Day-to-Days

It's been two months since I arrived at my permanent site. This heralds the common question: what am I doing, now that I've settled in? What does work look like? And what is my average day-to-day at site?

Well, Dear Reader, the answer is not as clear as you may expect it to be. Should you seek it, you may find what you wish within the murky and meandering depths of this blog post. Foray past the jump break if you dare...

13 Days

Marigold 

The wake of a hundred 

pairs of footsteps echoes in the dry heat.

 

Down the mountain

                the mechanical chatter of cicadas and

                                a jungled canopy of branches fill the sky.

The lowing of a conch cuts through the air again

and again;

Down, down

Down the valley and across town

to the bank of a rocky river

 where marigolds glint softly on a bed

 

of leaves

of wood

of smoke.

Down the river 

A red saree floats in the turbid waters 

Wet with memories.

 

Today marked the thirteenth and final day of observed mourning for our Chettri family. An aunt-in-law who had been struggling with brain cancer over the preceding months (muhaa, they called her) succumbed to her death on October 12, 2023, at 6pm. Her name was Dil Kumari Adhikari. She was 73.

Some days after my initial arrival, I met her for the first time. Muhaa had returned from a month-long stay in a hospital in Chitwan, where she was given an MRI and diagnosed with cancer. During this period we video chatted once or twice from the hospital, before I knew who she really was. Evidently invasive treatment was not on the table, so after the hospital she was brought home to be kept as comfortable as possible.

I did speak with her briefly in person -- we sat together one afternoon outside the house. My limited Nepali and her poor condition prevented us from discussing very much. She wasn’t able to walk on her own; but she rested and watched, and chatted with villagers who came around. She asked after me, made sure I was eating, and told me to come back and visit. 

“What affection she had for you,” my family would say wistfully. Muhaa was known for her compassion – she raised my host father like a mother when he was young, and they were very close, which made her loss especially devastating. She was loved very much.

"Did you get to talk to her ... you know, before?" someone would ask me. "She talked to you, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did," I would say. I wished I had had the chance to know her better.

Her condition worsened over the course of a month and a half: she became bedridden, and her breathing labored. She required round-the-clock care. A portable oxygen tank was rented for times when breathing became difficult for her. After some time she depended on it. Then she labored to talk with the machine at full capacity. Then she labored to breathe. And later she stopped talking altogether.

Posters were hung memorializing muhaa's life at the observance. 

The days leading up to her death were heavy with grief as the end of her life drew perceptibly close. Crowds of family, friends and villagers visited every night to see her and pay their respects. This had been true for the extent of her illness, but now her nursing room was constantly packed with circulating bodies.

The day she died I visited the house in the morning and spent some time with her. I was leaving for the day and wasn’t sure she would be alive when I got back. The room was uncharacteristically empty. Usually it was stuffed every night when I came around; but it was morning now, and today the children were at school; and others were busy with their daily and household chores across the village. So I sat quietly with muhaa and her daughter-in-law in the empty room. Bars of sunlight filtered obliquely through the window, the rhythmic wheezing of the oxygen tank filling the silence. There wasn't much to be said. I wept, and said goodbye.

Later I returned from my day in town. It was about 5pm. I took a quick bucket shower and had just finished changing when a piercing wail from the cliffs below broke the still evening air. It was then we knew that muhaa had died. And then that the 13 days of funeral rites began.

Sunset illuminates a single cloud on October 12th, 5:47PM.

Death and ritual rites are highly variable among different caste, religious and ethnic groups in Nepal. I won’t pretend to be an expert, even for the rituals of my family, which is of Hindu religion and Chettri caste. The rules and observances are intricate, even to the point where my youngest host sister was sometimes unclear about them. (“Mom! Am I allowed to bathe today?” she asked my host mother one morning. “Yes or no?” My host mother, ignoring her, or distracted, didn’t answer.)

