Last Days

On my last day of school the classes are all games.  I’m coasting and I don’t much care if it’s pandemonium as long as the kids are having fun.  I still stop everything and yell at them when they try to add “are” or “is” to the simple present tense but I don’t wack them on the heads when they don’t listen.   We hold a farewell assembly where every student and every teacher piles garlands on my shoulders and head and covers me with tika powder.  I make a speech in Nepali, a variation on what I had memorized, and everyone goes wild.  We have a special lunch of fried fish, puffed rice and free flowing raksi.  Several of the teachers and I get slightly lit up.  Afterwards it’s a love fest in the “teachers lounge” while Mem goes through the tedious process of paying the salaries in cash.  We all stand around with arms thrown over shoulders telling each other what great friends we are now and that we will never forget the times we shared.  The Assistant Headmaster, a man named Kashi who speaks twenty or thirty words of English and who I always thought sort of hated me, holds my hand and tells me.  “I like drink.  I like teach.”  I tell him in Nepali that we are the same and he gives me a hug. 

After the love fest breaks up I eat a quick meal of daal bhaat, drink a little more raksi, and head down to my front yard for an evening of “cultural dance”.   After first watching others, I am forced, as expected, to perform; dancing and jumping in a heavy wooden mask and full costume while the drums keep beating longer than I would like.  The mask comes off and I’m still catching my breath, but now it’s time for The Stick Dance, a choreographed swordfight that I manage better than I’d feared but worse than I’d hoped.  Freestyle dancing follows and I demand in good natured English, understood by few, that this time will not be another White Guy Show.  I’m flying high on good will and raksi and as I goof around in the center of the circle of revelers, I focus my authority and point to one friend after another, “You!  Get out here!”   I manage to draw Mem to the dance floor, along with many others.   I am trying my best to hold onto this moment, to stay conscious of how strange and good it is to be here, laughing and dancing with these people.

 

The next morning the entire village, accompanied by the music of a four-piece band, parades me, once again covered in tika and flowers, down the hillside to the bus stop.  The buss rattles for an hour over rocks and through mud before we find a gravel road then, finally, pavement.  I’m not feeling sad or nostalgic exactly, but I am feeling acutely aware of time passing uncontrollably, of all of the things that I have done and said that are finished.   I am lost in the realization that even if these moments are recorded in a photograph or a memory, they have still disappeared.  They are untouchable. They are ghosts.  And it has always been that way and it always will be.  Today, for reasons I’m not quite sure of, this feels profoundly mysterious.                     

Friendship (24 February 2010)

I have a friend named Yubraz.  He is twenty-two years old, a part time student and part time farmer. We had met at Oja and Oji’s house and shared a few meals together before he disclosed to me that he needed some help with his homework.  He will be taking an exam next month on The Great Gatsby (a fact which defies logic given his level of English and that of the local teachers) and he wanted to know if I would help.  I had read Mr. Fitzgerald’s ubiquitous novel in high school and recalled enjoying it with minor reservations, so I told Yubraz I would love to help him, but that I remembered only the characters’ names and the general outline of the story.   He lent me the book and I was immediately sucked in, finishing it the same day, and while I still think it may be slightly overrated, I enjoyed it almost enough to change my estimation to “properly rated.”   I discussed the practice questions with him, helped him take a few notes, and tried my best not to participate in an outright academic fraud; although I’m not sure I succeeded in the latter. 

Today Yubraz showed up at school and we walked home together.  We sat on my porch drinking tea for awhile before he asked me if I would like to take a walk to the nearby village of Surypal.  I happily accepted, this being my walking time of day anyway, and after finishing our tea we set out on another of the standard hour-long treks that have become a staple of my life in Samibhanjyang.  After a vigorous hike we reached our destination, a short ridge running perpendicular to the main line of hilltops, and sat down in the grass to enjoy the sunset.  It occurred to me that in The West two men taking a walk together just to take in beautiful scenery may have seemed a little, shall we say, romantic, possibly uncomfortable for the sexually insecure, but it struck me as perfectly natural here.   Yubraz asked me to point out what I thought was the most beautiful part of the panorama and when I told him he responded in kind.

  

On the way back Yubraz called for a halt without explanation in front of a local market.  We sat down outside and he called in a greeting.  Thirty seconds later I was seated inside at an unfinished wooden table while a group of teachers from a local school greeted me warmly with a cup of raksi and a small plate of vegetables.  Yubraz’s father was among the teachers and he explained to me with comic, drunken gravity that they honor and cherish their guests.  Everybody at the table was a long way from sober and, amazingly, each of them spoke a little English.  My hosts told me that I seemed British, complimented me on my Nepali pronunciation, and aggressively demanded that I drink with them.  After thirty minutes I had to pry myself away, a little lit up after three glasses, while trying to convey my sincere appreciation for the warm welcome.  Sometimes I love this town.

