, he felt he “couldn’t even relate to them as equals, and had to adopt a subtly lower posture” to avoid “hurting their pride.”
He befriended a Nepalese man in his tennis class. He described their relationship as one where “we were both somewhat cautious. Not just me, but him too. Because he’s from a less developed country, when facing me, he clearly felt a sense of ‘looking up’, so sometimes he would try ‘too hard’, wanting to make me, a foreigner, experience a better Nepal.”
Before leaving Nepal, this Nepalese friend fell seriously ill and was hospitalized. Ji Xiangning visited him. It was a well-regarded local public hospital, but conditions were still basic. The room was filled with beds, all occupied by patients. The moment he walked in, Ji Xiangning’s tears welled up.
He then learned that Nepal lacks universal healthcare. Only the wealthy purchase commercial insurance. His friend’s ten-day hospital stay cost over $1,400 USD – a year’s salary for an average adult in Nepal.
Some narratives romanticize Nepal as “the happiest country in the world.” Ji Xiangning countered, “Everything stems from economic foundations. Without a solid economy, how can you have so-called happiness?”
However, in one aspect, Chinese and Nepalese students share a common goal: learning English, often as a stepping stone to opportunities abroad.
Chen Xi, the former Big Tech employee, explained that her English, coffee, and baking studies in Nepal are all part of her plan to secure overseas employment. Her backup plan is to work as a barista. Even if international opportunities don’t materialize, she can work as an English-speaking tour guide in China – she already holds a tour guide license in English.
Li Yiwen’s Chinese classmates in her Nepal English classes also aimed to pass the IELTS exam and work abroad. “Nepal is just a springboard for them.” Only Li Yiwen herself considered staying in Nepal long-term. However, she quickly realized that making a living as a travel blogger was challenging, and she needed to find other means of sustenance.
Almost a year after her training stint in Nepal, Qin Xiaoman still hasn’t returned to formal employment. However, witnessing the alternative lifestyles embraced by many in Nepal, she has reached a sense of inner peace.
But now, with the increasing influx of Chinese students, Li Yiwen senses that Nepal’s training market is also becoming more competitive. Whenever she brings Chinese friends to register at the music school, the bald Nepalese receptionist always tells her, “Wait, wait.”
The receptionist mentioned that school fees might soon increase. The era of “spending Renminbi like US dollars” in Nepal’s training scene might be facing a shift.
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