I am sure there are cultural and religious explanations for all of these observances – unfortunately, I don’t have the breadth of that understanding; filling in the blanks with research from Google somehow doesn’t feel right, either. So I can only speak to what I saw, understanding that what I observed is generally standard practice for Chhetri families with some variability here and there.

13 days of mourning

• As news of muhaa's death broke, family and villagers piled in through the night, grief-stricken. My two host sisters arrived from their city three hours away by private taxi. Muhaa’s body lay on the stone floor outside the house – some hours later a barrier of straw mats was erected around her, though people were still able to grieve and sit with her body.

• The funeral (cremation) was performed as soon as possible the next morning, at about 10am, with the guidance of a pandit, a Hindu priest (who is also dictated by caste – different castes have different caste pandits. In our case he was Brahmin, or baun). This occurred at the bank of a river where it is believed the spirit of the dead will be carried away by the current. Her body was carried down the mountain an hour by foot with a procession of about a hundred villagers, by my estimation; and was burned on a pyre of wood after some announcements and customary rites. After this was complete, refreshments were served – juice boxes, coconut pieces, biscuits, and apples.

Mourners file down the stone steps of the mountain, through the jungle and open hills. At the front of the procession, pallbearers carry muhaa's body on a bamboo litter. A truck in town stops to wait for the procession to cross the street.

• Muhaa's sons and daughters-in-law changed their clothes at the river and from this point on were untouchable for 13 days. They were dressed in simple shawls and blankets. Back at the house they had separate sleeping quarters on the floor and were forbidden to touch anyone, including their spouses and children, for 13 days. Their forbidden touch extended to objects that they touched – like the bedding of foam and straw that they slept on. If a single piece of straw touched you, you would be required to fast the next day. They were allowed to eat only plain rice in the morning and fruit in the evening for the duration of the observation.

• Muhaa's sons wore white and took their meals outside of the house in a makeshift shelter.

• Immediate family of the household (brothers, sisters and their children – this included my nuclear family) were forbidden to consume some foods like processed salt, meat, soybeans, onions, and garlic for 13 days. Nieces and nephews followed this restricted diet for 5 days.

• Male family members shaved their heads.

• Various rites and rituals were performed across the 13 days – I did not observe many, personally, and cannot speak to them well… but they were dictated by the pandit and generally involved smoke, incense, offerings, and prayer.

• Every night, food, tea, hot water, snacks, and fruit were offered freely by the house of muhaa’s family, with the help of other community members. An altar and posters of muhaa were erected for her memory. Villagers stopped by to spend time with each other and chat. They wrote their names down in a register and offered money or food. Usually a large group of men would be playing games and gambling in one corner of the house; in one of the rooms, kids would watch a romantic drama on television, or cricket. Women sat together on long straw mats talking about family news and complaining about the weather. It felt like a block party for the wrong occasion.

• On the 13^th day, yellow tika (blessing given in the form of rice and mixed paste that is applied to the forehead) were given along with envelopes with small amounts of money. A large communal meal was prepared for all in attendance. This marked the end of the acute mourning period. 

Cremated on the bank of the river, as per tradition.

Throngs of family, friends and village members gather for the funeral and cremation ceremony.

 

One year of mourning

• Muhaa's daughters-in-law (and perhaps sons as well) cannot drink milk or milk products for 35 days following her death.

• Extended family (I am not sure how extended this is, but includes my family) are not allowed to celebrate festivals and holidays, step foot in temples, or participate in communal worship (puja) for a year following her death.

• One-year death anniversaries are marked with another shraadh, and subsequent distribution of yellow tika and a communal meal. Shraadhs from then on are conducted every year after the death of a family member in their respect and memoriam.

As a result, we will not be celebrating the equivalent of Christmas this next week, called Doshain - a Hindu-based holiday (that I won't get into here) - nor the second largest holiday that will be coming up following several weeks in November, called Tihar (which I also won't get into). My host sisters and brother will still be in the village during that time, though, and I look forward to spending time with them all together.

