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.