Yubraz is broken hearted about my imminent departure.  He told me as we stumbled our way back by the moonlight that he will miss me terribly and he feels that our time has been too short.  I would think that this sentimentality is an affectation of youth if not for my middle-aged friend from school telling me today, “You sit in our soul.  We will not forget you.”  Although I always tell them I feel the same, I honestly don’t know what to make of these displays.  I like these men too, but I’m not getting misty about it.  I don’t feel that our painfully simple, half-understood interactions warrant the outpouring of emotion.  I’m not sure this gap is cultural or if it’s the disturbing other option; my own lack of a soul for them to sit in.  Whatever it is, I’m sincerely happy to have known these people for the short, inadequate amount of time that I have, and I’m equally happy to be moving on.   

Gorra (22 February 2010)

I saw a white person today.  It had been awhile.  I was standing outside on the second-floor walkway, just coming out of the “teacher’s lounge”, and she just wandered up with her Nepali friend right onto the school grounds, a girl in her twenties, her clothes and accessories indicative of a veteran, possibly professional traveler; nothing appeared to have been purchased just for Nepal, although everything seemed high-end in an understated sort of way.  She looked up at me, looked away, then back and waved.  A teacher sauntered over and asked me, “Did you meet your friend?”  I had a class to teach but went down to talk anyway.  It turns out she is from Utah, trekking though the area doing some kind of media related work for a non-profit, just stopping for lunch.  After our introductions I hurried off to class, but an hour later there she was again, drinking tea at my snack-time restaurant, which was not much of a coincidence as it is one of only two places in town where one can sit and dine, and the only one that looks somewhat like a restaurant.    We shared the highlights of our stories, a little advice and small talk, both amused to be talking to another Westerner.  It had been two weeks since I had taken part in an English conversation uncomplicated by the need to simplify and enunciate and I treasured the opportunity, but then the bell rang and I had to go back to class.   I found myself hoping to see her again, first on my way home and then on my evening walkabout, even though I knew she was certainly long gone.      

An Odd Episode (21 February 2010)

An old man carrying an eight-foot, roughly shaped wooden pole approached me in the dirt lot outside of school as I made my exit from a game of volleyball.  He was quite animated and was trying to communicate something to me in Nepali.  I tried my best, but as usual I could only catch one or two words out of every ten, enough to speculate as to the meaning but not sufficient to take any action.  I offered my apologies, told him in Nepali that I didn’t understand and walked home.  Fifteen minutes later I was preparing for a short hike to see the sunset and there he was in my front yard, still carrying the pole.  He insisted I sit down and seemed adamant in his attempts to communicate.  Some of the words that I was able to catch lead me to believe that he could be a relative of Meng and Buwa, or possibly that he was waiting for a child to join us with whom I would then speak English.  I checked my watch, determined that there was enough time to wait ten or fifteen minutes, and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.  But he was not content with waiting, he kept on talking, making a speech as if he hoped that some combination of words would unlock my stubborn mind and I would suddenly speak Nepali.  He stood close to me and gestured wildly, at which time I became aware of the smell of raksi on his breath.  I became less polite at this point, interrupting him again and again telling him that I didn’t understand, “Ma butsdina. Ma butsdina.  Ma butsdina.”  But I still thought maybe someone would come along to solve our problems.  Surely he didn’t want me to wait in order to engage me in conversation.  That would be insane.  But the more he blew raksi fumes in my face the more likely it seemed that this guy was just drunk and possibly also batshit crazy and noting the sunset approaching, I finally took my leave of him.  “Namaste.  Jan chu. (Salutations. I’m leaving.)”  He tried to grab my arm but I kept walking.  When I got back an hour later he was still there, still babbling, but Meng and Buwa were home now, notably ignoring him, and he was now standing outside the stone fence.  He didn’t stay too long.  I’ll never know what he wanted.            

Night Life (20 February 2010)

While sitting on a bed amongst neighbors, in a dark room by the light of a cooking fire, as I drink raksi from a stainless steel cup, my Meng is trying to force me to take a government mandated medicine for lymphatic illness, causing the ten Nepalis surrounding us to laugh uncontrollably in a language I don’t understand.   I laugh along.  This is my life these days. 

The man who brought me to this house sits next to me.  He tells me that he knows I’m lying, that I could take one of them to America if I wanted to.  I’m starting to dislike this guy, but I just laugh and explain that he has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.   Later he shows me a video of his hometown on a mobile phone, the shaky image panning back and forth over seven taps at the local well, apparently the pride of his village.  He has shown it to me before.  He wants me to go there with him.  I have no intention of doing so.

Meng is laughing and is now miming drunkenness, playing her half-ironic role as the proponent of temperance.  The round woman who wants me to marry her is asking me to dance.  “You first.” I tell her.  She counter-offers, with help, saying she’ll dance if I sing.  I start clapping a rhythm and belt out the first verse of “Bye Bye Love” in a below average but adequate singing voice, but she can’t dance unless the song is in Nepali so I try the one song I have heard over and over again.  “Ressum peedeedee, ressum peedeedee…” is the only part I know and after I get past that I hope other people will fill in, but they don’t so I fall into “dum, da da dum dum, da dadda dum dum…” and everyone is in stitches again.  I’m having a pretty good time.