It has been a difficult time for my family, but through all the stress and hardship they have been welcoming, encouraging and very supportive.

We send muhaa thanks and appreciation for her and her life, which was full of joy and love. I hope that wherever she is now, she knows how much she mattered.

A Grand Day Out

Suddenly, I found myself alone with the custody of 9 children.

I had arrived at a villager’s house. Days before I had been invited for a day out by a village kid after we spent an afternoon roaming together. The place we planned to journey to had been described as “big”, “fun”, and “very nice” by several people. One of my host sisters said that tourists used to use it as a campground, and other than it being “30 minutes or an hour” uphill, I didn’t know much else about it. Truth be told, I was tired after having hiked a lot in the preceding days – but I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to see a new place, so after morning daal bhaat I walked up the village to his house as I had promised.

My understanding had been that this family was going there for some reason – there was an event happening, or they had planned to visit someone. As I soon found out, however, nothing was happening. The son had simply invited me to go with him for fun on this particular day. Perhaps because it was Saturday -- a school-free day. As for his family? They weren't going anywhere and were staying home to take care of the household like any other day.

By the time I reached this house, I had accrued a posse of 8 other children who had committed themselves to the cause by self-recruitment. Villagers looked on with amusement from their houses, hands on their hips, beholding the mob of children with a foreigner at its center, its extensions in constant flux like an amoeba on the move. I looked down across at the villagers, then looked to the road at my gamboling companions. This wasn’t what I had envisioned for the day. On the other hand, I didn’t really see a way out of this situation. So, after rounding up the village kids, off we started up the rocky mountain paths. There was a lot of running and yelling. I wondered if I had made a mistake.

Setting off from the village. Spirits are high, and there is a lot of yelling.

Despite my best efforts to keep tabs on my young bhai and bahini, this was virtually impossible, especially when their names and faces weren’t committed to memory. I soon gave up. Some of them would stop for a while or get distracted and linger behind the group; then other wandering children from passing houses and villages would join and leave our group at will. There were typically at least 7 children in sight. I considered the venture akin to herding cattle, trusting that our core group would reconverge eventually.

In all, the journey to our destination probably took an hour and a half, including the stops along the way. We serpentined dirt, grass, rock, and stone step paths alike. Green and yellow paddies of rice cascaded like waterfalls down stairstepping terraces. Villagers we passed asked us what we were doing. (I let the kids answer for me, since I could somehow never remember the name of our destination.) We met a family from our village which was working in its rice field.

Anish Nepali threshes rice by hand with his aunt, Sumitra Nepali. Rice is cut, then dried in the field for several days beforehand.

There were a lot of stops and starts. And many more shouts of “Didju, jum!” (Sister, come!), which sometimes came from several directions at once, when any (or many) of the children decided it was time to move on. Passing activities included:

• Playing ball at a volleyball court
• Catching fish in the roadside ponds and streams (3x)
• Fleeing from two (2) water buffalo
• Tiptoeing past a large black dog sleeping on a porch

One of two water buffalo which cantered and capered along the road toward us, tossing their heads. When encountering buffalo or cows on the road, old and young alike scramble away as far and quickly as possible.

Eventually, we made it. We crested the final hill and a large, flat expanse of grass emerged before us. (I say “crested”, but this is something of a misnomer; the mountain never seems to end.) A small herd of water buffalo grazed on the edges of the field. The kids ran onto it with abandon, whooping, yelling and waving their arms.

Here we spent the next couple of hours. The children jumped, yelled, and rolled around in the grass. For some time, they were intent on hunting for deer, looking into the jungles, fields, and over the edges of cliffs for signs. When no deer appeared, we played a variety of games: soccer, tag, and “Water and Ice”. Occasionally one of them would shout when they found a leech.

After a while they decided they wanted to continue up the mountain, towards the jungle, and ran across to the edge of the playfield. I yelled at them. While I wouldn’t have minded going into the jungle on my own, I wasn’t keen to journey into prime leopard territory with 9 capricious kids prone to wandering off.

