Language Lisp

A little while ago, a Nepali friend passed on some words of wisdom. "You know, a lot of words in English are Nepali words". Hearkening back to my Indian experiences, I remember a few words that the British picked up whilst in India, namely jungle, shampoo, and pajama. My Nepali friend however, conjured up a few I'd never thought of before. These include words like T-shirt, jacket, traffic jam, and vehicle. I stood there for a moment, deciding the best course of action to take. Do I, as more or less a native English speaker, tell him that these words are English and not Nepali? Or, should I go into the history of English influence in India which then spread to Nepal resulting in English usage for Western influences? Or, do I not say anything all? I opted for the latter: nothing.

Later, I found myself wondering, what is it about languages and their power to determine how we describe the world around us? No, not in an anthropological/sociological way but more in terms of who gets ownership of word usage. He and I have both grown up using the words jungle, shampoo, pajama, T-shirt, jacket, traffic jam, and vehicle. We have probably seen, interpreted, and used these words in very similar ways. So, it seems we're stuck in a lingual samsara, cycle, using and reusing our words over and over again, making this whole notion of ownership, well redundant. Ultimately, this brief internal monologue sprung a new debate. Whty did something like this bother me in the first place? Why even care? Then, alternatively, if I care so much, why didn't I open up the discussion with my Nepali friend. Perhaps, I have been living in other cultures too long, having learned that people will believe what they believe and do not always want or need to be corrected or challenged. Perhaps, as I've now seen, my culture is slowly blending in with other ones, making it difficult for me to answer the question, "why?" Rather than coming up with another conclusion starting with "perhaps", I'd rather go on enjoying life's ideosyncraties and abosrbing myself in this neverending lisp.

Terai of a Realization

Another weekend, another field visit. Heading back west, I flew an hour and a half on a very questionable aircraft, conjuring up the necessity of silent prayer before take-off and landing. Arriving in the heat of the Terai, the plains, I got in the car and began my assignment. My trip took me to the East and West of the districts of Kailali and Kanchenpur, either bordered by rivers or India or both. Overall a whirlwind of a weekend of dust, sand, and the ever illustrious meals of dahl baht.

Driving along the bumpy road and covering my mouth from the clouds of dust pluming from the jeep's wheels, I started thinking, what happens when one becomes blind to the stratification of society?
After about 1 1/2 days of driving, I had neglected to notice even the slightest air of poverty around me. Yet there I was, meeting with flood victims and former bonded labourers, seeing their mud and straw homes, and listening to their stories of not having anything at all. Rather than thinking of their poverty, I found myself thinking of the horror that none of these people could swim, despite the fact that rivers are their lifelines. Sitting in my comfortable neo-colonial-esque jeep, I tried to come to terms with my quandry. Stepping on a boat that was more like a raft and even more like a barely floating child's tree house, I laughed to myself as I was experiencing yet another bizarre Nepali situation, which for everyone else is merely local transportation.

Having returned to Kathmandu on the same ever-so-questionable aircraft and happy to be alive, I've pondered my musings. In short, life is life and people are people. Poverty, riches, and questionable public transportation just fit into the seams. Similarly, smiles are smiles, tears are tears, and although we may all seem very different, everything may not always be as it seems. Rather than clarifying my altered vision and indulgence of wordy prose, I'm going to keep enjoying the fact that I may have walked on Nepal's only beach, the sand left over from a flood on the banks of a river, and someone's home.

A Lang Tang Story

In order to get the true feel of a one-week trek I just completed in the area of Lang Tang, I have decided to share it through my photos. In the group of eleven I was with, all of us have seen our fair share of unusual and amazing sights. Thus, to walk in a place where every single person repeatedly said, "WOW!" must bear some weight. In summation, you hike a lot and eat momos, dahl baht, and sherpa stew in little wooden guest houses where you also sleep. Oh yeah, and the 60 mile bus ride there took 10 1/2 hours. I invite you to click Lang Tang mountain above to see some of the things I saw.