I get up and bang my head on the low ceiling and everyone is worried when they should be making jokes.  I’m going back to my room although I’m far from drunk and far from tired.  I want to get out of here before the vibe gets weird, before the prick sitting next to me asks me another stupid question or I find myself swinging the focus of my utter lack of comprehension around the room, trying hopelessly to grasp some shred of the conversation.  In another town, with a different crowd, I’d ride this thing a few more hours, but the rule here, tested and confirmed, is to quit while the moment is good, and it’s definitely good right now.    

Kids (17 February 2010)

(Thanks to James for the photo.)

After three weeks of teaching I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.  I would not say that I’ve missed my calling, but there definitely is something enjoyable about a child finally figuring something out as a result of my patient instruction.  The days go by quickly, and although the children are not always the well disciplined, serious academics that I would wish for, they’re basically a pretty pleasant group.  Having taught for a brief stint in The States, it was nice to realize that some things are universal.  It was still easy to identify the geniuses, the troublemakers, and the lost causes.  Kids still test to see if I will let them run wild on me – a problem I struggled with, given the lack of any formal discipline structure, until I observed other teachers striking the students vigorously over their heads with a rolled up notebook (one of the notable differences from The States) and I quickly adopted the technique.   Each day, as I raise my weapon and prepare to deliver another dose of swift, firm justice, I pause and smile, amused to think that I would certainly be fired and possibly arrested for doing the same thing in “The Developed World”.   

     

Six days a week, excluding the numerous holidays, I teach from 10am to 3pm.  I move from class to class, teaching spoken and written English to groups of 6 to 30 students, ages 8 to 14.  The lesson plans are intended to come from a text book, but two of my six classes have now finished their books and two of the others have received or been told to purchase a book that I do not currently have a copy of.  This means that two of my lessons are straightforward and the other four require some improvisation.   I write lessons of my own where I can, but I’m not always sure what’s too easy or what’s way beyond them.  I also try to remember simple English songs or come up with games that have an applicable skill to teach in order to fill in the gaps.  Sometimes it goes smoothly.  Sometimes it’s a mess. 

Overall, I cannot help but notice that the local educational system is occasionally fucked up beyond all recognition, notwithstanding the caring teachers, of whom Mem is the diligent and visionary leader.  Today I sat with sweet, gorgeous, 10 year-old, Vishnu Maya at the dinner table while she tried in vain to figure out what the hell kinetic and potential energy are from a science textbook written in English.   How do you identify what type of energy is in a stretched spring if you don’t know the word “stretched” or “spring” (or “potential” or “energy” for that matter)?   But whenever I get frustrated with the insanity of certain institutional practices, I fall back on relativism and try my best to relax a little.  To paraphrase the wisdom of a coffee mug an employee of mine once used, the education professionals here are doing the best they can, with what they have, where they’re at, which is really the most any of us can do.   For those of us who would like to see things get better, progress is never fast enough and it never will be, but it’s worth remembering how far things have come.  Chandra, my local Pahar Trust contact, grew up in this area and went to school under a tree, writing his exercises in the dirt, and he turned out all right.  I’d like to hope that Vishnu Maya will too.            

Brushfire Fairytales (15 February 2010)

Today was my day off and Mem was conspicuously absent.  I spent my morning trying unsuccessfully to hit the elusive combination of power, mobile phone network availability, and some yet to be determined third factor necessary to access the internet, and when that failed, took a walk around the neighborhood.   Samibhanjang is situated, as I have suggested, on a hilltop, or rather on a ridge which meanders along for two or three kilometers, cascading down on either side into valleys from which similar hills rise up, lifting similar villages sprawled over similar ridges.  From any crest of this ridge, or any break in the trees I am afforded breathtaking views of the valley on one side and the Himalayas on the other.  I have yet to notice any of the locals paying any special attention to these profound wonders and they often seem confused when I stop to examine the beauty of a landscape that to them is just Main Street.

Beauty takes on an interesting new dynamic when I’m traveling without a camera, which has been the situation since my batteries died and I found out that the off-brand AA version available in the local market is insufficient to power my old Canon.  When I’m not looking for an interesting shot or admiring a shot I just took, I am forced to pursue the spectacle of nature for the sake of my own enjoyment, a pursuit that is purely personal, fleeting and experiential.  I set out for the top of a nearby hill today, taking along my notebook and a novel, looking for a beautiful view in a secluded place with the hope that I could sit for awhile and ponder what that beauty meant, if it meant anything.  After about a half hour I found The Spot; an unterraced, unplanted section of the hillside, close to a crest, free of trees, with 180 degrees of jaw dropping views.  I sat there for almost an hour while the clouds flowed over the enormous masses of ice and stone that rule over the valley with indifference, watching as the peaks disappeared, one by one, for a few moments at a time, making me almost doubt their existence until they suddenly materialized again.