The playfield, with a group of bhai playing volleyball.

“But we don’t have to go home yet,” complained one of the boys from my family. “Auntie said that we could leave here at 3 or 4pm.”

“Yeah, and she told you not to go into the jungle, either, right?” I responded, having been witness to her stern and hurried admonishments in front of my house that morning. He fell silent.

So instead they subjected themselves to some more playing on the grass, which lasted for a little while until they got restless again. At this time the clouds were looking dark, and I was ready to go home; but they wanted to explore a little more and insisted on continuing around the mountain. “Didju, jum!” they urged, wandered away once again across the hill. I watched them reluctantly from a lookout for several minutes, squinting to make out their tiny figures among the rocks. I hoped that some of them would wander back.

None of them did.

Rolling down grassy hills: an ancient and secular pastime.

“Come on!” they yelled.

“Where??” I yelled back.

“Over here!”

“Why??” I yelled again.

“We’re hungry! There’s guava!”

“It’s going to be far!”

“No it’s not!” came the response.

I considered my options. I didn’t want to continue wandering into unknown territory when it would take another hour and a half to get home. At the same time, any powers of persuasion I may have possessed meant little when the majority of my audience was almost out of earshot. 

I ceded. “Okay. We’ll go on for ten minutes and then head home for the village. Okay?”

Bright eyes twinkled. “Okay!”

Satisfied enough, I followed. We rounded the bend of a house and traipsed through a narrow and uneven path riddled with pockets of mud and rocks. Along this stretch of ground the kids found a small house down the way, almost hidden in the tall grass. No one was home except for a couple of cows, and the kids shared some laughs as one of the boys sat on one of them and pretended that the place belonged to his uncle.

A view of the playfield from a higher vantage. No guava or deer today.

A family from our village passes by on its way home after an afternoon of cutting grass for its livestock.

After exploring the small, empty house, we started heading home. As it turned out, the path we were on circled back to the trail leading down to our village.

Soon enough I got stopped by some English-speaking 20- or 30- somethings and spent some time talking to them. While this occurred, the girls of the group got bored and left for the village on their own without comment. Then at the volleyball court, the boys began playing soccer with someone else from the village.

It started to rain.

I decided to walk home with the family who had been threshing rice before – they had finished their work in the paddies and began trudging slowly over the slickening rocks and mud with their heavy bundles of rice and straw.

I let the boys know I was departing and left them to play soccer, and then followed the family back to their house. I talked with them for a while, was briefly featured in one of the nephew's live Tiktok streams, and enjoyed some afternoon snacks. Then I said goodbye, feeling tired, and ended the day at my house.

While not the day I had initially expected, it turned out to be a grand day out.

The 8 year old: a small and fickle creature. After several failed attempts at a group photo, I managed this one on a large rock overlooking the hill, where we had gathered to admire the view.

Aspirations for Service

A list of my goals for service are below.

•    Increase social skill comfort
•    Develop grassroots project/community skills/experience
•    Increase personal generosity
•    Deepen my understanding of humanity
•    Develop lifelong friends and memories
•    Achieve proficiency with Nepali language
•    Regular exercise
•    Increase nutritional and dietary knowledge
•    Discover/develop international job opportunities

 

I gaze into the distance across a jungled landscape in quintessentially aspirational fashion.

These are all notably self-centric (I am American, after all). I will have an impact in Nepal, but what that impact will be feels much less within my control, so I've limited my goals to things that I have more control over.

The Big Day: Swearing-In

We had just spent the last hour getting prepared for swearing-in.

