It is swelteringly hot in Nepal. Sticky, skin-clinging, little-bubbles-of-perspiration running along the concave slope of my upper lip kind of hot. The monsoon season may be coming, but it sure as hell ain’t in a hurry.
Yesterday I went with my new friend Deepak for a long walk to see the tremendous Setikhola gorge (khola is river in Nepali), a deep, beautiful, treacherous gorge which literally and innocuously drops out from amidst the foliage on the side of the road, and down several hundred feet to a chalky white river below, which boils with the outwash of the many miles it has traveled since leaving the Himalaya. It was just gorgeous, and completely breath-taking. Deepak told me stories of all the people who had died from walking too close to the edge of the rapidly eroding hillside, and as we walked around to the other end we watched three white women (who almost by definition are tourists) who had been wandering along where we had just stood, albeit much less cautiously, climb onto the edge of the gorge’s face without hesitation. From our vantage point we could see that in their focus on getting a good picture of the viewshed, however, they failed to realize that there was only a little over a foot of soil and plant matter below them before their little outcropping dropped off and away, possibly towards death. Too far to yell and tell them otherwise, and afraid to startle them from their tenuous perch, I turned my back, lest they actually fall, and we continued to walk.
We continued and passed along the back roads, through the villages that surround the true city part of Pokhara, and Deepak, who is both a 1st year Master of Science student at Ban Campus and a middle and high school science teacher at a local boarding school, enlightened me as to the trees and plants with which he was familiar. We saw what I have been told is the “early” (or pre-monsoonal) rice growing knee-high in the little angular plots fracturing the country into a patchwork of food and cultivation when seen from the sky, but now devoid of the water one imagines when one pictures rice paddies, because we haven’t had the rain. Yet.
As we walked we were passed by tiny old women hauling huge assemblages of grasses, fodder, and firewood on their heads, or hanging off their backs in long baskets designed for the carrying, which are sold by the side of the road in a myriad of sizes so that children and teenagers can haul materials as well. Small children played “football” on both sides with worn old soccer balls, so well kicked and treasured that there were no identifying brand markings left on them, and little air within. The children would occasionally pause their games to call out a sassy “HELLO!” to me, showing off their English and seeking acknowledgment of their very presence here. I almost always answer, sometimes amusing myself by answering the English-speaking children in Nepali, and the Nepali-speaking ones in English.
When I took a day off to relax a little last Saturday, I was very kindly invited along to a hotel pool with a group of women from the Christian mission down the road. We had exchanged numbers with the possibility of spending time together, but to be truthful I was unsure of whether we would actually follow up – our roles in this country are so different, our reasons for being so divergent. But they invited me on a hot day when I was restless to get away from my laptop, and so along I went, appreciative of the gesture. As we walked the women I was with ignored the little calls of “Hello!” and “Namaste,” and upon my commenting that I found it cute, laughed with a touch of sarcasm and said that that was, “one word for it.” I myself see that the calls can be redundant, and occasionally perhaps a touch obnoxious when they are repeated ad nauseum (sometimes you get the, “hellohellohellohellohello-hellohelloHELLOOOOOOOO!!!” kid, which, let’s face it, probably would have been me as a child), but to me it’s a window to a different perception of a bideshi, and an opportunity to open the door to communication with community members who watch carefully as you either acknowledge or ignore their beloved children.
Children are prized above all in Nepal, as are families. Nothing is as important as having a family, and nothing will come in the way of marriage, that all important first step to parenthood. My western views are therefore kept to myself unless I am asked for them explicitly, as to say you don’t plan to have children is like saying very seriously that you plan to birth monkeys – it simply cannot be understood, and isn’t even perceived as funny. For reasons that go far beyond the limits of access to birth control, having children does not occur to most Nepalis as something that is a matter of choice. And despite the fact that this leaves little room for me to be completely honest with those I meet about who I truly am, and my own desires regarding (not) having children, I find the dedication to family and to rearing offspring charming. This is a culture that knows what it wants – babies – and says so without reticence.
