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.