I stepped into the hall. After being surrounded by the flurried activity of seven women in a small hotel room, it was nice to have a moment to myself. I took the opportunity to get a feel for my new dressings and looked down. What caught my eye first was my hand, which was adorned with a red Ganesh ring. Hajuraamaa Khadka had gifted it to me on the day of our departure from our training villages (I cried; but that’s a different story). Further down, a bracer of sparkling green bangles (chiura) cupped my wrist (these I had bought for the occasion); and under my arm the matching draperies of my forest green saree could be seen. Its gilded peacock-feather design shimmered in the light.

I remember beholding this sight for several long moments, quizzical. Whose hand is this? I thought. It felt unfamiliar – like it didn’t belong to me. For past three months I had been surrounded by women wearing these effects – wives, mothers, aunts, grandmothers. Suddenly, I was one of them. The feeling was foreign, viscerally maternal, and honest in a way I can’t describe. I felt like I was harnessing a form of myself from another time – another life. A latency; a potential. Would I ever hold this feeling of presence in the future, if I ever became a mother? Or is this who I would come to be by the end of my service? (Somehow, that didn’t seem right). I mused.

My friend Pearl came around then, and I tried to describe my predicament.  “Whose hand is this?” I repeated. “It’s like a mom’s hand,” I said, jokingly (yet, I was not joking). “Look.”

Pearl looked. “It totally is,” they agreed.

The engraved Ganesh smiled from my hand.

Whose hand is this? Get it out of here.

Who's Who: Canine Edition

 I love dogs. This is a secret to no one.
 
Anywhere I am in Nepal, I stop to take pictures of street dogs – dogs meandering, dogs sleeping, dogs rolling in the dust, dogs sitting on the curb watching the road. Here, there is a stereotype that Americans are pet- and animal-lovers. I fit right into it.
 
This post is dedicated to the dogs and cats that have graced us with their presence for the two and a half months that we spent in pre-service training. I have come to know and love them; and in a few minutes’ time, you will come to know them too. I have also included the Shriiman family, who are, notably, cats, not dogs. Organized in order of proximity to my house, from close to far:

 TENI

Designated name: Teni
Description: Mid-size and sandy colored with tired eyes and a small, hairless wound on one leg. Small folded ears.
Sex: Male
Life Stage: Mid/Adult
Location: My house
Remarks: 11 years old. Spends most of his time sleeping and waiting for daal bhaat. Eats daal bhaat, biscuits, and kitchen scraps. Enjoys short walks during the day and eating plants on the side of the road. Has a chronic dry cough that makes him sound like a 93 year old smoker. Very sweet and friendly. Whines or barks when alerted to alarming sounds.

Tales as Old as Pre-Service Training

It's been a while and a lot has happened. I have several blog posts in the pipeline but haven't had much time to write. This is the first to come out and is a collection of stories (few of many) from my time in pre-service training.

IN THE (EARTH)WAKE

Early on in my stay with the Khadkas I learned that my family had another house in the village. In fact, this other house was their first family home -- and where they had been living until 6 years ago.

In 2015 Nepal was devastated by a 7.6 magnitude earthquake that killed thousands of people and injured tens of thousands more. My host family had been living in their old house at the time. They told me that after the initial earthquake hit they, and the rest of the village, took shelter in tents in the fields in the area. Their houses were not safe to stay in under the threats of aftershocks and further damage. Upon return after several weeks the house was found to be unfit for living, internal damage rampant. They began construction on their new house – the house in which I stayed during training. As I heard this story I asked my host parents if they could take me to see this old house; so they did, and one day we ventured out.

It was raining. Umbrellas in hand, my host parents led me a few minutes downhill and across the road to a large, aged, and mud-and-stone-constructed house. Abandoned heaps of wood lay under the awning; a dog watched us sleepily from the top of the pile. We unlocked the front doors and entered.

The old family estate. From what I gathered it is 100+ years old and has been in the house for generations. The road-facing side of the house (not pictured) was repaired and is actively used by an uncle's family.

The bottom floor was dark and dank. We ascended to the second floor on a wooden ladder. They now used this house for food storage and the floors were littered with corn; the walls, dust. I felt like I began to glimpse the life of an entirely different family from years prior. Here was my host brother’s room, said Aamaa Khadka; here, another living room.