So to acknowledge a child, and especially one speaking a “foreign” language at such a young age, is to open a door to understanding, and friendship, with their parents, and to an interesting and potentially enjoyable interaction with the little kid. To ignore that same child…well it closes a door. Hard.
And imagine for a moment the converse – put yourself in the position of the local person, sitting on your property on a hot summer day in the States with your small child sitting next to you, who by some amazing bit of education and intellect is learning, let’s say, some Spanish. And there goes your three or four-year-old in a diaper (do three and four year olds wear diapers?), trotting across the lawn towards some folks walking up the street, who perhaps look Spanish, or perhaps don’t (it is irrelevant), and cheerfully greeting them with a big-eyed “HOLA!” and warming your heart. Now imagine that those people don’t even turn their heads from their conversation to acknowledge your beautiful, brilliant child, but continue walking without a glance of acknowledgment in your or your baby’s direction. You get the picture.
I must admit here – I absolutely bristle with anger just at writing about this behavior from my fellow bideshi.
And so on my walk with Deepak as with the Bideshi, I greeted everyone who greeted me, and was rewarded with the smiles of ancient old hajuraamas (grandmas), faces crinkling up into papery smiles, worn at the corners of the mouth with age and an abundance of sunshine, as their brilliant grandbabes toddled after me, shyly mumbling “namaste,” with hands folded in front of them as if in prayer, or else calling out a happy “hello!”
Despite the onerous heat I relished the walk through the countryside, and learning the names of all the plants, and how they are grown, even as I forgot the plant names with every new one learned. I learned that the giant eucalyptus plants which seem to be so randomly seeded across the landscape are in fact delineating the boundaries of property, lest the ownership of critical food crops be confused in their absence. I pulled immature rice grains from their little husks, and marveled at the guava, banana, corn, rice, mango, and eucalyptus growing in each family’s yards, along with the occasional buffalo (of aforementioned questionable species differentiation, from my suburban point of view), cows, chickens and goats. I’ve told Deepak that when, in a month’s time, the rice in his fields are ready for harvesting, I would very much like to help.
Our walk eventually took us to Lakeside, the touristy area, which I promise myself little relaxing trips to when I am a little overstressed or feel behind, but which I never follow up on. It’s like my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow to keep me pressing on when I am tired, but I rarely get there to do what I thought I would, and accept this as part and partial to my nature, and the way I approach my work. Yesterday was no exception to this rule. I was most tempted to sit at a café overlooking Phewa Tal (Tal is lake in Nepali), staring vacantly into the now-dark night, and drink something blended, tropical fruit-based, and cold (with perhaps just ali ali alcohol in it).
Instead I realized we would need to eat, as I was missing the dinner hour at the Ban Campus cafeteria, and saw as Deepak steered us towards a back alley, viewless, overly warm open-air restaurant that in my American foolishness, I had neglected to take into consideration that Deepak would not be able to afford (nor see any sense in paying for) the inflated prices for food that would be found along the lake’s perimeter. I had thought that I might pay for us both, but saw as I glanced longingly at the warmly-lit paper lanterns and stained wood of the upstairs balcony of “Caffe Concerto” while we passed, that, like an American, Deepak would not go to a place where he could not afford to pay his own way. Perhaps that pride is universal. I found it endearing.
So instead, we each got the 750ml bottles of Tuborg that for me entails a perfect buzz-in-a-bottle, and chatted at length about field research, graduate school, and my project over curry. I am very lucky to have met Deepak, I thought as I sat there, because he is truly and 100% only interested in me as a new and very different friend, with a vantage point on the world that he is interested in learning about, and with whom he hopes to share the marvels of his home and country. Many times in Nepal I am spoken to exclusively by young men (as young as or younger than my younger brother!), which is frustrating only in that it’s so completely not the kind of attention I’m looking for, and turns the young women of about my age away from me. In starting friendships with men while abroad I am perennially naïve, and usually just glad for someone with whom to speak. Many women around my age who travel abroad will bring and wear a faux wedding ring for this very reason, but I find doing so disingenuous, and couldn’t fill the story in when prompted to talk about my “husband” if I tried. And so I have become known around Ban Campus for being not just American, but of marrying age and single.
