Re-emergence

I don't know where to begin.

This is the first time I've had access to Internet in two weeks. First shower. First ride in a vehicle. First sight of pavement. It's the first time in weeks where I've had water without adding chlorine. Last night I slept on my first mattress since Kathmandu.

I've been in Jajarkot District in Western Nepal. First to facilitate a report writing training to our health staff based in the district's cozy, remote headquarters. Next to document a journey – to follow two women who suffer from severe uterine prolapse from their village in Nepal to a teaching hospital in a city three days away. Then to witness their hospital stay, to be with them while they get surgery to remove their uterus.

22 women are taking the same journey this week, facilitated by IRC's health program. Over the next several months, IRC plans to support over 250 more women from remote villages to get this surgery.

The stories involved in this trip are more than I can begin to recount now. I've filled 2 notebooks in a week and a half. Here is one anecdote from yesterday, as our bus reaches the city:

Mandari, one of the two women I'm following, points out the window, asks me "What is that?"
That is a bike, I say. I explain that usually one person rides on it, but sometimes two can. Unlike the bus we are on, humans power it.

She nods. Her expression is the same as the day before, when she saw her first car – eyes wide, a faint smile on her face. No words. Just nods.

It may be my first time seeing cars, pavement, bikes, in weeks. But for these women, it's the first time in their lives.

Witnessing this is incredible and difficult to summarize in ten minutes. More to come in time.

Trip Itinerary

• Days 1-3: Traveled to IRC's health office in Jajarkot (1.5 hours by plane followed by 9 bumpy hours by car followed by 4 sweaty hours by foot. Up and up and up.)

• Day 4: Acclimatized, met IRC health staff. Felt thrilled by the uninterrupted mountain views, old men playing checkers in the streets, packs of donkeys carrying rice.

• Days 5 and 6: Facilitated a report-writing workshop with our 8 Nepali health staff. Collapsed each night, exhausted. Felt more fresh and useful than I have in months.

• Day 7: Vomited my brains out. (The culprit – the thistle dish I ate the night before. A village staple, they grind the spiky plant and mix it with oil and salt and potatoes. My stomach said no, all day long.)

• Day 8 – 9: Walked two days to Salma village to meet two women with severe uterine prolapse. Walked with Purna and Rajan, two members of IRC health team. On trail, learned the Nepali national anthem. How to say, "steep uphill," and "steep downhill" in Nepali. Taught our anthem. Felt utterly alive.

• Day 10: Met women in Salma village. Mandiri and Sangita. Talked to them about their upcoming trip, listened to their fears. Chewed on dried soybeans from Mandari's fall harvest.

• Day 11: Walked 12 hours with Mandari, Sangita, Mandari's husband and little son ("Babu") and Sangita's mother in law to bus town. Witnessed them see their first car. First stereo. Witnessed them meet the 20 other women who have also come for the surgery.

• Day 12 (CHRISTMAS!): Wait for the bus. Teach 'telephone' and 'who has the rock?' games to the women. Take bus halfway to hospital. (4 hours.) Stay overnight in chicken-poop-smelly town. In middle of the night, step in pile of green vomit outside my room. Swear.

• Day 13: (Yesterday!)– Take bus rest of way to hospital. Follow women as they are admitted.

• Today, tomorrow and coming days: Hang out in hospital. Talk with women. Take more pictures. Shower.

Christmas morning

Scritches from my journal Christmas morning (Purna and Rajan are two IRC staff I travelled with last week):

I wake up to a sound like wind chimes. Donkeys passing by.

Purna twists the light bulb on and picks through his blanket. Hunched over, his back lit by the dim light-bulb above his head, he looks like Galam from Lord of the Rings, or like a monkey. His frame is scrawny, his movements jolted.

Rajan questions him in Nepali. Purna nods. Keeps picking.

They notice I am awake.

"Bed bugs!" Rajan explains.

Purna keeps picking. Turns to me. Big grin."HAPPY NEW YEAR ROSIE!"

"Not new year, Purna, Christmas." Rajan laughs. Rajan is the more worldly of the two. He grew up in a town, went to college in Kathmandu, has an email account.

We all laugh.I'd forgotten. It's Christmas Eve at home. I try to imagine the families putting the turkey on the table, singing Silent Night by lit trees, sitting in wooden church pews - kids on laps, huddling by fires at their ski lodge - cheeks rosy, hot chocolate in hand.

But I can't. I am here. With bed bugs and donkeys and Purna and Rajan.

I can't understand it, but I am so happy to be here.

Jajarkot

In 11 minutes I leave for here:



Jajarkot, Nepal, the site of our health program.

I'll be gone 1-2 weeks. (Going to facilitate a report writing workshop and then spend some days following our staff around - taking pictures and gathering material for a story or two.)

I'm beyond-excited. Mountain air. Mountain views. Donkeys. No car horns. No English. Lots of potatoes.

I expect I won't want to return.

It's getting cold and...

…the men who used to sell mangos now sell blankets. Bananas stay ripe longer. The street dogs have started to sleep in piles.

Its getting cold and I’m adjusting too…

• I drink 6 cups of tea a day instead of 3.
• I wear a fuzzy hat, a puffy vest and cut-off gloves to work.
• I shower less and smell more (my water is solar heated – in the morning the water is too cold, at night the water is warm but the air is too cold).
• I sleep with a hot water bottle by my feet.
• I used to scoff at the puffy faux North Face jackets that are ubiquitous around Kathmandu; now I’m in the market for one.
• I stopped eating salad.
• I shape myself into a tightly woven ball when I sleep (instead of a splayed starfish).
• I replaced my bedroom fan with space heater.

I miss central heating and fireplaces and the sensation of warmth. But I’m learning that I can survive without these things.