I looked around. Jagged cracks ran from the ceiling to the floor in some of the corners – a testament to the earthquake's brutal and longstanding impact. Turquoise paint still clung to the walls. What once would have been a bright room felt sunken and forlorn in the dim light. My host parents left me alone for a few minutes to gather corn from various areas of the house. I sat with my own thoughts.

Another set of stairs led to what we would call an attic, but what served as the kitchen, serving area, and work area of the house. Buwaa Khadka showcased the traditional Nepali earthen-style oven that sat in one corner, and the centerpiece drying racks, with characteristic enthusiasm. I took a photo.

After this we returned to the second floor and gathered the remaining corn husks together, stuffing them in large onion storage sacks. We would then take these to the house and husk the corn to be later made into grain for the cow and calf. It took some minutes to collect all the corn; finally, work complete, we descended, locked up the house, and walked back up the hill in the rain.

One of my host brother's rooms.

Corn, everywhere corn.

The attic-kitchen. In the center, an ever proud Buwaa Khadka.

MITO CHHA(INA)

A running point of discussion in the house was Hajuraamaa's complaints about the distastefulness of Aamaa Khadka’s cooking. To be clear, she ate Aamaa Khadka's cooking nearly every day, being too old to cook her own food. When anyone asked her how her food was, Hajuraamaa would shake her head with a deep frown. “Mito chaina,” she would say. “It’s not tasty.” Aamaa Khadka told me that she would sometimes throw food into the bushes if it was too sour or spicy.

As I was slowly accepted into the family dynamic, I began bringing Hajuraamaa her dinner downstairs. Sometimes I sat and ate with her, which at times resulted in us talking at length until being yelled at by Aamaa Khadka to come back upstairs. This was all a grand treat – normally Aamaa Khadka brought her food to her, she ate, washed her dishes, and went on with her evening.

One day I wasn’t feeling great mentally. As I was delivering Hajuraamaa’s food, she expressed that the food from the night before was really yummy. Surprised, I returned to the kitchen and reported this to Aamaa Khadka.

“Hajuraamaa said that last night’s food was tasty,” I said.

Aamaa seemed confused. “She said that?”

“Yeah.”

Aamaa paused briefly. Then, after a moment of clarity, she said: “Yeah – she said that because you’re the one who brought it to her.”

I thought back to the night before. She was right: I was the one who brought it to her. Hajuraamaa must have thought that I had cooked her meal. Realizing this, I laughed; the small joys of the house washed over me, and suddenly the weight of the day lifted like a cloud.

“Holaa,” I said. “Maybe so.”

Offerings such as this bowl of potato and bittergourd achar are notorious for being too spicy for Hajuraamaa's tastes and are prime targets for bush-throwing.  

PUNCH AND KICK

Every morning around 9:30am school kids would gather on the street in front of our house to wait for the bus with their parents. I was on pretty friendly terms with one of them. His name was Rosun (estimaged age: 7).

One morning I returned from my language class and saw him waiting on the street with his mother. Aamaa Khadka happened to be outside in the garden and she came out front to greet us. She and Rosun’s mother began talking, probably about the kinds of things mothers talk about. Rosun and I stood to the side and looked at each other. Then he turned and began punching and kicking the corn stalks growing next to the road.

I watched for a few moments and then joined in. We spent some time punching and kicking the corn leaves together. He showed me how high he could kick (which was pretty high). I showed him how high I could kick (which was not as high). Then I asked him to tell me how to say “punch” and “kick” in Nepali and he obliged with hearty demonstrations.

Later, I told my friend Pearl the story of punching and kicking corn stalks with Rosun on the road. A couple of days earlier I had also learned the verbs “pee” and “poop” and proudly shared them with our language learning group at that time.