Wild Wild West

I recently had the chance to channel my inner cowgirl and head out to the wild West of Nepal. Going out into the field for a week was a wonderful combination of amazing views and a whirlwind of experiences. These are some of my stories:

A woman and her baby barged into my room asking if I was God and could give her salvation. Not sure about that one. Was told it was common practice to tinkle off of your staircase after 11pm. Went on two planes, two 10 hour car trips up windy mountain roads, and two 6 hour hikes, the first of which was done in flip flops and the second which included a horse named Moti (Pearl). Was charged by a cow and was told I am the only vegetarian foreigner in the whole world. Speaking of which, was also the first foreigner seen by most local residents. This resulted in thousands of snickers, dozens of namastes, and three crying babies. I had the pleasure of hanging out with 6 middle-aged Nepali men whose idea of a perfect vacation was, "staying at home, having friends over, gambling, smoking, drinking beers, and having our wives and daughters serve us." Additionally, over the span of six days, ate 18 meals of dahl bhaat (rice with lentils) and was lucky if I saw one toilet every 24 hours (a squat one mind you!), one of which was not even a toilet but a 'women's area' located in a field of thorn bushes where I was told I was welcome to have "a short or long sit".

Despite this whirlwind of hilariously questionable activities, I did have the chance to meet some wonderful people who have really made the best of very difficult lives. The average life expectancy for women in this region is 35, as they are the ones who perform manual labor, take care of the house and the children, and are the ones solely responsible for the entire family's well being. Meeting some of these women, many of whom were infected or affected by HIV as a result of their husbands, with smiles on their faces, a positive outlook, and living well past 35 was a truly humbling experience. This was the first time I saw that many families live without even basic foods such as fruits and vegetables, eating only rice and ramen noodles. This trip, I admit, was truly an eye opening experience.

Yet, for these Western residents, having family members and friends love you no matter what outweighs any and all hardships endured. Duly noted. Thank you wild wild West.

I Fell in a Hole

It's true, I fell in a hole. Not just any hole....a sewer. It was one of those days where everything seems to go amiss, which for me means everything goes a little weird. After being frustrated that four taxis rejected me, I turned around to go to a fifth and bam! I was on the ground. I was really confused as to why I was suddenly squatting on my right leg looking up at a group of old Nepali men herding around me. I look for my left leg and it is gone, hidden in a foot by foot square hole of sewage. One man goes, "that's not good." Rather than yelling obscenities at him I pulled my leg out of the hole to check  for signs of injury (none weirdly enough) and tried to shake some of the nastiness off of my foot. I will spare a photo of this incident for the sake of propriety. Let's just say I doused my leg umpteen times in any and all available disinfectants. Basically, you or I or anyone else will never want to know what I actually stepped in. C'est  la vie in Kathmandu, a city where you can get everything you want and, well, more.

Such a Teej

Friday was Teej, also known as woman's day. Although ways of celebrating this holiday vary among Nepali women, technically this day celebrates the day before women worship Siva (the symbol of male potency) in order to ensure that they have a loving husband. Addionally, many women wear extravangant red saris and fast to symoblize feminine beauty and power as well as sacrifice.

I dressed up for this Teej day, slipped into a red kurta, and lined my eyes with black gajal, coal eyeliner. Walking into the office, my boss said, "you look like a real beautiful Nepali girl". I felt underdressed though, as all the other women were bespangled in all that glitters in red. After squeezing on my red glass bangles and sticking a glittery teeka in the middle of my head I went into one of the meeting rooms with the other ladies and, well, danced. In the middle of a work day I spent two whole hours dancing the day away, eating traditional food, gossiping, and dancing some more. At one point there may have even been a Bollywood versus Western dance off. The winner was undecided but I'm proud to say these ladies could certainly break it down.

Then on Saturday, thousands of women made the pilgrimage to Pashupati temple at the cremation grounds to do a pooja for the Lord of Destruction. Out of respect for the holiday, no cremations were going on during Teej. Although the kids did seem to enjoy a nice swim in the river. I imagine cremation water can be quite refreshing at times no? After watching the processions for a short while, I'm not sure if I'm ready to stand in line hungry and thirsty for 4 hours to dip my head in that river. But, the dancing, yes!, the singing, yes!, and, I guess I'll go ahead and hope that men will keep respecting me in the future. Teej away! I'm sold! 