After awhile I started fidgeting a little and decide to write a few things down.  I noted the birds diving then climbing again directly across from me but hundreds of feet from the ground.  I noted the sound of cattle and chickens in the distance.  I noted the smell of cooking fires, and then glanced to my left and noticed smoke drifting up over a rise in the grass.  I didn’t think I was near any houses, but I ignored it and looked back to the mountains.  Then I noticed heat coming from the same direction and decided I’d take a look.  I wandered over and saw that the field that I had been sitting in was burning and five children between the ages of 5 and 8 were trying to put it out with tree branches.  Around fifty square meters of grass and small shrubs had been blackened by the fire and as I watched in morbid fascination the flaming line of the edge of destruction raced towards me.  The flames being only about a foot high, there was no danger to anyone, but I wondered briefly about the adjacent jungle and the more distant homes.   I also wondered why these children where the only firefighters.  As the line reached my feet I tried to stamp it out, but it kept leaping past me and the heat was occasionally quite intense.  In a few moments my perfect sitting place was consumed.  After watching helplessly for a few minutes, I noticed that where the hill sloped down into the jungle the flames were smaller, so I tried again to halt its progress there, this time successfully.  The children were also winning their share of battles and by the time I finished stamping my line of defense, the fire was pretty well contained, taking out a mere 100 square meters of grass and no trees or homes.  I sat at the edge of ruin watching two 7 year olds beat the ground in the distance while the other brave volunteers came to join me.  We exchanged as much information as we could in Nepali, which wasn’t much.  I shrugged, said “Namaste”, and jogged back down the mountain over the ashes of the field.              

The Rich (15 February 2010)

“I have never been able to forgive the rich for being rich.”  -F. Scott Fitzgerald

It’s well-worn cliché to talk about the generosity and openness of the honest, hardworking people of a countryside village, and although I have frequently been the beneficiary of those qualities, welcomed into home after home, people stumbling over themselves to help me, I would still hesitate to simplify the people I have met in only those terms.

Meng and Buwa are good people.  They treat me well and I’m not sure how they are compensated for giving me a room and serving me tea.  Once when I failed to announce that I would be leaving for a few hours, Buwa wandered through town asking if anyone had seen me.  I was frankly a little annoyed at his concern, telling Mem when he asked about it that I am, in fact, thirty-two years old and have not required supervision for some time now.  Mem told me that this was just the custom.  You always tell Mom and Dad where you’re going, even if you have to lie, even if you are an adult.  So I am cared for and looked after, which is undeniably a nice thing.  But there’s also a side to my interactions with these two that makes me slightly uneasy.  I am constantly, usually through a child interpreter, being asked how much my belongings cost.   I often hear them use the Nepali word “gora”, which is not a slur, but means white-guy and tends to make me cringe a bit.    They sometimes laugh loudly at me when I’m not doing much of anything, and even with interpreters I can’t get an answer as to why.  To be fair, I’m sure I’m quite an oddity to them and our cultures certainly have different standards of politeness, but sometimes I get the distinct impression, a slight scorn in the way a word like “poissah” (money) is spoken in my presence, a role of the eyes when I am clearly being discussed, that they, at least at particular moments, resent my Westernness, my easy life, my wealth, and they compensate just a little by laughing about my confusion and ignorance.

I’ve perceived just a touch of this resentment several times, in a couple of different places, since arriving in these hills and it has made me a little sad.  I want to explain to them that I know how easy I have it.  I know the small help that I can offer for this month won’t instantly change anything for them, but I’m still trying to help, and that must be worth something…right?  But at the same time, maybe I know how they feel.  Maybe it’s similar to the feeling of disgust that fills me when I see a shining Bentley being washed by a man who hasn’t showered in a month, who sleeps in a ten-person dorm in a work-house, who could live for 80 years on its price; when I feel for a minute like it’s probably my duty to come back at night and set the car on fire.   It offends my sense of fairness to see that type of excess sharing space with working poverty.  So maybe I can understand.  And maybe a little gentle teasing is a small price to pay in exchange for these good people sharing their home and lives with me.

The Supertramp Dissilusionment (13 February 2010)

“Wipe him down with gasoline, ‘til his arms are hard and mean.”  -Tom Waits

I would like to be seen as stoic, unwavering and strong.  I can’t help but admire Hemmingway’s doomed, heroic Santiago when he shrugs off his suffering and tells himself, “Pain is nothing to a man.”  Doesn’t everyone feel that way?  No matter how adapted I have become to the idea that it’s natural and good to express feelings (and I acknowledge that perhaps I have not yet adapted that much), I want to be seen, at the very least, as “taking it well”.  Whether the pain is physical or, the embarrassing other option, emotional,  I catch myself telling an acquaintance my problems or discomforts, detect a note of self-pity in my own voice, and hasten to finish up with some variation of “but I’m not complaining…” when of course I am.  And although I’ve found myself compelled to complain less often since the uncomfortable fact of the developing world’s abject poverty began staring me in the face day after day, those realities weren’t able to dislodge the self-image that I secretly cherished:  Highway Child, Ramblin’ Man, Alexander Supertramp, alone but not lonely, strong, resourceful, bearing poverty with grace and discomfort with indifference.  It took a week in Samibhanjang to dispel that ridiculous delusion.  As far as delusions go, it was a pleasant one while it lasted.      