“Well,” reflected Pearl, after I recited the story, “now you know how to say ‘pee’, ‘poop’, ‘punch’ and ‘kick’. That’s it, really – that’s all the Nepali you need to know.”

Somehow that really got to me, and I laughed so hard that I almost peed myself.

The punched and kicked corn in question is to the right in this photograph. Photo taken from the Khadka house balcony.

YOU SHOULD COME TO CHURCH. NO, REALLY, LOOK AT IT. AND TAKE MY VEGETABLES

Another day I was embarking on the 40-minute walk home from town when I passed an elderly woman carrying a bag of vegetables. She asked me a question and, feeling open to a new interaction, I fell into step with her and engaged her in conversation.

Now, I say we had a conversation, but it seemed to be mostly one-sided. I could barely understand her due to the rapidity of her speech and the unfamiliarity of her dialect; so mostly I responded with guttural expressions that indicated that I was listening and acknowledging her when she was talking without saying anything of significance at all. This didn’t seem to bother her. I suppose I spoke enough to convince her that I understood her well enough, and she continued on gaily in rapid-fire Nepali for long stretches.

At one point we were discussing food. I told her I liked vegetables. “You like vegetables? Here, take these,” she said, holding out the bag of greens she had just bought from the market. I was mortified. I explained that I didn’t need them, but she continued to shove the pink plastic bag toward me. Only after what felt like several minutes of excuse-bargaining (“I really don’t need these; we have the same vegetables at home; thank you, my mother is cooking dinner with the same vegetables tonight, please keep them yourself”) before she seemed satisfied with leaving me vegetable-less. I was touched with her generosity. I am coming to understand that such behavior is not uncommon of rural Nepali.

Additionally, she was a Christian. Much of our following conversation revolved around this discovery. I told her that some of my friends were also Christians and had attended church in the area. She insisted relentlessly that I come join her at church, which I politely declined. “I might come someday,” I said, in the indirect manner of the Nepali - in other words, “I don’t want to go but could never say that to your face”.

When we reached her village stop, she insisted again that I come up the hill to behold the church with my own eyes; as if seeing it would cement in me a certainty to go. Somewhat reluctantly I followed her up the hill where she cheerfully showed off her church and its brightly-blue painted exterior. Then she showed me her house, and her grandchildren as well, who were playing up the hill. At this point I really had to be getting home. I said goodbye and we parted ways.

I arrived home I relayed this story to Aamaa Khadka. I left out the specifics of our conversation due to my limited Nepali but told her that I met a really nice and talkative Christian woman on the road. She listened quietly; and when I was finished, she asked, “She asked you to come to church, didn’t she?”

I was surprised. I supposed this woman had a reputation. “Yes, she did,” I replied.

“Well?" asked Aamaa. "Are you going to go?”

“No,” I said.

We laughed.

A warm sunset falls over the hills from the road on which I met my kindly Christian companion.

OTHER NOTABLE MEMORIES

• A long trek that 18 of us took to a famous Buddhist temple at the top of a mountain. As we summitted the temple, a silent fog rolled over the hills and enshrouded us in mist. The prayer rooms were breathtaking in their ancient and venerable presence. We walked the two hours back in a downpour because buses were no longer running when we departed; even so, I would do it again.

• Aamaa Khadka taking my friend Kim and I through the village fields to visit the water mill on the way to town. A Nepali couple who had hosted Peace Corps volunteers years ago were grinding rice and corn. We sat for a few minutes and took in the experience.

• Our language instructor Ashish asking about the meaning of air quotes in class. “I have seen it like this sometimes, saathiharu,” he said. Explaining air quotes accurately proved to be more difficult than we thought. I think we were about halfway successful.

• Also in language class: our running jokes about going to Kathmandu’s premier nightclub, LOD (“Lord of the Drinks”), and the frequent discussion of one of the village cats as a person of interest whom we named “Shriiman Shyaau Ji”. (This name roughly translates to “Mr. Apple,” although his full name was officially christened “Mr. Apple Everybody” by Pearl and myself.)