Mud is Stupa

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of battling the elements to get to the wondrous Swayambhu or "Monkey" temple. Originally, the nickname conjured up images of a Hanuman temple, the Hindu monkey god. As it turns out, I was wrong. The name stems from nothing other than the fact that, well, monkeys live there. The temple also happens to be Buddhist. My bad.

Before I realized this nickname consfusion, however, I had an entirely different concept to work through. Namely, rice paddies. Somehow, on the way up to the reclusive mountain temple complex, I managed to lose the road. Perhaps I should have been staring at the ground rather than up at the temple, who knows? Nevertheless, I ended up on a lane that was made of six-inch deep mud cutting through a few inner-city rice paddies. Trudging along, I see rows of very large baton tubing lining the edge of the mud. I ignored them for awhile, trying to avoid the puddles of swimming ducks, until I saw some little kids traveling across them. Thus, intrigued by the concept of baton hopping I decided to follow suit. Thus, after slipping for awhile, succesfully tackling over a hundred tubes, and climbing up a set of sand bag stairs, I met back up with the road to Swayambhu.

At first, making it up the three hundred or so steps up to the stupa in the sky covered in mud seemed hilariously impossible. However, after successfully avoiding monkeys, fake Babas, and an asthma attack on the way up, the view was worth it. Even in foggy weather, as the highest point in Kathmandu, the temple gives you a priveleged citadel-like view of the city below. This stupa, one of the world's most critically acclaimed, is visited by hundreds if not thousands of visitors daily. There is nothing better than experiencing a working piece of extraodinary architecture. People believe that the mountain and its stupa simply appeared after an earthquake. Rightly so, this stupa's existence and location are of mythic proportions.

Thus, clamboring back down the elusive stupa in the sky, I couldn't help but smile. What I found so hard to tackle just once is merly a daily activity for many. I guess I've been one-upped yet again.

Shifty Weather

Looking out from my rooftop terrace, I am surprised and happy because finally, after a few weeks of grey rainy monsoon, I see blue sky! This morning I felt that the winds had shifted, the air seemed colder. I asked someone about this phenomenon and she said, "yes, the cold weather is here. Last weekend was a festival, Nagpooja, which marks the start of the cold weather". Nag is the snake in the Hindu tradition that typically serves as Shiva's vehicle. What he has to do with the cold weather I don't know. Cold blooded perhaps?

I never know where I stand on the hot versus cold scale. I do know that this shifting of the winds means mountain views, blue skies, better air, less muck, and no mosquiotos. I think I may have to join in on the festivities, embrace the snake, and swing my ballot to the cold side. I may retract this statement during the winter months, but then again, there are always yak sweaters to be thrown into the mix.

Dejavu

A few months ago, I left India. A few days ago, I arrived in Nepal. Or was it India?

Dejavu didn't hit me at first, as I was still basking in the glory of the landing. Soaring in the bright blue sky, through my peephole window all I could see were mountain tops peeking out of the clouds. Soon, I could no longer see anything accept a thick wall of grey for what seemed like forever. And yet, then I was floating over Switzerland, green rolling hills, a yodler. A city appeared, sprinkling Switzerland with South Asian architecture. I stepped onto the tarmac, letting the fog mist my skin.

Once I left the quaint little mountain aiport of Kathmandu and was hurried into a car, I quickly woke up from my dream. Swirling through the dusty traffic, dodging motorbikes, bicycles, and powerlines, I kept thinking to myself, "am I in Delhi again? But wait, I see prayer flags. And no, I don't see any cows. Puppies, yes. Indian food, yes. Hindu temples, yes. Salwar kamiz and saris, yes. Namaste, yes. I have already spoken more Hindi than I did all of last year... what does this mean???"

It means that I have arrived in a place overwhelmed with influence from its neighbor. Nepalis speak Hindi because of Bollywood, gods and godesses are worshipped with pooja, and foods are spiced the same.

Perhaps the differences between these two neighbors lie in the nuiances. I however, remain warily confused.