My Buwa is 60 years old and spends his days hauling firewood over mountains, slaughtering goats and splitting bamboo with a scythe in order to weave the strands into rope.  He is lean, muscular, leather skinned, and has the proverbial thousand-yard-stare of a man who has taken the best beating the world can give and is still standing.  If it came to it, in a scrap, I am certain that I would not want to tangle with him.   My Meng is around the same age but looks older, although her build is also slim and hard.  Her jaw has a curious deformity that makes it look like she is chewing tobacco while trying to kiss someone.  She roars with laughter constantly when she is not shouting with stern authority at her husband or neighbors. Although I’m pretty sure I could take her in a fight, I’m not sure I’d relish the chance to prove it.  The Veteran still carries fifty pounds of rice over the rocks at age 91.  He wears army fatigues, walks with his back bent at an eighty degree angle, his head tipped back awkwardly to see forward, his face bearing the ugly scar - his badge of courage - from a Japanese bullet.  The list is endless.  My 14 year old companion races ahead of me with five gallons of water on his shoulder while I struggle to keep up empty handed.  I pass a woman who appears to be 110 years old shuffling along at about 3 inches per step, barefoot, in the icy rain, determined to get wherever it is she’s going, and then I find out a few days later that she’s mostly blind.  All of these people seem endowed with a hardness of body and mind, an ability to casually dismiss suffering that I assume can only be forged in the fire of unforgiving necessity.  I would envy them if I had the balls to do what was required to emulate them.  

It's a humbling thing to realize that I'm not as much of a badass as I imagined, but it's useful.   It’s definitely a worthy goal to try to develop in myself just a little of the toughness that comes so naturally to my hosts and neighbors.  And although I may never reach the level of iron-jawed stoicism innately present in these men and women, I can still content myself with the reality, even if the delusion is dead.  The reality is that I’m getting better - more at ease with myself and the world, more ready to walk over a mountain in the dark, struggle through a conversation in Nepali, or wash my clothes in a bucket – every day, a little bit at a time.  It’s not the goal, it’s just a place on the way, and it’s enough for now.

Dance Dance Revolution (12 February 2010)

Mem constantly invites me to hike for a few hours to attend a random wedding or celebration or just to meet some people and everywhere he takes me I am treated like royalty.   The treatment is occasionally uncomfortably deferential, like when I’m given a chair while everyone else sits on bamboo mats.  It’s generally wonderful and I am always happy that I came, but I have at times had the distinct impression that I am not only the guest, but the entertainment.  During these moments, a subtle change creeps into a crowd and they occasionally have the impish compulsion to see what kind of amusing things they can get the white guy to do.  My strategy has been to join the activities in which locals also participate, but refrain from those where I will be the sole performer.

Yesterday, after an hour of hiking, Mem and I arrived, along with a couple of Nepali teachers, at a wedding.   We approached a group of women who were singing and beating drums while a few people traded places dancing on the dirt patio.  One of my fellow teachers, a friendly, smiling man of about 40 took his turn and launched into an impressively sharp jig for the crowd’s enjoyment.  At the host’s urging, taking my colleague’s participation as a queue, I followed his excellent performance with the trademark hip-hop/rave/free-form interpretive combination that I always attempt when compelled to dance.  For some reason- and I’m not too humble to say that it might have been a singularly good performance, although I have seldom been told that I’m a good dancer- this crowd absolutely loved it.  They begged for more.   They cheered.  Those that spoke English complimented me again and again, “You are very good dancer!”  I felt exceedingly pleased about this and had a great time at the wedding.  The food (pork, mutton, chicken, rice, several curries) was fantastic and the raksi flowed freely.  When one of the hosts, a board member of a local school, asked me to attend a function for the school’s anniversary, I happily accepted.  

The following day, at the event, I was asked to dance again.  Mem and I were seated in our customary positions of honor while we watched a student in full costume perform a traditional solo dance for the attending crowd of students and parents.  Mem leaned over to me and whispered, “You should do your dance.  People would be very happy.”  I resisted the forceful expectation in his voice and politely declined to perform a solo.  After the dancing, I delivered a passable speech in Nepali that Mem had written and I had dutifully memorized.   I thought I was done performing, but Mem had other plans, herding three girls to the microphone (actually a mike hooked up to a megaphone that sounded sort of terrible) urging them to sing, bringing in a drummer, and finally starting up an impromptu dance party.  This time, emboldened by the presence of others, I gamely joined in, although most of them edged themselves inconspicuously to the outskirts, leaving the focus on me alone.  When the song finished, the man who had invited me hurried over directly and thanked me, leading me to wonder if my prowess on the dance floor was the only reason my attendance was requested.        

The same night we hiked by the light of my faithful mobile phone flashlight back to Samibhanjyang to attend another wedding party.  This time a circle of seated women with a few male onlookers standing on the fringes called to me to dance in their center while they sang.  This not being my first Nepali wedding, I noted the woman currently dancing and the absence of males in their midst and declined politely, saying, “It’s for ladies…isn’t it?”  They shrugged and agreed that it was, having apparently hoped that I didn’t know that.