• The several birthday parties that occurred during pre-service training, which were full of delicious food, snacks, dancing, and spray-on fake snow that was showered on all partygoers and their cake (more than once).

• An impromptu experiment on the floor with friends Jeff, Kindness, and Emily, where we lay with our backs on the floor, held the bottoms of our feet face to face, and moved our legs in tandem. Jeff had read somewhere that assuming this position with another person would produce some kind of powerful experience. What exactly that was supposed to be I’m not too sure, but it was a great time.

• One of our language instructors Basuna cooking thukpa (noodle soup) for some of us at her host house when we had an unexpected afternoon off. We helped to cut and wash vegetables and noodles. The thukpa was very good. 10/10 experience.

• Conversing with an old man in town who gifted me a mysterious small nut with a tiny hole drilled into it, claimed to have properties benefitting health (especially tonsils). After showing Aamaa Khadka with inquiry I was fiercely instructed not to consume things obtained from strangers (several times, with a raised voice and raised arms). Then my Peace Corps supervisor was fiercely instructed to instruct me not to consume things obtained from strangers. To this day I do not know what it is.

• A decision to check out a potato cold storage facility when I met its manager on a trail and we started talking. The manager showed me around his place, including the drying storage outside, the cells inside, and a caged baby boar. I cut the tour very short because I was late for a field trip bus; after managing to excuse myself finally, I spent a good 20 minutes running to the bus pickup spot. Worth it.

Aamaa Khadka leading us the way to the water mill along a meandering creek.

Jeff and Kiehl arm wrestle following a morning of language class. Pearl cheers on Jeff from the sidelines - he needs the support.

The baby boar that the potato storage employees caught and kept. They said they were keeping it to worship during the Nepali festival of Doshain in October.

The first floor of the potato cold storage facility. It was a little spooky, and, as you would expect, cold. A full tour would have been awesome had I gone back to visit with friends as they had insisted I do.

The audience of a four-day long Hindu worship (pujaa) that took place at the Khadka residence one weekend. The whole village turned out, including Shriiman Shyaau Ji.

The priest of the four-day worship telling stories to the above audience about Bhagavan and his adventures. In front of him are offerings, the food of which would be shared at the end of the day with pujaa-goers.

Tibetan prayer wheels surrounding the building of one of the prayer rooms of the Buddhist temple.

Sydney looks behind her shoulder as I call her name from the steps of the Buddhist temple. This is the face of someone who is caught off guard and yet not surprised that I am taking yet another photo.

Pearl, Charlie Chaplin and I on the mountain of the temple. Hundreds of prayer flags stream behind us in the haze. 

The gang trekking home from an excursion to a local waterfall one weekend. Swimming, snacks and a hearty discussion of Power Ranger personalities were enjoyed.

Meet the Khadkas

It has now been about 6 weeks of pre-service training and I have gotten to know and love the members of the Khadka household. Without further ado, allow me to introduce them.

 

Buwaa and Aamaa Khadka sheltering from the rain on the steps of their old family home.

In the Depths of Pre-Service Training

Namaste saathiharu! Coming to you live from week 5 of pre-service training! Things have been hectic the past few weeks and all the trainees have been busy with language and technical trainings, host family interaction, and socializing with other trainees with the scant time that remains. I have been meaning to post about my host family and Nepali culture, but haven't had the time to write that up, so it will be coming soon - very excited for that. In the meantime, here's what I've been up to.

Our trainee schedule is classes Sunday through Friday with Saturdays off. The day-to-day looks something like this:

5:30am: Wake up
6:30am: Snacks and morning tea (egg, biscuits and hot lemon water)
7:00am: Language class
9:00am: Return home for daal bhaat with the host family
10:30am: Morning and afternoon sessions (generally technical training)
4:30pm: Free/study time
8:30pm: Daal bhaat

 

A typical morning in Nepali language class.