Deepak and I met for the first time in a little corrugated-metal-roofed shop just outside the campus gates, where I had gone for a cold soda (anything cold!) and he was lingering after a day’s work. He asked me exclusively about my research, and did not have a thing to say or ask about my marital status, existence as a solo researcher, or age. I liked him immediately, but was still wary of wrong impressions, and worse, of potentially damaging my burgeoning friendships with faculty here by somehow accidentally ending up dating (or, more likely, romantically perplexing) one of their students. Instead I requested what amounted to a reference check from the faculty members I’ve come to know, very blatantly and well-meaningly inquiring as to whether they thought I’d find myself in a bad situation and be misinterpreted if I spent time with him alone, as a friend. I told Deepak I had done this last night, to his amusement, which is the only reason I feel comfortable writing it here.
The faculty said they thought I would be fine, however, and so here we were, sitting in the dark, swatting mosquitoes, and talking about social science research and sampling methods (do you ask questions of everyone in the household? Do you just ask the men questions? How do you get the women to answer the questions? How did the Professor choose the villages? What’s the most interesting thing you’ve learned so far? How do they use the money they make doing community forestry?) It was pretty fun, and a nice way to end the day. As we walked back the pavement literally sizzled and steamed with the most recent drizzle of rain, and I felt the heat coming off of it in thick waves. I asked if we could take a taxi (which are an expensive 400 rupees, or almost $6) back to Ban Campus, as after the Tuborg I had had to pee, but sans flashlight hadn’t been able to bring myself to enter into the miniature barn-like stall where the squat toilet hole was, outside and alongside the restaurant. I didn’t say as much about having to pee, but Deepak took my cue and asked me, very sincerely, “Are you suffering long, or short?”
I gave a little snort of laughter, and said I wasn’t quite “suffering,” exactly, and what did he mean by long or short? Apparently in Nepali if you have to urinate you are suffering “short” (for the time you will spend in the bathroom), and should you have to defecate, well then you’d be in for the long suffering. I loved this, and burst out into little chuckles as we walked along looking for a taxi. When one eventually came I let Deepak do the negotiating (almost everything is negotiable in Nepal), and when the driver said 350 rupees (a not unfair price), I played my part of bideshi to perfection, urging Deepak to continue walking with me until the driver reneged, and brought the price down to 300Rs (about $4). Damn those crafty tourists, eh?
All in all it was an excellent end to a long day, and very enjoyable. When I returned to the hostel, however, it was HOT. And dark, as the lights had gone again, and there was no knowing when they would be back. I used my cell phone as a flashlight as I opened the padlock to my apartment, and speculated as to whether cellulars are used more often in Nepal as flashlight, or as phone. Probably the former. I headed into my room and flipped my little maglite on, setting it up as a little lantern, and opened ‘Shadows on the Grass,’ the accompaniment to ‘Out of Africa,’ which I hadn’t had the heart to start the night before after finishing the latter work, as I lay on my bed, face in the fan, choked up with sobs for poor Karen Blixen and her now long-lost adopted country, and many lost friends.
In short order, however, the heat sans fan became intolerable, and I could neither sit nor lie on the bed without being overwhelmingly overheated. And so I, in a moment of divine inspiration, made my way into the bathroom in tank top and underwear, turned on the shower head, and stepped giddily into it like the little girl of my childhood, who delighted in running into sprinklers fully dressed. Once completely soaked I headed back towards my room, still dripping with water and not the least bit interested in rubbing any of it off with my towel, laid right down on my bed, and felt straight to sleep, little beads of water left to their own devices as they began to evaporate off of my skin.
-M-