Sustenance Part II (8 February 2010)

Before I attempt a description of my food situation, I need to back up and say a few more words about my living arrangements.  I was driven out here along with some Pahar Trust reps by Chandra in his SUV, scraping and crawling our way up the boulder strewn road.  I was then passed off to Mem, the principal of Samibanjang Secondary School, where I now teach.  Mem speaks understandable English and plans my schedule of appearances, writing me speeches in Nepali that I must memorize and deliver to large crowds, teaching me dances and songs for performance purposes, stopping by at 7:30am just to see if I’d like to meet a few more of the neighbors or attend a wedding.   It was Mem who arranged for my accommodation with Buwa and Meng, an older couple with a spare room, vacated by a son working in Malaysia.  Meng and Buwa constantly serve me tea and periodically snacks, but I eat my two main daily meals of dhaal bat at a neighboring family’s home.  For breakfast I tend to eat alone, but for dinner I am usually joined by an assortment of fascinating characters, usually including but by no means limited to a 91 year old former British Soldier who was shot in the mouth during WWII and enjoys yelling “I’m British Army!” then making you touch his wound, a round twenty-something woman who always wants me to take her picture and possibly wants me to marry her, and a shy, frighteningly beautiful ten year old girl who is a student in one of my classes.

Dhaal Bat is Nepal’s de facto national dish, consisting of a varying combination of rice, a soupy bean mix, and a vegetable or meat curry.  It can tend toward blandness if prepared poorly, but in the majority of cases it ranges from good to epic (to borrow a word from Clive), featuring complex, nuanced flavors which also deliver that rare, healthy, vital experience where you can actually feel the food replenishing your body’s resources.   The average citizen of Nepal eats dhal bat twice a day so these days that means I do too.
 
On an average day, after morning tea with Meng and Buwa, I stroll up to Oja’s (Grandpa’s) and Oji’s (Grandma’s) house for breakfast dhaal bat.  The preparation of the morning version has a pleasant simplicity to it, with flavors ranging from puckeringly salty to brightly organic.  From time to time the breakfast rice is cooked with sugar, creating a sweeter version which is tasty but which I would not select as my first choice.  The meal is accompanied by tea or hot buffalo milk and although I’m occasionally offered alcohol, I have a feeling it would be shocking to everyone involved if I accepted.  In the early afternoon on school days a mid-day snack, usually a small, hot bowl of beans and chopped potatoes mixed with a rice-crispy of some sort, is served in a shack near school where I sit amongst the other teachers, on and around the proprietor’s bed.  Finally, just as the stars begin to come out, Oji brings her A-game for the dinner dhal bat.   The play of flavors between the curries, vegetables and occasional meats are an absolute joy.  With this feast, in addition to the standard hot buffalo milk, I’m also served raksi, a clear, homemade millet liquor that tastes like some combination of sake and beer.  I always accept seconds on raksi and always hope they offer thirds, but I also try to be careful to save some for The Veteran.  Somehow this routine, unvaried as it is, has yet to become tiresome and I still find myself looking forward to each meal with curiosity and excitement.    

Communication (5 February 2010)

I was sitting on the porch in the early evening with my host family.  My Buwa (father) sat down beside me and spoke at length in a quiet and despondent tone while my Meng (mother) worked, just a little out of listening range, fixing us tea.  I understood not a single word, but the resignation in his voice suggested he was saying something about his infinite hardships, perhaps related to his choice of spouse.  He paused every few minutes to stare off into nothing, watching neither the chickens running around the yard nor the women grinding corn on the porch next door, and then resumed his confession, knowing as he did that although I could offer no comfort or advice, at least his secrets were secure, cast safely into the void of my ignorance.

Presently, Buwa rose and went over to tend the fire, then came back, kicked off his sandals and set them before me, pointing at them and speaking in Nepali.  Then Meng joined in the conversation, taking a light hearted tone, but also pointing at the sandals.   I finally gathered that they wanted me to put them on, and then confirmed the theory when starting to take off my boots brought nods of approval.  When I put on the sandals they both seemed satisfied, but I couldn’t figure out the larger message.  Did they want me to cease wearing the boots on the porch?  That didn’t seem like the answer but I could gain nothing further in spite of my best efforts and theirs.

Still confused about the boots issue, I shuffled over to the corn grinding operation taking place in a dim corner of the adjacent porch.  Thinking I’d show them I was willing to help, I used gestures to show them I wanted to sit down and try it.   I received their consent and settled down with the two women in the dark, one friend and one stranger, who were both busy cranking a wooden handle inserted into a round stone cap with a hole in the top.  The handle is cranked in a circle by two people while corn is sprinkled into the hole.  After about two minutes of helping my forty year old neighbor woman spin the stone, I could tell I was no match for her stamina.  I kept going for another ten minutes, until it was clear that my hand was starting to blister, then decided to call it quits.  Her fourteen year old son piped up, “You are very short!”  I hate that kid.  I went on for another five minutes out of shame, but then quit again and told them in Nepali that I was hungry.  As I was taking off the sandals and looking for my boots in the dark, I lost my balance slightly, catching myself again quickly, but not without drawing attention.  Everyone told me to sit down, convinced that putting in a child’s share of their work had made me light headed and weak.  Naturally my efforts to convince them that everything was fine failed miserably.  Resigning myself to live with a local reputation of being a soft little city boy, I said my goodbyes and skulked off into the night, hoping vaguely that the well-pronounced Nepali parting courtesies that I had spent all day learning would restore my status slightly, but not really counting on it.      

Departing Friends (4 February 2010)

Clive and Jude left today, leaving me behind in a wake of hundreds of flower garlands.   Flowers around the neck and a little red tikka powder on the forehead are the standard welcome or farewell offering at even the most minor of The Westerners’ comings and goings, so it was no surprise that the departure of two of Samibhanjyang’s ledgendary adopted sons called for garlands heaped past the eyebrows and tikka spread to the ears.   In addition to being loved madly by the locals, The Brits had been spectacularly helpful to me, teaching me a variety of useful Nepali phrases as well as giving me needed advice on everything from packaged cookies to the subtle art of politely avoiding being obligated to follow our host tramping over the hills every night on his insane quest show me off at every home in the region.   Now that they’ve left, I realize I’m in another one of those “first time ever” situations that I always enjoy with a little dread mixed in.  I’ve never been so completely separated from the English speaking world.  My host speaks passable but shaky English, as does one of the other teachers at the school, whereas the family whose home I share speaks three or four words between them.   I have never been in a place where the closest person with whom I can have an easy conversation is so distant, both in terms of physical proximity and time before I can expect to see them.  I’ll be here a month and that suddenly feels like it might be a challenge.

I’m learning a few fascinating things about this place.  For example, one of the amusing cultural idiosyncrasies of this hill country seems to be the inability of the average citizen to ignore a computer in action.   If I sit down in any public place to type out a few thoughts, I am instantly joined by a Nepali man or boy who sits shoulder to shoulder with me until I shut it down.  This does not seem rude to them.  They never wonder if I might like some privacy.  A moment ago, as I sat on my bed typing behind the locked door of my room, I heard voices outside, “Something something Computer!”  It became clear that a couple of teenagers were peaking through cracks in my wall, not at all trying to keep their voices down, attracted by the glow from my screen.
“Hello.” I said.
“What are you doing?” One asked.
“Writing.”
“OK.” They left after a few more minutes, apparently not quite fascinated enough by watching me type to continue standing in the street outside my bedroom.

Technology and Life in The Hills (3 February 2010)

I’m thinking today about necessity again, a theme which seems to be coming up frequently on this trip and is coming dangerously close to being the theme of this blog.  This time it started innocently enough, at one of those bizarre celebrations of local culture that are both the burden and the reward of touring the fringes of modernity.
 
On my second night in the remote hillside community of Samibhanjyang, at the end of my first day coaxing English words out of Nepali students at my volunteer post, my two fellow volunteers (“Clive and Jude” from The U.K.) and I were being forced to dance.  We had just hiked 2 hours to reach another equally isolated village where we were greeted with garlands of flowers before being asked to hike another hour and a half in the dark of night to see an unimpressive temple at the top of a ridge.  When we returned to the village there was a traditional dance show planned.  It began with two precious Nepali teenage girls dancing with closed eyes accompanied by a steady drumbeat and the singing of five or six men who had a disconcerting habit of repeatedly stopping to chat, presumably about the next verse, while the girls stood and waited with their eyes still dutifully shut.   A crowd of villagers, perhaps one hundred, was gradually forming a circle to celebrate the presence of Westerners.  I had been informed by Clive and Jude that we would probably be expected to dance for the crowd’s amusement, although we all still held out hope that we had managed to convince our host that the march up the ridge had rendered us unfit for dancing.  When the girls finally opened their eyes, walked over, and dragged us to the dirt dance-floor, we accepted our inevitable loss of dignity the only way one can:  With unrestrained enthusiasm, hamming it up just as the crowd demanded.  As Clive had put it, encouraging me with his endearingly British word-choice, “There’s no way around it, mate.  You are going to look like a tit.” And look like a tit I did.

When we finally sat down to wild applause and gratefully watched a few Nepali boys take our places, dancing with far superior grace, I started wondering if this traditional dancing was considered “cool”.  I wondered if these boys had peers who were watching now with condescending smirks, as I likely would be if they were my friends in The States, or if they were regarded locally as smooth, possibly even desirable to the ladies.  In this casual way, I stumbled onto the thought, obvious after it occurred to me, that most of these people have no electricity in their homes and very few have television.  Pop culture magazines are not sold in either of the village’s two shops.  I doubt that most of these kids have even seen a recent Nepali film.   How do they know what’s cool?  Before I could stop it, the next thought rolled in: Are they perhaps better off for that lack of influence?        

Before leaving Kathmandu, I had spent an hour back at Silver Home arguing with Hugo, while we listened to obscurely fashionable American rock music from his computer, championing the position that technology has been undeniably a net positive in the world.   Sure, there’s the military nightmare, my line of reasoning went, but there’s also penicillin and the power of widely disseminated information.  You can’t say you’d keep the technology you like best and still argue that it’s a net negative.  To make a sound argument you would have to imagine a world where technology stops at a certain year and say that such a society is better than the one we have.  I still feel good about my thesis, but out here where the presence of two computers not yet connected to the internet makes our school a rarity and nobody has indoor plumbing, I find myself unexpectedly close to that hypothetical world.  I also notice a peculiar dizzying sensation brought on by my well-crafted reasoning slipping a little.  Take all modern technology away and I doubt these people’s lives would change much.  They would still be much harder than mine, but not much harder than they are now.  Of course I’m not sure how happy they are now, but I’m willing to bet that if you conducted a survey there would not be a noticeable gap between the relative happiness of their society and ours.  This is not to say that I’ve changed my mind, just that the points don’t seem as obvious as they did a week ago.              

The Next Thing (31 January 2010)

“Why do you stay here and live this mean moiling life when a glorious existence is possible for you?  Those same stars twinkle over other fields then these.”  -Mr. Thoreau, coming through again.

After an two days at the consultancy I was certain that I wasn’t going to stay with Orient International.  I was taking a break from the drudgery of writing unsolicited emails to personnel responsible for international programs at randomly chosen American universities, drinking milk-tea with Narayan and discussing life, death and consciousness.  “Knowing that you are going to die is not pessimistic.” Narayan was saying, summarizing our clumsy ESL conversation with startling elegance.  “It is not pessimistic.  It is just knowing the truth. ” I was genuinely starting to like this guy, but then I glanced at my screen and noticed that I had a new email from Pahar Trust.  I opened it, found out my position teaching “out in the hills” was basically confirmed, and proceeded with a twinge of guilt through my half-forgotten end of the existential dialogue with Narayan, having decided to wait until the next day to break the news to him.

The following morning I caught an eight-hour bus ride back to the stunning scenery and expensive dining of Pokhara and rendezvoused with my Pahar Trust contact, a sixty year-old, comparatively wealthy Nepali gentleman named Chandra.   The meeting went smoothly and the work, traveling to remote villages teaching English for the next month, sounded perfect.   After a welcome-to-the-team dinner of Nepali wine and Indian curry, for which my gracious host picked up the tab, I emailed Narayan my apologies and at the same time decided to make a final decision on my exit from Nepal.  

The problem with Nepal, a problem which continues to hold down its world ranking as a jump-off point for the footloose traveler, is that both of its borders are a bit of a hassle to cross by land.  On the north side, China is terrible, requiring that visa applicants be registered with an expensive tour group to enter Tibet by land.  To the south, India’s visa process is slightly time-consuming and expensive in addition to India being bordered by two other visa issues in Pakistan and Bangladesh.    Even if I were to fly to Bangladesh, which is the most painless way to get the visa, I would only run into another similar issue in Myanmar.  I didn’t plan it this way.  I had hoped that all the countries of the world would welcome an American at their borders with flowers and cocktails, at the very most requiring some paperwork and a modest fee.  I really was naïve enough to think I’d be able to cross land-borders all the way to Southeast Asia, breezing through Bangladesh to Myanmar and through Cambodia and Laos onward to Thailand, Vietnam and finally China. As it turns out, I’m going to have to fly to get out of here.   Kunming, China was the cheapest flight at 277 USD, but with the associated visa issues and my pending sojourn into the hinterland to work around, I went with the 317 USD bargain to Bangkok with an eight hour layover in transcendently awful Delhi International Airport thrown in at no extra charge.

Of course 317 USD is a fortune in my world.  My upcoming month of free room and board will partially repair this dent in my balance and I’ve contacted a WWOOF farm in Thailand in hopes that a couple of almost-free weeks there will put my financial house back in order.  For now though I’m not really worried about the money.  I’m just pleased to have a plan, a clear path to the next destination, and an outline for the coming months that suggests the possibility of something new, stars twinkling over different fields.  

A few more...

(Reposted on 27 February with the formatting fixed.)

A Brief Note

The internet situation, which involves connecting through a mobile phone and seems to be hit and miss as to whether a connection is even possiblible, is remarkably good today, meaning I can connect AND access more than just my email account. I tried and failed to fix the formating issues and I've also updated the balance to reflect my ticket purchase. Bad news is that I've run out of batteries for my camera after only taking about 10 or 15 shots and the local stores sell only brands that will not power my camera. I will have to be content with memories.

A Few Posts

(Reposted on February 27th with the formating fixed.)

Out of Touch

It looks like I'll have limited access to email out here. I'll try to
post something when I can. I appologise to my regular readers. I'm
having a great time though.

Heading For The Hills

I had a long post all written and ready to go, but I can't get wi-fi this morning and I'm currently expecting my ride any moment.  Short story:  I ditched the consultancy when I got an offer from Pahar Trust (finally) to go teach in some remote schools out in "the hills".  Not sure what my level of internet access will be.  I could post again tomorrow or it could take a week.  Should be interesting.